The boy's eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, yes.… Two old men— with long noses.”
“Very good. Now here's another. What do you see?”
“A… a bat.”
“Excellent. And here?”
“The face of a wolf.”
And so it went on: Liebermann showing the boy page after page, and the boy responding.
Two dragons… a stove… sea horses… a sad face… a skeleton.
Perger was soon finding the task easier—and his descriptions became more detailed.
Duelists—at sunset… two bears, dancing… another wolf, ready to pounce… a cobra—its head pulled back… a knight praying by the tomb of his comrade.
When Liebermann had worked through all his inkblots, he said to Perger, “Another game of chess? It is only right that you give me an opportunity to redeem myself.”
Rheinhardt was certain that Liebermann had lost the previous game intentionally. He had seen his friend perform respectably against the seasoned enthusiasts who gathered at the rear of the Café Central. It was extremely unlikely that a logician of Liebermann s calibre could be bettered by an adolescent boy.
The new game differed from the first, insofar as it did not take place in silence. Liebermann asked Perger what books he liked to read. What cakes were sold at the Aufkirchen bakery, and whether or not ticks were a problem in the summer months. None of it (as far as Rheinhardt could determine) was of any consequence. Then, after a relatively short period of time had elapsed, Liebermann moved his queen and said “Checkmate.” The boy wasn't expecting this sudden defeat and was obviously quite surprised.
“It's a well-known snare developed by the great Wilhelm Steinitz,” said Liebermann. “You should have paid closer attention to my knight! But this is a most unsatisfactory outcome, wouldn't you agree? Both of us have now won a game, and I am curious to know which of us is really the better player. Let us have one more game— and that shall be the decider!”
Rheinhardt could sit still no longer. He stood up and clomped over to the window. A single rider was leaping fences in the equestrian enclosure, and beyond, the fir-covered hills were black beneath a taupe sky. Rheinhardt yawned. As he watched the rider repeating his circuit, the classroom began to recede and he gradually slipped into a state of drowsy abstraction. When he finally overcame his torpor, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation.…
Liebermann and Perger were talking about the school: masters, examinations, drill. Occasionally, Liebermann would remind the boy to watch his knight—then proceed with another nonchalant inquiry. Which of the masters taught Latin? Why did Perger find Latin so difficult? Could he speak any other languages? Rheinhardt noticed that the boy's head was no longer jerking upward. He was concentrating on the game, answering Liebermann's questions with an easy, natural fluency.
“Thomas Zelenka was your friend?”
“Yes, he was.”
“You must be very lonely now?”
“I have other friends.…”
“Of course.… Did Thomas have other friends?”
“No, not really: although he was very fond of Frau Becker.”
“The deputy headmaster's wife?”
“Yes. He used to go there… to the Beckers’ house.”
“What for?”
“To talk with Frau Becker.”
“What about?”
“I don't know… but he said she was very kind.”
Liebermann leaned forward.
“Careful… I fear you haven't been watching my knight.”
“On the contrary” the boy replied. “I fear it is you who have not been watching mine.” Perger moved his piece two squares forward and one to the side. Then he announced, with a broad, proud grin, “Checkmate.”
“Bravo,” said Liebermann. “It has been decided, then. You are the superior player. You are free to go.”
The boy stood to attention, clicked his heels, and walked toward the door. Just before he passed into the shadowy exterior, he looked back over his shoulder.
“Good luck with your Latin,” said Liebermann.
The boy hurried out, his steps fading into silence.
“Well,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker! Nobody has mentioned her before. We must pay her a visit.” Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled a reminder. “But really, Max, what on earth have you been doing? We've been here for hours. Couldn't you have asked questions about Zelenka earlier?”
“No,” replied Liebermann firmly. “To do so would have been a grave mistake.”
The young doctor rose from his chair and walked to the blackboard, where he gripped his lapels and adopted a distinctly pedagogic stance.
“You will recall that in his letter to Zelenka,” Liebermann continued, “Perger mentions his father in such a way as to suggest a man of unsympathetic character. He worries that his father will think him unmanly if he complains or requests help. One can easily imagine what Perger senior is like—a domineering, unapproachable man who was very probably educated at Saint Florian's himself… or, at least, a school very much like it. This unhappy father-son relationship would inevitably color Perger s entire perception of authority figures, of which you and I are typical examples. Even under the most benign circumstances, the relationship between father and son is frequently troubled by hostile feelings. They are, after all, rivals who compete for the mother's love. When this already difficult situation is made worse by a tyrannical father, the son's primal anxieties are amplified and he becomes profoundly mistrustful of all manifestations of hegemony. He feels vulnerable, and must protect himself. Now, a child knows that it cannot physically overcome an adult foe; however, it is not entirely powerless. It can still exhibit passive forms of aggression—it can be uncooperative, morose, taciturn. So, you see, Oskar, it was essential that I allow Perger to beat me at chess. The experience gave him a sense of mastery, thus reducing his anxiety and relieving him of the necessity to deploy defenses.”
Liebermann turned to the blackboard and, picking up a stub of chalk, wrote Anxiety, Mastery, Anxiety Reduction and linked the words with two arrows. He then briefly explained the purpose of the ink -blots, emphasizing how involuntary imaginative responses might contain information
