Fatal Lies (19 page)

A strange, improvisatory scraping filled the hall: the opening bars of Tartini's G minor Sonata, more popularly known as ‘The Devil's Trill' (on account of the composer's insistence that it was revealed to him by Satan in a dream). The melody was serpentine, sinister and creeping, occasionally finding a major key and offering the listener hope, only to dash it again by twisting back into a tonal wasteland of eerie ambiguities.

Liebermann had heard ‘The Devil's Trill' performed once before, at the
Saal Ehrbar
, but it had not affected him so deeply. In that concert, the work had been performed with a piano accompaniment, which had only diminished the music's power. The lone voice of the violin was more haunting, more mysterious – imbued with a raw, chilling urgency.

Of course
, thought Liebermann.
When the Devil played to Tartini, he played alone!

Trezska did not open her eyes, but communed with her violin, swaying and rolling from side to side. The demonic obliquity of her eyebrows and the rapture of her playing stirred in Liebermann memories of Faust: a capricious notion that this woman might once have gambled with her soul in exchange for greater mastery of her instrument. The sheer spectacle of her performance charmed the audience into forgiving any technical deficiencies. She was like a magician, artfully misleading by means of a carefully choreographed
danse macabre.

The conservative second movement was followed by the opening bars of the third, a
fortissimo
howl that might have escaped from the mouth of a doomed Florentine in Dante's hell. Jerking rhythms led to fluid
accelerandi
and savage down-bowed chords. Then the famous trills: frenzied, dizzying, convulsive, becoming louder and louder – climbing in pitch and volume. Trezska leaned backwards and her tresses tumbled off her shoulders. Her eyes opened. In the sulphurous gaslight they appeared incandescent with infernal rage. When the music finally reached its arpeggiated dissolution into nothingness, almost everyone listening had been persuaded that this extraordinary composition was, indeed, the Devil's handiwork.

Trezska completed her recital with a less dramatic piece: Tartini's ‘
Pastorale in scordatura
'. Gradually, its gentle rusticity and bucolic breeziness dispelled the stench of brimstone and visions of eternal torment were replaced by idyllic vales, drones, pipes, and slumbering shepherds.

When the final notes had faded and Trezska had removed the violin from beneath her chin, the audience responded with noisy delight. Several of the dignitaries in the front row jumped to their feet – and others seated behind copied them, clapping and cheering. Through the mass of bodies, Liebermann caught a glimpse of white and gold – and saw Trezska bend to take the bunch of flowers from the Austrian general.

After collecting his coat from the cloakroom, Liebermann left the hall and set off towards the Ringstrasse. He passed a Bosnian hawker, in crimson fez and pointed slippers, who attempted to sell him a kettle and an inlaid snuffbox. The sound of Tartini's diabolical trills still persisted in the young doctor's mind. They had acquired a siren-like quality, exerting a subtle tractive power that slowed his step. Moreover, he had begun to question the propriety of his precipitate departure. Trezska Novak had sent him a personal invitation. Surely it was discourteous to leave without congratulating her. This simple point of etiquette was frequently observed in musical circles, was it not? Such were his justifications.

Liebermann stopped, turned around, and made his way back to the concert hall, slipping down a side alley that led to the artists' entrance. He rapped on the door, which was opened by a porter. Jangling some loose change in his pocket, he asked the functionary to convey his compliments to Fräulein Novak. Some silver coins changed hands and the porter disappeared. A few minutes later the door reopened and Liebermann was admitted into a narrow corridor. A few gentlemen were standing at the far end: one of them was Bertalan Szép. He was smoking a cigar, and his arm was casually slung around the shoulders of his cello case. The porter indicated Trezska's dressing room.

A gentle tap on the panelling produced an invitation to enter.

Trezska was seated in front of a large mirror.

‘How good of you to come.'

‘It was my pleasure.'

She did not stand to greet her visitor but remained perfectly still, conversing with Liebermann's reflection.

‘I like to sit quietly after a concert.' She smiled softly. ‘I find it . . . necessary.'

‘Yes. One needs to recover after expending so much emotional energy – and the pieces looked physically taxing, too. It was a very
impressive performance: I have never heard the great G-minor Sonata played unaccompanied before.'

Something like a shadow passed across Trezska's face.

‘I was pleased – although some would say that I took liberties with the
andante
. . . and the
allegro
was somewhat uninspired, don't you think?'

Liebermann understood that a musician of her quality was not seeking a blithe denial.

‘The problem lies – at least in part – with the composition itself. The
allegro
is musically inferior. Even so . . . I enjoyed it immensely.'

‘You
are
fond of music,' said Trezska, her gaze becoming more penetrating. ‘I was right – wasn't I?'

‘Yes.'

‘What is your instrument?'

‘The piano.'

Trezska looked satisfied, almost smug, and without uttering a single word managed to communicate something like: ‘
Yes, of course you're a pianist – how could you be anything else?
'

Now that he was close to her, Liebermann noticed that Trezska's cheek was still a little swollen. She had used make-up to disguise her injury.

‘How is your graze?'

‘Sore . . . but getting better.'

‘Good.'

There was a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of Szép. He acknowledged Liebermann with a bow, and said to Trezska: ‘We are off to
Csarda
. . . Kiss is coming. Count Dohnányi and his guest will be joining us later.'

