Vienna Blood (17 page)

The pathologist raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips together, and produced a long interrogative “Mmm?”

“I'm sorry?” said Rheinhardt, recovering just enough firmness of purpose to simulate composure. “What are you suggesting?”

“Merely,” said Mathias, “that it would be prudent to examine our unfortunate friend more thoroughly. We should take a look in his stomach—and inspect the contents of his rectum, of course.”

Rheinhardt coughed. “If you don't mind, Herr Professor, I would prefer to take a cigar outside while you …”

“Complete the autopsy?”

“Indeed.”

“Do as you please—it's all the same to me. I'll call you if I find anything interesting.”

Rheinhardt walked across the stone flags, but before leaving, he stole a quick glance back into the morgue. There was Mathias, standing in his circle of icy light, preparing to embark upon a bizarre corporeal treasure hunt. Misty exhalations poured out of his mouth like dragon's breath. The pathologist had become quite animated, his movements quickened by an eagerness—a childlike enthusiasm and excitement—that made Rheinhardt feel distinctly uncomfortable.

In the corridor outside the mortuary, Rheinhardt rested his back against the damp wall and took out a Trabuco cheroot. He struck a match and allowed the end to burn.

Sabre wounds … a crooked cross … a padlock.

This is the work of the same man.

Karsten Krull is entirely innocent, and the maniac is still at large.

For the first time, Rheinhardt worried about the safety of his family.

29

T
HE ROOM WAS OPULENT:
chandeliers, heavy drapes, gilt furniture, and a selection of Biedermeier oils. Gustav von Triebenbach was standing by a plinth, which supported a white marble bust of Richard Wagner. There were many guests—not all of them fully fledged members of the Richard Wagner Association but all committed to the cause. In the far corner of the room was a gleaming Steinway piano. Behind it sat Hermann Aschenbrandt and another young musician. They were playing a four-hands arrangement of Strauss's
Morgenblatter.

Von Triebenbach sipped his champagne and surveyed the scene. He recognized several important dignitaries, including some close associates of the mayor and a minister belonging to the Christian Social party. Standing by the fire was a tall, distinguished-looking lady wearing a long black dress and a ruby necklace. This was Baroness Sophie von Rautenberg—Olbricht's patron. Von Triebenbach made a mental note that he should pay her a compliment by the end of the evening. Though in her fifties, she was still an attractive woman. To his knowledge, since the death of Von Rautenberg she had never taken a lover. He wondered whether he might one day persuade her to consider him as a possible candidate. Close to the baroness sat the Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain. He was an honorary member of the association and was addressing a small group of admirers. Von Triebenbach had read Chamberlain's books and essays on “the great composer” and had enjoyed them immensely.

On the opposite side of the room, Von Triebenbach spotted Ruprecht Hefner. The lieutenant stood out from the crowd on account of his bright blue uniform (an Austrian officer was not permitted to wear mufti off duty). Hefner was talking to a pretty young lady in a dress made of yellow silk. Von Triebenbach did not recognize her but strongly suspected that she was the minister's daughter.

The cavalryman leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She blushed, looked nervously around the room, and marched away— lifting her skirts slightly in order to facilitate a nimble escape.

One day that boy will get into serious trouble.

Von Triebenbach caught Hefner's attention and raised his champagne flute. The officer smiled and crossed the floor, allowing the golden tassel to swing conspicuously from his pommel. A few people stopped talking in order to enjoy the Uhlan's magisterial progress.

“Baron!” said Hefner, bowing. “So good to see you again.”

“And you, Hefner—how long has it been?”

“Too long.”

“Indeed, I can't remember the last time I saw you at one of our little gatherings.”

“Ah yes, Baron, forgive me. I have been otherwise engaged of late. There was a rumor circulating around the barracks that His Majesty intended to inspect the eighteenth. Well, you can imagine the effect that had on a stickler like Kabok! We've been drilling day and night!”

“Of course—but you really must come again soon. We've had some very interesting guests, you know. At our last meeting we were honored by no less a personage than List.”

“Really? I was under the impression that the old man was dead.”

“Not Liszt, dear fellow—Guido List! The famous writer?”

