Becker paused and looked at Leopoldine s dressing table. The surface was littered with circular baskets overflowing with ribbons and hairpins, an assortment of brushes, and numerous unguents and perfumes. A gauzy nightgown was draped over the oval mirror—and an item of underwear had been discarded on the floor.
The word “slattern,” declaimed with biblical authority, sounded in Becker's head. He picked up the drawers—and tested the sensuous viscosity of the material with the tips of his fingers. His body trembled with desire and resentment. Throwing the garment aside, he edged toward the bed. He glanced once at the door—anxious not to be discovered. It reminded him of his adolescence, the perpetual stealing away, the fearful intensity of his need—and his immoderate indulgence in the solitary vice.…
Was it true? he wondered. What the doctors said about self-pollution? Did it really unhinge the mind?
Breathing heavily he reached for the eiderdown and ripped it back. Then, grabbing a paraffin lamp, he held it over the bedsheet and examined the stretched, taut linen with forensic scrupulosity. He pressed his nose into the fabric and sniffed, with fevered canine excitement.
Nothing different. Nothing strange. Only a familiar muskiness, the barely perceptible olfactory signature of their connubial mattress.
Becker walked around the bed, still swinging the lamp close to the white sheet, his eyes performing watchful oscillations. No traces. Thank God. No traces.
He felt relieved, and his shoulders relaxed. But his reprieve was short-lived. At once, he realized his error. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the crisp sheet. It had only recently been changed. Of course there would be no traces on this sheet!
He pulled at the tapering points of his beard: he noticed that his hand was trembling. In his head, he could hear the marrowless voice of his insubstantial conscience: this is madness. This is madness. Becker silenced it with a clenched fist, brought violently against his heart.
29
“OUTRAGEOUS,” SAID EICHMANN. “Absolutely outrageous! It's shocking that Austerlitz should have consented to printing it. But I suppose it's what we have come to expect from the Arbeiter-Zeitung… always trying to stir up dissent. They call themselves socialists but really they're just troublemakers!”
The headmaster shook his head with such violence that the artfully placed strands of hair raked across his crown were unsettled, revealing the baldness beneath.
“Do you remember Domokos Pikler?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Of course I do… a strange, solitary boy. Hungarian. And wouldn't you know it! They say that Hungarians are a melancholic race—have you heard that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Pikler was a typical Magyar. I don't think I ever saw him smile. He killed himself, Inspector. He killed himself because he was afflicted with a profound constitutional melancholy.”
“What about this punishment? ‘Doing the night watch?’ “
“I've never heard of it. The product of a fevered imagination, as were the author's other wild—and frankly ludicrous—allegations.”
“Do you have any idea who this Herr G. might be?”
“No. Pikler's death was almost ten years ago. Long enough for me to forget which pupils were here at that time. I could go through the old registers, if you wish? Seeing the names of former pupils sometimes jogs my memory.”
“I saw Frau Becker recently” said Rheinhardt. “On Saturday, in fact.” The headmaster raised his eyebrows, inquisitively. “She is of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that Thomas Zelenka was bullied—and that such behavior is commonplace at Saint Florian's.”
“Yes… Frau Becker,” said Eichmann, leaning back in his chair and smiling. “Well, if I may be blunt, Inspector, you shouldn't treat anything she says too seriously.” He then adopted a more complicit tone of voice. “I trust you are a discreet man, Inspector? This is a delicate matter, and I would be mortified if my deputy were to discover that I had been less than complimentary about his wife.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“In spite of her…” Eichmann searched for a word that might serve as a diplomatic substitute for the several pejoratives that had obviously just occurred to him. But, failing, he was forced to declare, “In spite of everything about her”—when he said the word ‘everything,’ he traced an annulus in the air, implying some vague and disagreeable totality—”my dear wife, Ursula, did all that she could to welcome Frau Becker into our small but vitally important community of masters’ wives. However, it was soon evident that Frau Becker did not enjoy the company of her peers. She found Ursula and the other wives… old-fashioned. The girl means well—I have no doubt—but her attitude to the boys was hopelessly naïve. She would have believed anything Zelenka told her—and would have lavished sympathy when a reprimand for disloyalty or unmanly conduct would have been much more appropriate.”
This last sentence was said with an air of finality. Eichmann picked up a little bell on his desk and rang it loudly. The door opened and Albert entered.
“Permission to report—ready to escort the inspector, sir.”
“Thank you, Albert,” said the headmaster. Eichmann then turned to Rheinhardt and said: “I am sorry to say that—once again—you will be unable to interview Herr Sommer. He has still not recovered from his accident.”
“I see,” said Rheinhardt.
“Even so, Herr Sommer has written to me, and I understand that he intends to return by the end of the week.” The headmaster reached for a sheet of paper on which were listed several names. “Now… the boys you wished to interview. They are all waiting upstairs. I must confess to being more than a little intrigued by this request—and I wonder why, exactly, you believe that these particular pupils will be able to assist you with your investigation?”
Rheinhardt did not respond.
The headmaster continued, “But of course, I understand that it is not for me to question your methods.”
Rheinhardt rose from his seat, bowed, and joined Albert by the door.
“Inspector?” Eichmann called out. Rheinhardt stopped and turned to face the headmaster. “How long do you intend to continue this investigation? Another week? Another month?”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Until I am satisfied.”
Eichmann was clearly irritated by Rheinhardt's abstruse answer. Dispensing with any further courtesies, he dropped his gaze, signaling that the audience was now over.
Rheinhardt set off with his guide. The old soldier chose an extremely convoluted route—descending a floor before rising two floors in a different part of the building. Eventually, they began to ascend a familiar-looking staircase that disgorged them in front of the disused classrooms. Rheinhardt could hear youthful voices emanating from one of the half-open doors. He looked in and saw a dozen boys lounging around in an atmosphere of relaxed, carefree disregard. Some were leaning back on chairs with their feet up, others were playing cards; two were arm wrestling, and a few others were standing suspiciously by an open window. Although none of the boys were smoking, the air was hazy and smelled of tobacco. As soon as they noticed the inspector, they all fell silent, put on their shakos, and stood to attention.