Vienna Blood (28 page)

“In our modern world,” Amelia began, “there is an increasing rift arising between the rich and the poor. Moreover, there is a tendency for those who are born into the laboring classes to live—and work— underground. In London, for example, it is customary for household servants such as maids, cooks, and launderers to spend the greater part of their existence in basements and cellars. Indeed, it is not uncommon for serving people to use the terms
upstairs
and
downstairs
as appellations to distinguish the
gentlefolk
from their own kind. There are many more
dramatic examples of the same phenomenon. Think of coal miners, whose terrible fate it is to descend into the very bowels of the earth. Think of train drivers, many of whom must now work underground— some never see the light of day. In fact, think of any great modern city: London, Vienna, New York. All are now built on a subterranean honeycomb of boiler rooms, tunnels, and workstations.”

The Englishwoman's eyes brightened.

“Mr. Wells seems to be suggesting that if the trend continues, the human race will eventually divide along the fault lines of social stratification. There will be fewer and fewer opportunities for intermarriage, resulting in subspeciation. We are destined to become Morlocks and Eloi.”

Liebermann handed the book back to her.

“It is an extremely interesting hypothesis, Miss Lydgate. However …” He smiled kindly, not wishing to extinguish her enthusiasm with harsh criticism. “I find it somewhat implausible. Humanity has made its home in the snowy wastes of the Arctic, the sere deserts of Arabia, and the jungles of darkest Africa. Yet the basic human form has remained constant.”

“With respect,” said Amelia, clutching the book to her breast. “I would beg to differ. The human form is very pliable. Does the Eskimo look like the Bedouin? The Bantu exactly like his Nordic cousin?”

“No—but, to my knowledge, this has not resulted in any biological prohibition on procreation between races. In spite of our propensity to explore and inhabit different environments—which has inevitably resulted in some superficial variegated adaptations—we remain a single humanity.”

“But eventually, Doctor Liebermann, if such differences were to be exaggerated over millennia—over periods of time of the order required to turn, let us say, a carboniferous forest into coal—then surely—”

A custodian appeared at one end of the gallery. He clicked his heels and announced in an officious, haughty tone, “The museum is about to close.”

Amelia stood up and a faint smile flickered across her face.

“I would very much like to continue this conversation, Doctor Liebermann, but I am afraid that I must now collect my coat and hat from the cloakroom.”

Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch. He knew that what he was about to say was improper—and that if Miss Lydgate answered him in the affirmative, then he would almost certainly arrive late for dinner at the Weiss household. Even so, he heard himself saying, in a disembodied, airy voice, “But we
can
continue this conversation if you wish. There is a coffeehouse on Museumstrasse …” His invitation trailed off.

Miss Lydgate looked at him with her arresting, metallic eyes.

The hiss of the gas lamps seemed to become louder in the ensuing pause, filling the lacuna with a disconcertingly violent rush of sound. The custodian coughed impatiently.

“That is a delightful idea,” Amelia replied. “Tell me—where do you stand with respect to the writings of Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet?”

47

“I
NSPECTOR
R
HEINHARDT?
”

“Herr Arnoldt.”

“Would you like to come in?”

Rheinhardt peered over the zookeeper's shoulder but could see very little of the dim interior beyond. There were clumps of dense foliage: large, spatulate, dripping leaves and hairy hanging creepers. The air that escaped through the half-open door was warm and fetid.

“Not really,” said Rheinhardt, each syllable extended by equivocation.

“Why not? It's perfectly safe. Giselle has the sweetest temperament, I can assure you.”

Rheinhardt was not convinced that the zookeeper's assurances could be trusted. Even so, he crossed the threshold and allowed his shoes to sink into a carpet of springy moss. Herr Arnoldt turned abruptly and tramped down a gentle slope. “Please, Inspector,” he called out. “I would be grateful if you would close the door behind you. Firmly.”

Rheinhardt did so, but could not stop himself from asking—albeit silently—
Why?

