Vienna Blood (22 page)

Herr Beiber's face flushed a little as he recollected his night of transfiguration.

“I returned to the palace at various times over the following week. I spent long hours, waiting—often in darkness. But I knew that she would sense my presence and would come to the window, eventually. She was, I am sure, as overwhelmed and frightened, yes,
frightened,
by the experience as myself. … She needed to see me there, beyond the gate, steadfast and true. She needed to be reassured, comforted, and fully persuaded that what we were both enduring was absolutely real. Be that as it may, the certainty of our fate was inescapable. The communications became clearer and more numerous. She was desperately unhappy, and I resolved to rescue her.”

“Which was when you had your altercation with the palace guards?”

“Indeed. It is regrettable that I failed in my attempt—but I am no way dissuaded from this course of action. She cannot—poor lady— escape the clutches of her royal keepers, and I am obliged to persevere.”

Although Liebermann had found the deluded clerk's story mildly amusing, he could not help himself from feeling a sharp pang of pity. It
was sad that this otherwise ordinary gentleman had suffered some convulsion in his psyche, a disturbance that made him believe wholeheartedly in a romance that had supposedly begun in the mythic glades of ancient Greece.

Closing his eyes, the little man added, “I will do whatever is necessary.” For the first time, Herr Beiber's tone sounded somewhat sinister.

Liebermann leaned back in his chair and picked a hair off his trousers. It was a wiry, auburn strand. He had no idea who it had originally belonged to.

“Herr Beiber,” he began. “You said that her communications became clearer and more numerous. … How else has she communicated with you?”

The clerk plunged a hand down the front of his gown and pulled out a postcard. He said nothing but simply held his hand out, allowing Liebermann to take the card.

It was a family portrait. A balding gentleman wearing spectacles sat to the right with a young girl on his lap. He was wearing a military-style uniform with braided fastenings and a high collar. Next to him sat a striking woman with a long, elegant face. Her hair was pinned up and she too dandled an infant. Other children, somewhat older, stood on either side of their parents.

Liebermann recognized the striking woman immediately. It was the emperor's daughter, the Archduchess Marie-Valerie, who was the subject of Beiber's fantasy.

“I don't understand,” said Liebermann.

“Look at the table,” said Beiber.

In the foreground of the picture was a small wooden structure. It was unobtrusive—a prop, no doubt, carefully positioned to satisfy the compositional requirements of the royal photographer. A closed book had been placed on the surface, its embossed spine facing the viewer.

“Can you see it?” asked Beiber. “I can see the table—and a book.” “Exactly,” said Beiber. “She put it there.” “And what does it mean?” asked Liebermann. “Surely you do not need to ask such a question, Herr Doctor.” Liebermann tilted the postcard to get more light. “I'm sorry, Herr Beiber, but I really can't—” “The book, Herr Doctor. Can't you see what it is?” The postcard lacked sufficient definition to make the title readable. “Forgive me, Herr Beiber, but my eyesight is rather poor,” said Liebermann politely. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

“Plato's
Symposium
!” exclaimed Beiber, clapping his hands together. Liebermann sighed, and underlined
paranoia erotica.

38

I
T WAS EARLY MORNING
. A few flakes of snow floated down from the monotonous sky, frosting the square with a fine white powder.

Andreas Olbricht paused in front of the Academy of Fine Arts and tilted his head back to take in the impressive neo-Renaissance façade. A wide staircase led to three sets of double doors, and on either side of the stairs, on large blocks of gray stone, stood two centaurs. The one on the left had his hand raised, as if commanding the onlooker to stop. The entrance was made yet more imposing by six Doric columns on top of which stood a line of male and female classical figures. Above these were several floors of round arched windows, between which were interposed individual niches housing yet more deities. To Olbricht these were not indifferent gods but gods who stood in judgment. This building was a fortress, jealously protected by its troop of sacred guardians.

Many years ago Olbricht had applied to study at the academy. He had passed the entrance exam, but his portfolio had been rejected. The professors had considered his work “unoriginal.”

