Vienna Secrets lp-4 Read online

  “Well, that’s truly dreadful,” said Alexander. “And I imagine that after today, the prospect of joining the family business is even less appealing. However, if you are forced out of medicine, you wouldn’t have to stay in Vienna. You could always come here and work with me. I suspect that you would find working in the Prague office less onerous.”

  Alexander produced a complicit smile.

  “Thank you, Uncle,” said Liebermann. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Yes, you do that.”

  The twilight was deepening as they approached the Charles Bridge, and ahead the Gothic portal loomed into view: a tower of dark brick surmounted by a massive wedge-shaped spire, out of which sprouted numerous gold-tipped pinnacles. The two men walked under the central arch into a preternatural night and then out onto the bridge itself.

  The prospect that came into view inspired wonder. It possessed a strange phantasmagorical beauty. An amphitheatre of hills provided a backdrop, the northeastern summits of which were dominated by Prague Castle and the spiky silhouette of Saint Vitus Cathedral. Red roofs appeared among the greenery of the lower slopes, which cascaded down to the left bank of the river. The low walls on either side of the bridge were punctuated by large statues of religious figures and converged in the hazy distance, where two more Gothic towers marked its end.

  Liebermann and his uncle advanced until they were about halfway across. They had arrived at the feet of a bronze saint, green with age, his head surrounded by a halo of gold stars. In his hands he held a palm branch, also of gold, and a giant crucifix.

  “Who is this?” asked Liebermann.

  “Saint John of Nepomuk. The Bohemians have made a cult of him.” Alexander pointed to a relief tableau. “This shows his body being thrown off the Charles Bridge after he had been tortured to death.”

  Liebermann noticed that the saint’s patina had been worn away by the touch of countless pilgrims. The little upside-down figure had been polished to a striking brightness.

  Alexander took out a silver cigarette case and a box of matches. He offered a cigarette to Liebermann, who took it, and soon they were both leaning over the parapet, smoking. High, wispy clouds were reflected in the steely flow of the Vltava, and an eerie ancient melody, plucked from a stringed instrument by an invisible musician, floated on the air. The first star ignited above the castle.

  “I was sorry to hear that you broke off your engagement with Clara Weiss,” said Alexander. He did not turn to look at his nephew but stared fixedly at the lone sentinel, burning in the sky.

  “It was difficult. A hard thing to do.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I upset a lot of people. The Weisses, Mother and Father-and Clara, of course. She had to go to a sanatorium, you know. To recover.” Liebermann drew on his cigarette and directed a stream of smoke upward. “Still… she’s with somebody else now. And I understand she’s happy.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Am I happy?”

  “No. Have you found somebody else?”

  Liebermann’s answer was hesitant.

  “There’s this… this Englishwoman.”

  “English, eh? I had an English mistress once.” Alexander’s expression softened, and he fell into a dreamy state of abstraction. After a few moments he blinked as if waking from a trance and said, “Forgive me, Maxim. Do go on… please.”

  “I have strong feelings for her. But the circumstances of our meeting were rather unusual. You see, she was a patient whom I treated at the hospital.”

  “These things happen. I have a doctor friend who is always having assignations with his patients. Even the ones who are married!”

  Liebermann shrugged. “It hasn’t happened to me before.”

  “There’s always a first time, my boy.”

  “She is a woman whose appeal I find difficult to describe. Indeed, the majority of men might find her manner somewhat peculiar.”

  “Well, she’s English. Is she beautiful?”

  “Yes. Very. But she is strangely dispassionate.”

  “Cold?”

  “She can be.”

  “Ah, then you have found yourself a cruel mistress. A Belle Dame sans Merci.”

  “Not at all. She is kind and compassionate. It is just that she…” Liebermann searched for the right words. “Is uncommonly rational. I’ve never met anyone like her before. She is quite unique.”

  “Have you become intimate?” Alexander’s emphasis left no doubt as to his meaning.

  “No.”

