Vienna Blood (50 page)

Rheinhardt looked puzzled.

“Gunther,” Liebermann continued, “means ‘warrior’ and Diethelm means ‘protector of the folk or people.’ All of which suggests to me a powerful identification with the legendary
Unbesiegbare—
The Invincible, or strong one from above, the Teutonic savior.”

Rheinhardt sipped his slivovitz.

“He played a perilous game. What if a Mason with whom he was acquainted had come to one of his exhibitions? His masquerade would have been discovered immediately.”

“It wasn't such a risk. First, Olbricht rarely had his work shown in galleries. He was never good enough, and without Von Rautenberg's patronage he would never have exhibited at all. Second, German nationalists and Freemasons occupy very different worlds and those worlds rarely touch. It is a peculiarity of our city that different peoples can coexist and live in close proximity but never meet.”

Rheinhardt grumbled his assent. The memory of the sewer people was all too vivid.

“I do not imagine,” Liebermann continued, “that Olbricht joined the Masons intending to murder any of their number. Rather, the possibility presented itself as his curious program for murder—and the disease process—progressed.”

“Disease process?”

“Forgive me—I am racing ahead of myself.” Liebermann tasted his slivovitz and looked mildly startled by its potency. “Where on earth did you get this from?”

“A Croatian scissors-grinder.”

“That doesn't surprise me. Now, where was I?”

“You saw Olbricht's hand on his hilt.”

“Ah yes.” Liebermann disdainfully placed the glass back on Rheinhardt's desk and leaned back in his chair. “I challenged him, and
he immediately made a dash for the door, escaped from the temple, and made his way to the library, which was situated at a lower level. I can remember feeling uneasy. Clearly, someone meaning to escape would have run
up
the stairs, not down; however, somewhat overexcited by the chase, I pursued Olbricht without thinking and so fell into his trap.”

“Trap?”

“He had concealed himself behind the library door and, after locking us both in, drew his sabre. From the moment our blades touched it was obvious that he was the superior swordsman. My only chance of survival was to ward him off until the Masons broke the door down and came to my rescue.”

Rheinhardt peered at the slashed material over Liebermann's heart.

“Looks like he almost killed you.”

“He almost did. He had me pinned to the wall. All he had to do was push.”

“What stopped him?”

“I surprised him—shocked him, even—by making some observations which, given his reaction, I have every reason to believe were correct: and while he was distracted, I made my escape.”

Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Observations? What observations?”

“That his mother was a prostitute who entertained men of many different nationalities, that they had a room close to a folk theater where
The Magic Flute
was often performed, and that Olbricht has always been—and continues to be—tormented by dreams of animals.”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “But how could you possibly …”

“Know? I didn't. I was simply making some educated guesses.”

“On what basis?”

“His appearance.”

“But you have always told me never to judge a man by his appearance.”

“That is true. And in almost all cases nothing can be deduced from the shape of someone's nose, the slope of his forehead, or the thickness of his lips!”

“So what was it about Olbricht's appearance that permitted you to make such bold and seemingly accurate assertions?”

Liebermann placed his long fingers together.

“His face, his distinctive features. They are a form of stigmata … but stigmata that have nothing whatsoever to do with Lombroso's speculations about the relationship between physiognomy and criminality.”

Rheinhardt was beginning to lose patience again. “Max, I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Please speak plainly.”

“The sunken bridge of his nose, the creases around his mouth, his odd teeth. It was only when I was up close that I realized their significance. They are all symptoms. Herr Olbricht has congenital syphilis.”

Liebermann paused, allowing Rheinhardt to absorb his revelation.

“What? He was born … syphilitic?”

“Indeed, and once I had established this fact, I immediately grasped the nature of his history. What kind of mother might have syphilis? A prostitute! Why might Olbricht despise other nationalities so much? Because these were her clientele: down-at-heel Hungarians, Poles, Czechs, and Jews, newly arrived in Vienna. These were the men who took her away from him. Why had
The Magic Flute
acquired such special significance for Olbricht? He had heard it being sung incessantly as a child—how could anyone forget those glorious melodies? And how might the son of a prostitute get to hear opera? His mother must have rented a room next to a folk theater. The German nationalist doctrine of race hate provided the adult Olbricht with a rationale for many of his attacks, but his real motivation was much
deeper. An angry, jealous child was still raging silently in the darkest recesses of his psyche.”

