I formed the impression that Samuel Lydgate had used his daughter as an amanuensis, and that she had spent most of her time during this Italian adventure traipsing around old buildings and holed up in dusty archives. This, I could see, she regarded as entirely normal! The sun was setting, and its red light found corresponding tones in her hair. She was talking about a geometric feature of Brunelleschi’s dome called the quinto acuto, or pointed fifth. I have a dim recollection of certain words: “radius,” “curvature,” “intersecting arches.” But what I remember most is a feeling of quiet desperation. I wanted so much to reach out and link my fingers with hers. But instead, I found myself agreeing with her on some point that I had barely been able to follow.
On returning home I attacked the Chopin Studies: a definite improvement. Perhaps the Klammer Method is working. On the other hand, venting one’s frustrations at the keyboard typically produces a more impressive performance. And I am at present nothing if not frustrated.
34
Gabriel Kusevitsky opened the door of his apartment and found his brother Asher lying on the sofa, a pen in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On his lap was a notebook. The pages were covered in Asher’s jagged script and splotches of ink. Distributed around the sofa were balls of scrunched-up paper, unsuccessful drafts that had been ripped out. Although it was still light outside, the curtains had been drawn and a paraffin lamp burned on the table. The air was stale with cigarette smoke.
Asher looked up. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Where have you been?”
Gabriel started to respond, stopped himself, and then smiled nervously. He dropped his umbrella into the stand and said, “I went to see Anna.”
“But you saw her only a few days ago.”
“Yes, that’s true, but…” Gabriel’s sentence trailed off. He shrugged, and moved toward his bedroom door.
“Gabriel?” Gabriel stopped and looked back at his brother. “Gabriel, it wasn’t easy for Professor Priel to get you that scholarship. The case for such a research project had to be made. There were many applicants, all of them good.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You have work to do.”
“I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Gabriel walked over to the sofa and rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How is the new play coming along?”
Asher made a sweeping gesture with his hand, drawing Gabriel’s attention to the scrunched-up sheets of paper.
“Slowly.”
“Have you been out today?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to get you something?”
“I’m not hungry.” Asher looked up at his brother. “Did you really go to see Anna again?”
“Yes.”
“You must be very fond of her.”
Gabriel nodded. “I am.”
“I’m happy for you. But you must not let Professor Priel down, and you must not neglect your work.”
Gabriel put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a book with a battered cloth cover.
“Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Hildebrandt’s treatise on dreams. It’s a first edition-1875, Leipzig. I bought it for next to nothing from an old man selling books from a stall. He had no idea what it was.”
Asher took the volume from his brother and flicked through the pages.
“Would I understand it?”
“Yes, it isn’t very technical. Professor Freud quotes Hildebrandt, an observation Hildebrandt made concerning memory and dreams… that dreams often reproduce remote or even forgotten events from our earliest years.” Asher closed the book. “Do you still get such dreams?”
“Sometimes.”
“I still get the hunting dream.”
“I know. You had it again the night before last. You were making noises in your sleep.”
Gabriel’s expression became intense.
“We were lion cubs this time, running across a frozen waste.”
“Did we get caught?”
“I could hear the Cossack behind us. The drumming of hooves. The swish of his blade. Then I woke up.”
“We escaped, then.” Asher passed the book back to his brother. “Go to bed. I want to finish this act tonight.”
35
Councillor Schmidt offered Bishop Waldheim more tea and a plate of steirische schneeballen-strips of dough molded into “snowballs,” fried until golden brown, and generously dusted with powdered sugar. The bishop accepted, and after biting through the crisp exterior of the pastry emitted a low growl to express his satisfaction. They had just finished interviewing Nurse Heuber.
“Not as forthcoming as we had hoped,” said the bishop.
“No,” said Schmidt.
“She was obviously quite anxious.”
“That’s it, you see… I think these people need to know that they have nothing to fear, that they have our full support.”
“Well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps not, Bishop. Perhaps not.” Schmidt sampled a snowball and was impressed by his cook’s achievement. The brittle surface offered just enough resistance, and the soft interior was redolent of vanilla and rum. “I may be a little more direct with the next witness,” Schmidt added. He looked toward the bishop for approval, his eyebrows raised slightly, expectant.
“Do whatever you think best,” said the bishop, collecting up the snowball remnants on his plate and pressing them between his unusually rosy lips.
When they had finished their tea, Schmidt summoned his butler and asked for Edlinger to be shown in. When the young man appeared, the councillor came around the table and shook his hand.
“Edlinger, dear boy, delighted you could come. We are most grateful.”
Schmidt introduced Bishop Waldheim, and the young man-impressed by his office-bowed ostentatiously low. The bishop, however, responded only by raising his hand and tracing a vague cruciform benediction in the air. Schmidt offered Edlinger a seat and then returned to his place beside the bishop.
“So, Edlinger,” said Schmidt. “I understand that you are a friend of my nephew Fabian.”
“Yes, we are well acquainted.”
“Indeed, he speaks very highly of you.”
Edlinger looked a little embarrassed, painfully aware that Fabian’s esteem had not been earned by acts of Christian charity.
“Well…,” said the young man, shrugging and hoping that his inarticulacy would pass for modesty.
Schmidt produced a benign, indulgent smile.
“You are an aspirant?”
“Yes.”
“And where do you want to practice, once you are qualified?”
“At the General Hospital.”
“And why not? It is, after all, the finest medical institution in the world. Do you have a special interest?”
“Liver disease.”
“Liver disease, eh? Well, I suppose Professor Hollar is your man. If you could get a position working under a specialist with his reputation, well, that would be a tremendous advantage, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Edlinger, somewhat confused. “It would.”
“A man like him has more private referrals than he can possibly see. He’s always passing wealthy patients on to his juniors. Yes, you couldn’t hope for a better start to a career in medicine.”
Again, Schmidt smiled.
Edlinger glanced nervously at the bishop.
“Well,” Schmidt continued, “I must apologize for involving you in a disciplinary matter, but you were present on the evening when the young Baron von Kortig died. You are, therefore, a key witness, and we would very much value your assistance. There are certain details that need to be-as it were-clarified.”
“Clarified?”
Schmidt picked up a piece of yellow paper. “I have here a letter, written by Father Benedikt to the old Baron von Kortig. In it he describes what transpired when he arrived to administer the last rites to the young baron.” Schmidt summarized the priest’s account. “Clearly, this is a very serious incident. The young baron was heinously denied the consolation of his faith, on his deathbed.” The bishop rumbled like distant thunder. “Incidents like this have the potential to destroy public trust in the medical profession, and bring the great institution of the General Hospital into disrepute.”