Mortal Mischief (30 page)

'Please sit,' Gruner commanded.

'Thank you,' replied Liebermann, drawing a heavy wooden chair closer to Gruner's imposing desk.

'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began, 'I understand that you have been treating the English governess, Miss Amelia Lydgate. She was expecting to receive electrotherapy for a persistent hysterical cough and associated paralysis. How many sessions of electrotherapy have you administered, Doctor Liebermann?'

'None, sir.'

'Could you explain why?'

'Her symptoms are not the result of a weakened nervous system. They are the logical consequence of several traumatic experiences. As such, they have meaning. Consequently I am of the opinion that electrotherapy is not the treatment of choice, sir.'

Gruner sat back in his chair like Neptune on his throne. The desk had been placed in front of the window and Liebermann could not see Gruner's face against the glare. All that he could make out was the silhouette of the professor's head and a glowing aureole of frizzled hair.

'So,' said Gruner. 'Miss Lydgate's symptoms have meaning. Would you care to elaborate?'

'Since taking up her position as governess,' Liebermann began, 'Miss Lydgate has been repeatedly importuned by her employer. Eventually the man lost control of himself and assaulted her. He succeeded in kissing Miss Lydgate – which she experienced as a feeling of suffocation. Her cough, therefore, is the result of a repressed traumatic memory.' Liebermann noticed that Gruner was already drumming his fingers on the desk impatiently. 'Miss Lydgate's paralysis,' Liebermann continued, 'arose at the same time as her employer – frustrated and probably drunk – attempted to penetrate her. His abominable behaviour produced in Miss Lydgate a powerful but to her unacceptable wish to kill him. A pair of scissors lay within reach. Torn between the need to protect herself and the unacceptability of committing a murder, she became paralysed. Her murderous impulse was repressed and around it the contents of her own unconscious became organised in the form of a secondary, more primitive personality, which calls itself Katherine. It is this secondary personality, that now controls Miss Lydgate's right arm. In my opinion, when this psychic breach is repaired, when the division between Katherine and Miss Lydgate is healed, Miss Lydgate's paralysis will disappear. I believe that this can only be achieved through psychotherapy.'

Gruner stopped drumming his fingers and leaned forward.

'And what evidence do you have for this extraordinary formulation?'

'The secondary personality surfaces when Miss Lydgate is reminded of the sexual assault. At such times she experiences a seizure, during which she behaves aggressively and recovers the use of her right arm. These seizures are reliably induced by an olfactory stimulus – namely, the cologne used by her employer. It should also be noted that this cologne may have played some part in provoking Miss Lydgate's cough – it is of a heavy and cloying variety.'

'Herr Doctor,' Gruner responded, 'I am appalled at your naivety.' Gruner paused, allowing a lengthy and profoundly unsettling hiatus to ripen. Liebermann squinted into the glare that was blazing in through the window, trying to read Gruner's expression – but it was impossible. Eager to end the excruciating deadlock, Liebermann responded, finding words that were honest rather than diplomatic.

'I'm afraid that I must disagree, sir.'

'Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner began again, this time without any pause, 'I find it difficult to believe that a young man educated in one of the finest medical institutions in the world should be duped quite so easily. As we all know, the female hysteric is cunning, malicious and histrionic. She is a consummate seductress. The credulous physician is easy prey, lured by her confessions into her world of sordid fantasy. By taking her ridiculous flights of fancy seriously, you engage in an act of collusion that legitimises her psychopathology. Only a fool would attempt to interpret hysterical symptoms – as only a fool would attempt to interpret dreams.'

Liebermann resisted the urge to respond to Gruner's pointed dig at Professor Freud.

'Have you taken the trouble, Doctor Liebermann,' Gruner's voice was becoming louder, 'to discover the identity of Miss Lydgate's employer?'

'Yes,' Liebermann replied. 'I have. His name is Schelling.'

'That is correct,' said Gruner. '
Minister
Schelling. He is greatly admired by his colleagues and possesses a deserved reputation for upholding the highest standards of moral rectitude. It has been my great privilege to sit with Minister Schelling, in my capacity as a trustee, on several committees for the promotion of charitable causes. To suggest that he would have repeatedly molested a young governess is utterly absurd. The girl is clearly disturbed. I would strongly suggest that when you next see Miss Lydgate, you administer the appropriate treatment immediately. I would recommend the Faradic moxa, an electrical brush passed through the throat cavity that will deal with her cough in one session. You will find the procedure detailed in Erb's
Handbook.
The paralysis may take a little longer, but will probably remit within seven days. Good afternoon.'

Liebermann remained seated.

'I said "Good afternoon", Herr Doctor.'

Liebermann swallowed.

'With respect, Herr Professor, I do not think that I am prepared to follow your instructions.'

'Are you refusing to treat the patient?'

'No . . .'

'Then what are you saying?'

'In my opinion, the patient's account of her traumatic experiences is accurate. Therefore I should continue to treat her psychologically.'

Gruner slammed his hand down on the desk. The dull thud was followed by the ethereal thrum of vibrating glassware – the ghostly, high-pitched song of things unspeakable floating in their dusky preservative media.

'Doctor Liebermann,' the professor growled, 'a refusal to administer the appropriate treatment is tantamount to negligence. I regret to say that I will be obliged to request your immediate dismissal.'

Liebermann had known that a confrontation with Professor Gruner was inevitable at some point; however, now that the long-awaited ultimatum had actually been delivered he felt unprepared.

'Well?' asked Gruner.

Liebermann began to compose a reply in his head. His heart was beating wildly.