He hurried after Herr Arnoldt, who had vanished behind a matted curtain of trailing vines. Rheinhardt followed him through and discovered the zookeeper standing with his legs apart and his hands on his hips, staring across a still expanse of dark green water. The virid
glassy surface was surrounded by lush swamp vegetation. On the opposite bank was a massive reptile with a broad, flat snout. Its scaly skin was brown and black, although the area surrounding its jaw and the visible parts of its neck and belly were creamy white.

“Giselle,” said Herr Arnoldt.

“A crocodile?”

“No,” said Herr Arnoldt. “She's an American alligator.
Mississippiensis.”

“
Ah,” said Rheinhardt. “And you are sure she's not … dangerous?”

“Quite sure.”

Suddenly, two olive-green eyes appeared silently just above the surface of the water.

“My God, what's that?” cried Rheinhardt.

“Oh, that's only Richard,” said Herr Arnoldt.

“Richard …”

“Yes.”

“You never said anything about Richard.” Herr Arnoldt remained ominously silent. “Is
he
dangerous?”

“Not if we keep our distance.”

“Herr Arnoldt, I had no intention of getting any closer.”

The zookeeper turned toward Rheinhardt and let his hands fall loosely by his sides.

“I just thought … I just thought you might enjoy seeing them like this. Few people are afforded such a privilege. They are magnificent creatures.”

There was something in the keeper's tone of voice that made Rheinhardt feel he had been mean-spirited. Herr Arnoldt's invitation had been well intended—an eccentric but essentially friendly gesture.

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “You are quite right. They
are
magnificent creatures. Thank you … Most kind.”

The zookeeper nodded, realizing that some subtle misunderstanding
had now been resolved. “So,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together eagerly. “Have you caught him?”

“No,” Rheinhardt replied. “Unfortunately not.” The zookeeper pushed out his lower lip. “However, we are making good progress. Not as much as I would have liked at this stage, but progress nevertheless. I wondered if you would help us again? I have a question pertaining to the statement you gave at the Schottenring station.”

Herr Arnoldt nodded.

“After your memory returned,” continued Rheinhardt, “you were able to remember the approach of the assailant, who marched down the corridor, whistling a …
jolly
tune?”

“Yes, that's right,” said Herr Arnoldt. “I told your assistant everything. I'm afraid there isn't any more to tell.”

“Indeed. But I understand that you were able to reproduce the melody for my assistant—Haussmann. Could you possibly do so again, for me?”

There was a gentle rippling sound. The previously submerged alligator broke through the pool's surface, revealing its full size.

“God in heaven—it's huge!”

“Just over thirteen feet,” said Herr Arnoldt, calmly. “Among male
Mississippiensis,
Richard is not exceptionally large.”

The animal's jaws opened. It appeared to be yawning.

“So many teeth …,” said Rheinhardt, feigning a light conversational tone, while suppressing a very strong urge to run.

“Yes, about seventy or eighty. And each one is as sharp as a razor.”

“Have you ever been bitten?”

The zookeeper laughed. “No, Inspector. Few people get bitten by
Mississippiensis
and live to tell the tale.”

“Just as well, then,” said Rheinhardt. “Now, where was I?”

“The melody—you said you wanted me to sing the melody again.”

“If you can still remember it—yes.”

The zookeeper cleared his throat, and began to sing:

“Pa, pa, pom, pom, ta-ta-ta-ta, pom, pom, pom …” The first few phrases were distinctive and the pitches accurate. Thereafter the melody became loose and improvisatory, eventually degenerating into a piece of pure invention. “That's about it,” Herr Arnoldt added. “I'm not sure about the last bit—but the beginning is correct.”

Rheinhardt opened a large cloth-bound volume that he was holding under his arm. Herr Arnoldt noticed that the pages were covered in musical notation. When Rheinhardt had found the right page, he took a deep breath and began to sing from the score:

“
Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja—”

I'm the merry bird catcher,

A familiar sight to young and old.