  “But you desire her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why haven’t-”

  “The moment is never right. Besides, I am not in any way confident that a physical demonstration of my affection would be welcome.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She has had… an unfortunate experience. With a man.”

  “I see,” said Alexander, perceiving his nephew’s discomfort. “Do you love her, Maxim?”

  Liebermann made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  “I don’t know what I can expect from such a woman. I can as much imagine her managing a home as I can imagine myself managing a factory! And as for children-”

  “Maxim,” Alexander cut in. “Excluding a man’s mother, there are three women in every man’s life. His wife, his mistress, and the unattainable object of desire. His wife becomes commonplace, his mistress a frivolous expenditure, but the unattainable object of desire remains alluring in perpetuity. She is the guardian of his vital powers. Her currency never depreciates. She is never cheapened or diminished by consummation, and her stock rises as we grow old. Even when our flesh becomes arid and we succumb to the depredations of time, she reminds us of what it was like to be young. This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire. Let her serve her purpose, because in all likelihood she has no other.” Alexander dropped his cigarette into the water below. “A handsome fellow like you should be enjoying life, not fretting over a frigid English girl.”

  The sudden bluntness startled Liebermann. He turned to look at his uncle, who reached out an affectionate hand and squeezed Liebermann’s arm.

  “You probably think me an old fool-or, even worse, an old cynic. But I have always been fond of you, Maxim, and I do not like to see you unhappy.”

  Liebermann acknowledged his uncle with a smile. He stepped back from the wall and looked toward the Gothic bridge tower, which was now looking distinctly sinister in the fading light. Beyond was a pleasing cluster of umbrous domes, onion steeples, and triangular pediments.

  “That dome,” said Liebermann, pointing to the largest, “owes a great debt to Brunelleschi.”

  “What?”

  “Brunelleschi, an Italian architect. It was he who set the precedent for putting lanterns on top of domes.”

  Alexander tilted his head quizzically, but decided that his nephew’s non sequitur did not merit further inquiry.

  “Come,” he said. “Let’s get a nightcap.”

  They walked back through the Stare Mysto and stopped at a beer hall near the House of the Two Golden Bears, a Renaissance edifice with eponymous ursine relief work. The landlord of the beer hall was obviously well acquainted with Alexander. When Alexander introduced Liebermann as his nephew, the landlord shook his hand and insisted they have a few Gambrinus-on the house. When they had finished their beers, Liebermann was alarmed to hear his uncle ordering a bottle of liqueur.

  “Becherovka,” said Alexander. “It’s made with herbs. I often take it as a tonic.”

  The amber liquid tasted bittersweet.

  When they left the beer hall two hours later, it was nighttime, and Liebermann was conscious of the fact that he had drunk far too much. Indeed, his legs had become unreliable and he had acquired a style of speech similar to his uncle’s.

  “Well, good night, Maxim.” His uncle kissed him on the cheek. “And cheer up, eh? Life is too short to be taken seriously. I�
�ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” He winked and chuckled. “Sleep well.”

  Alexander turned and walked off, whistling a melody from an Offenbach operetta.

  When Liebermann got back to his room, he undid his necktie, took off his shoes, and flopped back onto the bed. He thought about the hospital committee, what life would be like if he came to work with his uncle in Prague, and his recent conversation with Alexander on the Charles Bridge.

  The unattainable object of desire…

  Perhaps his uncle was right. Perhaps he had become fixated on Miss Lydgate simply because she was, in so many ways, inaccessible. And such was the human mind, with its childish inclinations, that what was held beyond reach was always what was perceived as most desirable. Liebermann rubbed his chin, which was scabrous with stubble. His thoughts became disconnected, and he sank into a fitful sleep.

  Liebermann woke with a start.

  A gentle rapping, knuckles on wood.

  He got up, steadied himself by touching the bedpost, and made his way to the door. His head felt full of glue. A young woman was standing outside. She pushed through the opening and stood proudly in the center of the room.

