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  “That’s all very well, Schmidt,” said Holzknecht, “saying that we need another Hilsner. But you can’t expect something like that to happen just when you want it to.”

  “No,” said Schmidt. “My point exactly! You can’t!”

  The men exchanged glances.

  Holzknecht possessed a very expressive face. At first his lineaments showed doubt. Surely he was mistaken, surely he was investing Schmidt’s response with too much meaning; however, the balance of his judgment was tipped by Schmidt’s rising eyebrow. Holzknecht’s doubt turned to amusement, and his features communicated an amalgam of surprise and approval.

  The silence was broken by Fabian.

  “Uncle,… Brother Stanislav is dead.” The young man pushed the paper toward Schmidt. “The Piarist monk, remember? We met with him last month. We had to talk to him about that incident in Leopoldstadt.”

  “Stanislav-dead?” said Faust. “I don’t believe it!”

  “Murdered,” said Schmidt, without inflection.

  “Murdered?” cried Faust. “Dear God!”

  “It says he was decapitated,” said Fabian.

  “Schmidt, give me that,” said Faust, reaching over and pulling the newspaper out of Schmidt’s hands. Faust’s eyes moved from side to side as he read the column. “Dear God! I don’t believe it. He was a good man… a truly good man.”

  “Yes,” said Schmidt, “but he wasn’t admired universally.” He looked innocently at the ceiling. Then he dropped his gaze and caught Holzknecht’s eye. He saw that he had hit his mark. Hofrat’s face, expressive to the point of transparency, revealed that he was reassessing Schmidt. Perhaps they had underestimated him and his application should be reconsidered.

  6

  From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann

  We had arranged to meet at the natural history museum. It is a favorite haunt of Miss Lydgate’s-and mine, of course. She tarried longest in the geological halls and became utterly absorbed by the meteorites, identifying the exhibits by their technical names: “ordinary chondrites,” “carbonaceous chondrites,” “achondrites,” etc., etc. It amused me, the way she gazed at those gray-black rocks with the same covetous, lingering gaze that other women reserve for diamonds. Indeed, she hardly noticed the precious stones when we passed through the gem hall. We both admired the Knyahinya meteorite, which is reckoned to be the largest in the world (or at least, the largest one to be displayed in any of the world’s museums). It weighs almost six hundred sixty pounds and fell in Hungary. The fiery arrival of the Knyahinya meteorite is celebrated in a canvas panel by Anton Brioschi above one of the doors.

  Miss Lydgate said, “How extraordinary that this object, which has traveled between worlds-through the vast emptiness of space-should, in the fullness of time, find a resting place here, in a cabinet, in Vienna.” Needless to say, I was minded to agree. It is an extraordinary thing. From where did this great lump of rock originate, and how far did it travel before crashing into Earth? The mind can scarcely imagine such an epic voyage.

  When we arrived at the empress Maria Theresa’s mechanical planetarium (an exquisite piece of eighteenth-century craftsmanship), Miss Lydgate fell into a meditative state. She was frowning a little-her lips pressed together-and while she was thus distracted, I positioned myself at a distance, just far enough to steal a few glances (inconspicuous glances, I hope) at her figure and hair. The shame that accompanies such improprieties has now become dulled through repetition: the self-loathing is less acute and is diluted by a vague feeling of tired resignation.

  Without turning her head (she was not aware that I had moved away) Miss Lydgate began to speak. I quickly came forward from behind my observation post. Her contemplation of the immense distances traveled by the Knyahinya meteorite had clearly prompted her to reflect on the great size of the cosmos. She was speaking of Bessel, the German astronomer, who had demonstrated that even the nearest stars were unimaginably distant. I asked her how he had achieved such a feat of measurement, and she replied, “By observation of the parallax.”

  My incomprehension must have been obvious, because she immediately invited me to participate in an instructive scientific exercise. “Hold your finger a few inches away from your nose. Then look at it first with the left eye, closing the right, and then the right eye, closing the left.” My finger appeared to jump to the left. “Now repeat the procedure, but this time hold your finger at arm’s length. Notice that there is still movement, but not so much. The smaller the parallax, the farther the object.

