Deadly Communion (29 page)

How clumsy language is. How completely void of meaning. Imagine this: for it is the position in which I find myself. Imagine a parrot, placed before some great wonder of the ancient world — the pyramids or the Acropolis. And now imagine a blind man, attempting to comprehend the majesty of these buildings, by listening only to the report given to him by the bird. I squawk — chirrup — and shriek. Whistle and yawp. And you can listen, but to what end?

Have you ever known ecstasy, Herr doctor? If you are like other men — and I have no reason to think otherwise — you will most probably seek to answer that question with recourse to some
carnal
memory. For millennia, poets have misappropriated the language of mysticism to describe the gross, the bestial. You will remember the moment in which you swooned and became nothing but sensation — and I must smile. That you could mistake animal rutting followed by a spasm in the groin for
ecstasy
reveals the poverty of your experience: the pleasure of a pig rolling about in its own filth! Ecstasy is not to be found in the farmyard! You do not find ecstasy buried in a midden heap!

When She came to collect Adele Zeiler, we were united.

What was it like?

What is it like to transcend the limitations of the body?

What is it like to feel time and space dissolving into nothingness?

What is it like to feel fire instead of blood in one’s veins?

What is it like to watch worlds collide and explode?

What is it like to drink stars from the mouth of heaven?

What is it like to kiss the face of eternity?

Oh, to be sheltered — once again — in the sanctuary of those great wings, which close around the soul with the tenderness of a mother suckling her newborn child!

Words: hopeless words.

You will never — can never — understand.

When it was over there was darkness and the play of gentian. The light gradually faded until a final smudge of violet phosphorescence flickered before extinction. I was back in this world. The Zeiler girl was empty: a husk. It was cold and I felt unwell. I picked myself up and left the Volksgarten, and as I trudged through those empty streets I think I knew — even then — that it would not stop there.

The next day I did not go to work. I sent a message saying I was ill. But, in truth, I was wretched with longing. The communion had inflamed my desire, not quenched it. I wanted Her more than ever.

Fortunately I had already made the acquaintance of the shop girl, Fräulein Babel. She was a capricious, whimsical child, and occasionally showed me small kindnesses that I found quite touching. Even so, the pity that she aroused in me found no significant purchase. Every night, I dreamed of those wings — and the solace of Her embrace.

A
LTHOUGH
R
HEINHARDT AND
L
IEBERMANN
had communicated by telephone, they had not seen each other in person for over a week. They began their evening’s music-making with some of Hugo Wolf’s Goethe settings, the highlight of which was a particularly boisterous rendition of
Was in der Schenke waren heute
— ‘What a commotion in the Inn.’ Liebermann attacked the keys of the Bösendorfer with furious, gleeful violence, while Rheinhardt sang the melody as loud as his vocal cords would allow. Such was their relief at reaching the end of the song without a single error that they both laughed. As the evening progressed, their choices became more subdued and they finished their programme with four introspective lieder by Brahms. The last of these,
Die Mainacht
— ‘May Night’ — was performed with great amplitude of feeling. For Liebermann, the words of Ludwig Hölty’s poetry seemed to find an uncanny echo in the testament that he was about to show his friend:

They entered the smoking room and sat opposite the fireplace. Liebermann had positioned Sprenger’s notebook on the table between the two chairs.

‘Is this it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt picked up the notebook and fanned through the pages.

‘He’s still not speaking,’ said Liebermann, ‘but over the last two weeks he has been complying with my request. He has been writing an account of his history and instalments have been arriving daily. Progress has been slow, probably because of the morphium he is given to relieve pain; however, it is just as likely that the medication has served to facilitate his disclosures — breaking down his internal resistances. Even though Sprenger refuses to engage in conversation, I have been treating him like any other patient. After he completes each new chapter, I then read it in his presence and reflect aloud on its content. What you have in your hands is a brief but extraordinary biography. It details Sprenger’s life, from his birth to the murder of Cäcilie Roster.’

