Vienna Blood (5 page)

“I believe that when the Cotard delusion reaches its apotheosis, the patient not only denies his own existence but that of the entire universe.”

“It will be interesting to see how Professor Pallenberg deals with such a challenging patient. I wonder what treatment the old boy will favor?”

“Morphine and chloral hydrate. Like he always does. I fear that Professor Pallenberg has yet to learn that a sleeping patient is not necessarily a cured patient.”

Kanner laughed, throwing back his head to reveal the pink-ribbed roof of his mouth.

Liebermann peered over the rim of his coffee cup at the bustling street outside. Among the many pedestrians, he observed a young woman. She was wearing a simple gray pillbox hat, which rested on a cushion of fiery red hair. Her coat was olive green, with black velvet trimmings. She was walking quite fast, and passed out of view almost immediately.

“Excuse me, Stefan,” said Liebermann, quickly rising.

“What is it?”

“I'll be back in a moment.”

He rushed to the door and, leaving the coffeehouse, ran a few steps.

“Miss Lydgate!” he called.

The young woman turned. Her face was pale and her expression intense. She did not smile, but a subtle change in her features suggested pleasure.

“Doctor Liebermann.”

“I was in the coffeehouse and saw you passing by.”

“I am on my way to the Anatomical Institute.”

“For a class?”

“Yes.” Her German was perfect, but modulated with a slight English accent.

“Is everything well?”

Miss Lydgate hesitated, then replied, “I believe so.” But the hesitation was enough to raise a splinter of concern in Liebermann's mind.

“Are you quite sure?” he asked solicitously.

A characteristic furrow appeared on Miss Lydgate's brow. “Actually, Doctor Liebermann, a certain matter has arisen—it is of no great consequence, and I am reluctant to trouble you—but … I would very much value your opinion.”

“Is it a matter connected with your studies?”

Miss Lydgate paused again before saying hesitantly, “In a manner of speaking.”

“Then, I am at your service.”

“Could we meet for tea, perhaps—later in the week?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. I well send a note.” With this, Miss Lydgate turned and walked away. For a few seconds, Liebermann stood in the middle of the sidewalk, watching the receding back of Miss Lydgate's olive-green coat until it disappeared behind a group of students and medical men.

“Where have you been?” asked Kanner when Liebermann returned.

“I saw Miss Lydgate,” said Liebermann. “You remember Miss Lydgate?”

“Of course. How is she?” asked Kanner.

“Very well,” Liebermann replied before adding more cautiously, “as far as I know.” He sipped his coffee, which was now a little too cold to be palatable. “She is studying medicine now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, she was accepted with a recommendation from Landsteiner— who, incidentally, has also agreed to supervise her thesis on blood diseases.”

“Remarkable,” said Kanner. “Considering …”

“Yes,” said Liebermann, slightly discomfited by the implications of Kanner's unfinished sentence. Liebermann had become very fond of Miss Lydgate and did not like to think of her as a former patient. “She is an extraordinary woman,” he continued. “Her grandfather was a physician to the British royal household, you know, and something of a savant—I believe she must have inherited some of his gifts. …”

The door of the little coffeehouse creaked open and a large man
with a ponderous gait made his way to a shadowy recess at the rear. The two doctors watched him with the same kind of muted and detached pleasure that might accompany observation of a great sea vessel arriving at its berth. There was something utterly engaging about the man's stately progress. After he had settled, Liebermann's and Kanner's gazes met—each of them was a little embarrassed but also amused that the other had been equally distracted.

“So,” said Kanner, rousing himself from his state of abstraction. “You must be very excited.”

“Why do you say that?” Liebermann's response sounded a little strained—almost querulous.

“Your wedding!” said Kanner. “When is it to be? Have you decided yet?”

Liebermann's fingers worried the edge of the table. “Clara would like us to get married in January.” His voice was curiously flat. “However, I think that perhaps it would be better if we waited until the spring. My situation could be better—and the weather will be more clement, should we decide to travel.”

“Well, Max,” said Kanner, “among your many admirable qualities, self-restraint must rank very highly.”

