“Is it a matter connected with your studies?”
Miss Lydgate paused again before saying hesitantly, “In a manner of speaking.”
“Then, I am at your service.”
“Could we meet for tea, perhaps-later in the week?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. I well send a note.” With this, Miss Lydgate turned and walked away. For a few seconds, Liebermann stood in the middle of the sidewalk, watching the receding back of Miss Lydgate's olive-green coat until it disappeared behind a group of students and medical men.
“Where have you been?” asked Kanner when Liebermann returned.
“I saw Miss Lydgate,” said Liebermann. “You remember Miss Lydgate?”
“Of course. How is she?” asked Kanner.
“Very well,” Liebermann replied before adding more cautiously, “as far as I know.” He sipped his coffee, which was now a little too cold to be palatable. “She is studying medicine now.”
“Really?”
“Yes, she was accepted with a recommendation from Landsteinerwho, incidentally, has also agreed to supervise her thesis on blood diseases.”
“Remarkable,” said Kanner. “Considering…”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, slightly discomfited by the implications of Kanner's unfinished sentence. Liebermann had become very fond of Miss Lydgate and did not like to think of her as a former patient. “She is an extraordinary woman,” he continued. “Her grandfather was a physician to the British royal household, you know, and something of a savant-I believe she must have inherited some of his gifts…”
The door of the little coffeehouse creaked open and a large man with a ponderous gait made his way to a shadowy recess at the rear. The two doctors watched him with the same kind of muted and detached pleasure that might accompany observation of a great sea vessel arriving at its berth. There was something utterly engaging about the man's stately progress. After he had settled, Liebermann's and Kanner's gazes met-each of them was a little embarrassed but also amused that the other had been equally distracted.
“So,” said Kanner, rousing himself from his state of abstraction. “You must be very excited.”
“Why do you say that?” Liebermann's response sounded a little strained-almost querulous.
“Your wedding!” said Kanner. “When is it to be? Have you decided yet?”
Liebermann's fingers worried the edge of the table. “Clara would like us to get married in January.” His voice was curiously flat. “However, I think that perhaps it would be better if we waited until the spring. My situation could be better-and the weather will be more clement, should we decide to travel.”
“Well, Max,” said Kanner, “among your many admirable qualities, self-restraint must rank very highly.”
Liebermann scrutinized the dregs in the bottom of his coffee cup. When he looked up, he did not respond, and his fidgeting fingers conveyed a certain unease.
Kanner's smile faded and he leaned closer to his friend.
“What is it, Max?” His voice softened. “You seem preoccupied.”
Liebermann waved his hand in the air. “It's nothing, Stefan-I'm tired, that's all. I'm not sure these early-morning fencing lessons are such a good idea.”
7
The walls were draped with brightly colored tapestries depicting a fairy tale world of Gothic castles and jousting knights. In the flickering torchlight certain characters became more vivid: a group of gossiping ladies wearing high wimples, two huntsmen and their hounds, a lovelorn page contemplating a volume of poetry. Others faded into shadow. One of the hangings was sinuously undulating in the thermals rising from a nearby stove. Even so, the air was cold and smelled faintly of damp earth. There were no windows, and a low vaulted brick ceiling made the cellar overwhelmingly oppressive.
Pews, arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, faced a wooden throne that had been placed on a small dais. The throne was carved from oak and possessed heavy volute arms. The backrest tapered like a bishop's miter, and close to its top the runic character known as “Ur” (resembling the Greek capital pi) had been crudely carved within a raised circle. Behind the throne, purple curtains suggested holiness and majesty.
Gustav von Triebenbach had aged beyond the middle years of life, but he was still spry and stood head and shoulders above his companions. His thick eyebrows curled upward, giving him the severe, startled expression of an owl. When he wasn't talking, his shaggy mustache covered his mouth completely.
“I received a note from Counselor Hannisch this afternoon,” said Von Triebenbach. “He was very optimistic.”
“The invitation has been accepted?” asked Andreas Olbricht, unable to conceal his excitement.
“Our good friend the counselor spoke to the great man's wife yesterday… and my understanding is that it was his intention-at that time-to honor us with his company this evening.”
“Excellent,” said Olbricht. The bridge of his nose was sunken, making his eyes look as though they had been set unusually far apart. As he smiled, he revealed two rows of peculiarly stunted teeth, the ends of which were somewhat rough and uneven. Deep lines fanned out from the corners of his mouth, making him look considerably older than his forty-two years.
“What backbone, what fiber!” said Von Triebenbach's other companion.
“Indeed, Professor,” Von Triebenbach replied.
“Why do you say that?” asked Olbricht, looking from the professor to Von Triebenbach and back again. “The weather could be better, I agree, but none of the roads are blocked.”
“No, no, my dear fellow,” said the professor. “You misunderstand me. I wasn't referring to the weather. You see, our distinguished guest has only recently undergone a very major operation. For cataracts.” The professor glanced at Von Triebenbach. “I know the surgeon.” Then, addressing Olbricht again, he added, “And he is still recovering…”
Professor Erich Foch was a medical man. Yet he looked more like an undertaker. He was gaunt in appearance and seemed to have nothing in his wardrobe that wasn't funereal.
“It is truly a token of the esteem in which he holds us,” said Von Triebenbach, “that he sees fit to rise from his sickbed-on such a night as this-so that he might give us the benefit of his wisdom and learning.”
“Very true,” the professor concurred. “Among the sympathetic brotherhoods in Vienna, our order must occupy a special place in his affections.”
“Have you read his latest pamphlet?” asked Olbricht, looking up at the medical man.
“I regret to say that I haven't,” said the professor, looking a little ashamed. But he excused himself by adding, “Onerous duties at the university… onerous and interminable.”
“It is a preliminary work on the origins of our glorious language,” said Von Triebenbach, stealing the initiative from his junior companion. “A wonderful piece of scholarship.”
“In which case, I very much hope that we shall be hearing more on the subject this evening,” said the professor. With that, he turned and walked to the nearest pew. He was wearing an old-fashioned frock coat, and clasped his hands behind his back. His gait was distinctly avian, which, combined with his choice of clothing, made him look like a great stalking crow. When he reached the pew, he sat down and took an envelope from his pocket. He opened it, withdrew a single sheet of paper, and began reading the letter.
“I believe that congratulations are in order?” said Von Triebenbach, leaning toward Olbricht. It was, perhaps, a conciliatory gesture, the older man having just deprived the younger one of an opportunity to demonstrate the breadth of his reading.
“Oh?” said Olbricht, staring at Von Triebenbach with his wide-eyed, froglike gaze.
“The commission.”
Olbricht smiled, revealing again his square little teeth. “How did you hear about that?”
“I am a business associate of Herr Bolle,” Von Triebenbach replied.