Liebermann scraped his feet on the iron railings surrounding the pedestal. The mud was sticky and not easily displaced.
“I can’t attend a ward round with dirty shoes.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a catastrophe, I’m sure.”
Liebermann ignored the inspector’s pointed remark. Dirty shoes might not seem very important to Rheinhardt, especially when set against murder; however, in Vienna, a doctor indifferent to sartorial etiquette might just as well give up medicine. Liebermann took out a handkerchief, bent over, and started to polish.
Rheinhardt raised his gaze to the sky.
“What are you doing? There’s a shoeblack who sets up a stall just outside the theatre. He’ll be there in a few minutes!”
Liebermann was not prepared to wait.
2
Mendel Liebermann had not been very attentive during Professor Freud’s lecture. The first part-a history of the scientific study of dreams-had been quite interesting, but the second part, which had dealt mainly with the professor’s recent discoveries, seemed impenetrable. It wasn’t the first time that Mendel had heard Freud talk at the B’nai B’rith lodge. Freud had addressed the brethren many times before, and when he wasn’t talking about his psychological theories, Mendel found him perfectly intelligible, even entertaining. His talks on “The Goals and Purposes of the B’nai B’rith Order” and “The Role of Women in Our Union” were perceptive and thought-provoking; however, when Freud spoke about psychoanalysis, Mendel became utterly lost.
The audience was still clapping when Mendel turned to his son and said, “I’m not sure I understood very much of that.”
“What didn’t you understand?”
“He said that dreams are about events that happen the previous day-but on the other hand, he said that dreams are to do with forbidden wishes. So what are they? Memories of the previous day-or wishes?… I don’t understand.”
“They’re both, Father,” said Liebermann.
Mendel stroked his beard and glowered at his son.
“What does that mean? Both? In life, things are usually either one thing or another. Can’t you doctors explain things in a straightforward way… a way that someone like me, a simple businessman, can understand? As a rule, if something can’t be communicated in plain German, then it’s probably not worth knowing. That’s what I believe, anyway.”
“Very well,” Liebermann said. “Think of it like this: in every business undertaking there is a capitalist-who covers the required outlay-and an entrepreneur, who has the idea and knows how to carry it out. In the construction of dreams, the part of the capitalist is played by the unconscious wish: it provides the energy for the dream to be made. The entrepreneur is the day’s residues. It is the day’s residues that determine how the outlay is to be spent. There! Is that plain enough for you?”
“Yes, that’s plain enough. If Professor Freud had put it in those terms, I’d have had no trouble following him.”
“He did, Father. You just weren’t listening.”
Mendel waved his hand in the air, as if to say that the subject was closed.
“Come,” Mendel said curtly. “Let’s go.”
Liebermann and his father made their way toward the door. They passed Professor Freud, who was being detained at the rostrum by a few men asking questions. One of them had raised his voice. He didn’t sound very friendly. In an adjacent room, drinks were being served. Father and son positioned themselves by a window overlooking Universitatsstrasse. Outside, it had started to rain.
“See him over there. Do you know who that man is?”
“What?” said Liebermann, pulling his head out from behind the curtains.
Mendel tutted.
“Nathaniel Rothenstein. The banker. As rich as… What’s the expression?”
“Croesus.”
“Yes, as rich as Croesus.”
Rothenstein was a tall, handsome man in his mid-fifties with an impressive head of hair, brushed back like a poet’s.
“I don’t know who the other fellow is,” Mendel added pensively.
The banker was talking to an older gentleman whose bald, perspiring head was gleaming beneath a gaslight. His grizzled beard was thick, long, and rather unkempt. A pair of pince-nez balanced on his long, straight nose. He was evidently talking with some passion, as his hands repeatedly chopped the air.
“I think he’s an academic,” said Liebermann.
“Is he?”
“Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen him at the university. I think he’s a professor, a member of the philosophy faculty.”
“A friend of Professor Freud’s, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mendel’s interest in the identity of Rothenstein’s companion was short-lived. “Banking,” he sighed, his thoughts returning to Rothenstein. “If I had my time again, that’s what I’d do. The textile business is all well and good, but it’s only one step removed from the market stall. Banking is something else entirely, a different world. A man like Rothenstein doesn’t have to concern himself with factory managers like Doubek, or suppliers like Zedlacher and Krakowski. He doesn’t have to go to Prague to check up on incompetent accountants! Which reminds me- another trip is well overdue. No, a man like Rothenstein is invited to the Hofburg. A man like Rothenstein dines with emperors. When Rothenstein speaks, people listen.”
“His friend from the university isn’t listening,” said Liebermann.
Mendel turned sharply.
“Why have you always got to say something clever?”
Liebermann did not respond. There wasn’t any point. He already knew that if he tried to defend or justify himself it would make matters worse. Mendel’s rebuke was simply a venting from a reservoir of suppressed anger (the depth of which the young doctor did not care to contemplate). He had disappointed his father in two ways. First, he had shown no interest in taking over the family business, and second, only five months earlier he had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s closest friends. The first of these “disappointments” had placed a considerable strain on their relationship; the second had almost destroyed it. Liebermann’s mother had worked a small miracle in getting father and son to talk again; however, the truce that she had brokered was fragile.
Mendel’s remark had created an uncomfortable atmosphere that effectively killed further conversation. Subsequently, it was a great relief to father and son when a dapper fellow wearing a spotted bow tie and a floral vest emerged from the crowd and came straight toward them.
“Liebermann,” cried the new arrival, taking Mendel’s hand and shaking it vigorously.
“Blomberg.”
“What did you think of the talk, eh?”
Mendel shook his head. “I didn’t really understand it.”
“Nor me…” Blomberg turned slightly, extending his hand again. “This must be your son-the doctor?”
“Yes, this is Maxim. Maxim-Herr Blomberg. You remember me mentioning Herr Blomberg, don’t you? He’s the gentleman who owns the department store.”
Liebermann bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Blomberg.”
“And you too, dear boy… Dreams, eh? Well, we all have our dreams, don’t we? I’m not sure what Professor Freud would make of mine, but I suspect that all my dreams have the same meaning. I have only one wish, and it’s certainly not unconscious. Another department store… on Karntnerstrasse!” Blomberg’s eyes glinted a little too