  Apparently, by using this simple principle as applied to the apparent movement of stars, Bessel was able to determine the distance from Earth of 61 Cygni, which proved to be much farther away than anyone had previously expected. “Sixty-four trillion miles,” said Miss Lydgate (she has a remarkable memory for numbers). In Miss Lydgate’s estimation, Bessel’s accomplishment ranked among the greatest in all of science.

  “Against the backdrop of the universe, our great globe is but an insignificant speck.” She looked at me with characteristic intensity. Her eyes captured and condensed the blue fire of the gas jets: whereas others might have been disturbed by the size of the universe, and conversely human insignificance, Miss Lydgate seemed-how should I put this? — quietly satisfied. The terrifying enormity of the universe was humbling, and therefore its contemplation was virtuous.

  But what am I to make of all this? I can no longer consider our frequent engagement in conversations of this kind entirely innocent. They have become a substitute for natural, physical intimacy. We talk-but dare not touch. Our erotic instincts have become frozen in an arctic waste of cerebration. Do I flatter myself? Does she really desire me, as I desire her? And why has this conversation about the great size of the universe stayed with me? We spoke of many things, but it is this conversation that I now recall most vividly. Was she trying to say something to me? Was there hidden meaning in all this discussion of meteorites and stars? Unconscious encouragement? “Given the vastness of the universe, must we be so respectful of social observances? Does any of it really matter?” Was it a disguised appeal? Or is this just wishful thinking on my part? Am I reading too much into what was nothing more than innocent erudition?

  I am reminded of young Oppenheim. We were discussing Freud’s dream book in Cafe Landtmann, and Oppenheim said that he thought it shouldn’t have been called “The Interpretation of Dreams,” but rather “The Over-Interpretation of Dreams.” Sacrilege, but he has a point, and I had to laugh. What am I to do? It is all so very complicated. Yet there is more to my inaction than a fear of embarrassment or rejection. She is sensitive and fragile. I know that-perhaps better than anybody. Human actions do not have cosmic repercussions. Our pathetic little dramas unfold-great rocks fly through the heavens, and planets wheel around the sun. All true. But disparities of scale-however large-do not justify recklessness. Besides, who is to say that the stately progress of stars is any more

  7

  THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door. Liebermann stopped writing, closed his journal, and placed it in his desk drawer.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  The door opened slowly, and a nurse stepped into his office. He had seen her before but they had never spoken. She seemed rather agitated.

  “Yes?” said Liebermann.

  “My name is Magdalena Heuber. I am a nurse on Professor Friedlander’s ward.” She gestured down the corridor. “Would you please come and examine one of our patients? He is very ill.”

  “Where is Professor Friedlander?” asked Liebermann.

  “He has gone home,” said Nurse Heuber.

  Liebermann glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting late. He had been so absorbed in his journal that he had lost track of time.

  “What about Professor Friedlander’s sekundararzt-Dr. Platen?”

  The nurse, looking distinctly uncomfortable, replied, “Dr. Platen has been unavoidably detained.” Liebermann suspected that she wasn’t being entirely candid, but he chose not to press
her. “We only have an aspirant-Herr Edlinger-on the ward,” the nurse continued, “and he is not sure what to do. The patient is the young Baron von Kortig.”

  Liebermann sighed and stood up. Remembering his journal, he took a key from his pocket, locked the desk drawer, and pulled at it a few times to make sure that the bolt had properly engaged.

  “Confidential case notes,” said Liebermann, catching the nurse’s eye. This small falsehood still drew an unwelcome warmth to his cheeks.