You will see.
The words sounded in Olbricht's head like a Russian bell.

An exhibition of his oil paintings had been arranged in a gallery near the Opera House. It had been made possible with the aid of a generous donation from his patron, the baroness, but Von Triebenbach had also been kind enough to make a small contribution to the costs.

Soon they would be having the posters printed.

Olbricht—Our Heroes and Legends.

Black and white lithograph—the figure of Wotan, spear held aloft.

The artist proudly inflated his chest and ascended the stairs. As he entered the vestibule, the porter nodded a greeting. He recognized Olbricht, who was well known for his early-morning visits to the study collection. If Olbricht arrived any later, he would have to mingle with the students—all of whom he found insufferable. Their very existence annoyed him.

Unoriginal.

The word fell into his consciousness like a drop of acid. He could feel it eating into him, converting his very substance into smoke and air. This always happened in the academy. But he could never resist these visits because the collection included a particular painting that he found utterly fascinating. He needed to see it—to peer into its depths—and examine its myriad dramas in minute detail. It was a painting that merited continual examination because it always yielded something new.

Olbricht walked down the barrel-vaulted corridor. Although the windows were high, they admitted only a feeble, exhausted light. He ascended a grand staircase, allowing his hand to strum the thick stone balustrades. His gloomy journey ended outside the study collection, where an emaciated custodian, whose face was half-concealed by the abundant windings of a scarf, sat shivering by a small stove. Like the porter, the man nodded in recognition and Olbricht pressed a coin into his hand as he passed.

There were many works in the study collection: Murillo's
Boys Dicing,
Rubens's
The Three Graces,
and Rembrandt's
Young Dutchwoman.
But Olbricht was blind to them all, except one:
The Last Judgment,
a triptych by Hieronymus Bosch.

Olbricht approached the three panels, not with excitement,
pleasure, or veneration, but rather with intense curiosity, expectation, and a strange combination of darker emotions such as prurience, horror, and disgust.

Bosch's triptych depicted three fantastic landscapes:
Paradise, The Last Judgment,
and
Hell.
The central panel, from which the triptych took its name, was the largest and most intricate piece. The upper quarter was occupied by a clear blue firmament, at the center of which sat a regal red-gowned ruler of the universe. Exiguous angels with diaphanous wings floated at the highest altitudes of heaven, blowing into long trumpets, heralding the end of time. Below the celestial canopy was a blasted landscape of burned-out buildings and apocalyptic fire—a terrible place of shadows, over which antlike humans crawled in almost total darkness. The rest of
The Last Judgment
was crowded with naked men and women, all being subjected to varieties of torment and torture. Their bodies were bent, stretched, skewered, and lacerated, subjected to the most horrible depredations by a host of demons. Enormous contraptions dominated the scene— diabolical machines whose sole function seemed to be the infliction of unimaginable pain. A bare, unadorned building housed the carcasses of destroyed humanity, their barely visible forms hanging on hooks like those of animals in an abattoir. It was a scene of extermination conducted on an industrial scale, like a nightmare vision of the great factories on the fringes of the city, whose chimneys endlessly belched clouds of black smoke.

The more Olbricht looked, the more he saw. Little details: a woman, her vulnerability exposed, about to be ravished by a monster; another, mounted by an enormous beetle; so many people, crammed into beer kegs, hung on trees, prepared on spits for roasting—each private agony represented with indifferent precision.

Herr Bolle had been pleased with Olbricht's
Rheingold
and had requested that the artist consider accepting another commission for a
companion piece,
Götterdämmerung.
Thus, he would possess both the very beginning and the very end of Wagner's epic cycle. Herr Bolle found such symmetries deeply satisfying. Olbricht had accepted the commission, but was not sure how he would represent the twilight of the gods. Now, looking at Bosch's
The Last Judgment,
he had an inkling of how it might be achieved.

Fire spreading across the sky, flames invading the halls of Valhalla, tiny gods—rendered with a miniaturist's fine brushstrokes—engulfed by a mighty holocaust—

“Excuse me, sir.”