  “Fraulein,” said Liebermann, brushing his hair from his eyes. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”

  “My name is Anezka.” She took off her hat and threw it onto a chair, then narrowed her shoulders and let her unbuttoned coat fall to the floor. She was wearing a tight silk dress, the intrepid neckline of which descended steeply, revealing a plenitude of bulging flesh. “Herr Dr. Liebermann?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there has been no mistake. I am a present.”

  “A present?”

  “Yes, from your uncle.”

  She rushed up to Liebermann and pushed the door closed. Then, taking him by the hand, she pulled him to the bed and playfully pushed him so that he was seated on the edge.

  “I’m really not sure about this,” said Liebermann.

  “The gentleman said you might be a bit shy. But he said I should persevere.”

  Taking Liebermann’s hands in hers, Anezka placed them on her hips. Her corset creaked as she bowed to kiss the top of his head.

  “Well,” she said, “do you think I am pretty?”

  “Yes,” Liebermann said. “I think you are very pretty.”

  He knew that he should ask her to leave; however, the machinery of articulation failed to engage. He looked up, into the woman’s black eyes, and they seemed to expand until there was nothing but an infinite, starless void. His will to resist evaporated. The hot breath on his neck made him sigh with pleasure. He allowed his body to go limp, and he fell back onto the mattress, confident that he was surrendering his body to the ministrations of a skilled professional.

  47

  Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl stepped down from the carriage on Burggasse and walked arm in arm up the cobbled incline of an adjoining street. The houses they passed were dilapidated, and the air smelled vaguely of refuse. From somewhere beyond the end of the street a bugle sounded, establishing the proximity of the barracks. They arrived at their destination, a decrepit hovel, and paused to examine the filthy exterior. Pieces of stucco had fallen off the facade, revealing the underlying brickwork, and the windows were streaked with bird droppings.

  A door was thrown open on the opposite side of the road, and a plump red-faced woman stepped out. She frowned at the two well-dressed young women and proceeded to shake some bed linen.

  Anna lifted the cast-iron knocker and rapped loudly. Nothing stirred in the house, so she tried again.

  “Excuse me,” Anna called over to the red-faced woman. “Do you know if Herr Sachs is in?”

  The red-faced woman shrugged and continued with her work. Anna turned and struck the door with her fist.

  “Herr Sachs, are you in? Herr Sachs?” She tilted her head and addressed her companion. “Did you hear something?”

  “Yes,” said Olga, “I think I did.”

  “Herr Sachs? Open the door!”

  They waited, and their patience was rewarded by the hollow thump of footsteps descending wooden stairs. A bolt was drawn aside, and the door creaked open. The man standing in front of them had evidently just gotten out of bed. His hair was mussed, and he seemed slightly disorientated. He was wearing a stained dressing gown and had not bothered to put on his slippers. Anna glanced down and was repulsed by his corneous clawlike yellow toenails. On the exposed carpet of matted hair that covered his chest sat a circular pendant that contained a Star of David. He rubbed one of his half-closed eyes with a grazed knuckle and, when he had finished, blinked blearily at the two women.

  “Herr Sachs?” Anna inquired.

  “Who are you?” he replied, the words forming from the gravelly sounds that he made as he cleared his throat.

  “My name is Anna Katzer, and this is my associate and friend Olga Mandl. Are you Herr Sachs? Jeheil Sachs?”

  “What if I am?” the man said. The fogginess of sleep suddenly dissipated from his expression. He studied Anna and Olga more closely, his gaze wandering disrespectfully from head to toe, his mouth twisting into a lecherous grin. “What if I am?” he repeated, and added in a softer tone, “Ladies…”

  Anna and Olga bristled simultaneously.

  “It is our understanding,” said Olga, “that you are acquainted with a Galician woman named Kadia Pinski.” Sachs stiffened. “Well?” Olga persisted. “Is it true?”

  Sachs nodded. “Yes, I know her. Why? And where is she?”

