Fatal Lies (23 page)

‘So,' said Rheinhardt, his face becoming lined with intense concentration. ‘What have we surmised? Firstly, Zelenka and Frau Becker were having a sexual liaison. Secondly, Sommer did not want to be interviewed after Zelenka's death, and thirdly, he is a liar – his most notable lie being that the numbers in Zelenka's exercise book represent nothing more than a silly game . . . What if . . .' The creases on Rheinhardt's face deepened. ‘What if Sommer learned of Zelenka's affair with Frau Becker, and conspired with Zelenka to blackmail her? He is clearly not a man of means. Their activities might have necessitated coded communications.'

Liebermann frowned, crossed his legs, and brushed a fold from his trousers. He was clearly unimpressed.

‘Becker knew that Zelenka was “taking advantage” of his wife . . . therefore, his relationship with the boy must have been strained, difficult . . . and yet there is nothing to suggest that this was the case. In fact, Zelenka appears to have been something of a teacher's pet . . . sucking up to his science master and requesting extra assignments, which Becker was happy to provide.'

Rheinhardt suddenly remembered how Liebermann had behaved when Becker had left the room.

‘Oh yes . . . Why did you taste Becker's medicine?'

‘I wanted to know what it was.'

‘And did you recognise it?'

‘Yes, I think so – although it was an unusual prescription for headaches.'

Liebermann smiled faintly, and turned his face to the window, resuming his inspection of the runnels of rainwater. Rheinhardt, accustomed to his friend's irritating penchant for mystification, managed some half-hearted tutting to communicate his annoyance.

‘It is all utterly infuriating,' said Liebermann, ‘Clearly, there is something going on at St Florian's . . . but it is almost impossible to ascertain what! I am reminded of the frustrating phenomenon of being unable to recall a familiar name. The name hovers at the periphery of awareness and the more you try to remember it, the more it seems to evade recollection. Perhaps we should stop thinking about this right now – or Becker won't be the only one with a headache!'

THE SPECIAL TUTORIAL
group met in Professor Gärtner's rooms. On account of his age and seniority he occupied an entire Lodge. It was his custom to spoil his favoured pupils, and an impressive selection of pastries had been laid out on the table, ready for consumption when the tutorial was over: cheese and apple strudels, made especially for the Professor by the school chef, and an artistically arranged spiral of
ischler gebäck
– fruit-conserve biscuits drizzled with chocolate.

The prospective feast was something of a distraction for most of the boys, who were gathered in a semicircle around their mentor. They stole quick glances at the spread, and their stomachs grumbled in anticipation.

Wolf, however, wasn't in the least troubled by the strudels and the sugary fragrances that sweetened the air. He had been transported by the strange declamatory prose that Professor Gärtner had been reading aloud from a slim cloth-bound volume. Even though the old man's voice was dry and wheezy, the text vibrated in Wolf's memory. Each word possessed a gong-like, resonance.

Gärtner sat in a high-backed leather chair. He was wearing his academic gown, and his short silver hair glittered in the lamplight. When he had finished his reading, he began a lengthy exegesis.

‘What we
are
must be overcome. Man, as he is, must be destroyed. We must become something more than human
. . . homo superior
. The philosopher is quite clear as to how this transition can be achieved. Man becomes
Übermensch
by his
will to power
– by abandoning old doctrines and replacing them with new ones, by rejecting societal ideals and so-called morality, by a continual process of overcoming arbitrary self-limitations . . . The philosopher challenges us, throws down the gauntlet:
Can you furnish yourself with your own good and evil
– he asks –
and hang up your own will above yourself as a law? Can you be judge of yourself and avenger of your law?
'

The old man raised his head and looked around the room. Some of the boys shifted uncomfortably as his interrogative gaze made them painfully aware that they were not really listening. Wolf, however, leaned forward. He felt excited, but did not really understand why. The Professor's gaze locked with his. Wolf was not unnerved by Gärtner's scrutiny: on the contrary, he welcomed it. The boy nodded his head . . .

Yes,
he said silently to himself.
I can be judge of myself – and avenger of my law
.

Professor Gärtner smiled at his most enthusiastic student.

LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING
outside
Czarda
– the Hungarian restaurant where Trezska had suggested that they should meet. Although the sky was overcast, it was not a particularly cold day. The table was well positioned and offered a clear view of the tree-lined boulevard along which crowds of people – from all walks of life – were making their way towards the amusements, beer-houses, concert hall, and theatres. A Carpathian peasant, wearing a white fur cap, was wandering somewhat aimlessly in front of the restaurant, obviously overwhelmed by the festival atmosphere of the Prater.

When Trezska arrived, Liebermann stood to greet her, bowed, and kissed her hand. Stepping back, he smiled, showing his admiration with tacit but unmistakable pleasure. She was wearing a maroon jacket, cut to accentuate the slimness of her waist. The garment was decorated with black braid and was slightly reminiscent of a soldier's tunic. The folded-back cuffs were threaded with silver. Her grey skirt – which clung tightly to the curve of her hips – was woven with a muted blue check. She had pinned her hair up and her hat sprouted a plume of exotic feathers. On the lapel of her jacket was the same brooch that she had worn for her concert: a crescent of diamonds. Close up, the glittering stones looked large and very expensive:
More expensive
, thought Liebermann,
than a budding concert violinist should be able to afford
. As soon as this thought had formed, it was followed by a second:
A gift from an admirer, perhaps?

