Vienna Secrets lp-4 Page 17

  “Why not?”

  Liebermann produced a twisted smile. “Doing so might have damaged Edlinger’s prospects. I thought it unnecessary.”

  “The scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt. “You should definitely report him now.”

  “I’m not sure that would be wise, Oskar. He could deny that he administered morphine-or such a large dose, at any rate-and that would cast me in a very unfavorable light.”

  “Wasn’t there a nurse present?”

  “Yes, Nurse Heuber. But she was wearing a crucifix, and it was she who went to fetch Father Benedikt. I don’t think I can count on her for support.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and blew out a jet of blue smoke. “Do you really think that I should leave Vienna?”

  “Yes. Let me know where you’re staying, and I can send you a telegram when it’s safe to come back.”

  “Then perhaps I will go to…” Liebermann hesitated before saying, “Prague.” The city was now inextricably linked with the zaddik’s injunction. Once again, he felt as if he were being drawn there by fate. “My father asked me to accompany him to Prague on a business trip. He leaves tomorrow morning.”

  As he said these words, Liebermann felt as if he were making a concession not only to his father but, irrationally, to the zaddik as well. Still, it was the obvious solution to his predicament. He told himself that he should take advantage of the opportunity.

  “Don’t tell anyone at the hospital where you’re going. Just leave a telephone number-your mother’s, perhaps, and then she can contact you if the hospital committee is about to convene. I’ll see what I can do…”

  Liebermann rested a hand on his friend’s arm and tightened his grip.

  “Thank you, Oskar.”

  The inspector, embarrassed by Liebermann’s gratitude, made some dismissive noises and said, “Cake. We haven’t had cake.”

  Rheinhardt called the waiter over and ordered two topfenstrudels.

  “How is the investigation proceeding?” Liebermann asked.

  “Do you really want to talk about that now?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “Well, if you insist. Haussmann has been watching Barash’s residence but has had nothing remarkable to report, although Barash has been receiving a large number of visitors-other Hasidim, from different sects.”

  “How did Haussmann know that they were from different sects?”

  “They wear different hats, apparently. Haussmann also formed the impression that most of these visitors were community leaders-zaddiks, like Barash.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “It could, I suppose, be something to do with our discovery at the Alois Gasse Temple.”

  “Very likely, I imagine. Presumably you have someone posted there?”

  “Yes, a constable from Grosse Sperlgasse, but the kabbalist has not returned to resume his activities.” Rheinhardt raised his cigar and inspected the twisting column of smoke that rose from its burning tip. “Whoever created the kabbalist’s lair wanted it to be discovered. They made loud enough noises to ensure that the room would be opened. Clearly they wanted us to make a connection between the lair and the murders, the barrels of mud serving to remind us of the deposits found close to the bodies of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust.”

  “Have you compared the samples?”

  “Yes. The laboratory results showed they were identical.” Rheinhardt puffed at his cigar and added, “Incidentally we went up onto the roof of the Alois Gasse Temple. It is certainly possible that many of the items we found could have been lowered through the skylight. The houses on that side of the street are dilapidated, and several of the rooms are unoccupied. A dedicated team working from a top-floor hideout could have accomplished the operation quite easily.”

  The waiter arrived with the two strudels.

  Rheinhardt broke the flaky pastry with his fork, and the sweet curd filling spilled out, exuding a distinctive aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and something less easily identified, an unknown ingredient that evoked images of a caravanserai and sand dunes.

  “Exquisite,” said Rheinhardt, his spirits rising with his appetite. “I wish I knew the chef’s secret.”

  Liebermann stirred the froth around in his coffee and said, “I’ve been doing a bit of research into the kabbalah myself.”

  “Really?” said Rheinhardt somewhat vaguely, his attention having been captured almost entirely by his pastry.

  “Yes. That floor design, the one consisting of interconnected circles. It’s called the Tree of Life, and it represents creation and the subsequent dispersal of vital energies through the universe. Kabbalistic scholars believe that a thorough understanding of its principles can give a man godlike powers.”

  “Is that so?” said Rheinhardt.

  Liebermann picked up his fork. He knew that he could not compete with Rheinhardt’s topfenstrudel. He would have to wait for the inspector to finish.

  Part Three

  Prague

  45

  The whistle blew and the train began to roll out of the Nordbahnhof. Leaning his head against the window, Liebermann looked out at the receding platform-at luggage porters, army officers, smartly dressed women and children, the tide of humanity flowing backward as the locomotive engine gathered speed. The last person Liebermann glimpsed on the platform was an elderly gentleman holding up a white handkerchief, fixed in the attitude of his final parting gesture. It was a sad image that kindled a sympathetic pang of grief in Liebermann’s chest. He did not want to be leaving Vienna. The train chugged through Brigittenau, crossed the Danube over an iron bridge, and thundered off through a thinly populated suburb out into open countryside.

  “So,” said Mendel. “What made you change your mind?”

  “It’s a long and rather complicated story.”

  “Well, we won’t be arriving in Prague until midday, Maxim. You’ve plenty of time to explain yourself.”

