“Thank you, sir,” cried Rheinhardt, glancing triumphantly at von Bulow, whose expression had become fixed in the attitude of a sneer since he'd uttered the words “Jewish psychology.”
“But not for long, you understand?” the commissioner interjected. “Another week or so, that's all—and then only if you can get out to Saint Florian's without compromising the success of your new assignment.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “I understand.”
“Good,” said the commissioner. “Now, let us proceed.… What I am about to reveal, Rheinhardt, is classified information. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to your assistant.” He paused to emphasize the point, and then continued: “Inspector von Bulow is currently overseeing a special operation—a joint venture with our colleagues from Budapest—the outcome of which is of paramount importance. The very stability of the dual monarchy is at stake. Needless to say, we are directly answerable to the very highest authority.”
Brügel leaned back in his chair and tacitly invited Rheinhardt to inspect the portrait hanging on the wall behind his desk: the emperor, Franz Josef, in full military dress.
“What do you want me to do?” asked Rheinhardt.
“We want you to follow someone,” said von Bulow.
“Who?”
Von Bulow reached down and picked up a briefcase. He released the hasps and produced a photograph, which he handed to Rheinhardt—a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young man with black curly hair, a long horizontal mustache, and a pronounced five o'clock shadow.
“His name?”
“Lázár Kiss.”
It was a brooding, unhappy face, and the young man's eyes had the fiery glow of a zealot's.
“A nationalist?” Rheinhardt ventured.
Von Bulow did not reply. His jaw tightened.
“Rheinhardt,” said Brügel, stroking his magnificent muttonchop whiskers. “Given the sensitive nature of this operation, we are not at liberty to disclose any more information than we have to. I must ask you to desist from asking further questions. You will receive your instructions—and you will carry them out. You need not concern yourself with anything more. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know the restaurant called Csarda?” said von Bulow.
“On the Prater?”
“It is where Herr Kiss dines. He is a creature of habit, and arrives there shortly after one o'clock, every day. Follow him until late afternoon—then deliver a written report of his movements to my office by six o'clock. You will repeat the exercise on Sunday and Monday, and I will then issue you further instructions on Tuesday morning.”
So this was the sorry pass he had come to, thought Rheinhardt— reassigned to do von Bulow's footwork!
“May I ask…,” said Rheinhardt, painfully conscious of the prohibition that had just been placed on all forms of nonessential inquiry. “May I ask why it is that I—a detective inspector—have been chosen to undertake this task? Surely von Bulow's assistant could do just as good a job.”
“There must be no mistakes’ said Brügel. “You are an experienced officer, Rheinhardt. I know you won't let us down.”
The appearance of the commissioner's teeth in a crescent, which Rheinhardt supposed to be a smile, did nothing to ease his discomfort.
“And would I be correct,” said Rheinhardt, risking another question, “in assuming that there are some very significant dangers associated with this assignment?”
What other reason could there be for such secretiveness? If they didn't tell him anything, he would have nothing to disclose—even if he were captured and threatened with violence.
“Our work is always associated with significant dangers, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner bluntly.
Rheinhardt passed the photograph of Lázár Kiss back to von Bulow
“No—you can keep it,” said von Bulow. “But do not take it out of the building.”
Rheinhardt put the photograph in his pocket and looked up at the wall clock. It was eleven o'clock.
“Csarda,” he said.
“Csarda,” repeated von Bulow. “I look forward to receiving your report.”
Rheinhardt got up, bowed, and made for the door.
“Rheinhardt?” It was von Bulow again. Rheinhardt turned, to see von Bulow inscribing the air with an invisible pen. “Handwriting?”
Rheinhardt forced a smile, the insincerity of which he hoped was unmistakable.
18
PROFESSOR FREUD—enveloped in a haze of billowing cigar smoke— began his third consecutive joke: “An elderly Jew was traveling on the slow train from Moscow to Minsk, and at one of the stops on the way he bought a large salt herring. At the same stop a Russian boy got on the train and started to tease him: ‘You Jews,’ he said, ‘you have a reputation for being clever. How come, eh? How come you are all so clever?’ The old man looked up from his herring and said, ‘Well, since you are such a well-mannered young man, and have asked me so politely, I'll tell you our secret, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.’ The boy suddenly became more serious and swore on his mother's life that he wouldn't tell a soul. ‘We Jews,’ said the old man, ‘are so clever because we eat the head of the salt herring.’ The boy was impressed and said, ‘In which case, I intend to get clever right away. You still have the head of the herring you've just eaten. Would you sell it to me?’ The old Jew was reluctant, but eventually gave in. All right, all right,’ he said. You can have it for a ruble.’ The boy couldn't wait to get started and paid. When he was almost finished eating he shouted, ‘Wait a minute… I saw you buy the whole herring for just ten kopecks—and I paid you ten times more for the head!’ The old Jew smiled and said, You see, it's beginning to work already’ “
The professor leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the joke's effect on his young disciple: a counterfeit grimace and the ignition of a bright light in Liebermann's eyes.
“Last year, you said you were thinking about writing a book on jokes,” said Liebermann. “Is that still your intention?”
“In actual fact,” said Freud, “I've been tinkering with the joke book for some time—but progress has been slow. I've been simultaneously engaged on another project: a collection of essays on sexuality, which, I believe, may prove to be of much greater significance. Even so, I keep finding myself returning to the joke book.” He paused and puffed on his dying cigar. “Yes, there is much to be learned from a close examination of jokes. Psychoanalysis has demonstrated— beyond doubt—that we should not underestimate small indications. It is by close observation of phenomena that have hitherto been supposed trivial, such as dreams, blunders—and yes, jokes—that we are afforded our greatest insights.”
The professor assumed a more serious expression: “The other day, I read something in the Freie Presse.… One of the mayor's associates had made a joke about Jews who wished to convert. He said that when being baptized, they should be held under water for at least ten minutes.” Freud smiled, wryly. “Not a bad joke, all things considered… but so very revealing! It would seem that primitive urges— forbidden satisfaction by the prohibitions of civilized society and thus repressed—ultimately find expression in the content of jokes. So it is that our jokes betray us, revealing, as they do, our shameful desires and, in the case of the mayor's associate, a murderous impulse.”
Liebermann recognized that this same reasoning could be applied to Freud himself. Such a clear understanding of the dark underpinnings of humor strongly suggested to him that Freud (a Jewish man who had been collecting Jewish jokes for many years—many of which were anti-Semitic) must be ambivalent about his own racial origins. Such ambivalence was not uncommon among assimilated Jews. Indeed, Liebermann reflected, his own feelings were plainly mixed. He was often embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse, or the Yiddisher pleadings of an impecunious pedlar.