Frank Tallis
Part One
1
LIEBERMANN WAS SEATED ON a wooden chair at the head of the rest bed. He had adopted an attitude which he found conducive to listening: legs crossed, his right fist against his cheek, the tip of his index finger resting gently on his temple. His supine patient — Herr Norbert Erstweiler — could not see the young doctor. In fact, Herr Erstweiler could see very little apart from the white ceiling and, if he dropped his gaze, a plain door in which a panel of opaque glass had been mounted. Herr Erstweiler’s eyes were restless. Their agitated movements suggested unease, apprehension. It was as if — Liebermann thought — Herr Erstweiler was worried that someone might intrude.
‘I am not expecting anybody,’ said Liebermann.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We shan’t be interrupted. No one will come in.’
‘Good … I wouldn’t want that.’
‘You were saying that your sleep is disturbed.’
‘That’s right. I can’t get to sleep any more. I get into bed, extinguish the lamp, and I am immediately overcome by terror. It’s the darkness … something about the darkness.’
‘Something
‘No, I wouldn’t say that. I would say it was the
Liebermann noticed that Herr Erstweiler’s hands were trembling slightly.
‘Do you have difficulty breathing, Herr Erstweiler?’
‘Yes — my chest feels tight … and my heart, I can feel it pounding all the time. There’s something wrong with it. I know there is.’
Liebermann consulted the notes on his lap.
‘No, Herr Erstweiler. There is nothing wrong with your heart.’
‘I’m not sure the cardiologist I saw conducted a thorough examination.’
‘Professor Schulde is an expert.’
Erstweiler glanced at the door.
‘Well, that may be so … but even experts are wrong sometimes.’
Liebermann scrutinised his patient: early thirties, dark hair infiltrated with grey, a thin, drawn face, tired, bloodshot eyes, finger marks on his spectacles. Erstweiler’s brow was scored by three lines: short, long and short. Their depth suggested indelibility. He had neglected his toilet and his chin was scabrous.
Erstweiler placed a palliative hand over his frantic heart.
The young doctor realised that discussing symptoms was making Erstweiler more anxious. He decided to distract him by adopting a different line of inquiry.
‘I understand that you have only recently arrived in Vienna,’ said Liebermann.
‘Yes. I settled here just before Christmas.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Tulln — do you know it, Herr doctor?’
Erstweiler’s voice was hopeful.
‘I know
‘No, Eggenburg — but my family moved to Tulln when I was very young. Just a quiet provincial town,’ said Erstweiler, ‘but I’m a simple fellow and easily satisfied. Walking, fishing … a little rowing in the summer.’ Erstweiler blinked and a faint smile softened his features. ‘I was very happy in Tulln.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘I was made redundant when my employer died. I was personal secretary to one of the councillors — Councillor Meternich — and worked in the Town Hall. It wasn’t a very demanding situation — some correspondence, diary keeping, that sort of thing. Meternich died in the autumn of last year. His illness was quite protracted. He knew …’ Erstweiler hesitated and stuttered. ‘He knew he was g-going to d-die …’ It was obvious to Liebermann that the poor man was struggling to overcome some private horror. Erstweiler took a deep breath and continued: ‘… And he wrote to a friend — recommending me for a clerical post. He was a kindly old man — Meternich — and knew that I would have difficulty finding alternative employment in Tulln. Meternich’s friend was Herr Winkler, a businessman who imports furniture and
Lieberman made some notes and asked: ‘Do you live on your own?’
‘Yes … no. What I mean is … I have taken a room — lodgings — in the house of a Czech gentleman and his wife.’
‘In Simmering?’
‘A short distance from Winkler’s warehouse.’
‘Do you have any family or friends in Vienna?’
‘No.’
‘What about back in Tulln? Did you leave anyone behind?’
‘Both of my parents are deceased. I have an older brother … but we haven’t spoken in years. He went to live in Salzburg. He’s a railway official, of high rank. He wears a uniform like a general! We were never very close. He considers me …’ Erstweiler grimaced, ‘unambitious.’
Liebermann tapped his index finger against his temple, then wrote down the words
‘When did you first become unwell, Herr Erstweiler?’
‘About a week ago. It came on quite suddenly.’
‘Have you ever suffered from similar episodes in the past? Difficulty in breathing? Accelerated heart rate?’
‘No, never. I’ve always been very healthy.’
‘Then has anything happened to upset you?’
Erstweiler did not answer.
Liebermann persevered: ‘Have you received any bad news? Witnessed an accident? Ended a relationship?’
‘No … nothing like that.’
‘But