‘Shall I read it now?’

‘Yes, it won’t take long.’

Liebermann poured some brandy and offered Rheinhardt a cigar. After turning only a few pages Rheinhardt exclaimed: ‘Griesser! His assumed identity is the name of his old schoolteacher!’

‘Indeed. Now read the next paragraph.’

Rheinhardt brought the notebook closer to his nose.

‘An amateur archaeologist …’

‘I visited the Natural History Museum and spoke to the archivist. He was able to find the schoolteacher’s original letter addressed to the Museum director.’

‘Remarkable. Where was it sent from?’

‘Kluneberg — a tiny mountain village in Styria’.

Rheinhardt continued reading, grumbling to himself, occasionally muttering a single word such as ‘madness’, ‘astonishing’ or ‘fiend’, while Liebermann swirled his brandy and smoked. The atmosphere
in the room became pungent and hazy. When Rheinhardt had finished, he closed the notebook and turned to Liebermann. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped and filled his cheeks with air. Shaking his head, he said: ‘Insane. He is completely insane!’

‘I agree. But there is an underlying logic to his madness that makes it — in a sense — comprehensible.’

‘Can we believe everything that he has written here?’

‘He may have embellished certain episodes from his early childhood, but for the most part I think he has given a faithful account of his life. The existence of the schoolteacher’s letter gives us a strong indication that Sprenger is telling the truth.’

Rheinhardt took a cigar.

‘You were right — he’s a … what did you call him?’

‘A
thanatophile,’
said Liebermann, relishing each syllable. ‘Yes, I
was
right, although I must confess my use of the term was little more than a naming exercise — yet another example of how we doctors create a strong impression of erudition by seasoning our German with Latin and Greek! I had no idea why or how Sprenger might have come to associate the instant of another’s death with sexual gratification.’

‘And you do now? I’m not sure I do — even after reading this …’ Rheinhardt tapped the cover of the notebook before adding ‘… bizarre deposition.’

‘You will remember our discussion of the Sophocles syndrome, in relation to Erstweiler?’

‘I do …’ Rheinhardt waved his cigar in the air ‘… vaguely.’

‘Then you will forgive me for repeating myself, because if you do not understand the Sophocles syndrome you will not understand Sprenger.’

‘But you mentioned it in relation to Erstweiler.’

‘Indeed, the syndrome elucidates the behaviour of both men. Professor Freud has posited a general phenomenon of early childhood,
characterised by love of the mother and jealousy — perhaps even hate — of the father. Our two cases, Erstweiler and Sprenger, represent extreme examples of what can happen when Oedipal feelings are
unresolved.
In the case of Sprenger, the emphasis has fallen on love of the mother, whereas in the case of Erstweiler, the emphasis has fallen on hate of the father.’

‘I would not dispute the notion that all children love their mothers,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is self-evident. Moreover, it is also self-evident that one must grow up, and that growing up involves becoming more independent. Therefore, the intense love that one feels for one’s mother during early childhood must go through certain changes: which is what I believe you are referring to when you talk of feelings being
resolved.
All of this I am happy to accept; however, I have a strong suspicion that when you refer to
love of the mother,
you don’t mean
that
kind of love. Your allusion to Sophocles’ Oedipus suggests something altogether less innocent, less natural.’

‘Natural? Perhaps it is natural for the human infant to have a presentiment of adult feelings. Perhaps this first great attachment to the mother is a form of rehearsal for future intimacies.’

‘If so, then it is a rehearsal relevant to only half the population! How does Oedipus’s situation translate with respect to the female child? As a father of two daughters I would be most interested to know.’

‘I am not sure that Professor Freud has given that question much consideration.’

Rheinhardt harrumphed and drew on his cigar, producing a flotilla of smoke clouds.

