Death and the Maiden (37 page)

‘Strange Tales from Transylvania.’

Rheinhardt sat on the edge of the bed and Mitzi handed him the book. The cloth cover was faded and the pages were brittle with age. Rheinhardt flicked through the volume, registering titles: ‘The Jealous Vampire’, ‘The Six-fingered Hand’, ‘The Wicked Queen’. Each story was illustrated with a surprisingly good mezzotint.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘From one of the market stalls in Leopoldstadt.’

‘Are the stories frightening?’

‘Not really.’

Only a year earlier this volume would have given Mitzi nightmares.

Rheinhardt felt a pang of regret. He was keenly aware of Mitzi’s childhood slipping away.

The book fell open at a story titled ‘The Gypsy Fiddlers’.

Although the responsible course of action at that moment would have been to tuck Mitzi up and put out the light, Rheinhardt could not deny her the pleasure of a bedtime story.

‘Once upon a time, there lived a boyar—’

‘A what?’ asked Mitzi.

‘A boyar,’ Rheinhardt repeated. ‘A landowner.’

Mitzi nodded, wriggled out from beneath the eiderdown and sat next to her father. Rheinhardt placed his arm around her shoulders and continued.

‘Now, this boyar was old and mean. He was a miser and didn’t want anyone to have his money. He was so mean that even the possibility of others enjoying his money after his death made him unhappy. He resolved that this should never happen. So he sold most of his land for gold and collected all of his wealth in wooden chests. He then went off to find some gypsies who he had learned were encamped nearby. When he arrived, the gypsies were in the middle of a celebration. A great feast had been laid out and they were dancing to a tune played by five fiddlers. The merrymakers invited the boyar to join them, but he refused. He asked them if they would transport some chests for him and promised to pay them well. The job didn’t sound very difficult and the gypsies agreed.’

Rheinhardt buried his face in his daughter’s thick hair and planted a kiss among her curls. The love that he felt for her never ceased to surprise him. There was something breathtaking about its sheer excess. A small elbow found his ribs, reminding him to continue.

‘The gypsies went back with the boyar to his castle and the boyar ordered his servants to bring ten wooden chests up from the cellar. “Inside these chests,” said the boyar, “are magic books. They are evil and can do much harm. I don’t want them here any more. Load them onto your wagons and we’ll hide them in a safe place.” The gypsies
followed the boyar to a cave in a deep wooded ravine, and there the boyar ordered them to place the chests inside. They then built a brick wall to seal the entrance and disguised it with dirt and bushes. The boyar made the gypsies swear that they would tell nobody about the hiding place, and he rewarded them with a purse full of coins. But dark thoughts were occupying the boyar’s mind. When he returned to his castle he commanded twenty of his most loyal servants to steal upon the gypsy camp and kill them. So that was what they did. They killed the men, the women, and the children. They killed the five fiddlers and smashed their violins before trampling the broken instruments into the ground. They burned the wagons, drove the horses into the forest, and took the purse full of coins that the boyar had given the gypsies in payment for their help. When the servants told the boyar what they had done he was well pleased. He opened the purse and gave each of his men a coin. A rumour spread that it was robbers who had killed the gypsies and, in the fullness of time, the terrible massacre was forgotten.’

Rheinhardt felt his daughter nestling in the arc of his protective arm. He squeezed her closer.

‘The boyar grew very old, and as the years went by he wanted to be near his money again. His wealth was the only thing he had ever cared for. One summer night, when a full moon was shining brightly in the sky, the boyar travelled to the cave in the ravine, parted the bushes, and pressed his ear against the wall. He sighed with relief. His chests were still safe. But his relief was shortlived. From inside the cave he could hear the sound of fiddlers and singing. The boyar was horrified. “Someone’s found my treasure,” he cried. The boyar beat his fists against the wall until his hands were cut and bleeding. Suddenly the wall parted, and inside he saw a band of gypsies making merry. They looked familiar. The music was wild and their faces reflected the red flames which leaped up from a
campfire. The boyar threw himself between the wooden chests and the gypsies and stood in readiness to defend his possessions. Standing thus, he watched as the wall closed, sealing the entrance of the cave once more – and trapping him inside.’

Rheinhardt paused for dramatic effect.

‘What happened to him?’ Mitzi asked.

‘There are those who say,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘that on summer nights, as they have walked through the deep wooded ravine, they have heard the sound of gypsy fiddlers playing a wild dance. Others have searched for the boyar’s cave but no one has ever found it. As for the boyar himself? Well, he did not return to his castle and he was never seen again.’

Rheinhardt let his cheek rest on the crown of Mitzi’s head. He inhaled the distinctive fragrance that came off her hair, a soapy scent but with a feral undertow, like civet or the soft musk of a kitten’s fur.

‘Good?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now it’s time for you to get some sleep.’ Mitzi disengaged herself from his arm and slid beneath the eiderdown. He stood over her, marvelling at the perfection of her small features and the healthy glow that emanated from her peachlike skin. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’

Rheinhardt kissed his daughter’s forehead, placed the book on a chest of drawers, lowered the gas jet, and closed the bedroom door gently behind him. He walked down the hallway and entered the sitting room, where his wife Else was making a shopping list and his eldest daughter Therese was doing some schoolwork. Else looked up and caught Rheinhardt’s eye. Such was the intimacy between husband and wife that no words were necessary. Her tacit inquiry was answered with a reassuring smile and she continued adding items to her list. Rheinhardt lowered himself into an armchair and began to twirl his moustache.

What are fairy tales?