  They made their way down the corridor to Professor Friedlander’s ward and entered an anteroom. It was cramped and dim. The shelves were stacked with folders and formularies, and the wooden table-which nestled under the black square of a small window-was covered in medical journals. A metal cart parked beside the table was loaded with flasks, some of which were filled with opaque peach-colored urine. The claustrophobic and stale atmosphere of the anteroom was exacerbated by the presence of the aspirant, Edlinger, who occupied the central floor space. He was a well-dressed young man with blond hair, an exceedingly thin mustache, and a silver dueling scar on his chin.

  Edlinger introduced himself, briefly described the patient’s condition, and handed Liebermann a weighty buff file. Liebermann sat down and flicked through the summary: Baron Klemens von Kortig: mood shifts, delusions of grandeur, irrational rages, gambling, spending sprees, vertigo, headache, digestive problems, vomiting, “lightning pain” in the hands and feet. It was unusual to see a man quite so young in the advanced stages of tertiary syphilis, but presumably, like many of his peers, on reaching puberty the baron had immediately enjoyed the sexual favors of the peasant girls on his father’s estate. He was now paying a heavy price for these plein air romances.

  “What did you give him?” asked Liebermann.

  “Morphine,” Edlinger replied.

  “Why?”

  “He was agitated. I wanted him to settle down.”

  “The other patients were being disturbed,” interjected Nurse Heuber.

  “But the syphilis has spread to his heart,” said Liebermann.

  The aspirant and the nurse presented a united front: void expressionless faces.

  “Never mind,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “I’d better go and see him. Where is he?”

  Nurse Heuber led Liebermann out onto the ward. It smelled of carbolic. The other patients watched their progress as they approached the last bed, which was hidden behind a screen.

  Baron von Kortig, propped up with pillows, was fast asleep. His hair was lank, sweat glistened on his brow, and his eyelids were red and swollen. The hospital gown he wore was rucked at the shoulders, revealing long pale arms and thin white fingers.

  Liebermann stood at the end of the bed. He looked at his patient with an expression unique to clinicians, a combination of devotion and predatory interest: a paradoxical look, compassionate yet calculating.

  He noted that the baron’s head was nodding with each heartbeat, and positioned himself closer. He bent forward and examined the man’s fingernails. Edlinger was standing in the light, and Liebermann gestured that he should take a step back. Liebermann observed the subtle blushing beneath the transparent keratin, the color coming and going. He squeezed von Kortig’s bony wrist and felt the flow of blood-its physicality-his fingers being raised by the pressure, and their subsequent fall. He then lifted von Kortig’s arm and felt the pulse collapse, the loss of power and only a residual tap, tap, tap. It was ominously weak, its actual presence sometimes indistinguishable from an anticipatory tactile illusion.

  Liebermann asked Edlinger for his stethoscope.

  Pressing the diaphragm against the baron’s chest, Liebermann listened.

  Lubb-dub, lubb-dub, lubb-dub…

  There was something very wrong.

  He heard a rumbling on the second component of the beat, a rumbling that became more marked when he placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope closer to the left edge of the patient’s sternum. When he listened to the patient’s lungs, he heard a loud crackling. They were horribly congested.

  Liebermann took off the stethoscope and handed it back to Edlinger.

  “Aortic regurgitation. The infection has all but destroyed his heart. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

  “He’s dying?” cried the aspirant, the pitch of his voice climbing with surprise.

  Liebermann quickly raised his finger to his lips.

  “Yes,” he whispered, looking once again at von Kortig’s blushing fingertips.

  Nurse Heuber made the sign of the cross and excused herself. The sound of her brisk step, captured and amplified by the vaulted ceiling, fell silent when she reached the anteroom. Liebermann explained, sotto voce, to the aspirant how he had determined the severity of von Kortig’s condition. He then suggested to Edlinger that he should go and make a relevant entry in the patient’s notes.

  There was no reason for Liebermann to stay on; however, having become involved in the young baron’s care, he felt a curious sense of obligation, a compulsion to remain a little longer.

