The young doctor shrugged and recovered his cigar. He then held up the cheroot and smiled, as if to say, There will even be a reason why I put this down only to pick it up again!
“Had Herr Sommer not written his article,” Liebermann continued, “things might have turned out very differently. After all, it was Herr Sommer's article that resulted in your reassignment to the Saint Florian case.”
“Indeed,” Rheinhardt replied. “Zelenka's death would have been attributed to natural causes, and the investigation would have ended quite prematurely.”
Rheinhardt twirled his mustache and emitted a pensive growl.
“What?” Liebermann asked.
“I was just thinking. It's odd, isn't it, that my reluctance to abandon this case was due—at least initially—to Zelenka's youth? I found it difficult to accept the death of a…” He hesitated before saying “child.” Then, pronouncing the words with bitter irony he added: “The death of an innocent! And yet… This same angelic-looking boy…” His sentence trailed off into an exasperated silence.
“Professor Freud,” said Liebermann softly, “does not believe that we humans ever enjoy a state of grace—a period of infantile purity. He is of the opinion that we can observe presentiments of adulthood even in the nursery. The toddler's tantrum prefigures murderous rage… and even the contented sucking of a thumb may provide the infant with something alarmingly close to sensual comfort and pleasure.”
“I find that hard to accept,” said Rheinhardt.
“Well—you are not alone,” said Liebermann, grinning.
When Liebermann entered his apartment, he discovered that his serving man—Ernst—had left an envelope for him, conspicuously placed on the hall stand. Liebermann opened it and discovered a note inside. He recognized the small, precise handwriting immediately. It was from Miss Amelia Lyd gate: an apology—and an invitation.
67
GEROLD SOMMER SAT AT his table next to a pile of exercise books. He had already finished marking most of them, but there were a few that he hadn't yet looked at. Given his predicament, he had been surprised to find that his thoughts had kept returning to this unfinished task. The sense of incompletion had been so persistent, so troubling, that in due course he had dragged himself from his reading chair where he had sat brooding, and repositioned himself at the table where he was now working.
The work he had set concerned triangles. In his most recent class, he had shown the boys how to calculate the area of a triangle using the method attributed to Heron of Alexandria. Sommer remembered standing by the blackboard, chalk in hand, looking at their bored faces, and saying in a conversational manner: This attribution is probably incorrect, as Archimedes almost certainly knew the formula, and it may have been employed by many anonymous mathematicians before him.…
This nugget of information had not made the subject any more interesting for the boys. Indeed, one of them—a scrawny fellow with greasy hair—had covered his mouth to disguise a yawn.
It was extraordinary, Sommer pondered, how so many people— boys and men alike—found mathematics tedious. It was such an elegant subject. In any right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Where else could you find such universal certainty, such indisputable truth, such perfection?
Sommer opened the first exercise book, which belonged to Stojakovic. He was gratified to find that the Serbian boy was deserving of a good mark. He liked Stojakovic. The other exercise books contained work of varying quality, but Sommer was a conscientious teacher. He made an effort to write something helpful or encouraging whenever he could—even if he knew the boy concerned to be innumerate and uninterested.
Triangles…
Herr Lang, Frau Becker, Zelenka…
Dr. Becker, Zelenka, Frau Becker…
Frau Becker, Zelenka… myself.
Sommer dismissed these intrusive triangulations from his mind. He did not want to think about such things.
When he had finished marking the exercise books, the mathematics master unwrapped some bread and cheese (which he had collected from the kitchen earlier) and opened a bottle of Côte de Brouilly The wine had been a gift from his uncle Alfred, and Sommer had been saving it for a special occasion. It was dark, full-bodied, and left a fruity aftertaste. After drinking only two glasses, the mathematics master collected his personal papers together and examined them to make sure that his affairs were in order. He then wrote a brief note addressed to his mother, apologizing for his conduct, and another addressed to a friend in Salzburg, which made reference to an outstanding financial debt that he wished to be settled. He then pressed the muzzle of a pistol firmly against his temple and pulled the trigger.
His eyes remained open.
68
AS LIEBERMANN MARCHED THROUGH the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lyd gate s note.
He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved—inexorably—toward a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.
What was Miss Lyd gate s purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation—or even a complete confession—might be too powerful to resist.
Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings—and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction—because of jealousy. He thought of Dr. Becker, motivated to kill another human being—because of jealousy. And he thought of himself, reeling away from the Café Segel, delirious with disappointment and rage—because of jealousy.
It was an ugly destructive emotion, and as a civilized man he felt obliged to overcome his primitive urges. Yet the desire to possess a woman exclusively was an indelible feature of the male psyche, and to repress such feelings would simply promote—according to Professor Freud—the development of hysterical and neurotic symptoms. Modern man must either wallow in the mire of his animal instincts or deny them and become mentally ill.
A fragment of conversation:
That man… The one who stopped you outside Demel's.
What?
The man who called you Amélie—Franz…
Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?
You knew him, really, didn't you?
Are you jealous?
Liebermann didn't want to be jealous. But there was one thing he didn't want to be even more, and that was mentally ill.
In due course, Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein's house. He rapped the knocker three times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and Amelia Lyd gate was standing in front of him. She was wearing a simple white dress and her hair fell in blazing tresses to her shoulders. Her eyes—which never failed to astonish him—seemed to be reflecting a bright blue light: the harsh blue of an Alpine lake or glacier. Unusually, she smiled—a broad, uninhibited smile. Its radiance imbued her face with beatific qualities. Indeed, there was something about her appearance that reminded Liebermann of religious iconography: she might easily have replaced the angel in a Renaissance Annunciation.