thing a patient expects from his physician, it is gravitas.”
“Very good, sir,” said Kusevitsky. “I will wear only a black necktie in the future.”
“His name’s Rheinhardt.”
“Sir?”
“The policeman. I managed to hide him away in the common room.”
“Thank you, Professor Kraus. I will see him immediately and make sure that when he leaves he does so via the kitchen entrance.”
The professor made some grunting noises and left. His footsteps (loud, regular, and implacable) resounded down the corridor.
Gabriel Kusevitsky sighed, tidied his notes, and made his way to the common room, where a portly gentleman in plain clothes was waiting. He had been expecting a constable with spiked helmet and sabre. The man stood up, bowed, and said, “Herr Dr. Kusevitsky? I am Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office. Forgive me for interrupting your day.”
His civility was a pleasant change after Professor Kraus’s insults.
The two men sat down at a table covered with medical journals.
“Does the name Jeheil Sachs mean anything to you?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Yes. He’s a procurer. Why?”
“What else do you know of him?”
“Well, he lives in Spittelberg and recently assaulted a poor young woman, Fraulein Pinski, who was admitted into this hospital.” Kusevitsky produced a flickering smile, a fast series of facial contractions. “I think there must have been some mistake or misunderstanding, Inspector. She is not in my care. You really need to speak to Professor Kraus and Dr. Goldberger.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt. “There has been no mistake.”
“But I know nothing of this woman’s circumstances. Other than that she was a prostitute, of course.”
“Tell me,” Rheinhardt continued, resting his elbows on the table and locking his fingers. “How did you get to hear about Herr Sachs?”
“One of my friends-Fraulein Katzer-she does charity work in Spittelberg and told me what had happened, about the assault.”
“Fraulein Katzer… Is she just a friend? Or are you romantically associated?”
Kusevitsky’s cheeks flushed. “We are associated, yes,” said the young man stiffly.
“And when she told you what Sachs had done to Fraulein Pinski, what was your reaction?”
“I was angry. Very angry. It was a brutal and ugly attack.”
“Fraulein Katzer went to see Herr Sachs with…” Rheinhardt consulted his notebook. “Fraulein Mandl. Why didn’t you go with her?”
“I learned of her visit only after she’d already gone. It was a foolish thing to do.”
Rheinhardt twisted his mustache. “Where were you on Thursday night?”
“At home, with my brother, Asher.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“What possible use would such information be to you, Inspector?” Rheinhardt allowed the ensuing silence to build. “Very well,” said Gabriel, shrugging. “I was writing up some preliminary results of a study I am conducting into the nature of dreams.”
“Ah, dreams,” said Rheinhardt. “A very interesting topic. You must be a devotee of Professor Freud.”
Kusevitsky was surprised. “Yes, as it happens, I am. Are you familiar with Professor Freud’s works?”
“I have read The Psychopathology of Everyday Life and some of The Interpretation of Dreams. I enjoyed the former but struggled to finish the latter. The technical passages at the end were somewhat obscure.” Rheinhardt glanced nonchalantly at one the medical journals. “What time did you retire?”
“On Thursday night? Quite late. The early hours of the morning, I imagine.”
“Yes, but what time?”
“I can’t remember. But it must have been around one or two.”
Rheinhardt made a note.
“Inspector?” The young man was looking at him intently. “Your questions and manner lead me to conclude that something has happened to Herr Sachs. Has he, by any chance, been murdered?”
Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and took out a folded copy of the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung. On the cover was a crude drawing of a plague column and a headless corpse lying-its position inaccurate-on the pavement next to it.
“You haven’t seen this, then?”
Kusevitsky took the newspaper and examined the image.
“Did he deserve to die?” Rheinhardt asked.
“That is not a question I have the moral authority to answer,” the young doctor replied calmly.
68
They had just completed the Schone Mullerin song cycle and were very satisfied with their performance. Rheinhardt’s voice had sounded particularly good, discovering in each perfectly constructed phrase new registers of bittersweet feeling.
The images still lingered: murmuring brooks, water mills, broad skies-a landscape of innocent pleasures. And, for any self-respecting German romantic, the natural setting for tales of unrequited love and suicidal despair.
“One more,” said Liebermann, rummaging in his piano stool for a suitable song to end with.
“Yes, but only one more,” said Rheinhardt. “My voice is going.”
“Nonsense,” said Liebermann. “You’re in excellent form. Ah, how about this?”
He placed some more Schubert on the music stand: Gretchen am Spinnrade. Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel.
It was not an obvious choice, the sentiment of the poetry being, strictly speaking, more appropriate for a female singer. Nevertheless, Liebermann found that he was seized by a curious desire to hear Schubert’s beautiful lyric melody. Gretchen am Spinnrade was a miracle of precocity. It had been completed before the composer had reached twenty, and most music aficionados agreed that even if Schubert had lived to a hundred he would not have been able to improve a single note.
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Very well.”
Liebermann’s hands dropped to the keyboard, producing on contact the fluid semiquavers that evoked with astonishing fidelity the turning of Gretchen’s spinning wheel. So powerful was this impression that the listener could all but hear her foot pumping the treadle. The semiquavers were relentless, their melancholy revolutions suggesting not only poignant yearning but tired resignation. Schubert’s account of Gretchen’s wheel had, perhaps, more in common with the medieval Rota Fortuna than with a machine for making yarn. Human beings might rail against fate, but ultimately each individual had to accept his or her destiny. There was no other choice. Gretchen’s wheel reproduced in the listener’s mind an intimation of universal circularities: orbiting worlds and the motion of stars. Never, thought Liebermann, had a composer responded so comprehensively to a given text, finding within the poetry meanings that might even have escaped its author, no less a genius than the godlike Goethe.
Rheinhardt’s baritone was rich and dark: “Meine Ruh ist hin,”
My peace is gone,
“Mein Herz ist schwer,”
My heart is heavy,
“Ich finde sie nimmer, Und nimmermehr.”
I shall never, ever find peace again.
Why, Liebermann wondered, did I want to hear this song again, this song of yearning and fate?
A series of ghostly images flickered in front of his eyes.
Uncle Alexander on the Charles Bridge: This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire.