Rheinhardt's deliciously resonant baritone filled the enclosure. It rolled out across the water and bounced back from the high ceiling. He had never performed in such a strange arena and to such a strange audience. Indeed, so peculiar was his situation that for a fleeting moment he entertained the possibility that he was, in fact, still lying in his bed and the events of the morning were occurring in a dream.

Giselle and Richard did not respond, but the zookeeper's expression was utterly transformed.

“Yes, that's it,” he cried. “That's it!”

Rheinhardt continued singing:

I know how to set a trap

And whistle like a bird …

The melody was playful, charming, and composed in the style of a popular song.

“What is it?” asked Herr Arnoldt.

Rheinhardt gently closed the score. “It's from
The Magic Flute.
”

The sound of displaced water disturbed them. Richard had begun to move forward. He seemed to be traveling quite fast. His snout was producing a high bow wave.

“I think …,” said Herr Arnoldt, looking a little concerned. “I think it's time to go.”

48

O
LBRICHT STARED ACROSS THE
paint-spattered floorboards and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He relaxed his legs and turned his wrists inward, assuming an attitude reminiscent of that of Michelangelo's
David.
Then he raised his right hand and imagined his fingers closing around a laurel wreath. He felt a curious thrill, as though his fanciful conceit had been translated into authentic communion with the
weltseele
—the world soul. He closed his eyes, hoping to prolong the moment, but the strange feeling dissipated, leaving him with only a dull headache.

The artist turned and surveyed the paintings he had prepared for his coming exhibition.

Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a blind skald in a timbered hall; Siegfried, slaying the dragon …

He circled the studio, admiring his accomplishments, but stopped in front of the canvas of
Pipara—
the heroine of List's eponymous novel. Square shoulders; yellow braided hair; a strong, almost masculine face. She was standing on a raised stone balcony, looking out over a sea of heavily armored Roman legionaries.

Olbricht took a step closer.

He could remember feeling extremely pleased with his
Pipara
when the painting was completed; however, having put it aside for a while, he was now somewhat dissatisfied with her
appearance. Olbricht picked up his palette and a fine-haired brush, and began reworking the empress's features.

There was something about the bridge of her nose that was not quite right. The height of her cheekbones, too low—the shape of her chin, too broad. Olbricht's movements became more fluid. Something of his communion with the world soul had stayed with him. He felt inspired, guided by a spirit hand toward the realization of an elusive ideal.

Finally, he took a step back.

The empress now bore an uncanny resemblance to Frau Anna, the wife of Guido List. She was so very beautiful, Frau Anna. Such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood.

If only he had seen her in the
Wala …

If only he had been there—on that celebrated occasion, sponsored by the German League.

If only …

Something inside him crumpled, like an eggshell trodden underfoot.

Olbricht reached out and traced the curve of the empress's bosom with a trembling finger.

List was not an attractive man, and he was considerably older than the beautiful Anna. Yet she had married him. Her love had been won by the power of his intellect—the nobility of his spirit—the ferocity of his genius.

“I too am a great artist.” Olbricht had unconsciously said the words out loud.

His thoughts returned to the exhibition.

She would be impressed. Of that he was certain. She, and women like her. It was inconceivable that she was the only one—the only one who could recognize a hero. The only one who might want a pure, unsullied union—a union of souls.

Olbricht withdrew his shaking hand from the painting.

“I can make this better … better still,” he muttered. “Much, much better.”

He lifted his palette and inspected the brighter colors.

It must be a bolder work, a more challenging work, a work that reflected not only Pipara's inner strength—but his own.

49

T
HEY WERE SEATED BESIDE
one of the Belvedere Sphinxes. A great wedge of snow had collected between the statue's stone wings, and her expression suggested wounded pride. Beyond the sunken hedge gardens and frozen fountains, the lower palace was shrouded in a nacreous winter mist.

Clara's mood was congruent with the landscape: frigid and unforgiving. They had barely spoken since leaving the Weisses’ house.

“Your father was very understanding,” said Liebermann, softly.