“I’d love a cigarette right now.”
Interesting, thought Liebermann.
“Arabelle wants me to give up smoking,” Poppmeier continued. “She doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. I’ve tried, but it’s extremely difficult. I get so irritable, and then feel guilty afterward. I can be quite disagreeable.”
The salesman seemed unaware that he had strayed off the subject. Liebermann made a note: Delay-resistance?
“Herr Poppmeier,” said Liebermann, “you were going to tell me about your recurring dream?”
“Oh yes, so I was.” The salesman bit his lower lip. “It’s like this…” He drummed his fingers on the mattress. “I’m staying in a hotel, a very pleasant hotel with red carpets and gilt mirrors and busy waiters and miniature palm trees, a little like the Kaiser in Steyr, and-this is most peculiar, even embarrassing-I am a priest.” Poppmeier laughed nervously. “I am sitting in the foyer, listening to a string trio, when I am approached by the concierge and asked to give the last rites to a dying child.”
Mention of the last rites made Liebermann sit up.
“Go on…”
“I am escorted to a room that is full of my jewelry samples-rings, pendants, brooches. The rings are from the Prestige range and feature some very attractive stones imported from Bohemia. The pendants are heart-shaped, silver-with two opals set in a decoration of perpendicular silver bars. The brooches-”
“Herr Poppmeier,” Liebermann cut in. “Your dream?”
“Oh yes… There is a child in a bed, being cared for by a pretty nurse. For some reason, which I cannot justify, I refuse to perform the sacrament and leave.”
Poppmeier resumed chewing his lower lip.
“Is that it?”
“Yes. An absurd dream, but always remarkably vivid.”
“When did it first occur?”
“Difficult to say.”
“Do you think you’ve been having it for years? Months?”
“Not years, exactly-but for quite a long time.”
“A year, then?”
“About that, yes.”
Liebermann flicked through his notes and found the entry he was looking for: Frau Poppmeier: Gravida 3/Para II. Intrapartum death-1902 (early?).
Poppmeier’s wife had been pregnant twice before her current pregnancy and the second pregnancy had ended in the tragedy of a stillbirth. The timing was exact.
65
“Yes,” said Asher Kusevitsky, addressing Professor Priel. “Schnitzler had some interesting things to say about Lautenburg. The man’s a fool, just as I thought. I won’t be sending him any of my scripts in the future.”
The walls of Professor Priel’s parlor were covered in examples of modern art. They were mostly allegorical works, in which personifications of philosophy poetry, or music were rendered in a style that owed a considerable debt to Klimt. The figures, usually women, stared out full-face against a background of strong tonal contrasts. In addition, there were numerous contemporary portraits, some of which were quite disturbing. Sketches and watercolors of troubled individuals-emaciated, gaunt, their skin discolored, suggestive of putrescence. The models might have been recruited from a mortuary.
All the art that Professor Priel possessed had been made by impoverished young men who had benefited from a Rothenstein creative bursary. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the portraits, he recognized that they were original and most probably indicative of a significant trend. He had not, however, purchased them as an investment. He had bought them to bolster the confidence of the young artists. They were always delighted to see their work hanging on his walls.
The only non-modern piece in Professor Priel’s collection was a plaster cast reproduction of Michelangelo’s Moses. It occupied a central position on the sideboard. Even though it was only a fraction of the size of the original, the copy was still powerfully evocative: Moses the lawgiver, seated like a Titan or a great warrior, his muscled arm resting on the commandment tablets, his long beard a wild tangle of writhing serpentine spirals.
A servant arrived with tea for the professor’s guests and a glass of magnetized water for the professor. A daily circuit of the Ringstrasse and a glass of magnetized water was-so he believed-the key to a long and healthy life.
“Gabriel,” Asher continued, “tell Professor Priel about Liebermann and the von Kortig business.” He then turned to face Priel. “Listen to this. It’s quite scandalous.”
Gabriel Kusevitsky repeated Liebermann’s story.
When he had finished, Professor Priel was silent, his head slowly shaking from side to side.
“It’s political, of course, and what worries me is where it could lead,” said Asher. He spoke quickly, making expressive gestures with his hands. “I mean to say, if Liebermann is dismissed-and they get away with it-who will be next? Where will it end? Lieutenant Gustl has already cost Schnitzler his rank in the reservists, and I don’t believe for one minute that it was because he broke the code of honor by writing it, as the authorities insist. It cost him his rank because he is a Jew. One can see where this is going. There are passages in The Dybbuk where I am critical of the church. If things continue like this, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if an official turns up and closes down the theatre.”
“Liebermann,” said the professor. “What’s his first name?”
“Max,” said Gabriel. “Professor Freud speaks very highly of him. I’ve read a few of his case studies and was most impressed by his paper on paranoia erotica. It would be a great shame if his career was blighted because of political opportunism.”
“Oh, then I really must do something,” said Professor Priel.
Gabriel sipped his tea and returned the cup to its saucer. On landing, it produced an unusually loud chime.
“Be that as it may,” Gabriel continued, “he is not very active in our circle. He has not associated himself with our charitable organizations and causes.”
“Is he a member of the lodge?”
“No, I don’t think he is. I met him there when Professor Freud gave his last talk, but I had never seen him there before-and have not seen him there since.”
“I don’t think that should concern us,” said the professor. “He is a talented young man with prospects. He needs help, and I may be in a position to provide it. Rothenstein has some exceptional lawyers in his employ. One can’t just stand by and watch something like this happening. Asher is quite right. In the end, if something isn’t done, we’ll all be affected. Never forget what Councillor Faust was proposing in his article. Where can I find him, this Liebermann fellow?”
Gabriel was dressed in the very same jacket that he had been wearing in the Cafe Central. He reached into his pocket, found Liebermann’s card, and gave it to Professor Priel.
“He works at the General Hospital.”
“Good. I’ll see what I can do.”
Priel took a swig of magnetized water. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, invigorating and refreshing his nerves and muscles. He looked over at the reproduction of Moses. A good man’s work was never done.
66
Nahum Nagel was sitting behind the counter of the general store, watching the scales seesaw. He was deep in thought.
Everybody was convinced.
Everybody was expecting salvation.
But was it really going to happen? When the thugs came again, what should he expect? Would the ground tremble as its massive feet stomped down the alleyway? Would the shop door be thrown open, would it duck beneath the lintel and grab the villains? Would it rip off their heads, right there, on the other side of the counter, before his very eyes?
The gossip went round and round in his head, like whispering in a cloister.
Alois Gasse… mud… Prague… golem…
Upstairs, his father was coughing. If they didn’t move very soon, the old man would die.
Nahum removed one weight and added another. The scale tipped and began, through its slow reciprocal motion, to negotiate a different resting point. As the dishes rose and fell, it struck Nahum that the process was like a dialogue between two parties: offers made, rejected, reviewed, and finally accepted. The angle at which the scale bar finally came to rest was, in effect, a compromise.