He paid their bill at the counter and purchased a circular box of sugared almonds, which he presented to Trezska as they emerged from the cafe.
She grinned: “What are these for?”
“For… introducing me to the transcendental properties of absinthe.”
“I thought the green fairy made you feel ill.”
“She did. However, that did not stop me from appreciating her magic.”
Trezska detected some deeper meaning in this remark-but she did not demand an explanation.
“Thank you,” she said.
The atmosphere on the Kohlmarkt had become smoky, and a few gaslights had already been lit. In the distance, the Michaelertor had become shrouded in a violet haze.
Liebermann took Trezska's hand, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled the fresh, crisp bouquet of clementine and mimosa. The familiar fragrance aroused in him a curious sentiment-a kind of proprietorial satisfaction.
She turned to move away, but at that very moment a gentleman stepped ahead of the advancing crowd and cried out, “Amelie.”
He was smiling at Trezska-and his expression was somewhat excited.
Trezska glanced back at Liebermann, and then at the gentleman.
“I'm sorry… but you have mistaken me for someone else.”
The man had a handsome, harmonious face, which momentarily appeared shocked before resuming an expression of composed amiability.
“No-surely not. It is you!” He laughed-as if he had just penetrated the meaning of an exclusive joke. “Franz… Remember?”
He appeared eager, expectant.
Trezska's brow furrowed. “With the greatest respect, I have no idea who you are.”
“But…”
The gentleman now looked confused.
Trezska turned to look back at Liebermann-a silent request for assistance. He stepped forward and said simply: “Sir…?”
The gentleman had not noticed the young doctor and now started for the second time. He withdrew slightly.
“Of course,” he said, smiling contritely at Trezska. “I must… I must be mistaken. Please, dear lady, accept my sincere apologies… and to you, sir,” he added, making brief eye contact with Liebermann. “Good afternoon.” Straightening his hat, he strode off toward the Graben.
“How very peculiar,” said Trezska.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied.
“He gave me a fright.”
They hesitated for a moment, both of them somewhat discomfited by the encounter.
Trezska shook her head. “Never mind. Now you must get going or you will be late.”
After leaving Demel's, Liebermann walked to the Volksgarten, where he caught a tram to Ottakring and his next appointment.
Dr. Kessler was a middle-aged man, balding, with rounded cheeks and oval spectacles that perched on his snub nose. “Ah,” he said, studying Liebermann s security office documents. “I suppose you want to know more about Thomas Zelenka?”
“No,” Liebermann replied. “The boy I need to know more about is Domokos Pikler.”
“Ah yes,” said Kessler. A line appeared across his otherwise smooth brow. “Pikler.”
“Do you remember him?”
“Indeed. I had only just been appointed at the school when…” Kessler allowed the sentence to trail off. “I presume,” he started again, the tone of his voice more guarded, “your question bears some relation to that reprehensible article in the Arheiter-Zeitung.”
“The article by Herr G., yes.”
“I don't know about all the other allegations, but I do know one thing: the correspondent-whoever he is-was completely wrong about Pikler. The boy did not die because of persecution and bad luck. He was not forced to stand on a window ledge, and he did not jump off.”
“It was suicide…”
“Yes.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Kessler looked uneasy. His pate had begun to glisten with a film of perspiration.
“I would like to be frank with you, Herr Doctor. Could we speak, not as investigator and school physician, but rather as two medical men?”
Liebermann understood the nature of this appeal. It was a request for professional confidence-an assurance that discretion would be exercised.
“Of course,” said Liebermann.
Kessler pushed the young doctor's security office papers back across the table.
“He was a glum fellow, Pikler. Very glum. He never smiled, never laughed-never responded to banter. He'd just look at you, with a sullen expression on his face. He came to see me on several occasions, complaining of aches and pains, but I couldn't find anything wrong with him-well, not physically. He was a strange boy… In the middle of our consultations he would often ask me questions of a philosophical nature. What is the meaning of life? What is the point of existence? Why doesn't God intercede to stop the suffering of innocents? And on one occasion he said something about mortal sin-something like: if atheists are correct, and there is no God, then there is no mortal sin… therefore, those who take their own lives might not go to hell, but instead find everlasting peace. Now, you must understand, I had only just taken up my position-and I was not used to dealing with cadets. The headmaster had gone out of his way to stress that the boys could be manipulative-that they might try to get medical exemptions in order to avoid certain onerous duties. I assumed that Pikler was a typical case. A malingerer. Given what happened, I now know that I was horribly mistaken. Some…” Kessler winced. “Some might accuse me of negligence. The boy was suffering from melancholia. I suspect that he initially presented with physical symptoms because he found these easier to talk about than his psychological symptoms, and his philosophical questions represented a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that he found perplexing and from which he could derive no pleasure. I should have…” Kessler emitted a long sigh that surrendered successive pitches like a descending scale. “Done something… If I had referred Pikler on to a specialist, a psychiatrist-someone like you-then perhaps he would still be with us.”
Kessler looked at Liebermann directly. The moistness in his eyes evinced the authenticity of his regret.
“None of us,” said Liebermann, “are perfect-and medicine is an inexact science.”
An hour later, Liebermann was sitting with Thomas Zelenka's parents in the third district. It was a difficult situation: Liebermann was only there because he wanted to ask one question-a question that he knew would sound utterly absurd without first establishing some sort of context. Thus he set about the formidable task of influencing the flow of conversation such that its end point would be the gustatory preferences of the Zelenkas’ dead son.
Although getting the conversation from introductory remarks to the desired topic proved every bit as challenging as he had expected, once the subject had been broached, Meta Zelenka engaged in an extended reminiscence about her son's healthy appetite.
“Did Thomas,” said Liebermann-as casually as he could-”have a particular fondness for almond tarts?”
“No… not that I can remember.”
The young doctor-recognizing that he was perhaps already pushing his luck-changed the subject.
When he was about to leave, Fanousek, who had been eyeing him with some suspicion, said: “I thought you'd come about the dictionary. I thought it might have been found by now.”
Liebermann remembered Rheinhardt saying something about such a volume.
“I understand that it was very expensive,” said Liebermann.
“Very expensive,” said Meta. “More than we could afford.”
“Do you remember who published it?” said Liebermann, for want of a better question to ask.
“Yes: Hartel and Jacobsen-of Leipzig. We had to order it directly.”
Something stirred in Liebermann's mind-a recollection. Where had he last seen a Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?
“But why that particular dictionary?” said Liebermann, his curiosity aroused.
“It was recommended.”
“By whom?”
“By one of the masters.”
“Which one? Can you remember?”
Meta shook her head, and looked at her husband.