Vienna Blood (37 page)

“Well?” said Professor Pallenberg.

“I must confess that I am not familiar with this particular”— Kanner hesitated, bit his lower lip, and finally forced out the word— “treatment.”

“No,” said Pallenberg. “It is largely unknown to students of your generation.”

The patient rotated clockwise, slowing by degrees to a perfect standstill. After a moment of stillness, the rope began to unwind and the hanging man turned in the opposite direction. The restraining jacket gave him the appearance of a giant pupa.

“As you know,” Pallenberg went on, “Herr Auger has not responded to conservative treatments—particularly morphia and veronal—and I thought it time to try a different approach … something that I remembered from my student days in Paris.”

“Suspension is a French treatment?”

“Indeed. I am one of a select company of Viennese doctors who had the pleasure of studying under Charcot at the Salpêtrière. Do you know Professor Freud?”

“Not personally.”

“He was another. A great man, Charcot. The Napoléon of the neuroses.”

“I have read some of Professor Freud's translations. But I have never come across this specific”—he found himself hesitating again— “therapy.”

“Well, that isn't surprising. Charcot's pioneering work using hypnosis as a treatment for
la grande hystérie
has somewhat eclipsed his other contributions. In my estimation, iron-filing ingestion and suspension in harness are two original interventions that have been sadly neglected.”

“Might I ask,” said Kanner tentatively, “how suspension works?”

“Well,” Pallenberg replied, “Charcot proposed certain theories that—to be frank—are not compelling. But I always suspected that his work in this domain merited further consideration. I remember the case of an engineer who suffered from delusions of persecution and who benefited greatly from suspension. Then there was a sailor who believed that one of his legs had been amputated while he slept somewhere off the coast of Portugal. … I have long since wondered whether certain forms of delusion—among which we must include the Cotard—are caused by an abnormality of circulation. Perhaps Charcot achieved these successes because suspension had some subtle effect on the course of arterial blood flow in the brain. It is
my earnest hope that Herr Auger will be the beneficiary of such a process.”

“Could a similar effect not be achieved by encouraging Herr Auger to lie in bed with his feet raised on some pillows?”

Professor Pallenberg shook his head. “No, I doubt that very much.”

Kanner, accepting his role as the junior party in the exchange, stood corrected.

Professor Pallenberg approached his inverted patient. A dull creaking sound accompanied the periodic clockwise and anticlockwise rotations.

“Herr Auger,” said Pallenberg, addressing the reverse-horripilated head. “How are you feeling?”

“I do not exist,” came the gentle, resigned reply.

“That is self-evidently not true, Herr Auger,” Pallenberg responded somewhat tetchily. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me how you feel?”

“I am not here.”

Kanner was relieved to hear Herr Auger's usual response. If the poor man did not believe in his own existence, then it seemed unlikely that he could be suffering very much.

Pallenberg shrugged and caught Kanner's eye. “One cannot expect very much progress at this very early stage. I would be most grateful, Doctor Kanner, if you could ensure that Herr Auger receives fifteen to twenty minutes of suspension daily. The winch is simple to operate but you will obviously need some assistance from the porters.”

“Very good, sir.”

Pallenberg nodded curtly. “Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”

Recognizing that he had been dismissed, Kanner bowed, and left the room. He descended the stairs in an oddly detached state, somewhat overwhelmed by his encounter with Professor Pallenberg and the unfortunate Herr Auger.

By the time Kanner had reached his office, his mind was occupied by other matters. Before entering the room he looked down the corridor both ways and then quickly slipped inside. He went immediately to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a heavily embroidered sash and apron. The apron bore the image of a temple between two columns that were marked J and B respectively. Kanner quickly stuffed the items into his doctor's bag and closed the hasp. Then, sighing with relief, he looked at his watch.

66

L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT WERE
attempting Guglielmo's aria from the first act of
Così Fan Tutte.
Rheinhardt's Italian was less than perfect.

“Guardate … taccate …”

Look … touch …

He struggled with the liquid vowels.

