“Herr Doctor, I am perfectly capable of walking.”
There was a note of indignation in the woman's voice, a note of pride. It was almost as if she had construed Liebermann's solicitous remarks as a slur-an imputation of weakness. Liebermann also noticed that, for someone who had just survived such a terrible ordeal, she was preternaturally collected.
She stood up, straightened her head scarf, and adjusted her clothing. She was wearing the short jacket favored by Hungarian women and a long, richly embroidered skirt. Liebermann offered her his arm, which she took-naturally and without hesitation.
On entering the alleyway, Liebermann picked up the bag he had discovered earlier. It was remarkably heavy.
“This must be yours.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you.” She took it, and they proceeded to the street.
“Well, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” The woman halted and released his arm. “I am indebted… a debt, I fear, that it will be impossible for me to repay. You have shown uncommon courage and kindness.” She took a step backward. “Good night.”
“A moment, please,” said Liebermann. “If you mean to walk these streets unaccompanied, I cannot allow it. I am obliged-as a gentleman-to escort you home.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Liebermann was dumbfounded. “But… but I insist!”
She smiled, and the proud light in her eyes dimmed a little.
“I have already caused you enough trouble.” She reached up and gently brushed his shoulder, where a hank of silk lining sprouted from the torn astrakhan.
“Think nothing of it,” said Liebermann, crooking his arm. “Now, where do you live?”
“Near the canal.”
“Then you must show me the way. I am not familiar with the third district and-to be perfectly honest-I was quite lost when I heard your cries.”
She nodded-and there it was, again. A curious, fleeting expression, as if his words had merely confirmed something that she knew already.
The woman set off, taking them through a maze of empty back-streets.
“What happened?” asked Liebermann, flicking his head back in the direction from where they had come. “How did you get into that…” He paused before adding “Predicament?”
“I had been to visit a friend,” said the woman “And was simply walking home. When I passed that alleyway, those… animals jumped out and grabbed me.”
Liebermann felt her shuddering.
“Did you not know that it is unwise for a woman to walk the streets at this time?”
“I am new to Vienna.”
“Well, one should be very careful.”
“I will be in the future.”
“It was most fortunate that I was carrying my sabre.”
“Yes, I was wondering-”
“A fencing competition,” Liebermann interjected. “Earlier this evening.”
“Did you win?”
“No, I lost. And quite ignominiously”
Liebermann asked the woman a few polite questions about her origins (she was indeed Hungarian) and expressed an earnest hope that the evening's events would not prejudice her opinion of Vienna and its inhabitants. She responded by saying that nowhere could ever displace Budapest in her affections-but that she would make every effort to comply with his request.
“What is your specialty, Herr Doctor?”
“Psychiatry.”
The majority of people reacted quite warily to this admission, but the Hungarian woman responded as though she thought his branch of medicine worthy of the utmost respect. “And where do you work?”
“The General Hospital.”
She urged him to continue, and he spoke for some time about his duties, the new science of psychoanalysis, and the patients in his care. She was very attentive, and asked him some extremely intelligent questions about the causes of hysteria.
“Yes,” said the woman pensively. “To study the human mind-a privilege-and endlessly fascinating.”
They arrived at their destination-a small apartment building at the end of a gloomy cul-de-sac. The woman did not have to wake a concierge to gain admittance-the door was standing wide open. A tiled arcade led to a courtyard, on the other side of which was a short iron staircase leading to a sheltered landing. A solitary gas lamp agitated the flagstones with a muted yellow lambency.
The woman stopped and-looking toward the stairs-said, “I think I can manage the remainder of the journey on my own.” The statement was nuanced with a hint of dry humor.
Liebermann found himself looking at the woman properly for the first time. She was very beautiful-but not in the sense that her features conformed to a classical ideal. Her beauty was less conventional-less finished, less tame. She had long dark hair tied up loosely in a head scarf. Her mouth was generous, and her long straight nose gave her face unusual strength. The arch of her eyebrows was gentle-the extremities rising rather than falling at the temple. This peculiarity created the illusion of otherworldliness, recalling storybook illustrations of elves and sprites. From her ears dangled two ornate silver earrings, encrusted with black stones. Liebermann remembered the way she had been insulted- Gypsy bitch — and there was indeed something Romany, something exotic about her appearance.
Hungarian women were reputed to possess a unique and potent beauty, and in her case the reputation was clearly merited.
Liebermann bowed and pressed his lips against her hand. Rising, he said: “I don't know your name.”
“Trezska Novak,” she replied.
Liebermann suddenly felt awkward. “Well, Fraulein Novak… good night.”
“Good night, Herr Dr. Liebermann.” She took a few steps, and then stopped and, looking back, added, “I am indebted-truly.”
He watched her cross the courtyard, ascend the stairs, and unlock the door of her apartment. Before she entered, she waved. Lieber-mann returned the gesture, again feeling awkward-as if his arm had become a cumbersome appendage. He heard the sound of a bolt engaging but did not move to leave. Instead, he continued to stare at the empty landing. The gas lamp sputtered.
Quite suddenly, Liebermann was overwhelmed with curiosity: he wanted to know more about Trezska Novak and regretted not having asked her more questions. He had talked too much about himself-the hospital, hysteria, Professor Freud. What was she doing in Vienna? And why was an educated woman living in such a district? Shaking his head, he rebuked himself-it was none of his business. He should be getting home.
Reluctantly, Liebermann made his way back to the street, where he became aware that his shoulder was hurting badly and that he was extremely tired (almost to the point of exhaustion). He set off toward the canal, praying that he would find a cab.
24
“Where have you been, Rheinhardt?”
“Following Herr Kiss, sir-as instructed by Inspector von Bulow. I began my surveillance outside his apartment in Landstrasse at six-thirty this morning and-”
Brugel shook his bovine head. Evidently he did not want to hear about Herr Kiss.
“Have you seen this?” The commissioner was holding a folded newspaper in his hand.
Rheinhardt shook his head.
Brugel handed him the Arbeiter-Zeitung.
“Do you know it?”
“Yes, a socialist daily-isn't it?”
“Sit down, Rheinhardt… and turn to page ten.”
An article had been circled in red ink. The recent death, of a young cadet at Saint Florian's oberrealschule — reported in the Neue Freie Presse on the 19th of January-served to re-mind me of my own school days, spent at that very same educational establishment…
Rheinhardt read on, his heart accelerating as his eyes were drawn down the page by words that seemed to stand out from the text in bold relief. Sadism… cruelty… torture…
He made a supreme effort to calm himself, returned to the beginning, and attempted to read the article without skipping. I was a pupil at Saint Florian's from 1893 to 1896 and can say, without fear of exaggeration, that these were the most unhappy years of my life.