Liebermann noticed that Trezska's eyes flicked towards the bunch of flowers she had been given, now laid on top of her dressing table.

She shook her head.

‘I'm going home,' said Trezska. ‘Tell Kiss to get me a cab.'

‘Going home?' said Szép, evidently surprised.

Trezska touched her head. The gesture was languid and affected, like that of an operatic diva.

‘A headache,' she said, with unconvincing indifference. ‘Please tell the Count that I am sorry – I know he will be disappointed.'

‘Very well,' said Szép. He shrugged, and left the room.

Trezska's gaze met with Liebermann's reflection again and her cunning smile invited him to acknowledge the insincerity of her exchange with Szép. She stood up, her dress rustling, and turned to face him. For the first time that evening they looked at each other directly. Her expression changed, switching from mischievous complicity to something more serious. Liebermann stepped forward and took her hand in his. He kissed her long delicate, fingers, on which he detected the distinctive fragrance of her perfume: the clementine was particularly sweet.

‘Forgive my presumption, but I would . . .' Liebermann hesitated before continuing his sentence. ‘I would very much like to see you again.'

‘
WHERE ARE YOU
taking me?'

Wolf punched Perger as hard as he could. His knuckles sank into the soft area of the lower back, just to the right of the spinal column. The boy cried out in agony – and Wolf punched him again. The force of the second blow pushed the boy forward and he fell to his knees. Wolf's hand closed around his victim's mouth.

‘Just shut up! Not another sound. Ask me again – and I swear I'll . . . I'll . . .' Nothing came to mind, and once again Wolf resorted to violence. He brought his knee up into the space between Perger's shoulder blades, which produced simultaneously a sharp crack and a sickening dull thud.

‘Now get up!' Wolf grabbed Perger's collar and pulled him to his feet. ‘And keep going.'

They followed the landing until they reached the pitch-black space beneath an ascending staircase. Wolf pushed Perger away and crouched down, feeling for the ridge of the trapdoor.

‘Wait here. If you try to run away you'll regret it. Do you understand?' Perger didn't reply. ‘Do you understand?' repeated Wolf, emphatically.

‘Y-y-yes . . .' stuttered Perger.

Wolf lowered himself into the lost room, lit the paraffin lamp and hung it on the nearest beam.

‘Perger?'

A terrified face appeared in the square aperture.

‘Get down here . . . No. Not like that, you fool. Sit on the edge and push yourself off.'

The younger boy dropped onto the crate but immediately lost his balance and toppled off. He did not attempt to get up but remained very still, sprawled out on the floor.

‘You clumsy idiot.'

Wolf trod on Perger's buttocks, using the springiness of the flesh to add lift to his step. He got back onto the crate, reached upwards and pulled the trapdoor closed.

‘Now . . . get up.'

Perger tried to stand, but before he could get to his feet Wolf jumped off the crate and delivered a kick to his ribs. Perger rolled over, groaning.

‘I said, get up.'

Perger looked at his tormentor, his eyes wide with fear.

‘W-W-Wolf . . . I can't get up. I c-c-can't – not if you won't let me.'

‘I swear to God, Perger . . .'

The boy scrambled to his feet while Wolf strolled over to the suitcase and rummaged through the contents. He returned, smoking a cigarette.

‘Stand beneath the lamp.'

The boy obeyed, and Wolf slumped back in the old wicker chair. He said nothing, but simply watched – and smoked. The thin line of his mouth and the enamel glaze of his stare betrayed no emotion. Only the sound of Perger's heavy breathing broke the cruel and protracted silence.

‘Take your clothes off.'

‘W-what?'

‘You heard.'

Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.

Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying – not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn – only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from
Beyond Good and Evil
that had made such a deep impression on him:
Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena
. . .

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.

‘What did you tell him?' he asked.

Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.

‘Who?'

‘The fat policeman – the detective.'

Perger shook his head.

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh, but you did,' said Wolf. ‘I know you did.'

‘I didn't,' cried Perger. ‘I didn't tell him anything . . . not the first time. I didn't say a thing. And the s-s-second time, he came with a doctor . . . he played chess with me – and showed me p-p-patterns . . . ink blots . . . and asked me what I could see in them . . . and he
asked me about the bakery . . . and t-t-ticks . . . and . . . and . . .'

‘Enough,' shouted Wolf, stamping his foot. ‘Talk sense! You're gibbering like a lunatic!'

Perger emitted an odd whimpering sound, and pulled frantically at his short hair.

‘I didn't s-s-say anything, Wolf. I swear . . . I swear on my mother's life.'

‘Ha!' said Wolf. ‘Swearing on the life of a Galician whore is hardly a warrant of honour. That won't save you.'

‘I s-s-swear . . . I didn't say anything.'

‘Then why did the fat policeman want to speak to me – after he had spoken to you?'

‘He didn't speak to me. It was the doctor . . . he spoke to me, but about chess, and his seeing game . . . he showed me p-p-patterns, ink blots, and asked me if I could see anything in them . . . and he asked me about Zelenka . . . I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker . . . but nothing else.'

‘That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!'

Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.

‘What . . . did . . . you . . . say?'

Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger's head.

‘I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,' said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: ‘Kneel.' He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

‘Please . . . I beg you,' sobbed Perger. ‘I'll do anything . . . anything you want . . . Please don't kill me.'

The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanising his loins.