“Il tutto osservate …”

Observe everything …

They had not conferred greatly on the selection of songs, yet their musical evening contained an unusual number of piano and voice arrangements taken from the operas of Mozart. It was a fact that made Liebermann feel distinctly uncomfortable. Unconsciously, they were looking for clues.

“Il tutto osservate …”

Observe everything …

Their music-making had always been sacred: they had always resisted discussing other matters, however urgent, until the final chords of the final song had faded into silence. But now Salieri seemed to have violated their tradition. He had insinuated himself into the music room—between the very notes of Mozart's divine melodies. He
stood in the shadow of the Bösendorfer: an unwelcome, ghostly presence.

After performing the Mozart pieces, they returned to more familiar territory—lieder by Brahms. The luscious, romantic harmonies seemed to repel the spectral visitor (at least temporarily) to some distant outer region. But when the recital was done—ending with
Wir wandelten
—Liebermann still felt uneasy. For it was not only the thought of Salieri that was causing him discomfort. There was also the matter of his pending confession. He had resolved to inform Rheinhardt of his decision to terminate his engagement to Clara, and he was not sure how his friend would receive such news.

The two men retired to the smoking room and took their respective places in front of the fire. They lit cigars, sipped brandy, and permitted themselves a few moments of quiet repose. When the room had become hazy with smoke, the young doctor spoke.

“Forgive me, Oskar. I owe you an apology.”

The inspector turned. “Oh?”

“It was remiss of me not to respond to your note last week.”

“I had assumed that you were ill.”

“No, I was not ill. And you are due more than the dashed-off reply that I sent on Monday.”

Rheinhardt detected that his friend was unusually tense. His restless fingers betrayed an inner state of agitation.

“What is it, Max?”

Liebermann hesitated. Then, bracing himself, he threw back his head and swallowed a medicinal quantity of brandy. “Last week,” he said deliberately, “I had to make a decision regarding a personal issue, which left me feeling utterly dejected. Indeed, my spirits were so low that I could barely summon the energy to attend my patients.” Liebermann studied the refracted rainbows in the finely cut glass. “The decision I made was one that I believe will not meet with your
approval.” He looked anxiously at his friend. Rheinhardt dismissed the remark with a hand gesture and signaled that Liebermann should continue. “You will recall that I once expressed some doubt as to whether I should proceed with my engagement to Clara Weiss.”

“Indeed. We spoke at some length on the subject.”

“Well, Oskar. In spite of your wise counsel, I have found it impossible to dispel the feelings of apprehension surrounding the prospect of our union. I arranged an interview with Clara's father and explained that I could not—in good faith—marry his daughter. Needless to say, he was horrified and forbade me to see Clara. I understand she has since been removed from Vienna, and I suspect that she has been taken to a sanitorium.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and expelled a great cloud of smoke. “So, you see, Oskar, I have achieved much since we last met. I have thoroughly embarrassed my parents, caused incalculable pain to a woman whom I had previously professed to love, and declined membership of a family who have hitherto shown me only kindness and the deepest affection. I wouldn't blame you for thinking badly of me.”

A log on the fire suddenly blazed up and a fierce shower of sparks erupted onto the hearth. The inspector squeezed his lower lip and appeared to descend into a meditative state. After a considerable length of time had elapsed, Rheinhardt stirred. He cleared his throat, hummed, and finally spoke.

“First of all, Max, I hope that you will accept my most sincere commiserations. I had no idea that you were so very racked with doubts, and if I had, perhaps my advice to you would have been different. Second, I have every confidence in your character. I cannot claim to have any special knowledge of the human mind—I am no psychiatrist—but I am a fair judge of men, and I understand you well enough to appreciate that your intentions were honorable. You did not want to enter upon a sham marriage—that much is clear. To do so would have been bad for you, and even worse for Clara. Finally, I have
always found you to be a man of singular courage. In my small estimation—for what it is worth—this act is perhaps the bravest I have ever known you to perform. The right course of action is rarely the easiest, and to have proceeded with an insincere marriage, for the sake of maintaining appearances, would have been morally reprehensible. As a man whose calling … no, whose very reason for existence is to alleviate human suffering, the events of last week must have cost you dearly. I am so very sorry. Be that as it may, I suspect that this trial need not prick your conscience forever. Given time, they will
all
come to realize the propriety of your decision—your family, the Weisses, and, most important, your dear Clara.”

