Vienna Blood (39 page)

“You may inspect the lots,” said the
unparteiische
in a voice that was surprisingly stentorian for such a cadaverous man.

Renz picked up one of the wooden slivers and rotated it in his
hand. Being more accustomed—in his capacity as a second—to testing the weight and quality of pistols, he was not sure what more he could do. He shrugged, somewhat puzzled, and tossed the sliver back onto the baize.

“I am satisfied,” he said.

“Herr Braun?” said the
unparteiische.

The younger of the count's seconds stepped forward. He was a gaunt fellow, whose prominent jawline and dark eyes suggested a certain rugged charm. However, the inherent nobility of his lineaments had evidently been ruined by a dissolute life. His thick hair was greasy and his chin scabrous, while the stubble on his cheek was speckled with silver bristles.

Braun touched each of the slivers, working his way systematically through the half-dial arrangement. Hefner noticed that the cuffs of his jacket were frayed, and that the man's hand was disfigured by a thin white weal—it looked like a dueling scar. The wretch toyed with the red slip for a few moments and then said, “I am satisfied.” This utterance was accompanied by an exhalation of breath that smelled strongly of alcohol.

The
unparteiische
handed Braun a velvet drawstring bag. The young man stretched it open and offered the exposed interior to Renz.

“Lieutenant?” The
unparteiische
prompted.

“Yes, of course,” said Renz, suddenly comprehending his role. The officer scooped the slivers together and dropped them into the open mouth of the bag. Braun pulled the string tight and began shaking the bag. The wooden slivers clattered inside. From the room below came a sudden burst of raucous laughter.

Braun continued shaking the bag.

Clatter, clatter, clatter …

He seemed to be taking his relatively minor task far too seriously. The
unparteiische,
unable to contain himself any longer, glared at the
over-earnest second. The baleful look from his luminous eyes had the desired effect, and the young man handed the bag back with a muttered apology.

The
unparteiische
addressed Hefner and the count. “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Both nodded. “Good. Let us begin.”

The duelists positioned themselves at either side of the
unparteiische,
who loosened the string of the bag. Then, holding it out in front of him, he tilted it toward Záborszky.

The count tucked his cane under his left arm and stroked his drooping oriental mustache. The expression on his broad, almost Mongolian features was difficult to interpret. It had a curious, almost alien intensity. He crossed himself slowly, allowing a limp forefinger to touch his forehead, chest, and shoulders—his hand moving over his body in extravagant arcs. An emerald ring glittered, then disappeared into the black velvet bag. Before withdrawing his hand, the count locked stares with each of the three Uhlans. He withdrew the lot. Holding it up, he turned the sliver around, demonstrating that it was unmarked.

Disgusted with the count's excesses, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and removed another unmarked lot. He held it up for a few moments, then threw it angrily onto the table.

The count was not persuaded by Hefner's example to change his ways. Again, he executed a lymphatic sign of the cross before tugging at the black ribbon attached to his vest. He retrieved the dangling monocle and pressed it into the orbit of his left eye.

“Insufferable,” whispered Trapp.

When the count was ready to proceed—determinedly in his own time—he explored the contents of the black bag for what seemed like an eternity before withdrawing another blank sliver.

The
unparteiische—
whose neutrality was being sorely tested— offered the bag to Hefner. But before the soldier could respond, Braun called out, “Stop!”

He stepped forward and peered at the bag. The three Uhlans shifted impatiently, their collective movement producing a jangling of spurs.

“Would the gentleman explain,” said the cadaverous umpire, “why he has seen fit to interrupt us?”

Braun pointed at the bag. “I thought I could see a hole.”

“Where?”

Braun took the bag from the
unparteiische,
lifted it above his head, and turned it around.

“No—I'm sorry. I was mistaken.”

He handed the bag back to the
unparteiische.

Renz and Trapp groaned.

Braun faced them indignantly. “Sirs—I will not be party to an improper contest. When our business here is concluded, my conscience dictates that I must leave this building secure in the knowledge that it was fate alone that harmonized the discord. As you well know, it is our solemn duty—mine
and
yours—to intervene if there is even the slightest possibility that the code of honor is being violated!”