He was sure that his friend Liebermann would be able to supply him with an erudite answer, in which the unconscious and infantile sexuality would very probably play a significant part; however, as a layman he immediately arrived at what he considered to be a more plausible view. Fairy tales were educational. Set in distant lands and among peoples comfortably removed from everyday life, fairy tales introduced children to the idea of badness existing in the world. They helped prepare children for the harsh reality of human iniquity.

Rheinhardt remembered the witch, Orsola Salak.

Who are you?
That
is the question: the policeman or the man with three women in his life?

Rheinhardt could have offered Orsola Salak many answers to that question, but all of them, he realised, would be secondary to the one fundamental answer which took precedence over all others. He did his job to make the world a safer, better place for his wife and children. Interposing himself between the badness of the world and his family had become his
raison d’être
.

The uncanny atmosphere of ‘The Gypsy Fiddlers’ and the intense love he had felt for Mitzi while reading it had affected his state of mind. It was as if he had been opened up, released from the internal straitjacket of rationality. He found himself curiously willing to accept Salak’s prophecy.

‘
What are you? A policeman? Or a father and husband? The time is approaching, very soon, when you must ask yourself such questions. Be true. Otherwise …’

Salak’s implied threat sent a shiver down Rheinhardt’s spine. He was committed to the security office, but his commitment ended with the protection of his family’s interests. He did not want his wife to become a widow and his daughters to grow up without a father.

If I continue to play the part of the good policeman and continue this investigation, it might end in the grave for me …

The witch had advised him to be true, and that meant putting his role as a husband and father before his duty as a policeman. In the Café Central, Liebermann had presented him with a chilling scenario. The Rosenkrantz case was more complex and more dangerous than he had even imagined.

Rheinhardt stood up. He crossed to the window and moved the curtain aside. There was nobody waiting for him on the street below, no suspicious figure loitering.

‘What is it?’ asked Else. As usual, she had sensed his unease.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. He moved to the table and rested his hands on Else’s shoulders. ‘I thought I heard rain.’

P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD LIT A
cigar and produced a flotilla of clouds that floated slowly over Liebermann’s head. Their conversation had touched upon several weighty subjects – masochistic impulses, psychasthenia, eurotophobia, and the mechanisms of repression – but as the evening progressed the atmosphere had become less collegiate and more convivial. Unusually, Freud had loosened his necktie prior to sharing some reminiscences of his early medical career.

‘One day,’ said the professor, between puffs, ‘I had a friendly message from Chrobak.’

‘The renowned gynaecologist?’

‘Indeed. He wanted me to take on a patient of his. You see, he’d just accepted a new teaching appointment and didn’t have enough time to care for her. I arrived at the patient’s house before him and found that she was suffering from attacks of meaningless anxiety and she could only be soothed by the most precise information about where her doctor was at every moment of the day. When Chrobak arrived he took me aside and told me that the patient’s anxiety was due to the fact that although she had been married for eighteen years she was still
virgo intacta
. The husband was absolutely impotent. In such cases, he said, there was nothing for a medical man to do but to shield this domestic misfortune with his own reputation and put up with it if people shrugged their shoulders and said of him:
He’s no good if he can’t cure her after so many years.
The sole prescription for such a malady
, he added,
is familiar enough to us, but we cannot order it. It runs …’

Freud picked up a pen and scribbled something on his prescription pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to his young disciple.

Liebermann took the slip of paper and read:

R      Penis normalis

Dosim
Repetatur!

Liebermann looked up and smiled.

‘Chrobak recommended this?’

‘Like many of his colleagues, Chrobak was perfectly aware of the link between
eros
and emotional disturbance. A year earlier I had overheard Charcot discussing a similar case.’ Freud reproduced the hand movements of the great French neurologist,
‘It’s always a question of the genitals
–
always, always, always!
I thought to myself, if he knows that, why does he never say so? In due course my own clinical observations confirmed what had hitherto been merely anecdotal. I was convinced that many mental disturbances – and not just those affecting women – were attributable to problems arising in the bedroom, and subsequently concluded that, without satisfactory release, the accumulation of libido in the nervous system has a tendency to turn into anxiety. At that time, I viewed this transformation as a purely physical process, like wine going bad and becoming vinegar, but I have since, of course, rejected this simplistic view in favour of a more sophisticated etiological theory.’

Freud continued talking, but Liebermann was distracted by a line of thought not unconnected with the professor’s reflections. The room seemed to recede as he was drawn inwards and a ghostly image of Amelia Lydgate formed in his cranium. She was stepping towards him,
moving closer, her head falling backwards in readiness to receive his kiss. He had been so cautious, indecisive and dilatory. He had supposed that because Amelia had once been assaulted the prospect of intimacy would be unwelcome to her, and even psychologically damaging. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps intimacy, real intimacy, could be corrective, healing.

‘Listen to this.’ Freud’s voice impinged upon Liebermann’s reverie. The old man was evidently about to tell a joke, although how this had come to pass was a complete mystery to Liebermann on account of his distraction. ‘Frau Weinberger,’ said Freud, tapping his cigar on the edge of an ashtray, ‘accompanied her husband Jacob to the doctor. After the doctor had given Jacob a complete medical examination, he called Frau Weinberger into his office, alone.
I regret to inform you
, said the doctor,
that Jacob has been overworking and his health has suffered. His condition is critical and unless you take the following advice he will surely die. Each morning, wake him gently with a kiss. Be pleasant to him at all times and make sure he is always in a good mood. Cook him only his favourite meals and don’t burden him with chores. Never nag or make unnecessary demands. And, most importantly, never deny him his conjugal rights. A satisfactory erotic life is essential for his well-being. If you do as I advise for the next six months, I am confident Jacob will regain his health completely
. On the tram home, Jacob asked his wife:
What did the doctor say?
Frau Weinberger assumed a grave expression and replied:
He said you’re going to die.’