of religious agitation!”
Priel tossed Liebermann’s journal onto the workbench and opened a drawer. He took out a bottle and a large sponge. As soon as he had removed the glass stopper from the bottle, the room filled with the distinctive sweet smell of chloroform. Liebermann pulled his thumbs in tighter.
Almost, almost…
Priel poured some chloroform onto the sponge and turned to Liebermann.
“I am sorry, Herr Doctor.” His anger had dissipated, and he appeared to be genuinely saddened by the task he was about to perform. “But I must do this. I really must. Please do not struggle. As you know, the chloroform will be much more effective if you take deep breaths, and I promise to administer the chloroform again, before…” He sighed. “Before we reach our destination. Do not be fearful. You will feel no pain or discomfort. I will make every effort to ensure that you do not regain consciousness.”
The professor reached out and placed the sponge over Liebermann’s nose and mouth. Liebermann complied, taking a deep breath. Chloroform, administered in this fashion, could take up to thirty minutes to produce narcosis. He calculated that he could afford to feign acquiescence.
“Good,” said the professor. “Good. Close your eyes, eh? It will be better… easier.”
Liebermann spoke sotto voce into the sponge. The muffled sound was incomprehensible.
“What?” Again, Liebermann mumbled a string of unstressed syllables, and the professor drew closer. “What did you say?”
Priel put down the bottle and removed the sponge.
Liebermann’s hands slipped from the bindings. The muslin dropped to the floor. Professor Priel’s eyes widened quizzically.
A heartbeat-time suspended-and a curious magnification of otherwise insignificant details: the pores on Professor Priel’s nose, the metal on his breath.
Liebermann swung his arms forward like a man diving. His hands met behind Priel’s head. Gripping the length of rope tightly, Liebermann pulled it around Professor Priel’s neck, crossing the ends to create a noose. Instinctively, the professor tried to free himself. He struggled to insinuate his fingers between the constricting hemp and his throat. Liebermann responded by tugging harder. The professor began to emit guttural choking sounds, and his complexion darkened. He pulled back, dragging Liebermann’s chair with him. The young doctor maintained his grip, but the chair toppled over, dragging Professor Priel down with it. They faced each other, lying side by side on the floor. Priel’s eyes were bulging, and his face was distorted. He began to thrash around, and Liebermann, already weakened by concussion and chloroform, felt his fingers slipping.
I have to hold on.
Priel clawed at Liebermann’s face. His nails found flesh, and Liebermann felt searing pain as his cheek was stripped of skin. The professor’s fingers, crooked into bony talons, then sought out Liebermann’s eyes. The young doctor jerked back and pulled harder. It was an extraordinary effort, and it made Priel repeat his original bid for survival. Once again, the professor tried to get his fingers beneath the rope, tried to pry it away from his throat-and once again he did not succeed. Desperate, Professor Priel pushed the heel of his palm against Liebermann’s chin and landed an ineffectual blow on Liebermann’s thigh.
The young doctor held fast.
More punches. A weak kick…
As before, Liebermann experienced a curious illusion of suspended time, accompanied by the heightened perception of detail. He became acutely aware of Priel’s eyes. The fear had gone, and in its place something much more difficult to define had appeared: an eloquent sorrow-disappointment? It might even have been pity. The professor’s eyelids descended, and the flow of time resumed. His body went limp.
Suspecting a ruse, Liebermann did not let go of the rope. But Priel’s final tacit communication had been peculiarly poignant, and Liebermann let the cord become slack. Immediately, Professor Priel began to cough. He rolled over onto his back, groaning and gasping for air.
Liebermann untied his feet and crawled to the workbench. He picked up the bottle of chloroform and knelt next to the professor. He checked the man’s pulse and waited for his breathing to become regular. Then he soaked the sponge and pressed it against Priel’s face. Liebermann stayed in that position, occasionally pouring more chloroform onto the sponge, until he was satisfied that the professor was unconscious. Then he stood up, righted the chair, and sat down. The fumes had made him feel light-headed, and he reached out to touch the workbench. The solidity of the wood made him feel a little better.
In due course he rose again and crossed to the barrel organ. He opened the doors and examined the interior. No bellows, no pipes-but two leather-covered discs and an array of cogwheels, pulleys, and chains. The discs were parallel and set apart but could be brought closer together, like the plates of a vise. Liebermann turned the crank handle, and the discs began to rotate. In his mind, he could hear Schubert’s mesmeric semiquavers, the ghost of Rheinhardt’s mellifluous baritone entering at the end of the second bar: My peace is gone,
My heart is heavy;
I shall never
Ever find peace again.
The door was locked, and Liebermann had to search through the unconscious professor’s pockets for the key. He found it among a bunch of other keys linked together on a ring. The door opened into a dingy lightless corridor that led to a steep stone staircase. At the top of the stairs was another door. This too was locked. He found the correct key, pushed the second door open, and sniffed the night air. It was fresh and cold. He emerged into an alleyway in which a horse and carriage were waiting. Turning around, he locked the door, tested it, and walked toward the tethered animal.
“God bless you, Professor Klammer,” he said. “God bless you!”
78
Somewhere in the Schottenring station a clock struck five.
Rheinhardt was seated behind his desk, writing the concluding sentences of Liebermann’s statement. When he had finished, he sat back in his chair, yawned, and offered Liebermann a cigar. Then he poured two glasses of slivovitz.
“The thing that I don’t understand,” said Rheinhardt, “is this: How is it that you managed to escape those bindings? You said…” Rheinhardt consulted the statement. “‘I discovered that the bindings were loosely tied and managed to free my hands.’ But that strikes me as rather peculiar, that a man of Professor Priel’s intelligence, a thorough man, should make such a fundamental error.”
Liebermann sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose it was quite as simple as that, but I think that my statement is perfectly adequate for administrative purposes.”
“That may be so,” said Rheinhardt. “However, you have now succeeded in arousing my curiosity, and if there is an explanation, I would be most interested to hear it.”
Liebermann exhaled a cloud of smoke and sampled the slivovitz. “Do you still get this brandy from the Croatian scissors grinder?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“We have an arrangement. He gives me information and I buy his slivovitz. It’s actually from his brother’s market stall.”
“I see.”
Rheinhardt assumed an expression of patient suffering. The pouches of discoloration under his eyes were more marked than usual. He looked a little like a bloodhound.
“The explanation, Max?”
Liebermann took another slug of the slivovitz. “I must begin with Professor Freud.”
“Freud? What has he got to do with it?”
“Overdetermination.”
“What?”
