Fatal Lies Read online

  Liebermann recognized that this same reasoning could be applied to Freud himself. Such a clear understanding of the dark underpinnings of humor strongly suggested to him that Freud (a Jewish man who had been collecting Jewish jokes for many years—many of which were anti-Semitic) must be ambivalent about his own racial origins. Such ambivalence was not uncommon among assimilated Jews. Indeed, Liebermann reflected, his own feelings were plainly mixed. He was often embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse, or the Yiddisher pleadings of an impecunious pedlar.

  Liebermann noticed that Freud's attention had been captured by the ancient statuettes on his desk, in particular by a small female figure of pale orange clay. She was standing with her weight on her right leg, her head turned to the side, and a mantle was drawn over her loose gown. In her left hand she held a fan, and her hair was drawn back and tied into a bun beneath a conical sun hat.

  Freud suddenly looked up. His expression had softened and he had a look that Liebermann had only ever seen on the face of a proud parent—a moist-eyed muted pride.

  “Greek,” said Freud. “Hellenistic Period—believed to be from Tanagra, 330-250 B.C.“

  Although Liebermann did not usually share Freud's love of ancient artifacts, being a great enthusiast for all things modern, he did see considerable aesthetic virtue in this particular figure: its poise, its natural and unaffected elegance.

  “Charming,” said Liebermann. “Quite charming.”

  Freud broke out of his reverie and offered Liebermann another cigar. The young doctor declined and, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, raised the book that he had been patiently nursing on his lap.

  “Have you ever seen one of these?”

  He handed the volume to Freud, who, looking rather puzzled, replied, “No.… What is it?”

  “A klecksography book,” said Liebermann. “It's a kind of game, for children.”

  Freud flicked it open and examined the symmetrical patterns.

  “The inkblots,” Liebermann continued, “are usually accompanied by verses, which serve to guide the imagination—the idea being to look at the inkblot until what is being described appears. Such books are based on an original by Justinus Kerner—a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg. It occurred to me that this principle might be used to discover the contents of the unconscious. If inkblots are presented without any verses, then whatever the viewer claims to see must reflect—to some extent—a projection from his own mind. After all, there is nothing really there.”

  Freud hummed and said, “Interesting.… It is such a simple task that defenses might be relaxed, resulting in the inadvertent escape of repressed material.” He lifted the delightful figurine from her place between a terra-cotta Sphinx and a bronze Egyptian deity and began to stroke the inanimate object as if it were a pet. “Repressed material that might subsequently be subject to a psychoanalytic interpretation.”

  “Indeed,” said Liebermann, enlivened by the positive response of his mentor. “If an observer were to see two wrestling men in an inkblot, rather than an exotic flower, this might indicate the presence of an underlying hostile impulse—not unlike the latent aggression you have identified in jokes. The procedure, however, is not without precedent. I undertook some research at the university library and discovered that Binet has already recommended the use of inkblots to study what he calls involuntary imagination. So I cannot lay claim to having discovered anything original.”

  “When walking in the Alps,” Freud responded dreamily, “I have often lain down and observed the passage of clouds—and in their vague whiteness found the outlines of castles and fantastic creatures. One supposes that from time immemorial mankind has been prone to the imaginative interpretation of natural phenomena—clouds, rock formations, puddles.” His voice suddenly became more determined: “Your discovery—if not wholly original—is still of value. For it demonstrates again the value of the psychoanalytic sensibility. Even in the most trivial phenomena, we can find buried treasure.”

  Freud turned the page of the book and covered the caption with his hand. Liebermann felt it would be impolite to ask the Professor what he could see, yet, after only a few moments, his curiosity was satisfied.

  “How interesting,” mumbled Freud. “How very intriguing. I see two herring heads.”

  “You see?” said Liebermann, unable to resist. “It's beginning to work already.”

  The professor slowly raised his head. At first, his expression was alarmingly severe, his penetrating eyes showing no signs of amusement. Then, quite suddenly, his face was illuminated by a broad grin.

  “Very good,” he said, chuckling. “Very good.” He pushed the cigar box toward Liebermann. “Now, I absolutely insist!”

  19

  WOLF WAS SEATED ON a low three-legged stool, trying to concentrate on the book that Professor Gärtner had given him. Again, he read the passage that had stuck in his mind: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”

  Snjezana's room was on the first floor of the inn at Aufkirchen. It was a sorry little place with damp walls, dirty curtains, a rickety bed, and a threadbare screen. Snjezana helped the landlord by day, but in the evenings she read romantic novels, smoked pungent cigar ettes, and occasionally received visitors—mostly men from the village or boys from the military school. The rear door of the inn was never locked, and her availability was signaled by a paraffin lamp in her window.

  Above her washstand was a photograph of Stari Grad, a Dalmatian town on the island of Hvar. When drunk on schnapps, Snjezana would become melancholic and gaze through her streaming tears at the old seaport. Those who were familiar with Snjezana's habits would, at this juncture, immediately deposit a sum of money under her pillow and leave—because Snjezana's pining was usually followed by a violent eruption of anger during which she would curse all “Germans” and suddenly strike out. Her painted nails were long and sank into flesh with the efficiency of razor blades.

