Deadly Communion

53

WHAT WAS IT LIKE? Communion?

How clumsy language is. How completely void of meaning. Imagine this: for it is the position in which I find myself. Imagine a parrot, placed before some great wonder of the ancient world — the pyramids or the Acropolis. And now imagine a blind man, attempting to comprehend the majesty of these buildings, by listening only to the report given to him by the bird. I squawk — chirrup — and shriek. Whistle and yawp. And you can listen, but to what end?

Have you ever known ecstasy, Herr doctor? If you are like other men — and I have no reason to think otherwise — you will most probably seek to answer that question with recourse to some carnal memory. For millennia, poets have misappropriated the language of mysticism to describe the gross, the bestial. You will remember the moment in which you swooned and became nothing but sensation — and I must smile. That you could mistake animal rutting followed by a spasm in the groin for ecstasy reveals the poverty of your experience: the pleasure of a pig rolling about in its own filth! Ecstasy is not to be found in the farmyard! You do not find ecstasy buried in a midden heap!

When She came to collect Adele Zeiler, we were united.

What was it like?

What is it like to transcend the limitations of the body?

What is it like to feel time and space dissolving into nothingness?

What is it like to feel fire instead of blood in one’s veins?

What is it like to watch worlds collide and explode?

What is it like to drink stars from the mouth of heaven?

What is it like to kiss the face of eternity?

Oh, to be sheltered — once again — in the sanctuary of those great wings, which close around the soul with the tenderness of a mother suckling her newborn child!

Words: hopeless words.

You will never — can never — understand.

When it was over there was darkness and the play of gentian. The light gradually faded until a final smudge of violet phosphorescence flickered before extinction. I was back in this world. The Zeiler girl was empty: a husk. It was cold and I felt unwell. I picked myself up and left the Volksgarten, and as I trudged through those empty streets I think I knew — even then — that it would not stop there.

The next day I did not go to work. I sent a message saying I was ill. But, in truth, I was wretched with longing. The communion had inflamed my desire, not quenched it. I wanted Her more than ever.

Fortunately I had already made the acquaintance of the shop girl, Fraulein Babel. She was a capricious, whimsical child, and occasionally showed me small kindnesses that I found quite touching. Even so, the pity that she aroused in me found no significant purchase. Every night, I dreamed of those wings — and the solace of Her embrace.

Part Four

Ashputtel

54

ALTHOUGH RHEINHARDT AND LIEBERMANN had communicated by telephone, they had not seen each other in person for over a week. They began their evening’s music-making with some of Hugo Wolf’s Goethe settings, the highlight of which was a particularly boisterous rendition of Was in der Schenke waren heute — ‘What a commotion in the Inn.’ Liebermann attacked the keys of the Bosendorfer with furious, gleeful violence, while Rheinhardt sang the melody as loud as his vocal cords would allow. Such was their relief at reaching the end of the song without a single error that they both laughed. As the evening progressed, their choices became more subdued and they finished their programme with four introspective lieder by Brahms. The last of these, Die Mainacht — ‘May Night’ — was performed with great amplitude of feeling. For Liebermann, the words of Ludwig Holty’s poetry seemed to find an uncanny echo in the testament that he was about to show his friend:

When, O smiling vision that shines through my soul

Like the red of dawn, shall I find you here on earth?

And the lonely tear

Quivers more ardently down my cheek.

They entered the smoking room and sat opposite the fireplace. Liebermann had positioned Sprenger’s notebook on the table between the two chairs.

‘Is this it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt picked up the notebook and fanned through the pages.

‘He’s still not speaking,’ said Liebermann, ‘but over the last two weeks he has been complying with my request. He has been writing an account of his history and instalments have been arriving daily. Progress has been slow, probably because of the morphium he is given to relieve pain; however, it is just as likely that the medication has served to facilitate his disclosures — breaking down his internal resistances. Even though Sprenger refuses to engage in conversation, I have been treating him like any other patient. After he completes each new chapter, I then read it in his presence and reflect aloud on its content. What you have in your hands is a brief but extraordinary biography. It details Sprenger’s life, from his birth to the murder of Cacilie Roster.’

‘Shall I read it now?’

‘Yes, it won’t take long.’

Liebermann poured some brandy and offered Rheinhardt a cigar. After turning only a few pages Rheinhardt exclaimed: ‘Griesser! His assumed identity is the name of his old schoolteacher!’

‘Indeed. Now read the next paragraph.’

Rheinhardt brought the notebook closer to his nose.

‘An amateur archaeologist …’

‘I visited the Natural History Museum and spoke to the archivist. He was able to find the schoolteacher’s original letter addressed to the Museum director.’

‘Remarkable. Where was it sent from?’

‘Kluneberg — a tiny mountain village in Styria’.

Rheinhardt continued reading, grumbling to himself, occasionally muttering a single word such as ‘madness’,