that Liebermann only just managed to interpose his own sabre. Once again the sheer force of the attack pushed him backward.
A regular thudding sound declared that the Masons had adopted a systematic strategy for breaking down the door. Liebermann imagined them inefficiently pushing against the panels with their shoulders.
“Kick it! Kick it down, for pity's sake!” he shouted in desperation. “Kick it by the lock.”
Before he had finished the sentence, Olbricht was upon him and they were locked in combat. The confined space reverberated with the harsh clash of steel.
Parry, parry, parry.
The onslaught forced Liebermann into continuous retreat. He lost ground and Olbricht came forward. Again he lost ground-and Olbricht's attack became more frenzied.
Parry, parry, parry.
Liebermann sensed an object behind him-a desk, perhaps? Very soon he would be trapped. His mind was seized by an uncontrollable panic. Without thinking, he ran off to the side, exposing his back. It was utter stupidity. Suicide. He expected to feel the force of Olbricht's fatal lunge at any moment, the sabre penetrating his flesh and skewering his liver-but it never came. It was then that Liebermann realized the true nature of their conflict. Olbricht was simply playing with him, teasing out new registers of fear for his own deranged pleasure.
The young doctor's awkward escape ended as he tripped clumsily. He turned to face Olbricht and tried to discipline his panic.
He is only human, only human.
Liebermann repeated these words to himself like a litany.
Only human, only human.
The hysterical terror began to subside.
Lieberman thought of Signore Barbasetti. He remembered how his fencing master would often express displeasure by tapping his temple to emphasize a favorite injunction: Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Again, their weapons connected.
Parry, thrust, parry, coupe, parry, thrust.
Liebermann was surprised to discover that he was able to hold off Olbricht's attack somewhat better than before. The artist's movements were not so swift. Perhaps he was becoming complacent. Or, even better, perhaps he was tiring.
Encouraged, Liebermann lunged. Olbricht deflected the attack but failed to resume his guard. The artist's chest was exposed. He could do it-he would do it! Liebermann raised his sabre but found that he was unable to deliver the fatal blow.
If only he had been more attentive in Barbasetti's lessons!
How often had the Italian demonstrated the very same maneuver? A line intentionally left open to invite an impetuous attack.
Liebermann held his breath. He was utterly paralyzed by the pricking sensation over his heart. With consummate skill, Olbricht had halted the blade at the point of penetration. Liebermann dared not move. If his own sabre so much as trembled, Olbricht would strike. Liebermann closed his eyes-and waited. The door frame groaned.
Even as he resigned himself to oblivion, Liebermann could not help making one final clinical observation.
He is feasting on my terror, savoring my despair. He cannot plunge the blade between my ribs until his sadistic appetites have been fully satisfied.
Liebermann opened his eyes. He did not wish to die a coward. He wanted to meet his end defiantly.
Olbricht was craning forward, tilting his head to one side, making a close examination of Liebermann's features. The young doctor stared into the widely spaced eyes-and noticed for the first time that they only appeared to be set so widely apart because the bridge of Olbricht's nose had sunk. The deep creases around Olbricht's mouth compressed and his lips parted. He was smiling-and in doing so he was exhibiting two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were rough and uneven. Liebermann had never been this close to Olbricht before, had never had the opportunity to study the peculiarities of his physiognomy.
Think, Herr Doctor! If you do not think, all is lost.
Signor Barbasetti's injunction returned with haunting persistence.
Yes, of course!
Olbricht's irregular lineaments were not merely the result of his parental legacy-the germ plasm of his mother and father-but of some other process: a pathological process. The young doctor made his diagnosis, from which a series of bold inferences followed.
“Your mother,” Liebermann began. “You loved her, didn't you? But she never returned your love. She never had the time. Always busy entertaining gentlemen. Foreigners. Hungarians, Czechs, Croats… Jews?”
Olbricht looked startled. His eyes widened.
“And you had dreams,” Liebermann continued, gaining confidence. “Terrible dreams. Nightmares. About animals: wolves, dogs… You still get them, don't you?” The words tumbled out, hurried, frantic. “And then there was the music! You lived behind a theater-a small folk theater. When your mother was entertaining her gentleman friends, you could hear music. Operettas, popular songs. But the most unforgettable melodies, the ones that lodged in your mind and wouldn't go away, were from an opera by Mozart: The Magic Flute.”
Olbricht's expression changed. He looked bemused, almost frightened. Childlike.
“What are you?” His voice sounded hoarse, as though he had suddenly been confronted by a supernatural intelligence.
“I am a doctor-I can help you.”
But Liebermann had miscalculated. Olbricht did not want to be helped. The fearful expression on the artist's face was fading. Liebermann edged gently backward. In doing so, he created just enough space between Olbricht's blade and his chest to risk a single swift emancipating movement. He knocked Olbricht's sabre aside with the flat of his free gloved hand-and ran…
When Liebermann turned, he found himself backed up against a wall, facing an attack of demonic intensity. Blow followed blow. They rained down upon him: heavy, insistent, and deadly. Although Olbricht's attack was no longer controlled, Liebermann knew that he could hold off such a brutal assault for only a matter of seconds. His arm ached, weakened by each shocking impact.
Liebermann fell down on one knee. His weapon felt heavy and it began to slip from his hand. Drawing on some hidden vital reserve of energy, he held his sabre aloft horizontally, like a shield. The relentless pounding continued, powered by an inexhaustible fury. Liebermann was dimly aware of a loud crashing sound-and suddenly, miraculously, he was no longer alone. A sea of faces had appeared behind Olbricht, and a moment later Kanner was by Liebermann's side, deflecting Olbricht's hammer blows.
Exhausted and close to collapse, Liebermann watched the artist retreating, surrounded by a host of fresh, energetic adversaries. Olbricht wheeled around like a deadly dervish, his glinting blade creating a scintillating protective aura.
Kanner knelt beside Liebermann, placing a solicitous arm around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Liebermann nodded.
The crowd had closed around Olbricht, obscuring him from view, but Liebermann could still hear the chilling shriek of the artist's scything blade. Eventually the pitch of the screaming of metal through air dropped and the rhythm of more conventional engagement resumed, eventually slackening off to the rattle of intermittent, irregular contacts.
A powerful voice rose above the melee: “Brother Diethelm, I command you to drop your sword.”
The clattering stopped and an eerie silence prevailed.
“You are vastly outnumbered. I repeat: drop your sword.”
A pendulum clock sounded a hollow beat. Each percussive swing seemed to ratchet the tension up by degrees.
“Brother Diethelm?”
A thud followed by a metallic ringing was accompanied by a collective groan of relief.
Through a gap in the crowd, Liebermann briefly glimpsed the defeated artist. He was standing, arms outstretched, like Christ crucified, his head thrown back. A sob convulsed his chest.