Liebermann ignored Rheinhardt’s disapproval and continued with his explanation: ‘Sprenger’s mother died in childbirth and absence — as we know — increases yearning. So it was that Sprenger’s love for his mother was intensified and his overestimation of her beauty — encouraged by
his father’s insistence that she was an angel — was never tested against a fallible reality of flesh and blood. His longing knew no bounds. Idealisation was transformed into idolatry. In his childish mind, his father’s encomium became a psychological truth. She was not
like
an angel, she
was
an angel — with wings — the undeniable fact of their existence being supported by photographic evidence! Any young boy, bereft of his mother, would pine for her, want her back again. But Sprenger, knowing that he had been the cause of her death, desired her return with a depth of feeling that is difficult for us to appreciate. The notion of reunion offered the prospect of absolution: freedom from the guilt associated with his first — and most terrible — sin.’

The young doctor paused to take a sip of his brandy.

‘Sprenger mentions
communing
with his mother’s image,’ Liebermann continued. ‘It is worth noting that in our culture the idea of communing arises mostly in two contexts: the mystical and the carnal. We
commune
with God and we
commune
with lovers. Thus we can conclude that, even when Sprenger was very young,
thanatos
and
eros
were drawing closer together in his unconscious. I would also direct your attention to the fact that Sprenger’s father seems to have been jealous of his son’s
communing.
On discovering his son holding his wife’s photograph, we learn that he snatched the picture away. For young Sprenger, it must have been like being found
in flagrante delicto.’

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

Liebermann was unperturbed: ‘Sprenger’s precocious interest in death — as evinced by his desire to see the mummies in Vienna’s Natural History Museum — was merely symptomatic of his desire to be reunited with his mother. I also wonder if oblivion held some attraction for him, because it suggests a corresponding state — or non-state — before birth, the oblivion of the womb in which the unborn child is not only close to its mother but symbiotically joined.’

Liebermann lit himself another cigar.

‘I will summarise: firstly, all male infants experience feelings towards their mothers which presage the sensual longings of maturity; secondly, in Sprenger, these feelings were magnified by his peculiar circumstances; thirdly, Sprenger wished to be reunited with his mother; and, finally, Sprenger’s mother became “idealised” as an angelic being. These four factors — taken together — represent the cornerstones of Sprenger’s psychopathology.’

Satisfied with the first part of his exposition, Liebermann allowed himself a brief pause during which he enjoyed the woody flavours of his cigar. Rheinhardt waited patiently.

‘It is not difficult,’ said Liebermann, stirring, ‘to see how Sprenger learned to find corpses
desirable.
His nocturnal auto-erotic activities were undertaken while holding his breath and keeping very still — something he did initially to avoid waking his father. In due course, stillness became eroticised and incorporated into exploratory play with the village girls. When he saw Netti and Gerda in their caskets —
perfectly still
— he became acquainted with a level of arousal more intense than anything that he had experienced before. Thus Sprenger’s sexual interest was diverted by small degrees from its natural course to a most irregular destination. If Sprenger’s sexual development had progressed in the context of an otherwise normal life, he would have been no different to any of Krafft-Ebing’s necrophiliacs. But this was not the case. His sexual development occurred against the remarkable background I have already described. This combination raised him above the ranks of common deviancy. With the strengthening of his libido, his desire for communion with his mother gained urgency; however, even in Sprenger’s disturbed mind the universal taboo against incest necessitated a defensive transformation. To make such an ambition acceptable, his mother — already equipped with wings — became the Angel of Death. It was a metamorphosis that required little effort,
and his fevered imagination supplied him with appropriate hallucinations: subtle intimations, auras of violet light, and the winged figure herself …’

Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar.

‘Are you proposing,’ said Rheinhardt, his cheeks aglow with indignation, ‘that Sprenger killed women to satisfy an infantile wish to have intercourse with his mother?’

‘Ultimately — yes.’

‘I’m sorry, Max, this time …’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘This time you have followed your mentor into a quagmire. I have the greatest respect for Professor Freud, but—’