  Only a moral interpretation of phenomena…

  From below, Wolf could hear the sound of an accordion and raised voices, the hysterical shriek of the barmaid, and raucous laughter. The smell of Snjezana's room was making him feel slightly sick: her overpowering, cloying perfume failed to cover the reek of stale tobacco and the fishy odor that seeped into the atmosphere when she became aroused. He lit one of his own cigarettes—and hoped that its fragrance would neutralize the room's nauseating miasma.

  Drexler appeared from behind the screen. He was bare-chested, and was fumbling with the belt of his trousers.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  Wolf closed the book and shook his head.

  “No.… I think not. Let's go.”

  “What?”

  “I don't feel like it.”

  The sound of tired bedsprings, relieved of weight, produced a sequence of loud cracking sounds followed by a tremulous hum. Snjezana stepped out from the other side of the screen. She was wearing a long, richly embroidered peasant skirt, and her hair was wrapped up in a black head scarf. Wolf glanced nonchalantly at her breasts—her erect nipples, her coffee-colored areolae.

  “You said the two of you.” Her voice was accusatory. “That's what you said.”

  “Don't worry, Snjezana,” said Wolf. “You'll get paid.”

  “For two?”

  Wolf sighed. “Yes. For two.”

  Snjezana sneered—and affected a mocking singsong voice.

  “What's the matter with poor Wolf—not feeling well?” She pushed out her lower lip and made circles on her stomach with the palm of her hand. “Is he missing his mutti? Does he want her to kiss it and make it better?”

  Drexler laughed.

  “Be quiet, Drexler—don't encourage her.” Wolf tossed some silver coins onto the floor. “I'll see you outside.”

  Wolf got up abruptly and left the room. The landing was in total darkness, so he had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, his sword striking the banisters as he made hi
s descent. Outside, the air was cool. He leaned up against the wall and looked up at the starry sky. Releasing a cloud of smoke, he watched it rise and dissipate.

  “There are no moral phenomena,” he whispered. In some peculiar way, the cold impartiality of the heavens seemed to confirm the author's sentiment. He inhaled—and Snjezana's cloying perfume cleared from his nostrils.

  20

  THE INSPECTOR HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF at the back of the classroom—the very same one he had used to conduct his own interviews earlier that week. He had hoped that this would allow him to make discreet observations without distracting Perger.

  Rheinhardt was accustomed to Liebermann's preference for oblique methods of inquiry. However, on this occasion the young doctor's behavior seemed so irregular, so incomprehensible, that he was sorely tempted to halt proceedings and demand an explanation. Liebermann had asked the boy if he enjoyed playing chess. He had then produced a chess set from his bag, and a contest of some considerable length ensued. When it was over—and Perger had been declared the winner—Liebermann opened his bag for the second time, and took out a bundle of papers that seemed to have nothing on them except spilled ink.

  “And now,” said Liebermann, “another game of sorts.” Rheinhardt bit his lower lip and stifled the urge to protest. “I would like to show you some inkblots, and I want you to tell me if they remind you of anything.”

  Liebermann showed the first sheet to Perger.

  The boy had a nervous habit of jerking his head upward in small movements—like a rodent testing the air—and when he spoke, his hesitancy threatened to become a stutter.

  “No. It… it doesn't remind me of anything.”

  “Come now,” said Liebermann, smiling broadly. “You must, at some point, have observed the clouds in the sky and thought they looked like something else? A great galleon, perhaps? The profile of the emperor? Look closely… and keep on looking. Eventually you will perceive something familiar. Now tell me, what do you see?”

  The boy's eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, yes.… Two old men— with long noses.”

  “Very good. Now here's another. What do you see?”

  “A… a bat.”

  “Excellent. And here?”

  “The face of a wolf.”

  And so it went on: Liebermann showing the boy page after page, and the boy responding.

  Two dragons… a stove… sea horses… a sad face… a skeleton.

  Perger was soon finding the task easier—and his descriptions became more detailed.

  Duelists—at sunset… two bears, dancing… another wolf, ready to pounce… a cobra—its head pulled back… a knight praying by the tomb of his comrade.

  When Liebermann had worked through all his inkblots, he said to Perger, “Another game of chess? It is only right that you give me an opportunity to redeem myself.”

  Rheinhardt was certain that Liebermann had lost the previous game intentionally. He had seen his friend perform respectably against the seasoned enthusiasts who gathered at the rear of the Café Central. It was extremely unlikely that a logician of Liebermann s calibre could be bettered by an adolescent boy.

  The new game differed from the first, insofar as it did not take place in silence. Liebermann asked Perger what books he liked to read. What cakes were sold at the Aufkirchen bakery, and whether or not ticks were a problem in the summer months. None of it (as far as Rheinhardt could determine) was of any consequence. Then, after a relatively short period of time had elapsed, Liebermann moved his queen and said “Checkmate.” The boy wasn't expecting this sudden defeat and was obviously quite surprised.

