His friend was so much wiser than his modest exterior ever betrayed.
“Oskar,” Liebermann whispered, “I have a confession to make. Something has been weighing heavily on my conscience the whole evening.”
“Oh?” Rheinhardt's face filled with concern.
“I promised to get some tickets for the Zemlinsky concert next Saturday… but, what with one thing and another, it completely slipped my mind—and it's sold out.”
Rheinhardt laughed: a generous, booming laugh.
“God in heaven,” he cried. “Is that all? You had me worried! I thought you were going to say something of consequence!”
81
THE CLOCK MAKERS’ BALL was a grand affair and was attended by a diverse group of patrons. There were boulevardiers whose glazed eyes, ruddy cheeks, and uncertain feet declared that they were attending their second or even third ball of the evening. There were debutantes in radiant white, and various representatives of the imperial army: infantrymen in blue, artillerymen in chocolate-brown tunics and red collar flashes, and hussars—their short fur-trimmed and golden-braided coats slung casually over one shoulder. A distinguished gentleman with a mane of silvery curls who was surrounded by laughing ladies was identified very quickly as the Dutch ambassador, and it was rumoured that a striking woman wearing a glimmering peau de soie gown was a member of the Italian aristocracy.
As soon as Liebermann took Amelia into his arms, he was aware of a difference. She was more confident and followed his lead with less effort.
“Have you been to see Herr Janowsky for a lesson?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “Although I still intend to, once my brother leaves.”
“Well, I have to say,” Liebermann remarked, “your dancing is much improved.”
“I think,” said Amelia, “that I understand—although ‘understand’ is not really the correct word—I think I now appreciate the value of your initial advice: to listen to the music with greater care. To…” She hesitated, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Feel it?”
She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn for the detectives’ ball: a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet. Yet she appeared to Liebermann more elegant than he remembered. As they passed beneath a massive crystal chandelier, the light fell on her pewter eyes and he experienced momentarily a sensation like falling. It was not the same feeling as a physical descent but something more profound.
“My brother seems to have made a friend,” said Amelia, and, once again, a fleeting smile illuminated her face.
Randall was talking to a dark-haired lady who was wearing an exquisite creation of red silk, black lace, and pearls. She was holding a feathered carnival mask on a long handle and made extravagant use of her free hand while speaking. Liebermann guessed that she was French.
Just before Randall slipped from view they saw him produce a rose from behind his back.
The orchestra was playing with sparkling virtuosity—a great, carousing, fortissimo waltz in which extraordinary liberties were being taken with meter. The melody was held back by the introduction of subtle hesitations, which made the music hover for the briefest moment before each reprieve of the principal theme.
Liebermann recalled a passage from von Saar's Marianne: a waltz could melt away years of repression, fanning flirtation into passion. The rapid motion, the relentless turning, the dizzy euphoria, the heat of a woman's back felt in the palm of one's hand…
Amelia looked up at him, and her eyes had never appeared more beautiful. He rediscovered the shock of when he had first noticed their inimitable color, neither blue nor gray but something in between: their depth enhanced by a darkening at the edges of each iris. Liebermann drew her closer, and his lips brushed the silver ribbons in her flaming hair.
The impetuous élan of the orchestra was contagious.
Is this the time?
He had asked himself this question before—on so many occasions.
Is this the time?
Suddenly the tension dissipated, and he whirled Amelia around with such enthusiasm that she briefly achieved flight.
“Dr. Liebermann?”
He laughed, and the vertical crease with which he had become so very familiar appeared on her forehead.
“What is it?” she asked.
How appropriate, thought Liebermann, that we are attending the clock makers’ ball.
There would be time enough…
Even if Nietzsche was right and there was such a thing as eternal recurrence and every man and woman was destined to revisit the lost opportunities of the past in perpetuity—he no longer cared. Psychoanalysis had taught him the importance of little things, and perhaps it was these little things that made human beings human: the mistakes, the blunders, the qualms, the petty vacillations and doubting. Liebermann understood—better than most—that there were hidden virtues in human frailty.
Yes, there was time enough: the promise of days and months and years to come.
Amelia was still looking at him quizzically—waiting for an answer. When it came, it was intellectually disingenuous but emotionally sincere. It felt right.
“There's no place like Vienna!” Liebermann cried. And, once again, Amelia's feet parted company with the ground.
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK: Hannah Black, Clare Alexander, Nick Austin, and Steve Mathews—once again—for invaluable editorial and critical assistance; Paul Taunton, Jennifer Rodriguez, and Bara MacNeill for their assistance in preparing the U.S. edition. Professor Ignaz Hammerer and Dr W. Etschmann (Militärgeschichtliche Forschungsabteilung des Heeresgeschichtlichen Museum) for information concerning Austrian military academies; Mirko Herzog (Technisches Museum Wien) for erudite answers with respect to the media and postal services in turn-of-the-century Vienna; Professor Thomas Olechowski (University of Vienna) for advising me on press censorship under the Habsburg monarchy and recommending the
Arbeiter-Zeitung
for the puposes of my plot; Clive Baldwin for alerting me to the existence of Erzsébet Báthory; Luitgaard Hammerer for acting as my unpaid translator, research assistant, and city guide in Vienna (and for finding out about the employment of specialist pastry cooks in Demel); Simon Dalgleish for checking my German and correcting several linguistic errors; and Nicola Fox for continuing to put up with it all.
Saint Florian's military school owes an enormous debt to the
oberrealschule
described in Musil s
The Confusions of Young Torless.
I