  “In the hospital,” said Anna.

  Sachs’s tongue moistened his cracked lower lip.

  “What is your relationship with Fraulein Pinski?”

  “That’s none of your business,” Sachs snorted. Then he added in a more conciliatory tone, “All right. If you must know, I help her out a little. Financially. I’ve introduced her to a few soldiers who’ve given her a good time. Hospital, eh? What happened to her?”

  “You know very well what happened to her!” said Anna, her voice brittle with anger. “What you did was despicable!”

  When Sachs tried to close the door, Anna threw her weight against it, keeping it open.

  “We know what you did!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Have you no conscience, no self-respect?” said Anna. “To profit from the misery and hardship of your own people.”

  “You can’t prove anything,” said Sachs. “I helped the girl out, that’s all. If she’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble, it has nothing to do with me.” Sachs looked across the street at the plump woman, who had stopped doing her chores and was watching the altercation. “Hey!” he shouted, making a shooing-away gesture with his hand. “This is a private conversation!” Sachs spat onto the cobbles and swore under his breath.

  “We have a doctor’s report, Herr Sachs,” said Olga.

  “Good,” said the procurer. “Do you think I care? If she’s accused me of anything, then it’s my word against hers. Do you think she’s the first drunken whore to get herself into trouble and make up a story?”

  “Justice will be done, Herr Sachs,” said Anna. “Believe me. We will see to it that justice is done.”

  Sachs suddenly lost his temper.

  “Go away! The pair of you! Meddling bitches. I’ve had enough! Go back to your fancy apartments and perfumes and fine wines, eh? I’m going back to bed!”

  Sachs pushed Anna out of the way and pulled the door shut.

  “Are you all right?” said Olga, placing an arm around Anna’s shoulder.

  Anna didn’t notice her friend’s ministrations. She clenched her fist and banged it against the door.

  “We’ll be back, Herr Sachs,” she shouted. “I promise you, we’ll be back.”

  48

  When Liebermann entered the restaurant, he saw that his father and uncle were already seated for breakfast.

  “Good morning, Maxim,” said Alexander. “Did you sleep well?”

  “
No,” said Liebermann. “I didn’t. The room was rather hot.”

  “What are you talking about, hot?” said Mendel. “It was freezing last night.”

  “The young don’t feel the cold like us,” said Alexander innocently. “It doesn’t get into their bones.”

  Liebermann sat down and tried to disguise a yawn.

  “And what time did you get back last night?” Mendel growled at his son.

  “Not too late,” Liebermann replied.

  “We stopped off for a nightcap,” said Alexander. “That’s all.”

  A waiter appeared with a cart.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “Please,” Mendel replied. The waiter filled their cups with coffee and then served freshly baked honzova buchta-fruit buns. When broken, they steamed slightly and exuded a sweet, wholesome smell that made Liebermann’s stomach gurgle. They tasted heavenly, combining the simple virtues of a staple food with the piquant pleasures of an indulgence. Mendel read the newspapers, and Alexander talked to his nephew about various aspects of piano technique. Liebermann recommended the Klammer Method, and turned his thumbs under his hands to demonstrate their flexibility. Given what had transpired the previous evening, it was a remarkably controlled performance, by both parties.

  After breakfast, the three men headed north, to Josefov, where they met with several shop owners. Mendel’s business with them was thankfully brief, and at its conclusion he declared that they had an hour or so to spare.

  “I know a splendid coffeehouse near the cemetery,” said Alexander.

  “The old Jewish cemetery?” asked Liebermann.

  “The proprietor’s wife makes extremely good chocolate eclairs,” Alexander continued, failing to acknowledge his nephew’s question.

  Liebermann recalled the zaddik’s exhortation: Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful.

  “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful-the old cemetery,” Liebermann pressed.

  “Yes, it is, if you like that sort of thing. Myself, I find it rather gloomy.”

  “If we’re passing,” Liebermann continued, “could we go inside? I’d like to see it.”