Before the Uhlans could respond, the
unparteiische
raised his hand.

“Thank you, Herr Braun. You have been most vigilant. I take it you are now satisfied that the duel can continue?”

“I am,” said Braun, still glaring at the restive Uhlans.

The
unparteiische
offered Hefner the bag for the second time.

Without hesitation, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out his lot. He glanced at it in the sheltered bowl of his cupped fingers. The Uhlan's face showed no sign of emotion. Turning the sliver of wood around, he exposed the fatal red daub.

Renz and Trapp gasped.

The
unparteiische
looked directly at Hefner. “The duel is concluded. Count Záborszky has won. You know what this means. … I trust that you will respect the code and fulfill your obligation within the next week.”

69

T
HE LONG, DESCENDING STREET
was almost empty, and as Liebermann drew closer to the Danube Canal, a dense frozen fog seemed to be building up. It curled around his legs with feline curiosity. The ninth district, a bastion of respectable middle-class values, was strangely transformed, as if an old dowager had exchanged her wardrobe for that of a Circassian dancer. In her new garb of twisting diaphanous veils, she seemed suddenly equipped to deliver illicit pleasures. And perhaps—on this particular evening—she would. …

Professor Freud had invited Liebermann to become a member of his Wednesday-evening psychological society long before its inaugural meeting. But so far a combination of factors—Clara, hospital work, Salieri—had stopped Liebermann from attending. Subsequently the society had been convening in his absence for more than a month. When the first opportunity to attend finally presented itself, Lieber-mann dispatched a note to the professor expressing his earnest hope that the invitation was still standing. Freud's response was friendly and included a request that—if at all possible—Liebermann should bring with him some case material for discussion. So it was that Liebermann came to be clutching in his hand a manuscript provisionally titled
Herr B: Notes on a case of paranoia erotica.

It occurred to Liebermann that Sigmund Freud's Psychological Society was, in many ways, similar to the numerous secret societies
that congregated in Vienna. Once again, a charismatic leader had gathered a small group of followers around him—a cabal who would spread the tenets of his doctrine and challenge the settled order of things. There was something about this city—
his
city—that attracted intrigue, conspiracy, and sedition. Visionaries and prophets found it irresistible.

Liebermann suddenly remembered the lampposts outside the Opera House, the feet of which were cast in the form of four winged Sphinxes. Then he recalled the Sphinxes in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the Sphinxes in the Belvedere gardens, and the Sphinxes on Professor Freud's desk. The city was full of Sphinxes. …

Secrets, secrets, secrets.

Conscious of a mounting and almost childish excitement, Liebermann quickened his step.

The large doors of Bergasse 19 were open. He crossed the threshold and walked down the long cobbled entryway, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. At the other end of the passage were panels of black glass, which ordinarily would have afforded the prospect of a pretty little courtyard and a chestnut tree. But this evening they reflected back the semi-transparent image of a young doctor wearing a long astrakhan coat.

Liebermann turned right, ascended a small curved staircase, and walked past a single spherical gas lamp that was mounted on a floridly ornate iron banister. It was surrounded by a foggy halo, and the muted light barely illuminated a black lacquered door at the center of which was a simple nameplate: prof. dr. freud.

Liebermann rang the bell and was admitted by a maid who took his coat. He was ushered into Freud's waiting room, the decor of which conveyed an impression of shadowy opulence: red drapes and dark wood; a cabinet displaying a small collection of statuettes; and, on a
pedestal, a large plaster copy of Michelangelo's
Dying Slave.
The walls were covered with pictures that reflected Freud's preoccupation with antiquities: Roman ruins, some eighteenth-century prints of classical scenes, and, inevitably, a Sphinx, brooding in front of a pyramid. Around an oblong table sat Freud and three others.

“Ah, there you are,” cried the professor, rising energetically. “I am delighted you could make it! And, if I am not mistaken, I observe that you have brought us some case material.
Paranoia erotica,
you say? Well, that will be a rare delight.”