Professor Gruner, much as I would like to retain my position at this hospital, I cannot act against my conscience . . .

Liebermann took a deep breath and began to speak:

'Professor Gruner, much as I—'

There was a loud knock on the door and Liebermann stopped as Gruner shouted, 'Enter.'

The door opened and Nurse Rupius appeared.

Gruner shook his head violently.

'Not now, Nurse Rupius, not now! I am engaged in discussion with Doctor Liebermann.'

The nurse hesitated and was about to close the door when she seemed to change her mind. Two orderlies ran past in the corridor outside.

'Professor Gruner,' said Nurse Rupius. 'One of your patients – Signora Locatelli – she's dead.'

'Dead!' Gruner rose from his chair. 'What do you mean, dead?'

The nurse stepped into the room.

'It appears that she tied her bed sheets around a water pipe in the washroom and hung herself. We don't know how long she's been there.'

44

H
EINRICH
H
öLDERLIN
was walking briskly down a narrow street. He entered a cobbled square at the centre of which stood a large statue of Moses. As he passed the monumental bronze a resonant voice filled the enclosed space: 'Herr Hölderlin.'

The banker was startled: it was as though he had just been addressed by the lawgiver.

'Herr Hölderlin – over here!' the voice boomed.

Peering around the statue, Heinrich Hölderlin caught sight of Hans Bruckmüller, seated by himself at a single table outside a tiny coffee house aptly named the Kleines Café. It had no front windows and the entrance was a very modest double door, one half of which had been propped open with an iron doorstop. A bicycle was leaning against the wall next to Bruckmüller's table. Hölderlin assumed that it did not belong to the big man. It was impossible to imagine him perched on such a spindly frame.

'Good afternoon, Herr Bruckmüller.'

'Good afternoon, Hölderlin. Coffee?'

Hölderlin made a show of examining his pocket watch and then, after feigning some mental calculations, replied, 'Yes, why not?'

Bruckmüller leaned back in his chair and bellowed into the gloomy interior of the tiny coffee house.

'Egon!'

Immediately a rangy young man with a downy moustache and sparse side-whiskers appeared. He was little more than a boy.

'Another
fiacre
for me. And you, Hölderlin?'

'A
melange
.'

The boy bowed and loped into the darkness.

Hölderlin sat at the table, removed his hat, and wiped a flat hand over his bald head.

'You are a frequent patron, Bruckmüller?'

'Yes, I am. It's a little haven, a splendid place for quiet contemplation.'

'Then perhaps I have disturbed you?'

'Not at all,' said Bruckmüller, smiling. But the smile was too hasty and lingered for longer than was strictly necessary.

Hölderlin placed the volume he was carrying on the table and Bruckmüller lowered his head to read the spine.

'
Isis Unveiled
.'

'By Madame Blavatsky.'

'Interesting?'

'I don't know. To be honest, I haven't read it – it belongs to my wife. I've just been to collect it from Herr Uberhorst. Juno lent him this book over a month ago.'

'And he didn't return it?' said Bruckmüller, surprised.

'No,' said Hölderlin. 'Although such an oversight can be forgiven.'

'Yes,' said Bruckmüller, relenting. 'Under the circumstances . . .'

The waiter returned with a silver tray and slid it onto the table. Bruckmüller's
fiacre
exuded a strong smell of rum and was topped with a spiral shell of whipped cream. The frothed milk in Hölderlin's
melange
seemed animate and bubbly, like frog's spawn, and was creeping over the lip of his coffee cup. He interrupted its journey with a teaspoon and scooped the foam into his mouth.

'His behaviour – at the seance . . .' Bruckmüller looked across the square at the Renaissance façade of the Franziskankirche. The church's high, involute gable was adorned with saints and Egyptian obelisks. 'What did you make of it?'

'Difficult to say . . .'

'He wanted to know whether he should tell
them.
You thought he meant the police, didn't you?' The banker looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'And a matter of honour? What on earth did he mean by that?'

Hölderlin took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the beads of perspiration from his crown.

'It's a long walk from Herr Uberhorst's,' he said apologetically.

'I've never had the pleasure.'

'He has a small workshop in Leopoldstadt.'

'Then you should have hailed a cab!'

Hölderlin applied the handkerchief to his forehead.

'The weather is improving – I thought it would be pleasant to walk.'

'The taking of regular constitutionals is undoubtedly a good habit and it aids digestion, so I'm told.' Bruckmüller lifted his glass and took a sip of his
fiacre
. 'Are you all right, Hölderlin? You seem a little—'

'Hot, that's all.' Hölderlin interrupted. 'I think I overdid it.'

Bruckmüller nodded and gestured towards the Blavatsky.

'May I?'

'Of course.'

Bruckmüller picked up the volume and let the pages fan beneath his thumb, stopping occasionally. When he had completed this cursory examination he lifted his head and looked at his companion.

'Was it some demon, do you think?' Bruckmüller's voice was a confidential rumble.

'The spirit said so.'

'Yes . . . but I'm asking what
you think
, Hölderlin. I know what the spirit said, but what's your opinion?'

Hölderlin looked around the square uneasily, as if trying to locate any eavesdroppers. The area was empty.

'I think such things are possible. However—' He paused and toyed with his teaspoon. 'I suspect that Herr Uberhorst would no longer subscribe to such a view.'

'He cannot accept that Fräulein Löwenstein dabbled in the black arts,' said Bruckmüller sagely. 'How naive.'

'Indeed. But there's more to it than that, I feel.'