Vienna Secrets (9 page)

19

P
ROFESSOR
P
RIEL AND
A
SHER
K
usevitsky
had been engaged in a deep conversation about mysticism and metaphor. They were sitting in a corner seat in the Café Eiles, which was situated behind the town hall. It was a relatively new coffeehouse and had not as yet built up a very large clientele. There were some regular customers, mostly civil servants and lawyers, but it was always possible to get a seat.

The gas lamps on the wall had already been turned on, but the opaque globes on the brassy arms of the chandeliers were dull and lifeless. A big station clock hung on chains from an archway that led to the kitchen. Beneath it an alert-looking waiter scanned the empty tables.

“You see, my boy…,” said Priel, pausing to accomplish the delicate operation of sipping coffee without moistening his mustache or beard. “Lurianic Kabbalah was never the exclusive property of a small closed group. It became the subject of much popular preaching and influenced many aspects of Jewish life. Why? I’ll tell you why. The Lurianic creation myth describes a cosmic catastrophe—the
breaking of the vessels—
after which nothing is in its proper place….” He took another quick sip. “And of course, something that is not in its proper place, is—as it were—also in exile. Needless to say, this idea, which is at the heart of the Lurianic canon, is one that finds deep and complex resonances in the Jewish psyche. Human existence becomes the scene of the soul’s exile.”

Asher Kusevitsky nodded, and picked up one of the
punschkrapfen
that Professor Priel had ordered before his arrival. The symmetry of the cube appealed to him. His teeth sank into the soft pink icing, which cracked, forming a tessellated surface. At once his mouth was suffused with a mêlée of flavors. The coolness of the shell contrasted with the warmth of the alcoholic sponge inside, and he was overwhelmed by an almost dizzying sweetness. After he had swallowed, his taste buds were still tingling with flavors: marzipan, nuts, and jam.

“Is it good?” asked Priel.

“Excellent,” Asher replied.

The professor took a large bite, examined the interior, nodded approvingly, and picked a few particles of icing from his beard.

“How are the rehearsals going?” he said, evidently having finished with the subject of Lurianic Kabbalah.

“Very well. Herzog is a fine actor.”

“Yes, I saw him at the Court Theatre last year. A very impressive performance.”

“And Baumshlager’s shopgirl is perfect. She brings such sympathy to the role.”

“Excellent. Let us hope that this play receives the plaudits it so justly deserves.”

Asher’s mouth twisted to form an ironic smile. “Well, given its subject matter, I have to say that I am not expecting very much praise from certain critics.”

“Indeed. But they are not your audience. Providing
our
people come to see
The Dybbuk
, that is all that matters.” Priel held up his half-eaten cake as if it possessed totemic potencies. “They must become more aware of who they are and draw inspiration and strength from their traditions. Much has been forgotten, but gradually, little by little, we can reintroduce them to their stories, myths, and legends. I have such faith in the power of narrative—to inspire, revive, and sustain. A people who have been cut off from their folklore are doomed. We define ourselves with our stories. We become who we are—by telling stories. And we are held together—as a people—by our stories. Yes, Asher, my boy, you are doing us all a great service. You are giving them something back, which they have lost. You are giving them back their souls.”

“Today, the Volkstheatre. Tomorrow… ?”

“The Opera House!” Priel lowered his voice. “Perhaps Director Mahler could be encouraged to try his hand at a dramatic piece. After all, his symphonies are dramatic enough. He must be sick and tired of all those caterwauling Valkyries and brutish muscle-bound heroes.
The Dybbuk
would make a fine libretto…”

“It could never happen.”

Priel squeezed Asher’s arm. “It does no harm to dream. And sometimes dreams come true. Ask your brother. He knows a thing or two about dreams!” Asher smiled and swallowed the remains of his
punsch krapfen
. “And how is he, by the way, the good doctor?” Priel continued. “Enjoying his newfound liberty as a Rothenstein scholar?”

“He’s… well,” said Asher.

The professor detected a slight hesitation. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no.” Asher paused, grimaced, and added, “Nothing’s the matter, but…”

“What?”

“He’s seeing someone.”

“Seeing someone?”

“A woman. Katzer’s daughter—Anna.”

“Perhap it is just an infatuation… a temporary dalliance.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“He’s in love?”

“He talks about her incessantly.”

The professor dabbed his mouth with a napkin and thought for a moment. “I see.” He peered over his pince-nez. “Well, providing it doesn’t distract him.”

Asher’s expression became resolute. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it.”

“Good,” said the professor. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, eh?”

He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention and called, “Two more coffees and some more of these splendid cakes.”

“Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”

The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”

20

F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
Dr. Max Liebermann

    Last night I dreamed of Amelia Lydgate, and what a dream it was: a wild, strange dream. Quite unnerving. As I sit here in my apartment, surrounded by familiar things, it seems, by way of contrast, even stranger. Something of the dream has stayed with me all day. I had fancied that writing it down might be cathartic; however, now that the time has come, I find that I am curiously reluctant. I am experiencing what Professor Freud would call resistance, and therefore I can be certain that the dream contains uncomfortable truths.

Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.

So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers—orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made—primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.

Miss Lydgate was standing next to me—naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”

Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.