  “It's a well-known snare developed by the great Wilhelm Steinitz,” said Liebermann. “You should have paid closer attention to my knight! But this is a most unsatisfactory outcome, wouldn't you agree? Both of us have now won a game, and I am curious to know which of us is really the better player. Let us have one more game— and that shall be the decider!”

  Rheinhardt could sit still no longer. He stood up and clomped over to the window. A single rider was leaping fences in the equestrian enclosure, and beyond, the fir-covered hills were black beneath a taupe sky. Rheinhardt yawned. As he watched the rider repeating his circuit, the classroom began to recede and he gradually slipped into a state of drowsy abstraction. When he finally overcame his torpor, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation.…

  Liebermann and Perger were talking about the school: masters, examinations, drill. Occasionally, Liebermann would remind the boy to watch his knight—then proceed with another nonchalant inquiry. Which of the masters taught Latin? Why did Perger find Latin so difficult? Could he speak any other languages? Rheinhardt noticed that the boy's head was no longer jerking upward. He was concentrating on the game, answering Liebermann's questions with an easy, natural fluency.

  “Thomas Zelenka was your friend?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “You must be very lonely now?”

  “I have other friends.…”

  “Of course.… Did Thomas have other friends?”

  “No, not really: although he was very fond of Frau Becker.”

  “The deputy headmaster's wife?”

  “Yes. He used to go there… to the Beckers’ house.”

  “What for?”

  “To talk with Frau Becker.”

  “What about?”

  “I don't know… but he said she was very kind.”

  Liebermann leaned forward.

  “Careful… I fear you haven't been watching my knight.”

  “On the contrary” the boy replied. “I fear it is you who have not been watching mine.” Perger moved his piece two squares forward and one to the side. Then he announced, with a broad, proud grin, “Checkmate.”

  “Bravo,” said Liebermann. “It has been decided, then. You are the superior player. You are free to go.”

  The boy stood to attention, clicked his heels, and walked toward the door. Just before he passed into the shadowy exterior, he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Good luck with your Latin,” said Liebermann.

  The boy hurried out, his steps fading into silence.

  “Well,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker! Nobody has mentioned her before. We must pay her a visit.” Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled a reminder. “But really, Max, what on earth have you been doing? We've been here for hours. Couldn't you have asked questions about Zelenka earlier?”

  “No,” replied Liebermann firmly. “To do so would have been a grave mistake.”

  The young doctor rose from his chair and walked to the blackboard, where he gripped his lapels and adopted a distinctly pedagogic stance.

  “You will recall that in his letter to Zelenka,” Liebermann continued, “Perger mentions his father in such a way as to suggest a man of unsympathetic character. He worries that his father will think him unmanly if he complains or requests help. One can easily imagine what Perger senior is like—a domineering, unapproachable man who was very probably educated at Saint Florian's himself… or, at least, a school very much like it. This unhappy father-son relationship would inevitably color Perger s entire perception of authority figures, of which you and I are typical examples. Even under the most benign circumstances, the relationship between father and son is frequently troubled by hostile feelings. They are, after all, rivals who compete for the mother's love. When this already difficult situation is made worse by a tyrannical father, the son's primal anxieties are amplified and he becomes profoundly mistrustful of all manifestations of hegemony. He feels vulnerable, and must protect himself. Now, a child knows that it cannot physically overcome an adult foe; however, it is not entirely powerless. It can still exhibit passive forms of aggression—it can be uncooperative, morose, taciturn. So, you see, Oskar, it was essential that I allow Perger to beat me at chess. The experience gave him a sense of mastery, thus reducing his anxiety and relieving him of the necessity to deploy defenses.”

  Liebermann turned to the blackboard and, pic
king up a stub of chalk, wrote Anxiety, Mastery, Anxiety Reduction and linked the words with two arrows. He then briefly explained the purpose of the ink -blots, emphasizing how involuntary imaginative responses might contain information that a person did not intend to disclose.

  “Perger's responses afforded me considerable insight into the boy's mental world—his preoccupations, his sadness, his loneliness, his fear.… He is extremely fragile—worryingly so—and these responses also suggested to me how you might proceed, Oskar, with respect to identifying suspects among the boys. You said that there were simply too many pupils to interview. The more or less random selection of names from a list would be utterly pointless—which is of course true. But we are now in a much better position.”

  “We are?”

  “Did you notice how many of Perger's responses referred to predatory creatures? To what extent, I wonder, does this reflect his wretched existence here at Saint Florian's? Must he constantly evade those who might make him their prey? If I were you, I would examine the register and look for names that correspond with the notion of predation: names like Löwe or Wolf—or names that correspond with the notion of hunting, perhaps—like Jäger? I cannot guarantee that this will prove to be a productive avenue of inquiry, but in the absence of any other strategy, you have nothing to lose.”

  Liebermann turned to the board and wrote “Names suggestive of predation and hunting.” He then underlined the phrase, producing a scratching sound that made the inspector wince.