Vienna Blood (13 page)

“My mother sent them from London. She purchased them in Fortnum's.”

“Fortnum's?”

“Yes, Fortnum & Mason—a shop of quality in Piccadilly. They are suppliers to the royal family.”

“Thank you,” said Liebermann, biting through the plain, crisp circle, and cupping his hand to collect the crumbs. The biscuit was flavorless and extremely dry—nothing like the rich, fruity, sugar-coated creations that could be found in any Viennese bakery. Even so, he smiled politely and took a sip of Earl Grey to moisten his mouth.

“It was kind of you to respond so quickly to my note,” said Amelia, sitting down on the other side of the gateleg table.

“Not at all,” said Liebermann. “You said that you wished for an opinion?”

“Yes,” Amelia replied. “Are you familiar with Professor Foch?”

“The surgeon?”

“Yes. I have attended several of his lectures and practical demon-strations—which, on the whole, are highly informative. However, some weeks ago he insisted that I should leave a class because I was clearly about to swoon. This was not the case, but Professor Foch was very determined and I was eventually obliged to comply with his
request. We met the following day: he suggested that his lectures might not be suitable for young ladies and proposed that I make alternative arrangements. After making further inquiries, I discovered that Professor Foch has been ejecting women from his classes since the medical faculty began admitting female students two years ago. I subsequently made a formal complaint to the dean.” Amelia paused and her brow furrowed. “Dr. Liebermann, do you think my response was appropriate? Or have I behaved rashly?”

“Oh, without a doubt it was the correct thing to do … but …”

“Yes?”

“A man like Professor Foch wields considerable power among Viennese doctors, and if you decided, on graduation, to specialize in his discipline, I daresay he could make life very difficult for you. However, given that your interests lie elsewhere—and that you already have a well-placed friend in the person of Landsteiner—I suspect that the registration of your complaint will have few, if any, adverse consequences. The dean will now be obliged to reprimand Professor Foch, which one hopes will have the desired effect. But I doubt very much that the dean can be counted on to deliver sanctions. Unfortunately, he too is a misogynist. He once told a colleague that women could never be doctors because they are handicapped by their smaller brains.”

Miss Lydgate's hand covered her mouth in horror. “If that is his view, then why should he respond to my complaint at all?”

“Oh, he has no choice. The emperor is very keen on the idea of female doctors. Only an absolute idiot would risk the emperor's displeasure. Miss Lydgate, in Vienna promising careers have been utterly destroyed by a fleeting look of dissatisfaction on the emperor's face, a fleeting look that might—in all likelihood—have been nothing more than a touch of indigestion!”

“Then perhaps I should petition the emperor himself.”

Amelia said these words calmly and seriously.

“Well, you
could
do that,” said Liebermann, suppressing his surprise. “But I would advise you to delay such a bold course of action. First, let us see how things develop. Even the likes of Professor Foch cannot resist progress indefinitely.”

“Thank you, Dr. Liebermann,” said Amelia. “You have been most helpful. Could I interest you in another biscuit?”

Liebermann raised his hand a little too hastily. “No, thank you. Most kind—but no, thank you.”

“Then, more tea?”

Amelia filled the young doctor's cup and offered him the milk jug.

For some time they discussed Amelia's life at the university and the projects she intended to initiate with Landsteiner at the Pathological Institute. Although her manner was—as always—cool and detached, Liebermann could tell that she was excited by her new life. She enthused, in muted but expressive tones, about the courses she had chosen, a full scientific curriculum including anatomy, botany, chemistry, microscopy, physics, and physiology. She was even attending a few nonscientific lectures in philosophy (having recently been exposed to—and become intrigued by—the writings of Nietzsche).

When they had exhausted these topics, Liebermann asked, “Miss Lydgate … I was wondering if you would be willing to assist again with respect to a police matter?”

“Of course. I would be glad to. Is Inspector Rheinhardt well?”

“Yes, very well, thank you. He sends his best wishes.”

“You will do me the small service, I hope, of returning the compliment.”

Liebermann paused and placed his hands together.

“Miss Lydgate,” he began. “Are you aware of what happened in Spittelberg this week?”

