Death and the Maiden (26 page)

P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD HAD POSITED
the existence of a general phenomenon of childhood in which possessive feelings for the parent of the opposite sex were combined with hostile – sometimes murderous – feeling directed towards the parent of the same sex. In the desires and rage of infancy he had seen Greek tragedy recapitulated: the drama of King Oedipus. Freud had once suggested to Liebermann that a failure to resolve these primal urges might be an important determinant of mental illness, but he had been unable to specify how this resolution might be accomplished. In the intervening months he had given the matter much thought and was now regaling his disciple with some speculative hypotheses.

‘The Oedipal situation casts the father in the role of an angry rival, competing for the mother’s affection. In the already troubled infant mind, fears develop concerning the nature of paternal retribution. The child already has some inkling that his sexual feelings towards his mother are futile; the threat of castration – by his father – settles the issue and Oedipal desires are repressed. In due course, the syndrome disintegrates. Sexual interest in the mother wanes and hostility towards the father diminishes. The child is free to enter adolescence unencumbered by infantile material, which has served its purpose by orienting the libido towards its appropriate object. For girls, maturity is reached by a more circuitous route.’

Professor Freud threw his head back, opened his mouth, and allowed a spire of smoke to ascend.

‘All infants,’ he continued, ‘irrespective of gender, are profoundly attached to their mothers; however, the ultimate orientation of female libido requires a transfer of affection from mother to father. How does this happen – and why – since mother has hitherto been the principal source of nourishment, tenderness and care? It happens because, at this juncture, little girls make a momentous discovery. They learn that they are anatomically deficient, incomplete. Boys have something which they don’t have. This dramatic realisation creates feelings of inferiority and envy. The little girl rejects her mother and becomes devoted to her father, whom she now believes has the power to rectify her deficiency. Normal development then proceeds, with the wish for a penis being gradually replaced by a wish for a baby.’

Freud waved his cigar in the air, creating a diaphanous blue-grey screen.

‘Unlike her brothers and opposite-sex play-friends, the little girl is free from worries about retributive castration: subsequently, forbidden ideas are repressed with less vigour. Thus it may be the case that women never achieve the moral strength of men. Moreover, they are prone to suffer from unresolved sexual feelings towards their fathers.’

The old man peered through the dissipating smoke.

‘Ah,’ he said, his lips buckling to form a lopsided smile. ‘I see that you are not persuaded.’

Liebermann, embarrassed by the transparency of his reaction, felt an uncomfortable warmth rise from beneath his collar to his cheeks.

‘You seem to have made a number of …’ Liebermann stretched his fingers nervously and said, ‘… assumptions.’ Freud made a gesture, inviting Liebermann to continue. ‘With respect, where is the evidence for these processes?’

‘You aren’t married yet,’ said Freud. ‘Wait until you have children. Little girls are always asking why it is that their brothers have a
widdler
and they don’t.’

‘And boys,’ said Liebermann, ‘three-year-old-boys – you really think they fear castration?’

‘Yes, and with good reason. A common threat employed by parents to discourage little boys from playing with themselves in public is –
if you carry on doing that I’ll cut it off!
And when a little boy chances upon a little girl urinating, and observes a conspicuous absence in the location where he is endowed, what is he to think? It is perfectly reasonable for him to conclude that castration is not an idle threat but a real punishment.’

Liebermann thought about his father. They had always been, for as long as he could remember, uneasy in each other’s company. There was something problematic, elusive, and frankly inexpressible at the root of their inability to communicate. He wondered whether some vestige of infant anxiety was still lurking in his unconscious.

‘These are challenging ideas,’ continued the professor, ‘and it may be some time before the world is ready to accept them. Indeed, I must resign myself to the publication of several preparatory works before I risk setting yet more unpalatable truths before an already recalcitrant public. I am conscious of the fact that they have hardly digested my dream book. They will not welcome further threats to their complacency so soon after.’

The two men continued to discuss ‘Sophoclean psychology’ for several hours. In due course, Freud glanced at his desk clock, stifled a yawn and said, ‘Forgive me, I am a little tired.’

Liebermann stood and unhooked his coat from the back of his chair.

‘Thank you, once more, for a very stimulating evening.’

Freud made a languid papal benediction with his cigar.

‘Strange that you should have mentioned Saminsky the other day.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?

‘I ran into him at an auction. We were both bidding for the same unguentarium.’

‘The same what?’

‘One of these.’ Freud turned and lifted a bottle from his bookshelf. It was mottled with patches of iridescent blue and green. ‘Roman: first century. It was used to keep perfume in. I couldn’t compete, of course. Saminsky’s resources exceed mine by several orders of magnitude.’

‘He’s a collector?’

‘Yes, and a very serious one too.’ Freud rotated the bottle. ‘Notice the long narrow neck, how it flares out – the swelling mouth. Beautiful.’

He could have been describing a woman. Freud found sex in the most unlikely places.

R
HEINHARDT LOOKED UP AT
the shabby apartment block and wondered whether it was derelict. No gaslights flickered in the windows and two weary caryatids, streaked with bird droppings, grimaced beneath the weight of heavy capitals. There was no concierge and the foyer stank of sewage. Rheinhardt picked his way across broken tiles and ascended the staircase. He could not imagine Ida Rosenkrantz in this place. He could not imagine her lifting the hem of her expensive dress and stepping over old newspapers and smashed glass.

Perhaps Herr Schneider was mistaken?

The phrase was forming under his breath just as he arrived at Orsola Salak’s door. It stood wide open. Rheinhardt rapped the woodwork and an unnaturally deep female voice croaked, ‘Who is it?’