“Oh, yes …”

The soldier's response lacked the brightness of tone associated with genuine recognition, but Von Triebenbach was not inclined to press the matter. “Never mind. Just come when you can.”

The music stopped and the room resounded with enthusiastic applause. The musicians half-rose from their seats, bowing and grinning in all directions. As soon as they sat down again, a stealthy staccato introduction preceded a fortissimo chord, which was in turn followed by a weightless, swinging accompaniment. When the melody of the
Liebeslieder Waltz
trickled down the keyboard—liquid and delicate—some of the audience began to clap again.

Von Triebenbach leaned closer to the handsome cavalry officer and lowered his voice. “Speaking of rumors, I heard that you had a set-to with Freddi Lemberg—at the opera?

“Did you?”

“Yes—and I understand too that he demanded satisfaction.”

“Who told you that?”

“Hefner, you cannot expect such an exchange to pass unnoticed.” The officer shrugged. “My dear boy,” Von Triebenbach continued, “you must be more discreet.” He nodded then toward the girl in the yellow dress, who had just reappeared. “With respect to
all
matters.”

Hefner grinned. “As usual, Baron, I am indebted to you for your wise counsel. However, I must beg to be excused—the matter that you
now
refer to is still unresolved.”

Hefner bowed and slipped into the crowd, clearly in pursuit of his quarry.

Von Triebenbach shook his head.

Oh, to be young again! To feel invincible!

Wistfully remembering the conquests of his own youth, Von Triebenbach edged toward the alluring Rautenberg widow. As he drew closer, he was distracted by the group seated around
Chamberlain. Von Triebenbach could not hear his every word but he soon perceived that the Englishman was discoursing on his compatriot Sir Francis Galton. The thin but clear voice floated above the general hubbub. His German was perfect: “He has been petitioning the British government since the sixties … must sponsor competitive examinations in hereditary merit … those of superior stock might be invited to marry in Westminster Abbey and be encouraged by postnatal grants to produce strong and healthy progeny.” The crowd parted and Von Triebenbach got his first clear view of the Englishman.

Chamberlain's complexion was pale, and his hair and mustache displayed a variety of tawny shades. Below an extremely high forehead his face was curiously elongated. Indeed, his general appearance suggested attenuation—as though his whole body had been stretched. His lips were too full, almost feminine, and his eyes were large and reminded Von Triebenbach of those of a nocturnal mammal. Yet there was something distinctly aristocratic in his demeanor; perhaps it was his stillness, or the precision of his speech.

Von Triebenbach could now hear Chamberlain's every word.

“It is impossible to estimate the genius and development of our north European culture if we obstinately shut our eyes to the fact that it is a
definite species
of mankind which constitutes its physical and moral basis. We see that clearly today; for the less Teutonic a land is, the more uncivilized it is. He who at the present time travels from London to Rome passes from fog into sunshine, but at the same time from the most refined civilization and high culture into semi-barbarism—dirt, coarseness, falsehood, poverty.”

A waiter offered the baron a salmon canapé, which he refused, eager to hear the Englishman.

“…On the one hand depth, power, and directness of expression as our most individual gift, and on the other, the great secret of our
superiority in so many spheres, namely, our inborn tendency to follow nature honestly and faithfully.”

“Very true,” said one of his acolytes, which roused a rumble of general approval.

When the time comes,
thought Von Triebenbach,
we shall certainly be able to depend on the English.

30

P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD WAS ALMOST
hidden in a dense cloud bank of cigar smoke. He had been talking at length about the psychological differences between conscious and unconscious processes. As the exposition proceeded, Liebermann was distracted by a curious fantasy. It was playing, like a Greek drama, in the penumbral outer circle of his mind. In this fantasy, he—or someone very much like him—was a neophyte in an ancient sect, consulting a spirit oracle that was made manifest in the semi-opaque twisting veils that floated up from a gold incense bowl. …

“Everything conscious is subject to a process of wearing away, while what is unconscious is relatively unchangeable. Look at these antiquities.” Freud passed his hands over the figurines that stood guard on his desk, among which Liebermann spied a winged Sphinx, a brachycephalic dwarf, and a falcon-headed deity. His fantasy receded.

