expenditure, but the unattainable object of desire remains alluring in perpetuity. She is the guardian of his vital powers. Her currency never depreciates. She is never cheapened or diminished by consummation, and her stock rises as we grow old. Even when our flesh becomes arid and we succumb to the depredations of time, she reminds us of what it was like to be young. This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire. Let her serve her purpose, because in all likelihood she has no other.” Alexander dropped his cigarette into the water below. “A handsome fellow like you should be enjoying life, not fretting over a frigid English girl.”
The sudden bluntness startled Liebermann. He turned to look at his uncle, who reached out an affectionate hand and squeezed Liebermann’s arm.
“You probably think me an old fool-or, even worse, an old cynic. But I have always been fond of you, Maxim, and I do not like to see you unhappy.”
Liebermann acknowledged his uncle with a smile. He stepped back from the wall and looked toward the Gothic bridge tower, which was now looking distinctly sinister in the fading light. Beyond was a pleasing cluster of umbrous domes, onion steeples, and triangular pediments.
“That dome,” said Liebermann, pointing to the largest, “owes a great debt to Brunelleschi.”
“What?”
“Brunelleschi, an Italian architect. It was he who set the precedent for putting lanterns on top of domes.”
Alexander tilted his head quizzically, but decided that his nephew’s non sequitur did not merit further inquiry.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s get a nightcap.”
They walked back through the Stare Mysto and stopped at a beer hall near the House of the Two Golden Bears, a Renaissance edifice with eponymous ursine relief work. The landlord of the beer hall was obviously well acquainted with Alexander. When Alexander introduced Liebermann as his nephew, the landlord shook his hand and insisted they have a few Gambrinus-on the house. When they had finished their beers, Liebermann was alarmed to hear his uncle ordering a bottle of liqueur.
“Becherovka,” said Alexander. “It’s made with herbs. I often take it as a tonic.”
The amber liquid tasted bittersweet.
When they left the beer hall two hours later, it was nighttime, and Liebermann was conscious of the fact that he had drunk far too much. Indeed, his legs had become unreliable and he had acquired a style of speech similar to his uncle’s.
“Well, good night, Maxim.” His uncle kissed him on the cheek. “And cheer up, eh? Life is too short to be taken seriously. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” He winked and chuckled. “Sleep well.”
Alexander turned and walked off, whistling a melody from an Offenbach operetta.
When Liebermann got back to his room, he undid his necktie, took off his shoes, and flopped back onto the bed. He thought about the hospital committee, what life would be like if he came to work with his uncle in Prague, and his recent conversation with Alexander on the Charles Bridge.
The unattainable object of desire…
Perhaps his uncle was right. Perhaps he had become fixated on Miss Lydgate simply because she was, in so many ways, inaccessible. And such was the human mind, with its childish inclinations, that what was held beyond reach was always what was perceived as most desirable. Liebermann rubbed his chin, which was scabrous with stubble. His thoughts became disconnected, and he sank into a fitful sleep.
Liebermann woke with a start.
A gentle rapping, knuckles on wood.
He got up, steadied himself by touching the bedpost, and made his way to the door. His head felt full of glue. A young woman was standing outside. She pushed through the opening and stood proudly in the center of the room.
“Fraulein,” said Liebermann, brushing his hair from his eyes. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“My name is Anezka.” She took off her hat and threw it onto a chair, then narrowed her shoulders and let her unbuttoned coat fall to the floor. She was wearing a tight silk dress, the intrepid neckline of which descended steeply, revealing a plenitude of bulging flesh. “Herr Dr. Liebermann?”
“Yes.”
“Then there has been no mistake. I am a present.”
“A present?”
“Yes, from your uncle.”
She rushed up to Liebermann and pushed the door closed. Then, taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bed and playfully pushed him so that he was seated on the edge.
“I’m really not sure about this,” said Liebermann.
“The gentleman said you might be a bit shy. But he said I should persevere.”
Taking Liebermann’s hands in hers, Anezka placed them on her hips. Her corset creaked as she bowed to kiss the top of his head.
“Well,” she said, “do you think I am pretty?”
“Yes,” Liebermann said. “I think you are very pretty.”
He knew that he should ask her to leave; however, the machinery of articulation failed to engage. He looked up, into the woman’s black eyes, and they seemed to expand until there was nothing but an infinite, starless void. His will to resist evaporated. The hot breath on his neck made him sigh with pleasure. He allowed his body to go limp, and he fell back onto the mattress, confident that he was surrendering his body to the ministrations of a skilled professional.
47
Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl stepped down from the carriage on Burggasse and walked arm in arm up the cobbled incline of an adjoining street. The houses they passed were dilapidated, and the air smelled vaguely of refuse. From somewhere beyond the end of the street a bugle sounded, establishing the proximity of the barracks. They arrived at their destination, a decrepit hovel, and paused to examine the filthy exterior. Pieces of stucco had fallen off the facade, revealing the underlying brickwork, and the windows were streaked with bird droppings.
A door was thrown open on the opposite side of the road, and a plump red-faced woman stepped out. She frowned at the two well-dressed young women and proceeded to shake some bed linen.
Anna lifted the cast-iron knocker and rapped loudly. Nothing stirred in the house, so she tried again.
“Excuse me,” Anna called over to the red-faced woman. “Do you know if Herr Sachs is in?”
The red-faced woman shrugged and continued with her work. Anna turned and struck the door with her fist.
“Herr Sachs, are you in? Herr Sachs?” She tilted her head and addressed her companion. “Did you hear something?”
“Yes,” said Olga, “I think I did.”
“Herr Sachs? Open the door!”
They waited, and their patience was rewarded by the hollow thump of footsteps descending wooden stairs. A bolt was drawn aside, and the door creaked open. The man standing in front of them had evidently just gotten out of bed. His hair was mussed, and he seemed slightly disorientated. He was wearing a stained dressing gown and had not bothered to put on his slippers. Anna glanced down and was repulsed by his corneous clawlike yellow toenails. On the exposed carpet of matted hair that covered his chest sat a circular pendant that contained a Star of David. He rubbed one of his half-closed eyes with a grazed knuckle and, when he had finished, blinked blearily at the two women.
“Herr Sachs?” Anna inquired.
“Who are you?” he replied, the words forming from the gravelly sounds that he made as he cleared his throat.
“My name is Anna Katzer, and this is my associate and friend Olga Mandl. Are you Herr Sachs? Jeheil Sachs?”
