“Were you disappointed, when the promised brother or sister did not arrive?”
“Not desperately. I was accustomed to having the exclusive attention of my parents. I’m not sure that I was eager to share them with anyone else.”
“Can you remember your mother and father becoming sad?”
“Yes, I can. But in due course these episodes of sadness became less frequent. They must have stopped trying.”
Liebermann summarized his thoughts with great economy, writing only Self-blame? in his notes.
After discussing Herr Poppmeier’s childhood, Liebermann then asked him about his work. He immediately appeared more comfortable.
“I’m a salesman, for Prock and Hornbostel. I take samples of our jewelry around Vienna, but I am also required to travel quite a lot: Pressburg, Linz, Budapest. I once had to go as far as Trieste. We cater for all tastes-and classes.” Herr Poppmeier then went into an extensive and detailed description of the contents of the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. His intonation immediately changed, acquiring the persuasive strains and cadences of a seasoned salesman. “The Belvedere range has been crafted to the highest possible standards; the brooch with pendant is quite exquisite: beaten gold leaves, inlays of pearl and shell, with a suspended tear of topaz and diamond.”
Liebermann thought that it would be prudent to interrupt. “Thank you, Herr Poppmeier. That is all very interesting, very interesting indeed.” He leaned forward to arrest the salesman’s pitch. “May I ask, when was it that you first became aware of your symptoms?”
Herr Poppmeier’s expression darkened. Clearly his well-rehearsed patter had brought him some small relief-temporary deliverance-from the shameful strangeness of his condition.
“About three weeks ago… I think I experienced the initial bout of morning sickness around the time when Arabelle’s pregnancy started to show. When she started wearing maternity dresses.”
“Did you get any of these symptoms when your wife was pregnant before?”
“No. I was perfectly healthy.”
Liebermann paused to make some notes, but before he had finished, Herr Poppmeier said, “She was pregnant another time… just over a year ago. Sadly, we lost the child. The labor was complicated. Arabelle almost died. The child was stillborn.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been dreadful.”
“Yes, it was. And I was away when Arabelle went into labor. On one of my trips… I got a telegram.”
“Where were you?”
“Lin-” The syllable slipped out before he corrected himself. “No, Steyr.”
Liebermann made a note of the blunder. The arrival of momentous news was indelibly associated with the circumstances of the recipient. The brain absorbed everything, suspending the tragic communication in a preservative of easily accessible sense memories. Why would Poppmeier have made such a slip?
“Herr Doctor?”
Liebermann looked up.
“Will I have to stay here… in the hospital?”
“For a short period, for observation, yes-after which it might be possible to treat you as an outpatient. Let’s see.”
“What is the matter with me?”
“That is what we must find out.”
“These symptoms… I know what they are, obviously.” Again, Poppmeier winced, and a hectic rash appeared on his neck. He loosened the stud holding his collar. “I was once told that you psychiatrists treat people by learning the meaning of symptoms. Well, you don’t have to be a psychiatrist to understand the meaning of my symptoms. I know what they mean already, and they still won’t go away.”
“You are quite right, symptoms often remit when patients discover their significance; however, there are meanings-and then there are hidden meanings. It is the latter that are most important.”
“I don’t understand. Hidden?”
“Hidden in your own mind.”
“But if they are hidden, how can we find them? And where are they hidden?”
Liebermann smiled. “Tell me, Herr Poppmeier, what did you dream last night?”
61
Councillor Schmidt was sitting in his room at the town hall, smoking a cigar and thinking about his mistress. She had started to make unreasonable demands. From his experience, all women were the same in this respect. They became over-curious, meddlesome. They always wanted more. Private dining rooms, trinkets, and bouquets were no longer sufficient to keep them happy. They became morose, subdued in the bedroom, and maddeningly inquisitive.
Where are you going tomorrow night? Is it an official engagement? Will there be any society ladies present?
And so on…
He treated these questions as he might the singing of a canary, being barely conscious of the incessant warbling until its cessation.
Inquisitive mistresses were a liability. He did not want them, or anyone, to know his whereabouts. His plans (and he now had many of them) could be endangered by loose talk. The less people knew, the better.
Schmidt leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. The cigar tasted good. It was expensive and had been given to him, with other incentives, by a business associate in return for a small favor. The associate’s lawyer had needed to study a certain title deed in the town hall archive. A promise of future preferment was all it had taken to persuade the archivist to hand him the desired document.
The tobacco was pungent, but teased the palate with a fruity sweetness. Schmidt dislodged some ash and continued thinking about his mistress.
Yes, it’s been diverting enough-especially at the beginning, when she was more vivacious, lively, and appreciative. But the dalliance has probably run its course now. Time to move on.
There was a knock on the door.
Schmidt quickly shifted his feet off the desk, spread some papers, and picked up his pen. Adopting the vexed attitude of someone in the middle of a taxing piece of work, he called out, “Enter.”
The door opened, and his nephew appeared.
“Oh, it’s you.” Schmidt relaxed and tossed his pen across the desk.
He saw that his nephew was clutching his mail. It was Fabian who opened and read all his official correspondence. The majority of which consisted of requests for assistance, support, advice, good causes-the sort of thing he could let Fabian attend to. The mayor’s motto was “We must help the little man.” A laudable sentiment, but in practice remarkably time-consuming and very unprofitable.
“Come in, dear boy,” said Schmidt. “What have you got for me?”
“Uncle Julius,” said Fabian, “you’ll never believe what’s happened. There’s been another murder-a decapitation again, just like Brother Stanislav and poor Faust.”
“Where?”
“The Ulrichskirche. I tried to walk through Ulrichsplatz this morning and was stopped. There were policemen and a journalist. They said it happened in the small hours.”
“And the victim?”
“A Jew, a penniless Jew.”
“A Jew, eh? Perhaps someone with a bit of backbone has finally decided to retaliate, an eye for an eye. What do you think? One of the dueling fraternities? When I was your age, I can remember Strength and Unity was full of high-spirited fellows.” Schmidt stubbed out his cigar. “The reports in the newspapers have been so tame-so assiduous in their efforts to avoid stating the obvious-that it wouldn’t surprise me. The censor is supposed to protect the public interest, not a parasitic minority.”
Fabian handed Schmidt the wad of papers. “Your mail, Uncle.”
“Anything I need to look at?”
“Not really. Oh, no… there was something.” Fabian licked his finger and, leaning forward, rifled through the papers. “Yes-this, from Professor Gandler at the hospital. You must reply today if possible.”
Schmidt took the letter from the pile and began to read.
62
The stove had been lit, but the room still felt cold. As before, Liebermann found the dull, lifeless decor of Barash’s parlor enervating. It seemed to sap his strength.