Liebermann turned slowly, and looked at his friend's world-weary face: the sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes, the heavy jowls, and the incongruously jaunty pointed mustache. And as he did so, he felt a wave of affection that brought him close to tears.
What a great and generous soul this man possessed,
he thought.

“Oskar, I don't know what to say. You are too kind. I do not deserve such—”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried the inspector.

“No—I really don't deserve—”

“Enough!” Rheinhardt raised his hand. “The quality of your character is not in question. You have nothing to thank me for.” Then, unexpectedly, he stood up to leave. “As you know, there were many things that I wished to discuss with you this evening concerning Salieri … but let us instead postpone. I do not wish to burden you with the concerns of the security office at this difficult time. We shall meet again in due course—when your spirits have rallied.”

“But, Oskar,” Liebermann protested, “my spirits have already rallied. Your kind words have acted as a restorative. Moreover, I can think of no better remedy than to make myself useful to the security office. Now, please, do sit down!”

Rehinhardt's eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The inspector smiled. “Excellent.”

Rheinhardt opened his bag and produced a stack of photographs. Then, returning to his seat, he handed them to Liebermann.

The young doctor looked at the first image: a dark, grainy impression of a hooded figure lying on a stone floor.

“Another Salieri killing?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“When did he strike?”

“Thursday.”

“Has the murder been reported?”

“In the
Zeitung,
the
Freie Presse,
and that dreadful new rag, the
Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.
”

Liebermann began working through the pile of prints. Each image showed the body from a different perspective. Close-up, long view, looking down from above.

“His name is Brother Francis,” Rheinhardt continued. “A Capuchin monk. His body was discovered by one of his confrères, Brother Ignaz, in the crypt of the Kapuzinerkirche. In Salieri's scheme, his corresponding character in
The Magic Flute
must be one of the many priests.”

“Or the Speaker of the Temple, perhaps—who is a kind of high priest.”

“Indeed. Professor Mathias ascribed the cause of death to loss of blood, resulting from a sabre wound.”

“The
same
sabre?”

“
That,
he couldn't say.” Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and leaned closer to Liebermann. “When I descended into the crypt, several monks had stationed themselves by the body and were reciting offices for the dead. Naturally, I assumed that Brother Francis was no longer with us. But I was very wrong.”

“He was still alive!”

“Yes. The poor fellow had certainly arrived at death's door, but he was yet to step over the threshold. He managed a few desperate gasps, and seemed to regain consciousness. I immediately asked him who had performed the dastardly deed. His reply was … intriguing. He said, ‘
A cellist.
’ Then he passed away.”

Liebermann examined a close-up photograph of the dead monk's face. A hooked nose projected out from between two sunken eyes.

“Extraordinary,” said Liebermann, working down to the last of the shots. It showed the royal tomb, emerging out of the darkness like a galleon crewed by ghosts. “The crypt was not desecrated with symbols?”

“No.”

“Professor Mathias did not discover any objects concealed in the Capuchin's corpse?”

“No.”

“And no mutilations?” Liebermann tapped the pile of photographs.

“Salieri was disturbed by the arrival of Brother Ignaz. I imagine that he did not have time.”

“Which would also explain why he did not deliver an efficient sabre blow.”

“Indeed, he must have been distracted at the key moment.”

“ ‘
A cellist.’
” Liebermann rotated his glass. The rainbows broke and re-formed. “What are we to make of that? Salieri couldn't have been sitting in the crypt, playing a Bach sonata. So, did Brother Francis recognize him? Is he an artist of some renown? A virtuoso? Or perhaps some rank-and-file orchestral player who participated in a recent religious concert?”