48
OLBRICHT STARED ACROSS THE paint-spattered floorboards and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He relaxed his legs and turned his wrists inward, assuming an attitude reminiscent of that of Michelangelo's David. Then he raised his right hand and imagined his fingers closing around a laurel wreath. He felt a curious thrill, as though his fanciful conceit had been translated into authentic communion with the weltseele-the world soul. He closed his eyes, hoping to prolong the moment, but the strange feeling dissipated, leaving him with only a dull headache.
The artist turned and surveyed the paintings he had prepared for his coming exhibition.
Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a blind skald in a timbered hall; Siegfried, slaying the dragon…
He circled the studio, admiring his accomplishments, but stopped in front of the canvas of Pipara-the heroine of List's eponymous novel. Square shoulders; yellow braided hair; a strong, almost masculine face. She was standing on a raised stone balcony, looking out over a sea of heavily armored Roman legionaries.
Olbricht took a step closer.
He could remember feeling extremely pleased with his Pipara when the painting was completed; however, having put it aside for a while, he was now somewhat dissatisfied with her appearance. Olbricht picked up his palette and a fine-haired brush, and began reworking the empress's features.
There was something about the bridge of her nose that was not quite right. The height of her cheekbones, too low-the shape of her chin, too broad. Olbricht's movements became more fluid. Something of his communion with the world soul had stayed with him. He felt inspired, guided by a spirit hand toward the realization of an elusive ideal.
Finally, he took a step back.
The empress now bore an uncanny resemblance to Frau Anna, the wife of Guido List. She was so very beautiful, Frau Anna. Such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood.
If only he had seen her in the Wala…
If only he had been there-on that celebrated occasion, sponsored by the German League.
If only…
Something inside him crumpled, like an eggshell trodden underfoot.
Olbricht reached out and traced the curve of the empress's bosom with a trembling finger.
List was not an attractive man, and he was considerably older than the beautiful Anna. Yet she had married him. Her love had been won by the power of his intellect-the nobility of his spirit-the ferocity of his genius.
“I too am a great artist.” Olbricht had unconsciously said the words out loud.
His thoughts returned to the exhibition.
She would be impressed. Of that he was certain. She, and women like her. It was inconceivable that she was the only one-the only one who could recognize a hero. The only one who might want a pure, unsullied union-a union of souls.
Olbricht withdrew his shaking hand from the painting.
“I can make this better… better still,” he muttered. “Much, much better.”
He lifted his palette and inspected the brighter colors.
It must be a bolder work, a more challenging work, a work that reflected not only Pipara's inner strength-but his own.
49
THEY WERE SEATED BESIDE one of the Belvedere Sphinxes. A great wedge of snow had collected between the statue's stone wings, and her expression suggested wounded pride. Beyond the sunken hedge gardens and frozen fountains, the lower palace was shrouded in a nacreous winter mist.
Clara's mood was congruent with the landscape: frigid and unforgiving. They had barely spoken since leaving the Weisses’ house.
“Your father was very understanding,” said Liebermann, softly.
“He had to be civil,” said Clara. “He accepted your apology because he doesn't want to cause any arguments. Especially now.”
“Is he angry with me, then?
“Max, I am angry with you.”
Liebermann sighed, and looked down at his shoes. “It was important, Clara. Extremely important.”
“I'm sure it was… But so was going to the opera with my family. You ruined the evening. For all of us.”
Liebermann raised his hands in the air, as if beseeching the Sphinx to support him. “The Magic Flute is the key. I had to let Inspector Rheinhardt know immediately.”
“Did you? It couldn't have waited for an hour or two?”
“No. I have seen what this madman does. People's lives are at risk.”
“Has he struck again, then, this madman of yours?”
“No, he hasn't. But-”
Clara cut in, “Then it could have waited!” She managed to contain her anger for a few moments before it boiled over again.
“And why were you late for dinner yesterday?”
“I had a fencing lesson.”
The lie came all too easily.
“I thought your lessons were in the morning?”
“Signore Barbasetti was indisposed last week.” Liebermann spoke in an even voice, all the time staring into the Sphinx's face. Her expression seemed to change from wounded pride to disapproval. “We had rescheduled the lesson for yesterday evening. Unfortunately, I got rather overinvolved… and forgot the time.”
Clara shook her head. “And what does that tell us about your… your attitude?”
Liebermann was somewhat taken aback by this curious question. “I'm sorry?”
He turned to face Clara, whose dark eyes now seemed unusually penetrating.
“I remember,” she began slowly, as if the act of remembering were hard. “I remember you once said that everything means somethingeverything we do, however small: slips of the tongue, minor accidents, not being able to find things… So what does forgetting our dinner engagement mean?”
Liebermann felt as if the earth had shifted. He had underestimated her. She was more than just pretty, amusing Clara-a young woman from the right kind of family, with the right kind of background, his fiancee, a future wife. She had depths, some of which neither he- nor anybody, perhaps-would ever know, and a basic, inalienable right to be happy on her own terms. She had many faults, but at least she was honest, which was more than he could say of himself at that moment.
“Well?” Clara insisted.
Liebermann knew what he must do-and the mere thought of it brought him close to the edge of an inner precipice. Darkness and despair were aching to swallow him.
50
HERR BEIBER SHOWED NO signs of anxiety or discomfort. He seemed perfectly content to be lying on a hospital divan, following the young doctor's injunction to say-without censorship-anything that might come into his head. Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that the accountant was enjoying himself.
“I can remember, one morning-about a month or so ago, just before the snow started falling-I was standing outside the Schonbrunn Palace.” Beiber raised his hand and let it fall onto his stomach, making a loud slapping sound. “It was very early. The mist had only just lifted, and I knew-I just knew-that she was still asleep. I imagined
