“Why?”
“I often pray into the night. It is peaceful… and I feel closer to God.”
Liebermann continued to ask questions, but Barash’s answers revealed nothing of consequence. In due course Liebermann said, “There has been another murder.”
Barash responded calmly. “Like the others?”
“Yes. The victim’s head was torn from his body and his remains were left outside a church.”
“Then it has struck again.”
“The murder was the same in all respects,” continued Liebermann, “with one exception.” He paused dramatically.
“Which was?”
“The victim was not an enemy of Jewry.”
“Are you sure, Herr Doctor?”
“Quite sure.”
“But how can you possibly say?”
“He was Jewish.”
The zaddik appeared genuinely surprised. His thick eyebrows rose up, and his lips parted.
“That is not possible.” He spoke hoarsely, his basso profundo momentarily robbed of its savory depth. Liebermann played a five-finger exercise on the chair arm. The soft percussion of his fingertips on the wood filled the hiatus, until Barash added more steadily, “No. You must be mistaken.”
Liebermann’s fingers stopped moving. “All of the evidence suggests the contrary. Whoever-whatever-killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust also killed Jeheil Sachs.”
Barash shook his head, slow and bovine. His coiled sideburns continued bouncing after the movement was completed. “No. You are mistaken. Another party is responsible.” His expression communicated that he saw no point in discussing the matter any further.
Liebermann was dissatisfied. Apart from the zaddik’s slip of the tongue, the interview had not been very revealing. Feeling frustrated, Liebermann asked, “Did you sleep at all last night, Rebbe Barash?”
“Yes. I retired at about four or five this morning.”
“Last time we spoke, our conversation touched upon the subject of dreams. May I ask, when you slept, did you dream?”
“I did.”
“What about?”
The zaddik’s eyebrows joined, and his brow became a network of deep creases, “I cannot tell you about my dreams,” he said disdainfully. “They are sacred, and it is most impertinent of you to make such an inquiry. When you ask a man about his dreams, you ask him to expose his soul. You eavesdrop on a conversation between man and God.”
Barash stood up.
“Herr Doctor, I am afraid I have other business. I have attempted to answer your questions in good faith, but it is clear to me that you still believe that I am in some way connected with the deaths of the monk Stanislav and Councillor Faust. Once again, I must protest and declare my innocence. If I am to be arrested, then please proceed. Tell your associates at the security office that I am ready. However, if it is not your intention to arrest me, then I would ask you to leave me in peace.”
Barash crossed the room and opened the door. Liebermann followed.
The young doctor thanked the zaddik for his assistance, but Barash did not respond. He stood in the doorway, perfectly still, his gigantic frame swaying slightly. It was an unnatural stillness, and it reminded Liebermann of the absences that he had observed in certain hysterical and neurological cases. Liebermann then noticed that the zaddik’s gaze was focused on Liebermann’s forehead. Quite suddenly Barash blinked as if waking from a deep sleep and grumbled an apology.
“I am sorry, Herr Doctor. I am tired. Perhaps you could see yourself out.”
Liebermann did not move. “What did you see?”
Barash extended his hand and touched the doorjamb in order to steady himself. “Great danger,” he whispered.
“Am I going to die?” Liebermann asked.
“We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor,” said Barash obtusely.
“Am I going to die in the next thirty days?” Liebermann persisted. “Is that what you saw?”
The zaddik’s face was inscrutable. “Be very careful.”
Liebermann wasn’t sure whether Barash was showing compassion or issuing a threat.
63
The Danube canal was bathed in late afternoon sunshine. A shimmer of light played on the gray-green water as Liebermann crossed the Maria-Theresien Bridge and headed off toward the Borse. He did not hail a cab. He wanted to walk, to clear his head and dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the zaddik’s parlor. It clung to him like the scent of mildew, and filled his mind with images of dust, decay, and interment. As he proceeded through the backstreets, Liebermann decided that he needed a very strong coffee. The Cafe Central-the favored haunt of writers, poets, and freethinkers-was just beyond the misshapen old town square, and the prospect of its splendid interior and decadent patrons was irresistible.
Liebermann crossed the open concourse, glancing in passing at the central fountain with its vigilant circle of bronze nymphs, and entered a shadowy street on the other side. Soon he was standing outside his destination, a little flushed but feeling better for having physically exerted himself. He opened the door and entered.
Inside, sturdy columns with ornate capitals rose up to a high vaulted ceiling. The pianist was playing a Brahms waltz, and the cavernous space was resonant with loud conversation and laughter. In the far corner a gaggle of art students (one still wearing his paint-spattered smock) was watching a billiard game.
Liebermann searched for somewhere to sit. He ventured farther into the coffeehouse, passing an inebriated cavalryman and squeezing between tables. Amid the general hubbub, he caught snatches of political debate, jokes, and immoderate language. After completing an unsuccessful circuit, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings. It was hopeless: the place was full. He would have to go somewhere else. But just as he was about to depart, he noticed a man, some distance away, rising from his chair and waving. It was Gabriel Kusevitsky, the young doctor whom he had met at his father’s lodge.
“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter with a full tray was trying to pass.
“I’m sorry,” said Liebermann, veering off in the direction of Kusevitsky’s table.
Kusevitsky stood to greet him.
“Liebermann, how good to see you. Would you like to join us?” He gestured toward his companions. The first was a youth whose physical features duplicated Kusevitsky’s. The second needed no introduction. “My brother, Asher Kusevitsky, and Arthur Schnitzler.” Liebermann bowed. “Herr Dr. Max Liebermann.” Kusevitsky added, “Another devotee of Professor Freud.”
Schnitzler was wearing a large pale hat with a wide brim, tilted at a perilously steep angle. His velvet jacket and embroidered shirt were rather dandified, as was his somewhat overwhelming and sweet-smelling cologne. His substantial mustache was combed out sideways, and his triangular beard was trimmed to a sharp point.
Liebermann sat down.
Schnitzler was in the middle of a story and evidently intended to finish it. “I made a few timid efforts to gain recognition for The Adventure of His Life. First I sent it to Siegwart Friedmann, who ignored it, then to Tewele, who as a friend of the family at least felt he had to say a few pleasant words about it. Director Lautenburg had already had a copy of the script sent to him from Vienna by Eirich. I had heard nothing from him, but when Lothar arrived, a meeting was arranged with Lautenburg at a restaurant-Krziwanek-and Lothar soon found a way to shift the conversation tactfully to my comedy. At first Lautenburg didn’t seem to remember it. I reminded him of a few scenes. Suddenly he knew what we were talking about, gave me a polite, pitying look, shook his head, and said just one word: Terrible.”
