Freud turned the page of the book and covered the caption with his hand. Liebermann felt it would be impolite to ask the Professor what he could see, yet, after only a few moments, his curiosity was satisfied.
“How interesting,” mumbled Freud. “How very intriguing. I see two herring heads.”
“You see?” said Liebermann, unable to resist. “It's beginning to work already.”
The professor slowly raised his head. At first, his expression was alarmingly severe, his penetrating eyes showing no signs of amusement. Then, quite suddenly, his face was illuminated by a broad grin.
“Very good,” he said, chuckling. “Very good.” He pushed the cigar box toward Liebermann. “Now, I absolutely insist!”
19
WOLF WAS SEATED ON a low three-legged stool, trying to concentrate on the book that Professor Gärtner had given him. Again, he read the passage that had stuck in his mind: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”
Snjezana's room was on the first floor of the inn at Aufkirchen. It was a sorry little place with damp walls, dirty curtains, a rickety bed, and a threadbare screen. Snjezana helped the landlord by day, but in the evenings she read romantic novels, smoked pungent cigar ettes, and occasionally received visitors—mostly men from the village or boys from the military school. The rear door of the inn was never locked, and her availability was signaled by a paraffin lamp in her window.
Above her washstand was a photograph of Stari Grad, a Dalmatian town on the island of Hvar. When drunk on schnapps, Snjezana would become melancholic and gaze through her streaming tears at the old seaport. Those who were familiar with Snjezana's habits would, at this juncture, immediately deposit a sum of money under her pillow and leave—because Snjezana's pining was usually followed by a violent eruption of anger during which she would curse all “Germans” and suddenly strike out. Her painted nails were long and sank into flesh with the efficiency of razor blades.
Only a moral interpretation of phenomena…
From below, Wolf could hear the sound of an accordion and raised voices, the hysterical shriek of the barmaid, and raucous laughter. The smell of Snjezana's room was making him feel slightly sick: her overpowering, cloying perfume failed to cover the reek of stale tobacco and the fishy odor that seeped into the atmosphere when she became aroused. He lit one of his own cigarettes—and hoped that its fragrance would neutralize the room's nauseating miasma.
Drexler appeared from behind the screen. He was bare-chested, and was fumbling with the belt of his trousers.
“Your turn,” he said.
Wolf closed the book and shook his head.
“No.… I think not. Let's go.”
“What?”
“I don't feel like it.”
The sound of tired bedsprings, relieved of weight, produced a sequence of loud cracking sounds followed by a tremulous hum. Snjezana stepped out from the other side of the screen. She was wearing a long, richly embroidered peasant skirt, and her hair was wrapped up in a black head scarf. Wolf glanced nonchalantly at her breasts—her erect nipples, her coffee-colored areolae.
“You said the two of you.” Her voice was accusatory. “That's what you said.”
“Don't worry, Snjezana,” said Wolf. “You'll get paid.”
“For two?”
Wolf sighed. “Yes. For two.”
Snjezana sneered—and affected a mocking singsong voice.
“What's the matter with poor Wolf—not feeling well?” She pushed out her lower lip and made circles on her stomach with the palm of her hand. “Is he missing his mutti? Does he want her to kiss it and make it better?”
Drexler laughed.
“Be quiet, Drexler—don't encourage her.” Wolf tossed some silver coins onto the floor. “I'll see you outside.”
Wolf got up abruptly and left the room. The landing was in total darkness, so he had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, his sword striking the banisters as he made his descent. Outside, the air was cool. He leaned up against the wall and looked up at the starry sky. Releasing a cloud of smoke, he watched it rise and dissipate.
“There are no moral phenomena,” he whispered. In some peculiar way, the cold impartiality of the heavens seemed to confirm the author's sentiment. He inhaled—and Snjezana's cloying perfume cleared from his nostrils.
20
THE INSPECTOR HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF at the back of the classroom—the very same one he had used to conduct his own interviews earlier that week. He had hoped that this would allow him to make discreet observations without distracting Perger.
Rheinhardt was accustomed to Liebermann's preference for oblique methods of inquiry. However, on this occasion the young doctor's behavior seemed so irregular, so incomprehensible, that he was sorely tempted to halt proceedings and demand an explanation. Liebermann had asked the boy if he enjoyed playing chess. He had then produced a chess set from his bag, and a contest of some considerable length ensued. When it was over—and Perger had been declared the winner—Liebermann opened his bag for the second time, and took out a bundle of papers that seemed to have nothing on them except spilled ink.
“And now,” said Liebermann, “another game of sorts.” Rheinhardt bit his lower lip and stifled the urge to protest. “I would like to show you some inkblots, and I want you to tell me if they remind you of anything.”
Liebermann showed the first sheet to Perger.
The boy had a nervous habit of jerking his head upward in small movements—like a rodent testing the air—and when he spoke, his hesitancy threatened to become a stutter.
“No. It… it doesn't remind me of anything.”
“Come now,” said Liebermann, smiling broadly. “You must, at some point, have observed the clouds in