“They are, in fact,” continued Professor Freud, “objects that were found concealed in the tombs of Egypt. The oldest here is nearly three thousand years old. Yet their burial has been the cause of their preservation. So it is with an unconscious memory—it is protected beneath the superficial sedimentation of the psyche. Think of Pompeii. Was it really destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79? Not at all. The destruction of Pompeii is only just beginning, now that it has been discovered and dug up!”

Freud cut another cigar and offered it to his companion, but
Liebermann declined. If he attempted to keep up with the old man, then they would both be rendered invisible by the intensifying dun fog.

Freud's extemporization had been detailed and extended. Liebermann was reminded of the professor's Saturday lectures: it was Freud's habit to deliver them without notes, yet they were always intricately argued and perfectly structured. Realizing that the great psychoanalyst might start discoursing again and continue for at least another half hour, Liebermann thought it wise to take advantage of the interruption. The old man struck a match and drew on his corona.

“Professor?” Freud's penetrating eyes peered out from a tawny cloud. “You have written a great deal about the appearance of symbols in dreams, and I was wondering whether you would be willing to examine a certain emblem that I have chanced upon in the course of my … my work.”

“Of course,” said Freud. “Although in the matter of dream interpretation, as you will appreciate, symbols do not occur with a permanently fixed meaning like the grammalogues in shorthand.”

“This symbol did not occur in a dream,” said Liebermann impassively. Freud's stare remained constant—his eyes were two points of fixed concentration. “I suspect,” Liebermann continued, “that it is a sacred image of some description—an ideogram. Given your extensive knowledge of the ancient world and its cultures, I hoped that you might be able to identify it.”

The professor assumed a transparently counterfeit expression of modesty and muttered, “Well, perhaps.”

Liebermann stood and walked to the desk. “May I?” He gestured toward a fountain pen.

Freud nodded and took a sheet of headed notepaper from his top drawer. Liebermann drew a simple cross and added ninety-degree “arms” at each extremity. When he had completed the drawing, he pushed it toward the professor, who considered the design for a few
moments and exclaimed, “Yes, I
have
seen it before. It appears on certain Egyptian artifacts, but I believe it is more commonly associated with the Indian subcontinent.”

“And what is it, exactly?”

“I don't know. But I have in my possession a very informative volume on the Indo-European script that will probably tell us.” Freud rose and moved over to his bookcase. He ran a tobacco-stained index finger along a row of large volumes on the subject of archaeology. “Where is it, now? I'm sure it's here somewhere.” He reversed the movement. “Ah! Here we are—tucked away between Evans and Schliemann.” The book that he removed was small, thick, and somewhat battered. Its spine was broken and the cover boards flapped open like a double door.

Freud's whole appearance suddenly changed. He emitted a heavy sigh and an invisible yoke settled onto his shoulders. He seemed to shrink in on himself.

“Professor?” Liebermann inquired solicitously.

The old man stroked the distressed binding of the book and shook his head. “This book—it belonged to a dear friend.” Freud pointed at a photographic portrait on the wall: a handsome young man, with dark hair and soft, shadowy eyes. “Fleischl-Marxow.”

Liebermann had often wondered who the young man was and had assumed, wrongly, that he must be a distant relative.

“We worked together in Brücke's laboratory at the Physiological Institute. He had a first-class mind—truly brilliant. We had such conversations: philosophy, art, science, and literature! We discussed everything. And he was such a generous soul. … When I ran out of money (which was all too often in those days), Fleischl always came to the rescue. During the course of his laboratory work he contracted an infection, which necessitated the amputation of his right thumb. The operation wasn't a success. He subsequently suffered from neuromas
and required more surgery. But it was no good—the pain got worse and worse. In the end it proved quite intolerable, and he became addicted to morphia.

“At that time I was undertaking some research into the medicinal properties of cocaine, the alkaloid that Niemann isolated from the coca plant. I chanced upon a report in
The Detroit Medical Gazette
suggesting that addiction to morphia could be treated by substitution with cocaine—which was supposed to be less harmful. I was overjoyed. Can you imagine? What a discovery! I encouraged Fleischl to try this new treatment. And he did. Indeed, my friend clutched at the drug like a drowning man. …”