“Yes,” said Amelia. “Four women were murdered. I read about it in the
Zeitung.
”

“Indeed. An atrocity, the likes of which Inspector Rheinhardt and his colleagues at the security office have never encountered before. A man—suspected of the crime—has already been apprehended. Blood-soaked clothes were discovered in his wardrobe but he works in an abattoir and claims that the blood is only pig's blood. Is there any way we can determine the truth or falsehood of his assertion?”

“Yes,” said Amelia plainly.

“But how …”

“There is a test,” said Amelia. “It was developed a few years ago by an assistant professor at the University of Greifswald. I believe he is Viennese by birth: his name is Paul Uhlenhuth.”

“The name is not familiar.”

“A brilliant man. The procedure requires the production of an antiserum, which can then be used to determine the presence of characteristic precipitates. It has come to be known as the precipitin test.”

Liebermann had not really grasped Amelia's short explanation; however, he was too excited to stall his next question on a point of scientific curiosity.

“Miss Lydgate, I imagine that Professor Uhlenhuth must have conducted his work in a laboratory, using samples of fresh blood. Could the same test be used to establish the provenance of blood that is almost a week old?”

“Yes. One simply dissolves the crystals of dried blood in salt water. The test would be just as accurate.”

“Could you … Can you … ?”

“Perform the precipitin test? I would have to reread some of Uhlenhuth's publications, but yes, the fundamental procedures are simple enough.”

“What will you need?”

“Some syringes, some test tubes, some human blood, the stained clothing—and …” Amelia touched her lips and, looking into the distance, added, “A rabbit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Amelia turned to face Liebermann. There wasn't a trace of humor in her expression. “A rabbit.”

“What … any rabbit?”

“Yes. Providing it is alive, any rabbit will do.”

“Could you conduct the test tomorrow?”

“I could begin the test tomorrow—but producing an antiserum will take two weeks or thereabouts.”

“And the results will be conclusive?”

“Absolutely. Now come, Dr. Liebermann—you have had only one biscuit. You really must have another.”

Compelled by shame and guilt, Liebermann lifted a pale disc from the proffered plate and, smiling weakly, bit through the dry, thin biscuit with saintly forbearance.

21

T
HE SEATS IN THE
Bösendorfer-Saal were not separated by armrests, and as the music became more turbulent, Clara edged closer to her fiancé. Liebermann bowed his head, catching sight of the hem of her skirt and Clara's small black boots. She casually extended the toe, revealing—as if by accident—the roundness of her ankle. He imagined the appearance of her diminutive feet—which, in fact, he had never seen—the delicate fanning of metatarsal bones beneath translucent, pale skin. Taking her hand, he felt her fingers squeezing tighter with each musical culmination—and their exhausted release when the tension ebbed away. By the time the pianist had brought the recital to its dramatic conclusion, and the audience was responding with applause, the young couple was breathless with excitement.

Liebermann took Clara's arm and followed the other members of the audience out of the Bösendorfer-Saal and onto the busy thoroughfare of Herrengasse. A few gently falling flakes of snow glinted in the beams of the carriage lamps. Liebermann raised his arm to hail an approaching cab.

“No,” said Clara. “Let's walk for a while.”

“Walk? It's very cold.”

“Yes, but I feel like walking.”

Clara smiled uncertainly.

“Very well. Which way shall we go?”

“Toward the Volksgarten, then we can cut across to the Burgring. There'll be cabs outside the Court Theater.”

They set off slowly, passing a street vendor with a brazier covered in scorched
käsekrainer
sausages.

“Well, did you enjoy it?” asked Liebermann.

“It was wonderful,” Clara replied. “I was amazed. She is not a very large woman, yet she produced so much … noise!”

“Her technique is faultless. But I suppose that is to be expected from the pupil of such an illustrious teacher.”

The pianist—Ilona Eibenschütz—had been a pupil of Clara Wieck. Eibenschütz's program had included a poignant
Romanze
by her mentor, the
Sonata Number 2 in G minor
by her mentor's husband, Robert Schumann, and the
Paganini Variations
by their mutual friend Johannes Brahms. All of the works had been played with extraordinary passion, but Eibenschütz's rendition of the
Paganini Variations
had been truly astonishing: bravura playing of the highest calibre—the virtuoso's hands had become a barely visible blur as they leaped around the keyboard with infernal speed.