  Liebermann sighed and told his father about the young Baron von Kortig, Liebermann’s interviews with the chancellor, the article in Das Vaterland, his suspension from clinical practice, the allegation of religious agitation, and the forthcoming committee meeting at which, in all probability, his career as a doctor would be blighted. Mendel sat through the account in silence, but his expression showed that his feelings were complex, vacillating between conflicting states of horror and hope. He was furious that his son had become the victim of anti-Semitism, but at the same time he was aware that the demise of his son’s medical career would force him to consider alternatives, one of which would surely be to enter the family business. Never before had Mendel’s foremost wish come so close to fulfillment.

  “Well, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed,” Mendel muttered. “Do you need a lawyer? I’d pay, of course.”

  “I don’t think that would help, Father.”

  “Perhaps not.” Mendel took off his hat and laid it on his lap. “Despicable, the way they treat us. Despicable.” He looked down and toyed with the hat’s label. “I know how much medicine means to you, Maxim. But if you do lose your position, and can’t find another post…” Somehow the offer of employment seemed to be more tactful if implied, rather than spoken.

  Ordinarily, Liebermann would have responded with a verbal parry, or a defensive change in posture. But now he was feeling tired and drained. He had succumbed to an insidious, enervating pessimism. He nodded and said, “It might well come to that, Father.”

  Mendel had not expected the concession to come so easily, and he looked up, surprised.

  “It’s not such a bad life,” said Mendel cheerily. “Business!”

  Liebermann managed to smile, but the pretense was unsustainable, and an expression of blank despondency quickly reasserted itself.

  Father and son fell silent. The rocking motion of the train was conducive to private meditation, and some thirty minutes passed before Mendel stirred again. He opened his bag and pulled out a ledger book.

  “Here. Take a look at
this.”

  Liebermann crossed the compartment and sat next to his father.

  “Now,” said Mendel, stroking the cloth cover, “here we have the principal financial record book of the textile company. It contains details of transactions, assets, and liabilities.” Liebermann tried to listen, to understand what his father was saying, but the language of commerce was totally foreign to him. It failed to find any purchase in his mind, becoming a meaningless, disconnected babble: “expenditure,” “solvency,” “returns,” “profit,” “imports,” “loss,” “receipts,” “equity.” Indeed, Liebermann marveled at his own inability to learn anything. Something deep inside him refused to cooperate. He recognized it as a form of resistance, the strength of which was almost pathological.

  The journey felt interminable, and when the train finally pulled into Prague, although Mendel’s spirits were unusually high, his son’s were correspondingly low.

  They hailed a cab and traveled first to the Old Town Square, where Mendel had arranged to collect a garnet necklace, a present for his wife. While Liebermann was waiting for his father’s return, he stepped down from the carriage and found himself standing next to a massive astrological clock. The upper disc, being the timepiece, was ringed with golden numerals. The lower disc, which appeared to be a calendar, was richly illustrated with seasonal tableaux and the signs of the zodiac. Set among the allegorical figures that adorned the clock was a skeleton: death, carrying his hourglass.

  Across the square, Liebermann observed an imposing Gothic structure, which he knew to be the Church of Our Lady Before Tyn. Its two towers, of unequal height, were festooned with sharp pinnacles. It looked nothing like the baroque churches of Vienna, with their ebullient ornate facades, which always reminded Liebermann of confectionery. The Church of Our Lady Before Tyn was a much darker piece of architecture-brooding, even sinister. The black, bristling spires were menacing, the home of some horrifying storybook evil.

  Liebermann shivered in the breeze, chilled more by his fanciful imaginings than by the cold. He got back into the cab.

  Mendel returned, carrying a jewelry case. He opened it up and took out a necklace of bloodred garnets, suspended in a delicate web of silver chains.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Liebermann.

  His father allowed himself a smile. “A surprise. She’ll like it.”

  Their hotel, the Ambassador, was on Wenceslas Square. After depositing their luggage with porters, they proceeded to the restaurant, where Mendel had agreed to meet his brother Alexander. The restaurant had a large plush interior in which a piano trio played music that-unusual for him-Liebermann did not recognize. He suspected that the composer might be Dussek.

  As soon as they were seated, Mendel began looking at his watch and huffing impatiently.

  “Father, he isn’t late yet,” said Liebermann.

  “Yes,” said Mendel. “But he will be. He always is.”

  The restaurant clock struck one, and Alexander did not arrive. Mendel grunted and seemed to derive satisfaction from the fact that his brother was now genuinely late. Another twenty minutes passed before Uncle Alexander made his entrance. He glided through the double doors, a tall, distinguished-looking man with long hair swept back from his forehead. Hanging loosely over his shoulders was a long camel-hair coat, and in his hand he carried an ebony cane with a silver handle. He moved with a distinctive fluid ease.

  “Mendel, how good to see you,” said Alexander. The two brothers embraced, Mendel exhibiting a certain awkwardness when they touched. “And Maxim. Maxim, my boy.” Liebermann felt a surge of affection for his uncle. Alexander kissed Liebermann and hugged him close. “Maxim,” he repeated. “How you’ve changed.”