Freud introduced his three companions, using only their surnames: Stekel, Reitler, and Kahane. Liebermann recognized the first two from Freud's Saturday lectures at the university. The third man was not familiar, but it transpired that he was the director of the Institute for Physical Therapeutic Methods. As they made polite conversation, Liebermann was surprised to discover that in spite of Kahane's professed interest in psychoanalysis, he was still treating (or, more accurately, tormenting) his patients with electrotherapy.

A few minutes later Freud's final guest arrived. He was a man in his early thirties: a stocky individual whose facial features contracted disdainfully around a large nose. He wore round glasses, sported a small mustache, and his prominent chin was divided by a deep vertical cleft. Liebermann knew him to be Alfred Adler, a doctor to whom he had been introduced by a mutual friend the previous year. Liebermann had once been asked to accompany Adler at a party, and had been truly amazed by the power and sweetness of the singing voice that had issued from his crooked mouth. It was as if—by divine intercession— the man's deficiencies of appearance had been compensated for by an extraordinary musical gift.

Eventually, all the company were seated and Freud passed around a large box of cigars. As an incentive to partake, each place at the table was furnished with an attractive jade ashtray. No one refused, and as
matches flared and dimmed, the room became filled with clouds of billowing smoke.

The professor indicated that he was ready to begin. He announced that there would be two presentations: the first delivered by Dr. Stekel and the second by Dr. Liebermann (whom he also welcomed to the society). Proceedings would then be suspended for fifteen minutes before they resumed with a group discussion.

Stekel, a good-natured general practitioner, gave a lively description of a twenty-two-year-old female patient suffering from hysterical hyperalgesia—a disorder characterized by excessive physical sensitivity. It was not, however, a remarkable case study, and Liebermann found his attention wandering. He was feeling somewhat apprehensive and had begun—almost unconsciously—to rehearse his talk.

Herr B.

Thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk.

Employed by a reputable firm with offices in the city center.

No previous history of psychiatric illness …

When Stekel brought his presentation to a close, there was some restrained applause and a grumbled vote of thanks. Freud then turned his gaze on Liebermann. The old man's eyes were dark brown and peculiarly lustrous.

“Herr Doctor?”

“Thank you, Herr Professor.”

Liebermann put on his spectacles and straightened his papers. “Gentlemen,” he began, “this evening I shall be describing the case of Herr B.—a thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk who was admitted onto a psychiatric ward at the General Hospital in early November. The circumstances surrounding his admission were somewhat dramatic. It seems that Herr B. had attempted to force his way into the Schönbrunn Palace in order to rescue Archduchess Marie-Valerie—who,
he claimed, was being held there against her will. The police were called after an unfortunate incident involving the palace guard …”

As Liebermann became more confident, he spoke more freely and consulted his papers less. His audience appeared to be extremely interested, most notably the professor, whose attentive figure had become hazy behind an increasingly murky accumulation of cigar smoke.

When Liebermann began to describe Herr Beiber's dream, Freud's eyes widened, and he adopted a melodramatic pose. Like a hammy actor at the Court Theater, he pressed his right hand against his temple. Liebermann paused, expecting to be interrupted, but the old man remained silent. Adler too had raised a hand but only to obscure Freud's view of his mouth, which had twisted into a mocking smile.

Liebermann was relieved when he reached the conclusion of his presentation. The task had proved more demanding than he had anticipated, and the close scrutiny of Freud's inner circle had been unnerving. He was acutely aware that any minor slip of the tongue would be subject to psychoanalytic interpretation. In such company, all mistakes—however minor—would be revealing. Fortunately, his delivery had been steady and he had not even allowed himself to be distracted by Adler's irreverence.

When the applause had died down, the professor thanked Liebermann for a fascinating presentation and rang for the maid. She appeared carrying a large tray of coffee and cakes. Once the plates, napkins, and forks had been laid out, the atmosphere in the room immediately changed. The group relaxed and even engaged in some lighthearted banter. Stekel told an amusing story that hinged on a confusion of identities, and the professor was quick to respond with a joke of his own.