“He went mad, didn't he?”

Clara's voice sounded distant. The principal theme of the
Paganini Variations
was still occupying Liebermann's mind, providing the accompaniment to a dark ballet of strange fleshy images. It was like viewing one of Gustav Klimt's paintings through a wineglass.

“Max?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Liebermann realized that Clara had been talking while he had been lost in self-absorption.

“Robert Schumann. Herr Donner told me that Schumann went mad. … He—that is, Herr Donner—has been teaching me
Einsame Blumen,
or trying to, at least.”

“A charming piece,” said Liebermann. “And yes, Herr Donner is quite right. Poor Schumann died in an asylum.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“That is a very interesting question. His symptoms have been the subject of much debate in medical circles. He became violent—he suffered from uncontrollable rages—and expressed grandiose ideas. At one point, I believe, he claimed to be in conversation with angels.”

They turned into a side street and left the sounds of Herrengasse behind them.

“But why did he go mad? How could such a great mind become so … disturbed?”

“Some have suggested that he never went mad at all—and that he was nefariously incarcerated by his wife.”

“But why would she do that?”

“In order to facilitate an illicit liaison with Brahms.”

Clara's eyes widened with interest. “Is that true?”

“Who knows? I doubt it. There are many independent accounts of Schumann's demise. He was certainly very ill. As to the exact cause … well, I did hear a rumor once.”

“Oh?”

“A few years ago I met a psychiatrist from Bonn. His father was also a psychiatrist and had once worked in the very same asylum where Schumann died. The old fellow was of the opinion that Schumann had paid the ultimate price …” Liebermann broke off and frowned, before continuing, “For an indiscretion of youth.”

Clara sighed. “Max. We are to be married. I am to be a doctor's wife. I assume you are referring to syphilis?”

Liebermann smiled.

“Yes, syphilis.” He said the word emphatically, but still felt uncomfortable naming the disease in Clara's presence.

“And syphilis causes madness?”

“Yes. It can do.”

“But wouldn't his wife …”

Liebermann anticipated the obvious question. “Syphilis has a long latency stage. Schumann and Wieck were married many years after the danger of infection had passed.”

Their conversation continued in a similar vein for some time. It was unusually muted and measured. So much so that Liebermann was inclined to reflect on the significance of Clara's little admonishment. Was the prospect of their pending marriage making her more thoughtful? More mature? And had he—again—been guilty of treating her like a child?

They entered the Volksgarten. The park had become an enchanted enclave, glittering with frost and moonlight. Low, heavy clouds passed overhead, like enormous sea creatures, and against the yellow luminosity of the city sky loomed the pitch-black classical edifice of the Theseus Temple—an exact replica of its original in Athens. As the couple drew closer, the structure grew more austere and uncanny. They veered toward it as if drawn by some mysterious, compelling charm. Silently, they ascended the steps.

For a moment, they paused and viewed their surroundings. Then they slowly turned to face each other. Clara leaned back against one of the great Doric columns. Her eyes seemed to feed on the darkness, becoming larger. She tilted her head back.

“Max …” She said his name softly and reached out. Her fingers found his and she pulled him forward.

They kissed. A prolonged, languid kiss that became—by degrees—more agitated. Clara, ordinarily the passive recipient of her fiancé's amorous advances, responded with an unprecedented hunger, a greedy, sucking osculation. Liebermann's hands swept over her body,

eventually discovering a vent through which he explored the warmth and softness beneath her coat. Clara moaned with pleasure.

They pulled apart—both of them shocked by their mutual abandon.

To conceal her shame, Clara buried her head in Liebermann's chest.

“I am sorry,” said Liebermann. “Forgive me …”

He looked up to the heavens but saw only the underside of the great architrave, from which massive icicles were suspended. He was reminded of the unfortunate Damocles, whose fate it was to attend a banquet seated beneath a sword hanging by a single hair.