Rheinhardt shifted from one foot to the other, somewhat embarrassed by the professor's eulogy.
“What did you do? When you saw Ra'ad's body?”
“I was overcome with terror… panic… I ran into the street and pleaded with a gentleman for help. He came into the house, saw poor Ra'ad, and ran out… And then… And then…”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Nothing. Nothing but darkness.”
“Where does Ra'ad come from, Professor?”
“He is a Nubian. He has been my servant-and my companion- for some five years. I found him in Kerma when I was supervising an excavation. The great cemetery… a complex of tunnels and tumuli full of remarkable treasures. Ra'ad was one of our guides.”
The tic returned and a tensed network of facial muscles appeared. The old man looked as if he were in pain.
Liebermann leaned forward and placed the palm of his hand on Hayek's cheek.
“The muscles are becoming loose… looser, looser. Feel the heat on the side of your face-a gently penetrating heat, like that of the sun. It warms and soothes-the tension melts away. There is no tension in your face, no tension in your neck…” When Liebermann removed his hand, the thick raised cords of muscle had vanished. “It is time for you to rest, Professor.”
The young doctor bent down and removed the professor's shoes. He then lifted Hayek's legs onto the bed, rotating the professor's body in the process. He then touched the man's forehead and commanded, “Lie back.”
The old man's head went down slowly, landing comfortably on a pillow.
“You must sleep now,” said Liebermann. “A deep restorative sleep-it will be peaceful-calm-tranquil-and undisturbed. When you wake, you will remember all that has happened to you this evening-but these memories will not overwhelm, frighten, or confuse you. Now sleep… Sleep, Professor.”
The professor's breathing became shallow and stertorous. Liebermann signed to Rheinhardt that they should leave.
Outside, on the landing, Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a cigar.
“He should be all right,” said Liebermann. “I was only using the simple suggestion method employed by Charcot and Janet, but it can be effective if the dissociative process is interrupted early. Make sure that one of your men is here in the morning, to assist him when he wakes.”
“Of course,” said Rheinhardt, striking a Vesta. As the match flared, both men became aware of a massive sarcophagus propped up against the wall. “Well, Max,” continued Rheinhardt, lighting Liebermann's cigar. “A madam, three prostitutes, a Czech poultry seller, and a Nubian servant. How are they connected?”
“I don't know,” said Liebermann. “It is incomprehensible.”
Rheinhardt lit his own cigar and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sarcophagus. “There must be some link, some relation. Is it possible for a mind to rebel so violently against reason?”
“The fact that two of the prostitutes-it might have been three if he had had the opportunity-and the man downstairs were sexually mutilated must be of some significance. But then why did the perpetrator fail to inflict the same kind of injury on the Czech?”
“Perhaps he was interrupted again.”
“He had sufficient time to conceal that padlock. If he'd really wanted to castrate the Czech, he could have done so.”
“None of the victims have so far been natives of Vienna.”
“That is true, Oskar. But if xenophobia was the perpetrator's guiding principle, he could have killed any number of foreigners more conveniently-and at less risk of discovery-by operating in the purlieus of the city: Favoriten, Landstrasse, Simmering. And why would a xenophobe choose to sexually mutilate his victims? Cutting their throats would have been quite sufficient for his purposes. I agree, Oskar, that there must be a scheme-a design behind his actions, some kind of logic, however obscure. But I am at a loss as to what that might be.”
41
ASCHENBRANDT HAD BEEN COMPOSING at the piano all day. He had been working on Carnuntum-more specifically, on an orchestral interlude that was provisionally titled The Eve of War. It was programmatic-like the overture-and evoked the approach of a great storm with timpani rolls and angry bursts of double bass and cello. He wondered whether the score needed the additional depth of a Wagner tuba-but was undecided.
The interlude was a dark, brooding piece that had required careful attention to detail. The triumphal theme that appeared at the end of the overture and signified the Quadi's victory was reprised, note values extended, and in the relative minor key. At first there was just a stygian plainchant in the bassoons, but then it was transposed several octaves higher and rendered with exquisite tenderness by a solo cor anglais. The interlude ended with a trumpet call that represented the sound of a cock crowing. Dawn was breaking-a Homeric “rosy-fingered” dawn. In the next scene the leader of the Quadi would rally his troops and sing an aria that would swell the chest of any good, honest German. The day has arrived,
Our day of destiny.
Let us be victorious
Or die a hero's death. “In days to come
Around the hearthstone
Children will beg to hear the tale
Of brave ancestors who dared to challenge
The might of Rome. “Blood and thunder,
Blood and thunder.
Salvation and victory.
Fields incarnadine.
Wotan-let this sacred day be ours.”
Aschenbrandt was exhausted. He left the piano and collapsed on an armchair, closing his eyes. Yet he could not rest. The themes of his opera kept on returning-like reminiscences. Rising, he removed his cello from its case, scraped the bow over a cube of rosin, and placed Bach's first Cello Suite on the music stand. Aschenbrandt was not an accomplished cellist but he was proficient enough to render a tolerable performance of some of the Bach suites. Although his pitch was sometimes suspect, he could easily produce a big, expressive sound.
He began the G Major Prelude.
His head cleared immediately. It was like standing in a shaft of sunlight.
Bach had created music without melody.
Out of texture, structure, and flowing rhythm the listener was carried through cycles of tension and resolution. But when Aschenbrandt allowed the last note to die, the silence was not complete. The leader of the Quadi was singing the last verse of his aria-a resonant bass:
Blood and Thunder, Blood and Thunder.
It was a good melody.
If he didn't commit it to paper now, he might forget-and it would be lost forever. Reluctantly, Aschenbrandt laid the cello aside, went to the piano, and began to write the melody down: D, G, B-flat, A. Dotted crotchet, quaver, crotchet, minim.
His muse was heartless, but he had a duty to obey her.
Whatever was demanded, he must find the strength.
42
“I WOULD LIKE TO see Inspector Rheinhardt,” said Amelia Lydgate.
“Is he expecting you?” asked the duty officer.