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache. “All of this suggests that he loved his mother. Yet he chose to attack women who suffered the same fate, those poor Galician girls.”

“Ambivalence, Oskar! Professor Freud has taught us that the roots of motivation are profoundly deep and hopelessly tangled. In the unconscious, love and hate coexist, as comfortably as sewer people and archdukes in our beloved city! Olbricht loved his mother—but hated her at the same time. Hated her for being a prostitute, hated her for neglecting him … and most of all, I suspect, hated her for not being Aryan. It would not surprise me in the least if in due course we discovered that Olbricht's mother was Galician herself! Maybe even a Galician Jew.”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly.

“Congenital syphilis,” Liebermann continued, “also explains Olbricht's ghastly predilection for genital mutilation. In a way, he was attacking the very source of his infantile anguish.”

“And his dreams? How did you know he was tormented by dreams of animals?”

“The infant Olbricht must have occasionally awoken to see his mother practicing the …” Liebermann hesitated before selecting a euphemism. “
Requirements
of her profession. Clearly, this would have been a highly disturbing experience. I have good reason to believe that such traumatic memories are transformed in dreams. Defensive mechanisms come into play, turning people into animals. In particular, dogs and wolves.”

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “I have dreamed of dogs on many occasions, and I am certain that I—”

Liebermann shook his head. “I wasn't suggesting that all dreams
featuring dogs disguise a traumatic memory of this kind! Sometimes a dog is just a dog!”

“I am much relieved to hear that,” said Rheinhardt, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Please continue.”

“Congenital syphilis can remain latent for decades but typically, at some point, it will attack the central nervous system. The brain tissue softens, causing either progressive paralysis, insanity, or both. Grandiosity and irrational rage are very typical of syphilitic insanity. As Olbricht gradually lost touch with reality—and learned more from List's writings—the delusional belief that he was the Teutonic Messiah may have become more established.” Liebermann picked up his glass of slivovitz and turned it in his hand. “Moreover, as his inner world became more and more chaotic,
The Magic Flute
would have acquired increasing significance as an organizing principle for the expression of his violent emotions, which had become directed—again under List's influence—toward anything un-Germanic. I am also of the opinion that after his execrable exhibition attracted the critical scorn it deserved—”

“You know,” Rheinhardt interrupted, “I really didn't think some of his paintings were all that bad.”

Liebermann ignored his friend's comment and continued. “His creative urge became—as it were—redirected. The opportunistic murder of Sarastro and Tamino would have completed a kind of grim masterwork. Among Nationalists, his name would have passed into legend.”

Liebermann sipped his slivovitz and his face clouded with dissatisfaction. “What troubles me, however, is that I cannot explain why he chose to initiate his campaign when he did. Something must have acted as a trigger, but I cannot say what. I strongly suspect that the answer may be connected with the location of the Eddic Literary Association: Mozartgasse. One day, I hope, the answer will present
itself, and we shall be able to add a little footnote of explanation to this most interesting case.”

The two men shared a moment of silence before Rheinhardt said, “You have yet to finish your story.”

“There is little more to tell. I managed to hold off Olbricht's final attack until the door was broken down and I was saved by my friend and his Masonic brothers. Had my rescue been delayed a moment longer …” Liebermann smiled. “Well, perhaps it is best not to dwell on such things.”

Rheinhardt shook his head and the rings under his eyes seemed deeper, darker, and heavier. The simple gesture communicated much: reprimand, disapproval, admiration, and concern. There was something distinctly parental about Rheinhardt's mien. The sad resignation of fathers who—motivated by love—must admonish their foolish, headstrong, exuberant sons, and who know, at the very same time, that their words are wasted, having been young once themselves.

