In his introduction, which is copiously illustrated with finely produced anatomical drawings, he fancifully compares his method to the ascetic disciplines practiced by the fakirs of India.
I asked Goetschl if any of his other customers had found the Klammer Method useful, but he couldn’t say. He only had the one copy. Needless to say, I bought it. I plowed through the exercises and then attempted the C minor again. It sounded much the same. Even so, I think I will persevere.
As I was playing through the exercises, I kept on thinking about the incident on Professor Friedlander’s ward: Baron von Kortig and the priest. Did I do the right thing? I think so. Yes, I did do the right thing. The young baron was not a man of strong character, and the appearance of the priest would have filled him with terror. That is no way for anyone to die.
14
Rabbi Seligman did not leave the synagogue after the service. He stood alone at the back of the building, deep in thought.
The Alois Gasse Temple was a modest building. It did not have the vast, overwhelming majesty of the “Central Temple,” or the ornamental charm of the “Turkish Temple;” however, its manageable proportions were pleasing to the eye. Late-afternoon sunlight fanned through the arched windows. Through this shimmering haze Rabbi Seligman could see the newly restored ark, the cabinet containing the sacred Torah scrolls. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a gilded tower decorated with intricate carvings: columns, vines, flowers, and urns. The middle panel showed a crowned eagle with outstretched wings, and at the very top, two rearing lions supported a blue tablet on which the Ten Commandments were written in Hebrew. In front of the ark was a lamp-an eternal light-burning with a steady, resolute flame.
“Rabbi?”
Seligman started, and wheeled around.
The caretaker was entering the temple through the shadowy vestibule.
“Kusiel? Is that you.”
“Yes, only me.”
The caretaker was in his late sixties. He wore a loose jacket and baggy trousers held up with suspenders. His sky-blue skullcap matched his rumpled collarless shirt.
“What is it, Kusiel?”
“I wanted to speak with you about something.”
“The damp? Not again, surely.”
“No, not the damp.” The caretaker rubbed the silver bristles on his chin. “Noises.”
“Noises?”
“I was here last night,” Kusiel continued, “repairing the loose board on the stairs, when I heard footsteps. I thought there was someone on the balcony, but when I went up, there was no one there.”
The rabbi shrugged. “Then you were mistaken.”
“That’s not all. There was a banging, a loud banging. I don’t know where it was coming from.”
“What? Someone was trying to break in?”
“No. I checked everywhere. No one was trying to break in. And then… then I heard a moaning sound.”
Rabbi Seligman tilted his head quizzically.
“It was terrible,” Kusiel added. “Inhuman.”
Somewhere in the synagogue a wooden beam creaked.
“Old buildings make noises, Kusiel,” said the rabbi.
“Not like these.”
“Perhaps you were tired. Perhaps you imagined-”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” said the caretaker firmly. “With respect, Rabbi, I know what I heard, and what I heard wasn’t…” The old man paused before saying, “Natural.”
Rabbi Seligman took a deep breath and looked up at the balcony. It followed the walls on three sides, being absent only over the ark.
“I don’t understand, Kusiel. Are you suggesting that whatever it was you heard was…” He hesitated. “A spirit?”
“It wasn’t right-that’s all I’m saying. And something should be done. You know more about these things than I do.” The old man attacked his bristly chin with the palms of his hands, producing a rough, abrasive sound. “Something should be done,” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Rabbi Seligman. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Kusiel.”
The old man grunted approvingly and shuffled back into the vestibule.
Rabbi Seligman, somewhat troubled by this exchange, climbed the stairs to the balcony. He looked around and noticed nothing unusual. The caretaker had heard something strange, that much he could accept. But a spirit? No, there would be a perfectly rational alternative explanation.
Something should be done.
The caretaker’s refrain came back to him.
Rabbi Seligman had no intention of performing an exorcism! It probably wouldn’t happen again. And if it did? Well, he would give Kusiel instructions to fetch him at once. Then he could establish what was really going on.
15
Rheinhardt flicked through the volume of Schubert songs and placed Die Forelle-The Trout-on the music stand.
“Let’s end with this, eh? Something cheerful.”
Liebermann pulled back his cuffs, straightened his back, and began to play the jolly introduction. His fingers found a curious repeating figure, ostensibly straightforward yet containing both rhythmic and chromatic oddities. It evoked the burble of a country stream; however, the music was not entirely innocent. The notes were slippery, knowing-the effect ironic. Indeed, there was something about the introduction that reminded Liebermann of an adolescent boy whistling nonchalantly while walking away from an orchard, his pockets bulging with stolen apples. The figure dropped from the right hand to the left, then down another octave before the music came to a halt on an arpeggiated tonic chord.
Rheinhardt was so familiar with the song that he didn’t bother to look at the music. Resting his elbow on the piano case, like a rustic leaning on a swing gate, he began to sing: “In einem Bachlein helle
Da Scho? in froher Eil’
Die launische Forelle
Voruber wie ein Pfeil.” In a clear stream
In lovely haste The capricious trout
Darted by like an arrow.
What is it about? Liebermann asked himself. It was a strange lyric that didn’t really lead anywhere. “Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand
Und sah’s mit kalten Blute
Wie sich das Fischleim wand” An angler with his rod
Stood on the bank
And cold-bloodedly watched
The fish twist and turn
Rheinhardt sang the poetry with effortless fluency, his rich lyrical baritone filling the room and rattling the windowpanes.
Again, Liebermann asked himself, What is it about?
