His eyes remained open.
68
AS LIEBERMANN MARCHED THROUGH the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lyd gate s note.
He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved—inexorably—toward a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.
What was Miss Lyd gate s purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation—or even a complete confession—might be too powerful to resist.
Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings—and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction—because of jealousy. He thought of Dr. Becker, motivated to kill another human being—because of jealousy. And he thought of himself, reeling away from the Café Segel, delirious with disappointment and rage—because of jealousy.
It was an ugly destructive emotion, and as a civilized man he felt obliged to overcome his primitive urges. Yet the desire to possess a woman exclusively was an indelible feature of the male psyche, and to repress such feelings would simply promote—according to Professor Freud—the development of hysterical and neurotic symptoms. Modern man must either wallow in the mire of his animal instincts or deny them and become mentally ill.
A fragment of conversation:
That man… The one who stopped you outside Demel's.
What?
The man who called you Amélie—Franz…
Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?
You knew him, really, didn't you?
Are you jealous?
Liebermann didn't want to be jealous. But there was one thing he didn't want to be even more, and that was mentally ill.
In due course, Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein's house. He rapped the knocker three times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and Amelia Lyd gate was standing in front of him. She was wearing a simple white dress and her hair fell in blazing tresses to her shoulders. Her eyes—which never failed to astonish him—seemed to be reflecting a bright blue light: the harsh blue of an Alpine lake or glacier. Unusually, she smiled—a broad, uninhibited smile. Its radiance imbued her face with beatific qualities. Indeed, there was something about her appearance that reminded Liebermann of religious iconography: she might easily have replaced the angel in a Renaissance Annunciation.
“Dr. Liebermann.” Her voice floated over the traffic. “I am delighted you could come. Please, do come in.”
As was his custom, Liebermann spent a few minutes with Frau Rubenstein before following Amelia up the stairs to her apartment. Although Frau Rubenstein's conversation had been unremarkable, he thought he had detected a certain wry amusement in her tone—a certain knowingness. He might even have commented on this had he not had other things on his mind.
“It must be nearly a month since you last visited us,” said Amelia. “I believe it was shortly after the detectives’ ball.”
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Mid-January I think.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him: “How time flies.… Unfortunately, I have not had sufficient opportunity to organize dancing lessons with Herr Janowsky… but I still intend to do so.”
“You have been busy… at the university?”
“Yes,” she replied. “And there have been other matters.…”
Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.
When they reached the top landing, Amelia Lyd gate ushered Liebermann into her small parlor. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting at the gateleg table, on the chair that he had so frequently occupied, sat the gentleman in whose arms Miss Lyd gate had swooned outside the Café Segel. The man looked relaxed. His legs were crossed, revealing one of his boots, which was stitched with an ornate and somewhat garish pattern. His wide-brimmed hat was hanging off the back of his chair, and he sported a curious necktie that seemed to be no wider than a shoelace.
The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.
“You will forgive me for addressing you in my native language, Herr Dr. Liebermann, but I have a strong suspicion that your English will be very much superior to my German—which is lamentably poor. It is a great honor to meet a man of whom I have heard such good report.” He grasped Liebermann's hand, and squeezed it hard. The man's English was peculiarly inflected. Indeed, it was very different from the English that Liebermann remembered from the time he'd spent in London. Nor was the man's clothing particularly British-looking.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “Randall Pelletier-Lyd gate—at your service, sir.” “You are Miss Lyd gate's… cousin?” Amelia came forward. “No. Randall is my brother.” “But…” Liebermann looked at the woman standing beside him. She was glowing with pride. “It was my understanding that you do not have—”
“A brother… Indeed.” Amelia interrupted him. “That was my understanding too, but apparently I was mistaken.”
Liebermann was thrown into a state of confusion. He experienced a sense of intense relief—almost joy—but was then immediately alarmed by his reaction. He was in love with Trezska—wasn't he? “I think,” said Liebermann. “I think… you had better explain.” “With great pleasure,” Amelia replied. “However, before we proceed, you will no doubt require refreshment—so I must first make some tea.”
“Many years before making the acquaintance of Greta Buchbinder— that is to say Amelia's mother—our father, Samuel Lyd
