“Yes,” said Hannah. “You look at the shapes… and try to see things. Trolls, fairies… it's like… like a game.”
“How very interesting,” said Liebermann. “What's it called?”
“Klecksography.”
“Leah?” Liebermann's expression became oddly serious. “Where did you get this book from?”
“Oh, I don't know, Max,” Leah replied. “But you can get klecksography books anywhere—they're very popular. Why?”
“It's an interesting concept, that's all.”
Leah looked at Daniel and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder whether your uncle has spent too much time with mad people.”
13
AFTER LEAVING LEAH'S APARTMENT Liebermann traveled into town to collect a long-standing order from Schott's—Schumann's Twelve Poems by Justinus Kerner, opus 35, a little-known song cycle that Rheinhardt was keen to try.
On the streetcar home, Liebermann became engrossed in the prefatory notes. He discovered that Justinus Kerner, a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg, was also the author of a posthumous work, Klecksographien, which was (by the strangest of coincidences) the progenitor of his nephew's klecksography book and its many variants. Liebermann read that while suffering from depression, Kerner had seen ghosts and monsters in his symmetrical inky creations—and had ascribed for them a place in Hades.
Rheinhardt arrived shortly before eight o'clock, and the two friends began their music-making immediately. They performed Franz Lachner's Sängerfahrt, some atmospheric songs by Men dels sohn, and Zelter's Der König von Thule. When Liebermann produced the Schumann songs from behind the music stand, Rheinhardt was delighted.
“Excellent, excellent,” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”
The Twelve Poems were a strange cycle—having no unifying theme or coherent key sequence—yet it was their eccentricity that Liebermann found attractive. One of the settings, Auf das Trinkglas dues verstorhenen Freunies, was at the same time a lament for a departed friend and a panegyric to German wine. However, it also managed to subsume a meditation on the ineffable bond between the living and the dead.
Rheinhardt clasped his hands in front of his chest and sang the poetry with tender grace:
“Dock wird mir
k
lar zu dieser Stund,
“Wie nichts den Freund vom Freuni kann trennen.”
Yet at this hour I realize
How nothing can part friend from friend.
“Leer Steht das Glasl Der heil'ge Klang
“T
ön
t nach in iem kristall'nen Grunde.”
The glass stands empty! The sacred sound
Still echoes in its crystal depths.
As Liebermann played the final cadence, he could see that the deeper meanings of the text had affected Rheinhardt. A detective inspector would appreciate, even more than a physician-poet, perhaps, how the dead—in some sense—are never truly departed. They always leave something of themselves behind.
When Liebermann and Rheinhardt retired to the smoking room, they took their customary places, lit cigars, and contemplated the fire.
“So,” said Liebermann, reaching for the brandy. “You are still preoccupied by the death of Thomas Zelenka.”
Rheinhardt continued to look at the flames.
“Yesterday I went to Saint Florian's and interviewed—with one exception—all of his masters.”
“Why one exception?”
“His mathematics master has had an accident. He fell down the stairs and injured his leg.”
“How unfortunate.”
Liebermann handed Rheinhardt a glass of brandy.
“When I went to see Zelenka's parents, they said he was a strong, healthy boy. Yet his gymnastics master and Nurse Funke said he was sickly—that he always had colds.”
“Perhaps Zelenka feigned illness in order to avoid gymnastics.”
“And why would he do that?”
“The boys probably do their physical training bare-chested.”
“Which would have necessitated exposure of the cuts?”
“Indeed. He might have wished to keep them concealed.”
“But why?”
“Embarrassment, shame… However, there is a much simpler explanation. He avoided gymnastics because any form of vigorous exercise was painful.”
Rheinhardt took Perger's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table.
“I found this in Zelenka's bedroom—there were two letters, actually, but this is the most interesting.”
Liebermann put on his spectacles and unfolded the paper. He read in silence, until he reached the salient passages: “Needless to say, I do not want to go back.… Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do?… He doesn't care—no one does.”
Rheinhardt sipped his brandy, and summarized his encounter with Lang.
“Why didn't you interview Perger?” asked Liebermann.
“I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “And Lang was right—he wouldn't cooperate. I told Perger what I thought: that he and other boys— particularly from poor backgrounds—were being persecuted, and that if he told me who was responsible I would see to it that they were punished. He pretended not to know what I was talking about.… So then I showed him his own letter to Zelenka. I could see he was shocked, but to his credit the boy managed to sustain his subterfuge. He insisted that I had misunderstood the contents—it meant nothing. It was a joke, of course—particularly the part about running away. He said that he and Zelenka were always joking about doing such things.”
Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.
“At that point—where he mentions running away—it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.”
Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.
“It all looks the same to me.”
“There is a definite tremor.”
Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of skepticism still glimmering in his eye.
“I thought about interviewing some of the other boys—but there are more than three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would you hypnotize him?”
Liebermann shrugged. “Perhaps.”
The young doctor's economic response—combined with his arch expression—suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.
Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.
“Of course,” he said, “none of this new information shines further light on the death of Thomas Zelenka. Which, I believe, was your original purpose.”
“That is true. But in spite of your analysis of my unconscious motives, the defensive denial of premature death, and so forth, I cannot rid myself of a persistent conviction that if I continue with this investigation,
