Deadly Communion

of the shocking nature of her discovery. She was clearly very fond of her young friend.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘On her way to the Schottenring station to make a statement.’ Rheinhardt took a slim volume from his pocket. ‘I found this.’ He held it up. ‘In the kitchen.’

‘An address book?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t contain many names — but there are a few entries of interest.’ Rheinhardt turned some pages. ‘Here, for example. Velentin Frece. The address given is an accountancy firm called Fischof and Cerny on Singerstrasse. I doubt Fraulein Babel needed the services of an accountant. Presumably Herr Frece gave Fraulein Babel his work address to avoid personal correspondence falling into the hands of Frau Frece.’

Liebermann closed the wardrobe door and stood at the end of the bed. He dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and inspected the linen.

‘We must suppose that, like Adele Zeiler, Fraulein Babel consented to sexual intercourse. She removed her clothes in a provocative manner before lying down in readiness to receive her guest. During their congress, he brought her head forward and inserted the hatpin — a new gift and readily at hand — through the foramen magnum of her skull and into her brain. Observing her death made him culminate.’ Liebermann stood up and in less pensive tones asked: ‘Where is the photographer?’

‘He has already been. I was just waiting for you and the mortuary van.’

‘Is Professor Mathias to undertake the autopsy?’

‘Yes.’

Liebermann took his spectacles from his top pocket and began cleaning them with a handkerchief.

‘Did you receive my note concerning Miss Lydgate?’

‘She wants to see Mathias at work …’

‘And assist in the investigation.’

‘Well, I have no objection. You are welcome to invite her along, although it is a peculiar request for a young woman to make — to attend a police autopsy.’

‘It might be advisable to leave that sentiment unexpressed in her company, Oskar.’

‘Oh?’

‘She is a medical student, accustomed to the dissection of corpses, and I believe that Miss Lydgate has strong views concerning equality between the sexes. I fear she might be offended were you to imply that pathology was not an appropriate interest for a young woman.’

Rheinhardt got up from his chair and sighed.

‘Sometimes I feel lost in the modern world. All of the old certainties seem to have vanished.’ He looked down at the naked form of Fraulein Babel and, clapping a hand on Liebermann’s shoulder, said: ‘Come, Max — let’s wait for the mortuary van outside.’

Liebermann put on his spectacles and followed the melancholy inspector.

18

YOU WANTED TO KNOW more about my early life — and my first erotic experiences. I suppose that is to be expected under the circumstances. Well, I am happy to oblige. Indeed, I must confess that I am finding this exercise curiously satisfying. It is like the relief one feels after divulging a long-held secret. Even a small concealment becomes burdensome. It weighs heavily on the soul. The desire to share it with others mounts, until disclosure becomes irresistible. Imagine, then, how I must feel now. It is like some great catharsis — the untying of a Gordian knot. You have promised me peace when this history is complete. I must admit I did not believe you. But as I write more I can see there may be something in it.

Are you familiar with the folk customs of upper Bavaria and the Balkans? At funerals, food is prepared and laid on the coffin of the deceased. A person, known as the sin-eater, is summoned to the house, and by eating the food the sin-eater absolves the deceased of his sins. The food takes the form of bread, dead- loaves, or simple sweetmeats — dead-cakes.

You have an appetite for my sins. You are hungry for them. I can see it in your eyes.

But again, I digress. You wanted to know about the awakening of Eros.

Memory is unreliable, yet I am sure that in this respect my recollections are accurate. I was precocious. When those village women, full of pity and love and sorrow, pulled me close and I inhaled their salty, sugary fragrances I was aware of their physicality, the softness and warmth beneath the dirndls, and I experienced a curious sensation that I would later come to identify with desire. At first the sensation was very faint and located in my stomach. It was almost indistinguishable from anxious anticipation. But in due course the sensation matured, becoming stronger and more finely nuanced. Expectancy became a pleasurable tension and the fearfulness became guilt. Why is it — I wonder — that even the very first intimations of sexual pleasure are tainted with an undertow of shame?

My mind filled with images of nudity and a corresponding desire to be naked myself. The only opportunity I had to be naked was at night. I would slip off my nightshirt and run my hands over my body. If the moon was bright I would fold back the eiderdown and look upon my nakedness with eager satisfaction. Such was my guilty conscience — I have always suffered from scruples — that I became excessively anxious about disturbing my father. I imagined him bursting in, catching me in my state of undress and meting out some form of retributive punishment. The idea that he might harm my manhood came into my mind. In this nervous state, every sound I made — every rustle of the sheets, every creak of the mattress springs — seemed horribly loud, and I formed the habit of remaining very still and holding my breath.

I wonder now whether the fear of being discovered became itself sexually exciting. When I consider my subsequent behaviour, this would seem to be so. I would steal away into the woods, alone, where I would take off my clothes and stand naked for hours. All the time I was fearful of being observed by someone from the village, but I could not stop myself.

The fluttering sensation that had formerly been in my stomach descended and settled in my loins. This transmigration coincided with my burgeoning interest in the anatomy of girls. I managed to persuade some of them to venture into the woods with me. One of their number — a simple-minded creature called Gerda — I persuaded to strip. I instructed her to stand very still while holding her breath. It was intolerably exciting. This was when I first experienced an adult response. The lick of fire on the thighs: animation of the flesh.

Of all the girls in the village the one I loved most was Netti. I adored her. She was sweet-natured, kind and beautiful. We played together — but she would never come walking with me. One winter she fell ill and became very weak. She had to stay in bed. The children in the village were not permitted to visit her. I can remember how the women spoke softly whenever Netti’s name was mentioned. They looked at each other and pulled their little ones close. They feared infection.

Netti died just before Christmas.

My father made a point of going to pay his respects. It was in his nature to do such things. He could be contrary — and his black moods made him reckless. We marched through the snow, down the hill to Netti’s house, where we were shown into the parlour to see the dead child in her casket. The room was filled with flowers. I can still remember the intoxicating scent. Long purple drapes covered the mirrors and a massive silver crucifix had been hung on one of the walls. Four candles, on large stands, filled the room with a fitful yellow light.

Netti looked exquisite. And so very still — a stillness and a breathless tranquillity that I had never seen before. In Vienna, you hear people saying that they hope to have a schone Leich — a beautiful corpse. Netti was a schone Leich. Truly.

My father said a prayer and rose to leave. I could not move. I was transfixed by Netti. I begged him to let me stay a few minutes longer so that I might say one final goodbye to my playmate. He squeezed my arm and left the room: big shoulders hunched — face grey and drawn.

I stared at Netti and felt the fluttering sensation below. It intensified until my loins were tense. I felt my flesh move.