In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would marriage to such a strong-minded woman eventually lead to feelings of emasculation? Does the dream betray a deep-seated anxiety that I am unwilling to own? I have always been a vigorous advocate of equality between the sexes; however, in reality, perhaps I am still—at least in part—a traditionalist. It is not that men are strong and women weak (or any other such crude and dubious distinction), but rather that the sexes are complementary. They do have different attributes. Moreover, the success of a relationship might well depend on these differences coming together, to make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. Is that what my father represented? Traditional values? “It is not good for a man to be alone.” Indeed, and although I do not feel alone—preoccupied as I am with Miss Lydgate—the fact of the matter is that I am alone.

My relations with Miss Lydgate have certainly reached a difficult juncture. In the normal course of events, a couple grows more intimate until the erotic nature of their mutual attraction becomes explicit; however, if this period exceeds a certain amount of time, then the relationship is conducted largely as a friendship rather than a burgeoning romance. It becomes increasingly difficult for both parties to see each other as anything more than friends. This is how I have chosen to account for my inaction. My dream, however, suggests an alternative. Perhaps my paralysis with respect to Miss Lydgate has more complex origins. Desire is one of those things that seems ostensibly simple but is always—in truth—very obscure. Answering the question “What do I want?” is far more challenging than most people ever realize.

21

T
HE COFFEEHOUSE HAD LITTLE
to distinguish it from the other shops. It did not have lettering above the windows or a bright awning, only a board standing on the pavement on which the proprietor’s name had been painted in flowing red letters:
Zucker
.

Rheinhardt opened the door and entered. His first impression was of humidity and noise. Condensation had made the windows opaque, and the steamy atmosphere was ripe with the savory smells of frankfurters, mustard, and sauerkraut. Although the coffeehouse had only four circular tables, these were fully occupied and were covered with newspapers, which were being continually consulted in order to support one side or the other of a communal debate involving everyone present. In addition to seated patrons, there were many others who were either standing in a central space or leaning against the walls. The general mayhem was compounded by the presence of a shabby violinist who had situated himself in a corner and was singing along to a merry dance tune. There was much shouting, gesticulating, jeering, and occasional outbursts of raucous laughter.

Squeezing through the crowd, Rheinhardt advanced to the counter, where an attractive young woman was ladling a thick orange soup into rustic bowls.

“I’m looking for Herr Zucker.”

“What?”

“I’m looking for Herr Zucker,” Rheinhardt repeated, raising his voice.

The young woman wiped some perspiration off her brow with the back of her hand and, leaning back, directed her voice through an open door. “Father! Someone to see you.” The sound of clattering saucepans and a Yiddisher curse heralded the emergence of a big man wearing a striped apron. His face possessed a rough, unfinished quality—raw and pitted skin and nubbly features. Rheinhardt noticed that his exposed arms were insulated by a natural sleeve of wiry black hair. It was difficult to believe that he was the pretty girl’s father.

“Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Zucker nodded. “This way, please.”

Rheinhardt followed him through the kitchen (in which a cook appeared to be tossing pancakes solely for the amusement of a prepubescent boy) and out into a little cobbled garden.

“Take a seat, Inspector,” said Zucker, gesturing toward a bench. “It’s quiet out here. At least we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? We have some delicious
reis trauttmansdorff.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, Herr Zucker. But no, thank you.”

The two men sat down on the bench.

“What can I do for you, then?” said Zucker, taking a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his apron pocket.

“I would like to ask you a few questions about some of your customers.” Zucker offered Rheinhardt a cigarette, which the inspector declined, before lighting one for himself. “I take it,” Rheinhardt continued, “that you are aware of what happened in Josefstadt last week.”

“The murder?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, of course. It’s been all over the papers. The customers don’t stop talking about it.”

“One of your customers—a young Hasid, I believe—was overheard saying that his master, a preacher called Barash, had prophesied the monk’s death.”

“Yes, that’s true. I was there at the time. But—with respect—you shouldn’t be taking very much notice of such things.”

“Oh, why not?”

“The Hasidim aren’t like the rest of us. They believe all sorts of nonsense. They interpret dreams, commune with the dead, and think that God reveals himself in magic numbers! And as for prophecies… Well, they’re always saying this thing or that thing is going to happen. They make so many predictions! I mean, it stands to reason they’ve got to be right about something—eventually! Coincidence, Inspector. That’s all it is. Coincidence.”

“Did the young Hasid say specifically that the monk would be murdered?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Please, try to remember exactly what he said.”

“Well, that’s not so easy. As usual, there was a lot of noise, and I was very busy.”

“Was your daughter present?”

“No. That’s why I was busy.”

“Even so, perhaps you could try to remember what was said?”

Zucker paused and thought for a moment.

“They were arguing about religion. A young Hasid, and some workmen. They usually keep themselves to themselves, the Hasidim. But when they do get into arguments with my regulars”—Zucker pretended to cover his ears—“it’s worse than a yeshiva.”

“A what?”

“A school where they study holy books. There’s an old saying: two rabbis, three arguments. And you know, it’s not far wrong.”

“You were saying…,” Rheinhardt prompted the proprietor. “About the young Hasid?”

“Oh yes… Actually, I think the workmen were just teasing. But the Hasid was getting more and more agitated, and to prove some point he mentioned his leader’s prophecy. To be honest, I can’t remember very much more than that.” Zucker waved his cigarette in the air, creating a vortex of ash. “Now, are you sure I can’t interest you in my
reis trauttmansdorff?
I promise you, once you’ve tasted it, you’ll be back for more.”

“You said that these Hasidim are always making prophecies. What other things have you heard?”

Zucker grinned. “Everything from horse race winners to the coming of the Messiah! Now, for the last time, Inspector: my
reis trauttmansdorff?
Are you going to try it or not?”