  Liebermann found a chair, placed it behind the screen, and sat by the patient. He checked von Kortig’s pulse again and plumped up the pillows: maintaining him in an upright position would make it easier for the poor fellow to breathe. The gas lamps were humming, and the steady persistence of their inanimate drone lulled Liebermann into a pensive, melancholy state. His mind produced a loose circle of associations: death, mortality, the importance of seizing opportunities because of the brevity of life, Miss Lydgate, sexual desire, syphilis-and, again, death.

  Suddenly Liebermann became aware that something had changed. There was a difference in the acoustics of the ward. Where there had hitherto been a constant rhythmic accompaniment to the humming gas lamps-von Kortig’s shallow, stertorous breathing-there was now an absence. Liebermann looked up, expecting the worst, expecting to be confronted with the terrible stillness of the dead; however, what he saw almost made him jump. Von Kortig had opened one eye and was staring at him intently.

  “I’m sorry,” said the aristocrat in a cracked, wheezy voice. “But you are?”

  “Dr. Max Liebermann.”

  “Liebermann, you say.” The other eye opened. “Liebermann… Ah yes, of course. Karl’s friend. I am sorry. My memory isn’t as good as it once was… You were my guest last summer-at the hunting lodge.”

  It was probably the effect of the morphine. Liebermann did not have the heart to challenge him.

  Von Kortig winked. “What a summer, eh?”

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied softly. “What a summer…”

  “Those girls from Paris… Have you ever encountered a more sporting group of ladies?”

  “No… I haven’t.”

  The young baron paused for a moment and smiled wistfully.

  “Hugo, eh? What a fool he was. His father was furious, you know-when he heard. He’s threatened to disinherit him. That land has been in the Meissner family for generations. Although, who am I to criticize. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Luck seems to be on your side, you’re dealt one fantastic hand after another, you get overconfident, and then…” Von Kortig paused, lifted his arm, but was too weak to hold it up. When it hit the sheet, he winced.

  “Are you coming again this year?”

  “If I can.”

  “Good. Karl will be pleased.”

  The dying young man looked at the screen, but his eyes were focused on a distant, imaginary horizon.

  “I must say, I’m looking forward to it again this year-more so than ever before.” He closed his eyes and croaked, “Is there any champagne left? Put a few drops of cognac in mine, there’s a good chap.” The young man drifted out of consciousness, and when he came to again, he said, “They’re not going to keep me in here for very much longer, are they?” A note of anxiety had crept into his voice.

  “No,” said Liebermann.

  “Good. What did you say your name was?”

  “Liebermann.”

  “Ah yes… Liebe
rmann.” Von Kortig’s breath was suddenly labored. “Look, there’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Wrong?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not feeling too good.”

  “You need rest, that’s all. Close your eyes. Get some sleep.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. I am feeling awfully tired.”

  Von Kortig’s eyelids slowly closed.

  Liebermann, moved by the terrible irony of their exchange, looked away. Through a gap in the screen he could see the entrance to the anteroom. Nurse Heuber appeared-and behind her stood a priest. Liebermann got up quietly and walked to the other end of the ward.

  “I trust I am not too late, Herr Doctor,” said the priest, a man not very much older than Liebermann. “Nurse Heuber did her best.” He turned to face the nurse and smiled.

  “Thank you for coming. But…” Liebermann grimaced. “I am not altogether sure that your ministrations will be in the patient’s best interests.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?” The question was not interrogative, merely curious.

  “He is ignorant of his condition. He is not suffering, and because of the brain disease, the morphine, or both, he is under the impression that he will be discharged shortly… and he is looking forward to spending the summer in a hunting lodge with friends.”

  The priest glanced at the nurse, and then at the aspirant.

  “I understood that the young baron is close to death.”

  “He is,” said Liebermann. “That is my point: he is very close to death, but is also blissfully unaware of his predicament. He will pass away within the hour-within minutes, perhaps. I fear that conducting the last rites will rouse him from his dreams. Such a rude awakening might cause him considerable distress.”

  “You would have him die… in ignorance?”

  “No. I would have him die happy rather than fearful.”

  “I have no intention of frightening him. I only wish to offer him the consolation-the balm-of his own religion.”