The great philosopher's words were like a prophecy-but not just any prophecy. This was a prophecy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled, and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.
51
The Kohlmarkt was bustling with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred hussars, standing on the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black caftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor-the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace- dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.
Liebermann had sent a note to Trezska earlier in the week, arranging to meet her at Cafe Demel (the imperial and royal confectioners). He had stated, with some regret, that their rendezvous could be only brief as he had some pressing business (a useful if somewhat overworked euphemism) to which he must attend later in the day. The young doctor had chosen Cafe Demel not only because of its reputation but for reasons of expediency, as he hoped to get the first of the day's business out of the way before Trezska's arrival.
Opening the door of the cafe, Liebermann stepped inside, and was immediately overcome by the aroma of coffee, cigar smoke, and the mingling of a thousand sweet fragrances. It was a warm, welcoming interior, suffused with a soft amber light. The gilt chandeliers were encrusted with opaque faintly glowing globes, as densely clustered as grapes on the vine. To the right, patrons were seated at round tables in a mirrored dining area, and to the left stood a long counter, dark wooden wall shelves, and numerous display cases. Every available space on this side of the cafe was occupied by cakes and sweetmeats: candied peel, marzipan animals, fondants and jellies, whole discs of torte-covered with thick dark chocolate-jars of brandy snaps, Turkish delight, vanillekipferl, meringues, pots of raspberry cream and apricot sauce, pear compote, artificial coins wrapped in gold and silver paper, guglhupf, apfelstruiel, dumplings bursting with glistening conserves, pastry pillows and Carinthian cinnamon buns. In the center of this cornucopia was a rectangular cake that had been made-with the aid of much yellow icing-to look exactly like the Schon brunn Palace.
A woman who was standing behind the counter came forward.
“Good afternoon,” said Liebermann. “Herr Tishlar is expecting me.” He glanced at his watch-he was exactly on time.
The woman indicated that he should follow her to the back of the cafe, where he was instructed to wait by some doors. She returned in the company of a very stout gentleman whose tiny mustache was distinguished by curlicue extremities. He was still dressed in his kitchen clothes.
“Herr Doctor,” he exclaimed. “Herr Tishlar, at your service.”
The master baker bowed low and performed an unnecessarily baroque flourish with his right hand. Liebermann recognized immediately that he was in the presence of a man who regarded his art as equal to that of Titian or Velazquez. The woman silently withdrew.
“You are most kind,” said Liebermann, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a photograph and a magnifying glass. “I promise I will be brief. I wonder… would it be possible for you to identify this pastry?”
The image he handed to Tishlar showed Zelenka's notebook and a blurry, untouched wedge of cake.
Peering through the lens, Herr Tishlar answered without hesitation: “Almond tart.” He then handed the photograph and magnifying glass back to the young doctor.
“Are you sure?” said Liebermann-taken aback by Herr Tishlar s certainty.
“Quite sure,” said the baker. “And-if you will forgive my immodesty-no ordinary almond tart! That, Herr Doctor,” said the master baker, tapping the photograph and pushing out his chest, “is one of ours. It is a Demel almond tart!”
Herr Tishlar guided Liebermann over to a display case and pointed to a roundel (sprinkled with castor sugar and strewn with striped ribbons) in a wooden box.
“Notice the pleating around the edge,” he said with pride. “Unique! It is the work of Herr Hansing-each of our pastries is made by a dedicated specialist who makes nothing else.”
Liebermann examined the photograph, and then returned his attention to the pastry. His untutored eye was unable to discern anything particularly distinctive; however, the master baker's confidence was persuasive and Liebermann was happy to accept his expert opinion.
“Thank you,” said the young doctor. “You have been most helpful.”
“Do you require any further assistance?”
“No… that was all I needed to know.”
“Then I will bid you good day.”
Herr Tishlar bowed and sashayed back to his kitchen.
Liebermann, smiling broadly-perhaps too broadly for a solitary man with no obvious cause of delight-dropped the photograph and magnifying glass into the side pocket of his coat and found a table near the window, where he sat, still smiling.
Trezska was twenty minutes late; however, her tardy arrival did nothing to dampen his spirits. Liebermann dismissed her excuses and urged her to make a close study of the impressive menu. After some deliberation-and two consultations with the head waiter-they both ordered the Salzburger Mozart torte: a sponge cake with layers of marzipan, brushed with chocolate cream and apricot jam, and deco rated with large orange-flavored pralines.
They talked mostly about music. Trezska described how she intended to play the spring sonata for Rose at her next lesson-and the conversation naturally progressed to Beethoven. Liebermann regaled his companion with a musical anecdote concerning Beethoven's mortal remains and the composer Anton Bruckner. Apparently, when Beethoven's bones were being exhumed for skeletal measurement, Bruckner had barged into the chapel of the Wahring cemetery, pushed the experts aside, and grasped in both hands Beethoven's skull-which he then began to address. Unmoved by Bruckner's devotion, those present quickly took back the skull and manhandled Bruckner out of the building.
Liebermann then asked Trezska if she would like to go to a concert at the Tonkunstlerverein-a recital including some Hugo Wolf songs and a performance of the Faure sonata for violin and piano. She agreed instantly, and became quite excited when he told her that Jakob Grun was the soloist.
As they spoke, Liebermann was distracted by Trezska's beauty: the darkness and depth of her eyes, the color of her skin, and the shape of her face. Something of their lovemaking seemed to persist in the lower chambers of his mind: impressions of movement and memories of touch. He desired her-and that desire was predominantly physical; however, his attachment was becoming more complex. He had developed a fondness for her idiosyncrasies: the subtle cadences of her accent, the timbre of her voice, the way she moved her fingers when speaking, and the swift efficiency with which she could make small adjustments to her hair. It was in these little things-and the in ordinate pleasure he derived from noticing them-that Lieber-mann recognized love's progress. Cupid was a cunning archer, and penetrated defenses by choosing to land his arrows in the least obvious places.
The clock struck two, reminding Liebermann of his other engagements.