“Very good, sir,” said Rheinhardt. He bowed—and walked briskly to the door.
70
LIEBERMANN HAD FIRST MET OPPENHEIM in one of the coffee-houses close to the hospital. Although the young man was studying classics at the university he was a keen amateur psychologist and was always willing to discuss—in his words—the life of the soul. He was an enthusiastic, open-minded fellow, and much more at ease with topics such as sexuality and the conflicts arising between nature and culture than most of Liebermann's colleagues. Their friendship was sustained—as it had begun—by occasional, unplanned encounters in the coffeehouses of the ninth district.
Liebermann had risen early and, on his way to the hospital, was pleasantly surprised to discover Oppenheim sitting outside the Café Segel, warming his hands around a steaming, frothy mélange and reading a volume of Greek.
They greeted each other cordially, and Oppenheim invited Liebermann to join him for breakfast. Glancing at his wristwatch, Liebermann saw that he had plenty of time to spare and seated himself beside the student.
“What are you reading?” asked Liebermann.
“A True Story—by Lucian of Samosata,” Oppenheim replied. “An extraordinary piece of writing about a group of adventuring heroes who travel to the moon. It is—at one and the same time—a very early example of fantastic literature and a criticism of ancient authorities that describes mythical events as though they are real.”
This weighty gambit was typical of Oppenheim, whose appetite for intellectual stimulation was not very much affected by the hour of the day. Liebermann—prematurely aged by the youth's indecent vitality—ordered a very strong schwarzer, two kaisersemmel rolls, and some plum conserve.
Their conversation ranged up and down the narrow isthmus that connected classical literature and psychiatry and touched upon Aristotle's De Anima, Hippocrates’ essay on epilepsy and sundry poetical works that took melancholia as their principal theme. After they had been talking for a while, Liebermann began to wonder whether the young scholar might know the answer to a certain question that had been annoying him like the minor but persistent presence of a small stone in a shoe.
“Tell me,” Liebermann asked, “do you have any idea what a Liderc is?”
“A what?”
“A Liderc.”
“Is it a Hungarian word?”
“I believe it is.”
Oppenheim stroked his short beard.
“It sounds vaguely familiar… and I think I may have come across it in a book of folklore. But I can't quite remember. Will you be at the hospital today?”
“Yes.”
“Then I'll look it up and let you know if I find anything.”
The sound of church bells reminded Liebermann that he should be on his way. He rose and deposited a pile of coins on the table: more than enough to cover his own and Oppenheim's breakfast. Before Oppenheim could object—as he usually did—Liebermann declared: “You can pay next time.”
It was of course what Liebermann always said on such occasions. Later in the day Liebermann received a short note from Oppenheim.
Dear Friend,
Have just been to the library and managed to run your Liderc to ground in Kóbor's Myths and Legends of the Transylvanian Peoples. The Liderc is a kind of satanic lover—ördögszereto in Hungarian—and is similar to an incubus or a succubus. Victims often die of exhaustion on account of the Liderc's stamina and enthusiasm. Well, I should be so lucky! What on earth do you want to know this for? Did one of your patients mention it—and if so, in what context? Until the next time— when you will allow me to buy you breakfast.
Oppenheim
Liebermann placed the note on his desk and stared at it. For once in his life, he desperately wanted to be wrong.
71
AN OBSERVER UNACCUSTOMED TO life at Saint Florian's might have described the prevailing mood of the school as subdued. Drexler, however, knew otherwise. He could read the signs like a haruspex: signs that were no less vivid or portentous, as far as he was concerned, than the hot entrails of a freshly slaughtered goat—the whispering, the sidelong glances, the sudden silences, the pursed lips of the masters, the canceled classes. The school was not subdued at all, but seething with nervous excitement.
Drexler was sitting on his own in the dining room, toying with his bruckfleisch—a stew consisting largely of innards, blood, and sweetbreads. A pallid piece of offal surfaced among the slices of heart, liver, and spleen, making him feel slightly nauseous. He was thinking about what had happened that morning. He had been standing in the washroom, waiting his turn to use one of the tin sinks.
A line of hunched white backs—goose-pimpled and shivering—the relentless hammering of the old pipes…
Drexler had rushed over to claim a vacant basin. While he was splashing tepid water onto his face, he overheard the two boys next to him speaking in hushed tones.
“Murdered… in the lodges… there for a whole day before they found him.”
“What did you say?” Drexler had asked.
The boy next to him had been about to reply, but was silenced by a prefect who struck his calves with a riding crop (carried especially for this purpose).
“Shut up,” the prefect had shouted. “You're worse than a bunch of fishwives!”
By midmorning Drexler had been able to establish that there hadn't been a murder at all but a suicide—and that the dead master was Herr Sommer.
This news saddened Drexler, as he had been rather fond of Herr Sommer. When, in the previous year, Drexler had been experiencing difficulties understanding algebra, Herr Sommer had invited him to his rooms and given him extra tuition. Away from the classroom the mathematics master was much more relaxed—much more amusing. He had once told Drexler an extremely risqué joke about a priest and a choirboy. “Our secret,” he had said confidentially. Toward the end of that year, Sommer's invitations became less frequent. He seemed to have found a new favorite—Thomas Zelenka. Drexler hadn't minded very much. In truth, he had begun to find Herr Sommer's company less diverting—especially after he'd made the