  They sat down, and Alexander immediately began asking questions. How was Rebecca? And Leah, and baby Daniel? Hannah and, of course, Leah’s husband, Josef? Mendel reciprocated by inquiring about Alexander’s health.

  “Old age…,” said Alexander, making a helpless gesture with his hands. “There’s no future in it.”

  He delivered his bon mot in an indolent drawl, one word slurring into the next. He then spoke a little about his knee, which was arthritic and quite painful. For the two brothers, orthopedic problems supplied a rare topic of mutual interest. In the absence of more conventional commonalities, this was the closest they came to enjoying an effortless dialogue.

  The waiter arrived, and Alexander insisted that they try the liver dumplings, followed by duck roasted with chestnuts and served with red cabbage. Apparently the chef was a master of traditional Czech cuisine.

  Alexander then turned to Liebermann. He made some small talk about the pleasures of living in Prague and enthused about the city’s cultural institutions. Like his nephew, Alexander was a very competent pianist. Indeed, one of Liebermann’s earliest memories was of sitting on his uncle’s lap while he played bravura arrangements of Strauss waltzes.

  “You should go to the philharmonic while you’re here,” said Alexander. “An excellent orchestra, and the chamber groups are very good too. I can recommend the Czech Quartet. Their second violin, Suk, is a pupil of Dvoyak and-I believe-is married to the great man’s daughter. Suk’s piano works are exquisite. The Polonaise-Fantasy, the Village Serenade, and the Bagatelle-lyrical but distinctive. The music shop in the old town stocks his piano scores. I’ll give you the address.” He took a pencil from his pocket and wrote the details on one of his visiting cards.

  On no fewer than three occasions, Mendel attempted to raise the subject of work, but every time, Alexander managed to steer the conversation in alternative directions: theatre, politics, Czech wines, and the relative virtues of Budweiser and pilsner beers. Eventually Mendel, who Liebermann could see was becoming impatient, barked, “Alexander! I’m supposed to be meeting Doubek at three. We must talk about the factories!”

  Alexander looked surprised, even a little hurt.

  “Of course, of course… the factories. I was just getting to them.”

  He said this with appeasing gentility, but his mellifluous tones were tainted with a hint of condescension. It was clear that Alexander thought his brother was being inexcusably bad-tempered.

  The food was served, and there then followed a conversation that Liebermann found excruciatingly dull. He took some consolation from the fact that his uncle seemed to be suffering just as much as he was. The remainder of their meal was dominated by talk of productivity and pay.

  After they had eaten, they removed to a private lounge on the first floor of the Ambassador and waited for Doubek, a factory manager. Doubek was punctual, and the meeting seemed to go well. Indeed, at its conclusion, the jolly Czech produced a bottle of Boroviyka-a juniper-flavored spirit-and proposed a toast to lasting friendship and prosperity. Their second meeting was a short distance from the hotel at the offices of an accountant named Slavik. Unfortunately Slavik was unable to answer many of Mendel’s questions, and the atmosphere soon became tense and edgy. Occasionally the accountant would glance at Alexander, his eyes appealing for help; however, all that Alexander could offer in return was a pained grimace. When the meeting was over, Mendel’s silence and sullen expression declared his displeasure.

  “You’d prefer it if I dismissed Slavik,” said Alexander, “wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Mendel bluntly.

  “Is that really necessary? I know he wasn’t very impressive today, but I think that’s because of his wife. She hasn’t been well lately-a chest infection. He’s been distracted.”

  “Are we a charity now?”

  “No, but…” Alexander sighed and shook his head. “We play cards together.” Mendel turned on his brother, his eyes incandescent with anger. “All right, all right,” Alexander resumed. “I’ll deal with it.”

  Liebermann and his uncle exchanged a confidential glance. Alexander looked a little discountenanced, but this did not stop him from winking. He had never taken his brother’s temper very seriously.

  46

  It was early evening, a
nd they had just finished another substantial meal in the hotel restaurant.

  “Well,” said Mendel, draining his coffee cup, “I think we should all retire early. Tomorrow will be another busy day.”

  Alexander rubbed his knee.

  “My leg’s a bit stiff. It happens if I’ve been sitting still for too long. I think I’ll go for a walk and a smoke before going home. How about you, Maxim? Do you feel like a walk?”

  Liebermann looked across to his father. The old man shrugged, as if to say, Do as you please. Liebermann and his uncle bid Mendel good night, collected their coats, and left the hotel. They strolled through the Stare Mysto, veering east through quaint narrow streets toward the Vltava. Liebermann had to get used to his uncle’s unhurried gait. Alexander took his time, occasionally stopping to examine the contents of a shop window or an interesting stucco decoration above a door. He was also in the habit of raising his hat and smiling at every pretty woman who passed. This was achieved with the natural, unconscious charm of a seasoned roue.

  When they reached the Bethlehem Chapel, Alexander said, “I was surprised when Mendel told me that you would be coming along. I always understood that you weren’t interested in the family business.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “The fact is, Uncle, I’ve got myself into a bit of trouble.”

  “Trouble, eh?” Alexander looked mildly amused rather than concerned.

  For the second time that day Liebermann described the von Kortig affair and the events leading to his suspension.