“I trust that you now have enough for your report,” said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt looked mournfully at his blank sheet of paper.

“I daresay that I shall be able to produce something by the time Commissioner Brügel arrives.”

“And I sincerely hope you will respect my wishes concerning my promise to the Masons.”

Rheinhardt nodded.

Looking up at the clock, Liebermann added, “I am expected at the hospital at eight o'clock and would very much like to go home. I must change out of these ridiculous clothes and get a few hours’ sleep.”

“You are free to leave, Herr Doctor.”

Liebermann placed his unfinished glass of slivovitz on Rheinhardt's desk, stood up, and walked to the door.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said as he took his top hat from the
stand. “Some time ago I ordered several volumes of Russian songs from a publisher in Moscow. They never came, and to tell the truth, I'd quite forgotten about it. Well, that is, until last week, when they actually arrived.”

“My Russian isn't very good.”

“Nonsense. When we performed those Tchaikovsky romances, I thought that Fyodor Chaliapin himself had stolen into the room! Perhaps your dear wife would be willing to forgo your company tomorrow evening?”

“With respect to tolerating my absences, she is nothing less than a saint.”

“Good. Tuesday, then.”

Before Liebermann could close the door, Rheinhardt called out, “Oh, and Max.” Liebermann halted, expecting the inevitable debt of gratitude. “If you ever act on your own like this again, so help me God, I'll …” The inspector mimed the violent strangulation of a young doctor, his jowls wobbling as he throttled the column of air beneath his desk lamp, creating a whirlpool of starry motes.

Liebermann feigned indignation and, placing the top hat on his head at a decidedly impudent angle, made a swift exit.

88

L
IEBERMANN FOUND HIS MIND
occupied by thoughts of Miss Lydgate. The image of her seated, reading her book in the Natural History Museum, returned to interrupt his concentration throughout the day: a vaporous impression of her flame hair, burning like a beacon. While undertaking his medical duties, he had silently acknowledged his need to see her, and resolved to visit the university. He suspected that he was more likely to find her there than at home. His decision to see her was not without a convenient justification.

I must tell her that her microscopy results were correct. Yes, it is only right that she should know.

But even as the justification presented itself, Liebermann found it unconvincing. The words were hollow and the sentiment disingenuous. The undercurrent of desire was too strong to ignore. It flowed through his being like an electric charge, thrilling his nerves and heightening his senses.

The memory of Olbricht's blade still exerted a ghostly pressure over his heart, reminding him that nothing in life should be taken for granted and no opportunity should be ignored. It would be unforgivable, he mused, to die harboring regrets.

Liebermann promptly placed his case files in his drawer, turned the key, and left the hospital.

The föhn was still having its curious effect on the climate. It wasn't like a winter's evening at all. Indeed, it was more like early spring.
Chairs and tables had been put out in front of the coffeehouses, most of which were already decked with seasonal lights and decorations. The streets vibrated with laughter and conversation. On Alserstrasse a group of singers were caroling, accompanied by cymbolom and a rustic violin. The air was fragrant with an intoxicating heady mixture of roast chestnuts, honey, and cigar smoke. The whole city seemed to be in a festive mood: middle-aged men with short gray beards, women in long dresses and feathered hats, soldiers, street vendors, artists— fashionably wearing their coats loosely draped over their shoulders— students, businessmen, bohemians—with thick hair and purposeful, glowing eyes—light-footed teachers from the dancing academy, priests, lawyers, and chorus girls. Liebermann inhaled the air and felt a thrill of excitement. It was wonderful to be alive.

Outside the university he stopped under a streetlamp and waited. As the students began to spill out beneath the massive triple-arched entrance and descend the wide stone stairs, he willed Miss Lydgate to be among them. She would be easy to identify—a woman, among so many men.

The streetcar to the Kahlenberg was pulling away, its overhead cables flashing like lightning. When it had passed, he could see Miss Lydgate standing beneath the central arch, investigating the contents of her reticule. It seemed to Liebermann that although she was surrounded by people, she was somehow alone. A hazy light seemed to collect around her, making her stand out from the crowd.