Liebermann did not share Rheinhardt's happiness at breaking the code. Instead he remained silent, his expression deeply troubled.
“What is it?” asked Rheinhardt, concerned.
“If you are correct, then it would seem that Olbricht killed Papagena two weeks ago-a murder of which we know nothing-and intends to commit a double murder in a few days’ time: Prince Tamino, and Sarastro.” Liebermann tossed the sword back into the cello case and closed the lid. “Oskar, it has been an extraordinary night-and if I am unable to find a coffeehouse in the next half hour, I swear I shall expire.”
77
Rheinhardt had ordered two pieces of poppy seed strudel, a turkische coffee, and a schwarzer for his friend. A waiter with thinning hair, a walrus mustache, and the grumpy manner of a privy counselor delivered their order promptly but with little ceremony.
While Liebermann gazed out of the window, Rheinhardt made light work of his breakfast. When Liebermann finally turned his head, he saw the inspector shamelessly staring at his own untouched pastry with intense interest. The older man's expression was difficult to describe, as it somehow managed to embody in equal measure yearning, whimsy, regret, and avarice.
Liebermann pushed his strudel across the table.
“Eat it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I'll have a croissant later.”
Rheinhardt smiled and a certain tension in his attitude was relieved. He attacked his second breakfast with remarkable energy, creating an explosion of powdered sugar and papery caramel flakes as his fork plunged through the soft, yielding confection.
Raising his fork and waving it in a mock-minatory manner, he exclaimed, “Now! I want to know exactly how you discovered that it was Olbricht! No enigmatic statements, cryptic looks, or evasion! You will appreciate, I hope, that the rest of my morning will be spent writing a report for Commissioner Brugel.” Rheinhardt swallowed his strudel. “So, if you would be so kind, Herr Doctor, I am eager to be enlightened.”
This was a conversational juncture that the two men had reached on several previous occasions, and Rheinhardt was not surprised to see his young friend assume an air of casual, languid disinterest. He picked some lint off his trousers, raised his coffee cup, inhaled the aroma, and in due course, with evident reluctance, confessed. “It was the pictures. The pictures we saw at his exhibition.”
“What about them?”
“You will recall that Professor Freud is of the opinion that dreams can be interpreted. I simply applied Professor Freud's technique of dream interpretation to Olbricht's paintings.”
“I would be grateful if you would be more specific, Max.”
“Olbricht is preoccupied by blood, in two senses. First, he is preoccupied by the blood that he sees when he wields his sabre. I am reminded of a case reported by Krafft-Ebing in Psychopathia Sexualis: a tinsmith who made a prostitute sit undressed on the edge of her bed while he stabbed her with a long knife, three times in the chest and abdomen. Krafft-Ebing reports that the tinsmith sustained an erection throughout. I suspect that Olbricht may derive some erotic pleasure from the sight of blood. I also believe that I was correct in an earlier conjecture. Olbricht is impotent. His use of a sabre has phallic connotations. When he wields his sabre, he is powerful, potent
… irresistible. The weapon compensates for his deficiencies as a man.”
Rheinhardt coughed uncomfortably. “I'm not sure I can put that in my report. But you were saying, he is preoccupied by blood in two senses.”
“Yes, he is also preoccupied with blood in the sense of stock, race, and heredity-an obsession that I presume has arisen through his familiarity with the writings of List and his ilk.”
“So what has this got to do with his paintings?”
“Oskar's canvases are full of blood. He cannot stop himself from enlivening his heroic scenes with daubs and splashes of red paint. Moreover he favors a curiously sanguinary palette: coral, russet, cerise, scarlet, carmine, crimson, rust… It is like a compulsion. And the most extraordinary example of this… this obsession, was the painting titled Pipara: The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did you notice anything odd about it?”
Rheinhardt thought for a few moments. “No, I can't say that I did.”
“Her cape was red, Oskar… red! She is supposed to be dressed in the purple of the Caesars! Professor Freud has frequently observed that verbal blunders-slips of the tongue-can be very revealing. Ol-bricht's Pipara is the artistic equivalent. A slip of the eye!’
“Mmm… how very interesting.” Rheinhardt placed his fork on the plate and took out his notebook. “Go on.”
“Dreams conceal wishes-often forbidden wishes. Olbricht's repressed, forbidden wish was to paint with blood-or, at least, with the blood of those he counted as dangerous or threatening. This terrible desire was partially satisfied by his frequent use of red paint… that is, until Spittelberg. There the repressed wish surfaced and the psychic energy was discharged when he desecrated the wall in Madam Borek's brothel. Olbricht's paintings also dramatize another form of wish-fulfillment. They depict various visions of a Teutonic heaven: skalds, beautiful maidens, and conquering knights. The skyline is broken by the turrets and spires of great Gothic castles. It is a world that any visitor to Bayreuth would recognize. A world without Slavs, Jews, and Negroes. A world liberated from the Catholic Church. A world in which the old gods have been restored to their former glory.”
“Extraordinary.”
Rheinhardt quickly flicked over a page of his notebook.
“Do you remember Olbricht's depiction of a vast barbarian horde?”
“Yes-a great sea of minute faces.”
“If you had studied them more closely, you would have noticed that each one was a miniature essay in xenophobic prejudice. The horde was comprised of crude caricatures of Jews, Slavs, and the southern races: the enemies who must be defeated in order to protect and preserve the purity of the ancient German bloodlines.”
The morose waiter returned and placed a bill under the sugar bowl.
“With respect,” said Rheinhardt, “we would like more coffee. The same again, please.”
The waiter grumbled something under his breath, cleared the dirty cups away, and shuffled off.
Liebermann continued, “Another of Olbricht's works that captured my attention was his Rheingold-showing the Nibelung dwarf, Alberich, and the three Rhine maidens. Alberich is almost always depicted as an ugly, misshapen figure, but in Olbricht's rendering Alberich looks more like a romantic hero. Now, Herr Olbricht is not, by any estimation, an attractive man, not with his peculiar eyes and wrinkles, and he may have identified himself with the dwarf. I am inclined to believe that, like Alberich, Herr Olbricht would have experienced teasing by women. Women whom he would subsequently perceive as beautiful, heartless, cruel, and, most significant-unattainable… This identification may have been strengthened by the possession of a similar name: Olbricht, Alberich.” Liebermann paused to allow Rheinhardt to appreciate the shared resonances. “So, when we look at Olbricht's representation of Alberich, we are in fact looking at a self-portrait, how he really sees himself: handsome, brave, powerful. Not unlike List's Unbesiegbare- The Invincible, the strong one from above.”
“Ah, I see. That is what you saw on Olbricht's shelf when we were searching his bedroom: List's book.”
“Indeed: The Invincible: Basics of a German Weltanschauung.”
Rheinhardt stopped taking notes in order to consume another mouthful of strudel.
“I am most impressed,” said Rheinhardt. “But your reasoning is rather complex, and I am not altogether confident that Commissioner Brugel will be satisfied with such an explanation.”