Ordinarily, Liebermann was not a jealous person but the experience of discovering Miss Lydgate in the arms of her lover had affected him deeply. He had become mistrustful, suspicious. At once, the young doctor was disappointed with himself, annoyed that he had already inferred the existence of a shadowy competitor!

‘Is anything wrong?' asked Trezska.

Liebermann was astonished. He had not, as far he was aware, betrayed his inner feelings with a frown.

‘No, nothing's wrong.' Anxious to conceal his embarrassment he risked a bold compliment. ‘You look wonderful.'

Trezska did not demur, but returned his smile.

Liebermann was relieved to find that their conversation flowed more naturally than he'd expected. He had judged that she might be, by nature, quite reserved – aloof, even; in fact, he was quite wrong. She was warm, friendly, and quick to laugh. He asked her if she had been to the Prater before, and she replied that she had – but only to eat at
Czarda
. She was not familiar with the amusements. Liebermann suggested that they should visit the
Kaisergarten
– to which she again responded with unexpected enthusiasm. From Liebermann's experience, beautiful, fashionably dressed women often allowed their hauteur to harden into a brittle carapace. Trezska's excitement was endearing.

They inspected the menu, and while they did so Trezska extolled the virtues of the head chef. She insisted that Liebermann try his
gulyás.

‘They do it correctly here . . . a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to.
Gulyás
was originally a shepherds' dish – the midday meal. It shouldn't be too rich.'

As on all Hungarian tables, there were three rather than two condiment shakers: one for salt, one for pepper, and a third for paprika. When the
gulyás
arrived, Liebermann was given a soup, instead of a
stew, and at the bottom of his bowl he found large tender chunks of mutton. Trezska offered Liebermann the paprika shaker, which he declined – his
gulyás
having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.

‘Well, what do you think?' asked Trezska.

‘Good – very good,' he replied. The
gulyás
was just as Trezska had described: wholesome rustic fare, but fragrant with tangy herbs and spices.

From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping
glissandi
and complicated embellishments suggested a gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.

‘An old folk song,' said Trezska, ‘“Dark Eyes.” It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.'

A capricious smile played around her lips.

Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Röger's interpretation of the Brahms D major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Josef Joachim.

‘Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?'

‘No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.'

‘Oh . . .' said Liebermann. ‘Then how long will you be staying?' he added hopefully.

‘In Vienna? Another month or so . . . my old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rosé.'

Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rosé was the concertmaster of the Philharmonic.

‘What pieces will you be studying with Rosé?'

‘Beethoven's Spring Sonata – and Mozart's E minor.'

‘I am familiar with the Spring Sonata, of course . . . but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.'

‘Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.' Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. ‘There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.'

The
gulyás
was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of
Dobostorte
: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The
Dobostorte
– named after its creator József Dobos – had become, in just over ten years, the first world-famous Hungarian dessert.
And deservedly so
, thought Liebermann. The chocolate cream was dense, buttery, and exquisitely rich.

After discreetly paying the bill, Liebermann offered Trezska his arm, and they set off in the direction of the amusements. As they got closer, they were absorbed into a bustling, noisy crowd. The air was filled with the babble of several languages: German, Hungarian, Slavic, and even occasional snatches of Arabic. On either side, marquees and little huts began to appear. Fortune tellers, sausage vendors, a troupe of acrobatic dwarves, strong men, and belly dancers were all plying their trade. The most bizarre attraction was an ‘
Electrocution Extravaganza
' – where a long queue of venturesome young men were awaiting their turn to be galvanised.

‘Where are we going?' asked Trezska.

‘Venice.'

Trezska threw Liebermann a puzzled look, but the young doctor simply smiled – as if to say,
You'll see
.

They continued walking until they came to a wide concourse that
was dominated by a massive double arch. Capital letters running across the top read: VENEDIG IN WIEN – VENICE IN VIENNA. The structure was decorated with ornate mouldings, at the centre of which was a bas-relief of a winged lion, the symbol of St Mark. Two giant planets hovered above the columns at either extremity.

‘What on earth?'

Trezska's pace slowed.

‘A recreation of Venice,' said Liebermann, tracing an arc in the air with his hand. ‘Here, in Vienna.'

‘What . . . you've reconstructed the whole of Venice, in one of your parks?'

‘Well, not exactly . . . but something very close to it.'

Trezska's expression communicated a mixture of amusement and surprise at this astounding demonstration of Viennese hubris.

‘Extraordinary,' she whispered.

They passed beneath one of the arches and were immediately transported to northern Italy. Renaissance villas overlooked a piazza, on which ladies and gentleman were milling around – smoking, talking, and sipping champagne – as if they were attending a society function.

‘Come on!' Liebermann tugged Trezska's arm. ‘This way.'

They crossed the square, ascended a broad stone staircase and came to a canal on which black lacquered gondolas were sedately moving in opposite directions.

Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing.

‘Ridiculous.'

‘Let's get one . . . there's no better way to see Venice.'

Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colourful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated he said ‘Just one moment,' dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moët and two glasses.