“Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”
The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”
20
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
Last night I dreamed of Amelia Lydgate, and what a dream it was: a wild, strange dream. Quite unnerving. As I sit here in my apartment, surrounded by familiar things, it seems, by way of contrast, even stranger. Something of the dream has stayed with me all day. I had fancied that writing it down might be cathartic; however, now that the time has come, I find that I am curiously reluctant. I am experiencing what Professor Freud would call resistance, and therefore I can be certain that the dream contains uncomfortable truths.
Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.
So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers-orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made-primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.
Miss Lydgate was standing next to me-naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”
Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.
In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would marriage to such a strong-minded woman eventually lead to feelings of emasculation? Does the dream betray a deep-seated anxiety that I am unwilling to own? I have always been a vigorous advocate of equality between the sexes; however, in reality, perhaps I am still-at least in part-a traditionalist. It is not that men are strong and women weak (or any other such crude and dubious distinction), but rather that the sexes are complementary. They do have different attributes. Moreover, the success of a relationship might well depend on these differences coming together, to make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. Is that what my father represented? Traditional values? “It is not good for a man to be alone.” Indeed, and although I do not feel alone-preoccupied as I am with Miss Lydgate-the fact of the matter is that I am alone.
My relations with Miss Lydgate have certainly reached a difficult juncture. In the normal course of events, a couple grows more intimate until the erotic nature of their mutual attraction becomes explicit; however, if this period exceeds a certain amount of time, then the relationship is conducted largely as a friendship rather than a burgeoning romance. It becomes increasingly difficult for both parties to see each other as anything more than friends. This is how I have chosen to account for my inaction. My dream, however, suggests an alternative. Perhaps my paralysis with respect to Miss Lydgate has more complex origins. Desire is one of those things that seems ostensibly simple but is always-in truth-very obscure. Answering the question “What do I want?” is far more challenging than most people ever realize.
21
The coffeehouse had little to distinguish it from the other shops. It did not have lettering above the windows or a bright awning, only a board standing on the pavement on which the proprietor’s name had been painted in flowing red letters: Zucker.
Rheinhardt opened the door and entered. His first impression was of humidity and noise. Condensation had made the windows opaque, and the steamy atmosphere was ripe with the savory smells of frankfurters, mustard, and sauerkraut. Although the coffeehouse had only four circular tables, these were fully occupied and were covered with newspapers, which were being continually consulted in order to support one side or the other of a communal debate involving everyone present. In addition to seated patrons, there were many others who were either standing in a central space or leaning against the walls. The general mayhem was compounded by the presence of a shabby violinist who had situated himself in a corner and was singing along to a merry dance tune. There was much shouting, gesticulating, jeering, and occasional outbursts of raucous laughter.
Squeezing through the crowd, Rheinhardt advanced to the counter, where an attractive young woman was ladling a thick orange soup into rustic bowls.
“I’m looking for Herr Zucker.”
“What?”
“I’m looking for Herr Zucker,” Rheinhardt repeated, raising his voice.
The young woman wiped some perspiration off her brow with the back of her hand and, leaning back, directed her voice through an open door. “Father! Someone to see you.” The sound of clattering saucepans and a Yiddisher curse heralded the emergence of a big man wearing a striped apron. His face possessed a rough, unfinished quality-raw and pitted skin and nubbly features. Rheinhardt noticed that his exposed arms were insulated by a natural sleeve of wiry black hair. It was difficult to believe that he was the pretty girl’s father.
“Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Zucker nodded. “This way, please.”
Rheinhardt followed him through the kitchen (in which a cook appeared to be tossing pancakes solely for the amusement of a prepubescent boy) and out into a little cobbled garden.
“Take a seat, Inspector,” said Zucker, gesturing toward a bench. “It’s quiet out here. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have some delicious reis trauttmansdorff.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer, Herr Zucker. But no, thank you.”
The two men sat down on the bench.
“What can I do for you, then?” said Zucker, taking a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his apron pocket.
“I would like to ask you a few questions about some of your customers.” Zucker offered Rheinhardt a cigarette, which the inspector declined, before lighting one for himself. “I take it,” Rheinhardt continued, “that you are aware of what happened in Josefstadt last week.”
“The murder?”
“Indeed.”