‘My name is Rheinhardt. I am a detective inspector.’

‘Police?’

‘Yes. May I come in?’

‘Do as you please.’

Her German was heavily accented.

‘Your door is open.’

‘I know.’

‘Shall I close it?’

‘Open – closed. It makes no difference.’

Rheinhardt wiped his feet on a floor mat and stepped into a gloomy hallway. Through another open door he saw a woman, seated next to
a small table. The late-evening light was failing and all he could make out was this hunched figure.

‘Orsola Salak?’

‘Come in, Inspector.’

She was very old, in her eighties perhaps. Her hair was a grizzled mass of wisps, filaments and braids of varying sizes. Embedded in this unkempt tangle were filthy ribbons and broken fetishes. Rheinhardt saw discoloured copper rings, a miniature horseshoe, and a dried-up palm frond folded to make a cross. The general effect reminded him of a magpie’s nest. Salak didn’t look like the psychics and mind-readers who sat in booths on the Prater. Their posturing and theatricality was reassuringly absurd. Orsola Salak was something quite different, something more grave and disturbing – a reversion to an ancestral primitive type. Rheinhardt became aware of an eerie grinding sound emanating from her person. He noticed her clawlike right hand, the spidery action of her fingers, kneading whatever it was that she held.

‘It isn’t safe, leaving your door open like that.’

She produced a dry cackle. ‘I am protected.’

‘I didn’t see anyone.’

‘Well,
you
wouldn’t.’

She raised her head and the appearance of her eyes made Rheinhardt draw breath. The pupils were an opaque, malignant white: milky discs, rimmed with the remains of what had once been dark brown irises. Her skin was like parchment. When she smiled, deep seams opened up, segmenting her face and giving it the deranged appearance of a wooden puppet.

‘What’s the matter? Never seen a blind woman before?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’

‘Come in, sit.’

She reached across the table and shook an empty chair.

Rheinhardt glanced around the room.

Faded wallpaper, dusty curtains, a rug that covered only a small area of the floor. Beside the old woman was a battered ebony chest with a tarnished silver hasp. On top of it was a pile of charms made from hair and beads. They were like small effigies. Memories stirred. Rheinhardt recalled seeing an identical totem among Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s jewellery and cosmetics.

He sat down. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’d offer you something to drink, Inspector, but I have only some herbal remedies.’ Orsola Salek kicked the chest which produced a muffled clink. ‘You wouldn’t like them.’

‘Perhaps not.’

The grinding continued.

‘You’re not here for your fortune, are you?’

‘No.’

‘A professional visit, eh?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Orsola Salak thrust her head forward and her calcified eyes caught the light.

‘You want to talk to me about Ida?’

Rheinhardt was surprised, and replied, somewhat redundantly, ‘Yes, Ida Rosenkrantz.’

The old woman nodded to herself. ‘I heard about what happened.’

‘She used to consult you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she come often?’

‘Very often.’

‘Then you must know a lot about her.’

‘I do.’

Rheinhardt placed two kronen on the table. The old woman had no trouble locating the inducement. She snatched up the coins
and secreted them in the voluminous folds of white lace that hung from her body. She then began a gravelly monologue.

Once again, the picture of Rosenkrantz that emerged was of an insecure, hysterical women, inclined to form relationships with unsuitable partners. Salak was unable to identify any of Rosenkrantz’s paramours by name. In the time-honoured tradition of fortune-tellers, she was evasive and spoke only in general terms. At one point she implied that it was
she
who had been responsible for Rosenkrantz’s success, that by wise counsel or the exercise of her divinatory gift she had engineered Rosenkrantz’s celebrity. Rheinhardt ignored the insinuation and asked Salak more questions about Rosenkrantz’s private life. The old woman’s tendency to digress was testing, and throughout the interview her motile fingers sustained a grinding accompaniment. There was something about this persistent, chalk-on-blackboard scraping that put Rheinhardt’s nerves on edge.

‘You know she fell pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was the father?’

‘A powerful man.’

‘How do you know he was powerful?’

‘He didn’t want the child. He persuaded her to get rid of it.’

‘What happened?’

‘She went to see an angel maker.’

‘Do you know which one? Do you know who? Please. This is important. If you know, you must say. If you are protecting someone, then have no fear. I am not interested in making an arrest. I am only interested in piecing together Fräulein Rosenkrantz’s history.’

The ensuing hiatus was filled by noises which carried from the nearby train station: the screech of metal, a whistle, and the accelerating rumble of a steam engine leaving for Prague. Eventually, Orsola Salak spoke. ‘Do you give me your word?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you swear by all that is most precious to you?’

Rheinhardt thought of his family, his wife Else, his beloved daughters, and felt a frisson of discomfort.

‘I swear by all that is most precious to me.’

Salak accepted the oath with a grunt and continued, ‘She was in a terrible state. I told her to see someone, a Jewess. Her name is Judit: Judit Gardosh. She lives near St Leopold’s.’

The old woman gave Rheinhardt an address and he wrote it down in his notebook.

‘How is it that you are acquainted?’

‘Judit comes to see me occasionally, for a reading. She’s from the old country. Would
you
like a reading, inspector?’

‘I think not.’

‘It’s no trouble – and you have been generous.’

The old woman raised her arm and shook her fist like a gambler dicing. Rheinhardt recoiled with disgust as five or six small bones scattered across the tabletop. They looked remarkably like the phalanges of a human hand; however, they were very small, and Rheinhardt had the sickening thought that they might have once belonged to an infant.