The speaker's German was slightly accented.

Olbricht turned around sharply.

It was a young student, no more than twenty years of age, preparing to make a copy. A slim, faunlike fellow, wearing a short black cape and cap.

“If I could just … If you wouldn't mind.” The student bobbed his head to indicate that Olbricht was obstructing his view.

“What?” said Olbricht, irritated. “Am I not allowed to stand here?”

The student made an appeasing gesture with his hands. “I must prepare a sketch for this morning's class. Professor Münchmeyer …”

Olbricht felt a wave of anger rush through his body. “To hell with you,” he said, and stormed out of the gallery.

39

L
IEBERMANN PLACED
F
RANZ
L
ISZT'S
Consolations
on the music stand. It was almost eleven o'clock, and he would have time to play only one of these miniatures before he was legally obliged to stop playing. Yet he could hear the low growl of a cello emanating from somewhere else in the building—possibly the apartment below—so a few extra minutes would not offend at least one of his neighbors.

Liebermann turned the pages of the score until he found the third piece, a
lento placido
—the most popular and pleasing of the set. His fingers found the familiar notes and he enjoyed the feel of the piano keys surrendering to his touch. Depressing and releasing the pedals carefully, to give the music depth without muddying its harmonic subtleties, Liebermann allowed the pure, meditative melody to soar above the shimmering accompaniment. It was supposed to be a work celebrating the virtues and rewards of solitude, but it drew its sustenance more from the romantic wellhead of Chopin than from the ascetic aspirations of its actual composer.

As the music progressed, Liebermann found himself thinking of his patient, Herr Beiber. His love for the Archduchess Marie-Valerie was so intense, so deep, so profound, but it was merely a delusion. Cases of monomaniacal love had been described for centuries.

What makes one man mad, and another a great romantic?

What is the difference between real love and insanity?

If the Archduchess Marie-Valerie were to reciprocate, then Herr Beiber would no longer be a lunatic, but a very lucky man.

The music seemed to recede as his thoughts became more involved.

Professor Freud is of the opinion that all forms of romantic love are—at least to some extent—delusional.

If so, then how can love be trusted?

A mistake in the left hand alerted Liebermann to how far his mind had wandered from the music. He tutted to himself and refocused his attention on the score. But his playing had become soulless, and he executed the final bars without feeling. Dissatisfied with his mechanical rendition, he did not allow the final notes to linger and closed the piano lid abruptly.

Liebermann retired to the smoking room, where he examined the bookcase. He found Freud's
The Interpretation of Dreams
and sat down in one of the leather armchairs. He began reading the section titled: “The Dream Is a Fulfillment of a Wish.” Professor Freud wrote beautifully:
“When, after passing through a narrow defile, we suddenly emerge upon a piece of high ground, where the path divides and the finest prospects open up on every side, we may pause for a moment and consider in which direction we shall first turn our steps.”
No other professor at the university would compose such daring prose—turning the experience of reading into an imaginary Alpine journey. Liebermann read on, seduced by the author's insistent, persuasive voice. He continued reading for some time until his eyelids became heavy and the continuity of Freud's thesis was lost among intermittent brief noddings-off. The room flickered in and out of existence, as if Liebermann's consciousness were a flame, illuminating the world in fits and starts before its inevitable sputtering extinction. In due course his mind lost its tenuous purchase on conscious awareness, and fatigue dragged him down into darkness. …

Miss Lydgate sits in the laboratory of the Schottenring police station; but it is
also the Grand Hotel in Baden. She is looking through a microscope. She makes a note and removes the glass slide, but when she offers it to him, he discovers that she has something else in her hand. It is an oversize fig. The fruit is round, purple, and the skin has a powdery bloom. It has been cut, from top to bottom, and the red pulp glistens within. He scoops the fleshy interior out with his finger, and lifts it to his mouth—at which point there is a tremendous crash of thunder, and he is overwhelmed by intense fear.