did not stop him from winking. He had never taken his brother’s temper very seriously.
46
It was early evening, and they had just finished another substantial meal in the hotel restaurant.
“Well,” said Mendel, draining his coffee cup, “I think we should all retire early. Tomorrow will be another busy day.”
Alexander rubbed his knee.
“My leg’s a bit stiff. It happens if I’ve been sitting still for too long. I think I’ll go for a walk and a smoke before going home. How about you, Maxim? Do you feel like a walk?”
Liebermann looked across to his father. The old man shrugged, as if to say, Do as you please. Liebermann and his uncle bid Mendel good night, collected their coats, and left the hotel. They strolled through the Stare Mysto, veering east through quaint narrow streets toward the Vltava. Liebermann had to get used to his uncle’s unhurried gait. Alexander took his time, occasionally stopping to examine the contents of a shop window or an interesting stucco decoration above a door. He was also in the habit of raising his hat and smiling at every pretty woman who passed. This was achieved with the natural, unconscious charm of a seasoned roue.
When they reached the Bethlehem Chapel, Alexander said, “I was surprised when Mendel told me that you would be coming along. I always understood that you weren’t interested in the family business.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“The fact is, Uncle, I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.”
“Trouble, eh?” Alexander looked mildly amused rather than concerned.
For the second time that day Liebermann described the von Kortig affair and the events leading to his suspension.
“Well, that’s truly dreadful,” said Alexander. “And I imagine that after today, the prospect of joining the family business is even less appealing. However, if you are forced out of medicine, you wouldn’t have to stay in Vienna. You could always come here and work with me. I suspect that you would find working in the Prague office less onerous.”
Alexander produced a complicit smile.
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Liebermann. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Yes, you do that.”
The twilight was deepening as they approached the Charles Bridge, and ahead the Gothic portal loomed into view: a tower of dark brick surmounted by a massive wedge-shaped spire, out of which sprouted numerous gold- tipped pinnacles. The two men walked under the central arch into a preternatural night and then out onto the bridge itself.
The prospect that came into view inspired wonder. It possessed a strange phantasmagorical beauty. An amphitheatre of hills provided a backdrop, the northeastern summits of which were dominated by Prague Castle and the spiky silhouette of Saint Vitus Cathedral. Red roofs appeared among the greenery of the lower slopes, which cascaded down to the left bank of the river. The low walls on either side of the bridge were punctuated by large statues of religious figures and converged in the hazy distance, where two more Gothic towers marked its end.
Liebermann and his uncle advanced until they were about halfway across. They had arrived at the feet of a bronze saint, green with age, his head surrounded by a halo of gold stars. In his hands he held a palm branch, also of gold, and a giant crucifix.
“Who is this?” asked Liebermann.
“Saint John of Nepomuk. The Bohemians have made a cult of him.” Alexander pointed to a relief tableau. “This shows his body being thrown off the Charles Bridge after he had been tortured to death.”
Liebermann noticed that the saint’s patina had been worn away by the touch of countless pilgrims. The little upside-down figure had been polished to a striking brightness.
Alexander took out a silver cigarette case and a box of matches. He offered a cigarette to Liebermann, who took it, and soon they were both leaning over the parapet, smoking. High, wispy clouds were reflected in the steely flow of the Vltava, and an eerie ancient melody, plucked from a stringed instrument by an invisible musician, floated on the air. The first star ignited above the castle.
“I was sorry to hear that you broke off your engagement with Clara Weiss,” said Alexander. He did not turn to look at his nephew but stared fixedly at the lone sentinel, burning in the sky.
“It was difficult. A hard thing to do.”
“I can imagine.”
“I upset a lot of people. The Weisses, Mother and Father-and Clara, of course. She had to go to a sanatorium, you know. To recover.” Liebermann drew on his cigarette and directed a stream of smoke upward. “Still… she’s with somebody else now. And I understand she’s happy.”
“And what about you?”
“Am I happy?”
“No. Have you found somebody else?”
Liebermann’s answer was hesitant.
“There’s this… this Englishwoman.”
“English, eh? I had an English mistress once.” Alexander’s expression softened, and he fell into a dreamy state of abstraction. After a few moments he blinked as if waking from a trance and said, “Forgive me, Maxim. Do go on… please.”
“I have strong feelings for her. But the circumstances of our meeting were rather unusual. You see, she was a patient whom I treated at the hospital.”
“These things happen. I have a doctor friend who is always having assignations with his patients. Even the ones who are married!”
Liebermann shrugged. “It hasn’t happened to me before.”
“There’s always a first time, my boy.”
“She is a woman whose appeal I find difficult to describe. Indeed, the majority of men might find her manner somewhat peculiar.”
“Well, she’s English. Is she beautiful?”
“Yes. Very. But she is strangely dispassionate.”
“Cold?”
“She can be.”
“Ah, then you have found yourself a cruel mistress. A Belle Dame sans Merci.”
“Not at all. She is kind and compassionate. It is just that she…” Liebermann searched for the right words. “Is uncommonly rational. I’ve never met anyone like her before. She is quite unique.”
“Have you become intimate?” Alexander’s emphasis left no doubt as to his meaning.
“No.”
“But you desire her?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t-”
“The moment is never right. Besides, I am not in any way confident that a physical demonstration of my affection would be welcome.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She has had… an unfortunate experience. With a man.”
“I see,” said Alexander, perceiving his nephew’s discomfort. “Do you love her, Maxim?”
Liebermann made a helpless gesture with his hands.
“I don’t know what I can expect from such a woman. I can as much imagine her managing a home as I can imagine myself managing a factory! And as for children-”
“Maxim,” Alexander cut in. “Excluding a man’s mother, there are three women in every man’s life. His wife, his mistress, and the unattainable object of desire. His wife becomes commonplace, his mistress a frivolous