Liebermann scrutinized the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. When he looked up, he did not respond, and his fidgeting fingers conveyed a certain unease.

Kanner's smile faded and he leaned closer to his friend.

“What is it, Max?” His voice softened. “You seem preoccupied.”

Liebermann waved his hand in the air. “It's nothing, Stefan—I'm tired, that's all. I'm not sure these early-morning fencing lessons are such a good idea.”

7

T
HE WALLS WERE DRAPED
with brightly colored tapestries depicting a fairy tale world of Gothic castles and jousting knights. In the flickering torchlight certain characters became more vivid: a group of gossiping ladies wearing high wimples, two huntsmen and their hounds, a lovelorn page contemplating a volume of poetry. Others faded into shadow. One of the hangings was sinuously undulating in the thermals rising from a nearby stove. Even so, the air was cold and smelled faintly of damp earth. There were no windows, and a low vaulted brick ceiling made the cellar overwhelmingly oppressive.

Pews, arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, faced a wooden throne that had been placed on a small dais. The throne was carved from oak and possessed heavy volute arms. The backrest tapered like a bishop's miter, and close to its top the runic character known as “Ur” (resembling the Greek capital pi) had been crudely carved within a raised circle. Behind the throne, purple curtains suggested holiness and majesty.

Gustav von Triebenbach had aged beyond the middle years of life, but he was still spry and stood head and shoulders above his companions. His thick eyebrows curled upward, giving him the severe, startled expression of an owl. When he wasn't talking, his shaggy mustache covered his mouth completely.

“I received a note from Counselor Hannisch this afternoon,” said Von Triebenbach. “He was very optimistic.”

“The invitation has been accepted?” asked Andreas Olbricht, unable to conceal his excitement.

“Our good friend the counselor spoke to the great man's wife yesterday … and my understanding is that it was
his
intention—at that time—to honor us with his company this evening.”

“Excellent,” said Olbricht. The bridge of his nose was sunken, making his eyes look as though they had been set unusually far apart. As he smiled, he revealed two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were somewhat rough and uneven. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his mouth, making him look considerably older than his forty-two years.

“What backbone, what fiber!” said Von Triebenbach's other companion.

“Indeed, Professor,” Von Triebenbach replied.

“Why do you say that?” asked Olbricht, looking from the professor to Von Triebenbach and back again. “The weather could be better, I agree, but none of the roads are blocked.”

“No, no, my dear fellow,” said the professor. “You misunderstand me. I wasn't referring to the weather. You see, our distinguished guest has only recently undergone a very major operation. For cataracts.” The professor glanced at Von Triebenbach. “I know the surgeon.” Then, addressing Olbricht again, he added, “And
he
is still recovering. …”

Professor Erich Foch was a medical man. Yet he looked more like an undertaker. He was gaunt in appearance and seemed to have nothing in his wardrobe that wasn't funereal.

“It is truly a token of the esteem in which he holds us,” said Von Triebenbach, “that he sees fit to rise from his sickbed—on such a night as this—so that he might give us the benefit of his wisdom and learning.”

“Very true,” the professor concurred. “Among the sympathetic brotherhoods in Vienna, our order must occupy a special place in his affections.”

“Have you read his latest pamphlet?” asked Olbricht, looking up at the medical man.

“I regret to say that I haven't,” said the professor, looking a little ashamed. But he excused himself by adding, “Onerous duties at the university … onerous and interminable.”

“It is a preliminary work on the origins of our glorious language,” said Von Triebenbach, stealing the initiative from his junior companion. “A wonderful piece of scholarship.”

“In which case, I very much hope that we shall be hearing more on the subject this evening,” said the professor. With that, he turned and walked to the nearest pew. He was wearing an old-fashioned frock coat, and clasped his hands behind his back. His gait was distinctly avian, which, combined with his choice of clothing, made him look like a great stalking crow. When he reached the pew, he sat down and took an envelope from his pocket. He opened it, withdrew a single sheet of paper, and began reading the letter.

“I believe that congratulations are in order?” said Von Triebenbach, leaning toward Olbricht. It was, perhaps, a conciliatory gesture, the older man having just deprived the younger one of an opportunity to demonstrate the breadth of his reading.

