“I interviewed him yesterday.”
“And…?”
“I thought him rather odd.”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Indeed.” Rheinhardt smiled. “However, I believe his peculiarity exceeded my usual expectations even for a member of your esteemed profession.”
“Interesting…,” said Liebermann, turning his brandy glass and examining the patterns of light thus created.
“What is?”
“Kusevitsky knows a great deal about Jewish mythology, and he is currently conducting research into universal symbolism in dreams.” Rheinhardt looked bemused. “That is to say, symbols that have the same meaning from person to person. They are thought to be residues of collective human experience that pass from one generation to the next via an inherited region of the unconscious. Universal symbols are also thought to appear in folktales. It follows that different races may have different common symbols.”
“Now,” said Rheinhardt. “That is interesting.”
Liebermann remembered Asher Kusevitsky’s words: They want a purge. They treat us like a plague…
“His brother, Asher Kusevitsky, is a playwright. He was with Gabriel when we met in the Cafe Central. They were both sitting at Arthur Schnitzler’s table. Asher was talking to Schnitzler about his latest play. I formed an impression that Asher is as preoccupied with myths and legends as is Gabriel. He has written a play called The Dybbuk, which I believe is an evil spirit in Jewish folklore.”
“When we last spoke, you mentioned a medical condition-folie a deux. You described it as contagious insanity. You said that it typically affects two people.”
“Indeed, and it is observed most frequently in couples who are related: spouses, for example-or siblings.” Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “However,” Liebermann added, “I must urge caution. We are getting carried away with ourselves. Surely you must have noticed Gabriel Kusevitsky’s physique. His brother is just the same. Did you shake Gabriel’s hand?”
“No.”
“He is a weakling. I was worried that I might snap his fingers.”
Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar. “Still, there is something to discover here, perhaps-something worth pursuing. We need to know more about these brothers.” The inspector poured himself a brandy. He raised the glass to his lips and signaled his approval. “So-Barash. What did he have to say this time?”
“He told me, in his cryptic way, that I am about to die.”
Rheinhardt coughed and spluttered. “What?”
“Another prophecy, I fear,” said Liebermann calmly. “He was right about Brother Stanislav, of course. I can only hope that he is wrong about me. I must admit that since our interview I cannot walk down an alley without first glancing over my shoulder.”
Liebermann stood by the window, looking out into the night, his breath producing a silver-gray condensate on the cold glass.
The remainder of the evening had been taken up with discussion about his interview with Barash and the zaddik’s slip of the tongue. Barash had inadvertently claimed to have the power to make a golem. Could it be interpreted as a kind of confession? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s underlying megalomania? A zaddik, after all, was supposed to communicate with God.
Liebermann had raised many questions and provided too few answers. His conclusions about Barash were equivocal. Before his departure Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann if he wanted protection. The young doctor had declined. He did not want a constable following him everywhere.
In the street below, a peasant cart rolled past, its driver illuminated by a red lantern. The spoked wheels reminded Liebermann of the music that he had played earlier, the repetitive figures that Schubert had employed to represent endless rotation.
The mill wheel, the spinning wheeclass="underline" turning, turning, turning…
Again he found himself thinking about the conversation he had had with Miss Lydgate outside the Karlskirche: gear mechanisms, screws, helical threads.
He went to bed and fell into a fitful, disturbed sleep.
In the morning, Liebermann unlocked his bureau and took out his journal. He would take it with him to the hospital. He needed to work through some of his thoughts.
69
Professor Priel was already seated in the parlor when Anna Katzer entered. She was wearing purple because she suspected that this was to be no ordinary social call. The professor’s note had promised some news pertaining to the matter raised-on your behalf-by the Kusevitsky brothers. The “matter” that he had alluded to could only be the women’s refuge in Leopoldstadt.
The Kusevitskys had introduced Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl to Priel after a theatrical event, and the two women had spoken to him at some length about their plans. He had been very attentive and had asked a number of questions.
Anna’s heart was beating fast with excitement. She wished that Olga Mandl were there, but her friend had been unable to come. She was languishing in bed with a very bad cold.
The professor stood to greet her. He was taller than Anna recollected, and spry, with unusually bright eyes.
“Fraulein Katzer!” he declared. “So good to see you again.”
Anna offered her hand, and the professor leaned forward, brushing his lips and whiskers against her skin.
“Professor Priel, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She was feeling guilty, having taken far too long to decide what she would wear.
“Not at all. I was admiring the landscapes.”
“Tea?”
“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”
Anna called the maid and communicated their need for refreshment with a mimetic gesture, a barely noticeable tilt of the wrist.
The professor waited for Anna to sit. Then, adjusting his frock coat, he lowered himself onto the sofa.
“Well, Fraulein Katzer, I have some good news for you. I have spoken to Herr Rothenstein about your plans for the new refuge, and he was extremely impressed.” Anna produced a radiant smile and clasped her hands together. “I mentioned Hallgarten’s promise of five thousand kronen and suggested to Rothenstein that he might consider donating an equivalent sum; however, Rothenstein declined.” Anna’s smile died on her face. “He is a generous man,” the professor continued. “But also a proud one.” He shook his head. “Pride. A human frailty all too common, I am sorry to say, among the captains of commerce and industry.”
“But you said you had some good news,” Anna sighed.
The professor raised his finger, tacitly requesting her to suspend judgment.
“Herr Rothenstein would not-could not-countenance an arrangement that would place him on an equal footing with Hallgarten. He was insistent that he should be named as the principal benefactor. Subsequently, he authorized me to provide you with funds, payable to the Jewish Women’s Refuge Trust, of fifteen thousand kronen.” Anna’s mouth fell open. “Congratulations, Fraulein Katzer. A very deserving cause. I wish you and Fraulein Mandl every success in your enterprise.”
Anna was speechless for a few moments before she laughed out loud. “Thank you, Herr Professor. I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” said Priel. “After all, it isn’t my money.”
“However, it was you, dear professor, who brought our project to Herr Rothenstein’s attention.”
“Yes,” said Priel, extending the syllable and allowing its pitch to fall and rise. “But only because of the Kusevitsky brothers. If it wasn’t for them…” He finished his sentence with a shrug, as if divesting himself of any last vestige of responsibility for having obtained the donation.
The maid arrived with a tray full of tea things and a plate of vanilla biscuits. Anna was too excited to drink tea. In fact, her tea, untouched, went cold as she spoke with compelling sincerity about her intention to make the Leopoldstadt refuge a model institution.