“Oh?” said Olbricht, staring at Von Triebenbach with his wide-eyed, froglike gaze.

“The commission.”

Olbricht smiled, revealing again his square little teeth. “How did you hear about that?”

“I am a business associate of Herr Bolle,” Von Triebenbach replied.

“Ah,” Olbricht said. “I see. Yes, Herr Bolle requires a large canvas for his country house. I received the commission on account of the kind ministrations of my patron, Baroness von Rautenberg. She plays cards with Herr Bolle's wife.”

“And the subject of your new work? What will it be?”

“I haven't quite decided yet. Although, Herr Bolle has stipulated that it must be a scene from
The Ring.
” Von Triebenbach nodded with satisfaction. “The gods engulfed by fire, the ride of the Valkyries, or Siegfried's funeral pyre, perhaps.”

“Outrageous!” cried the professor.

Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were at first astonished, because it seemed that the professor was—quite unaccountably—objecting to Herr Bolle's aesthetic preferences. The misunderstanding was swiftly resolved, however, when Foch raised the letter he had been reading and with small, jerky movements, tore it from top to bottom.

“It is from the dean of the medical faculty,” he huffed. “I don't believe it! I have been reprimanded for my treatment of the female students.”

Von Triebenbach and Olbricht were still unsure how to respond.

“The faculty should never have allowed it!” the professor continued. “Women doctors! Who ever heard of such nonsense? I told them that women were ill-suited to the demands of a medical training, and they ignored me. Women are weak, squeamish. … How can they be expected to open up a man's chest without swooning! And how can it be correct for a young woman—from a good family—to be exposed to those parts of the male anatomy that should by rights be of no concern to her until her wedding night?”

The professor quartered the letter and, rising to his feet, marched to the stove, where he posted each of the four pieces through the grill.

“I could not agree with you more, Herr Professor” said Von Triebenbach. “I would never subject myself to the humiliating experience of examination at the hands of a woman, however qualified. But for what—exactly—have you been reprimanded?”

“It has been my great misfortune,” continued the professor, “to have, in my demonstration classes, several of these new female students. They are a confounded nuisance! At the first sight of blood
they become pale, distraught, and a distraction to the young men. Subsequently, I have had to insist—on no less than five occasions— that they leave. Typically, these women—these
girls
—claim that they were not overwhelmed, and that I have misjudged their condition. I— a doctor for some thirty years—am supposed to be in error. And those fools, the dean and his cronies, are stupid enough, idiotic enough, to countenance this despicable calumny.”

“Appalling,” said Olbricht, “that a person of distinction, such as yourself, Herr Professor, should be treated with such little respect.”

“Damned hypocrites!” cried the professor. “In actuality, the dean and his cronies are as opposed to women being admitted into the faculty as I am. But, being spineless sycophants, they are less inclined to resist political pressure.”

“I tell you,” said Von Triebenbach, shaking his head. “This city is courting catastrophe and ruin. I pray and hope that we are not too late. Otherwise, I fear that all shall be undone.”

Von Triebenbach's words gave way to a low, thrumming sound, a hollow reverberation of increasing magnitude. Someone was descending the stairwell. As each hurried step became more distinct, the three men tensed slightly, adopting frozen, expectant postures. The latch lifted, and the door at the back of the chamber burst open, revealing a young man. He was wearing a brown suit, and a yellow-and-green checked scarf was wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was long, swept back, and so blond as to be almost white. Under his left arm he carried a portfolio. On entering the chamber, he lifted his right arm and called out,
“Heil und Sieg!”

Salvation and Victory.

In unison, the company returned the ancient greeting and battle cry.

The young man then marched aaround the pews and entered the central open area of the horseshoe. Nodding at Olbricht and the
professor, he turned questioningly to Von Triebenbach and said, “Is it true? He's coming? Tonight?”

Von Triebenbach placed an avuncular hand on the young man's shoulder. “We hope so.”

Hermann Aschenbrandt raked a handful of platinum strands back from his forehead.