Deadly Communion (28 page)

‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.’

‘Do you remember the title of the fairy story? What did Frau Middleton call it?’

‘I think she called it
Jack and the
Beanstalk.’

‘So the defining image of the story is …’

‘The beanstalk?’

‘That is correct.’

Erstweiler looked perplexed.

‘You think it
means
something? The beanstalk?’

‘I do.’

‘Well — perhaps you’d care to enlighten me.’

‘Think of it as an object with features — some of which are shared with other things.’

Erstweiler made some grumbling noises and then said: ‘A beanstalk is long … and it grows.’

‘Excellent. Remember also that you described the beanstalk
rising up.’

‘You think that’s significant?’

‘Very much so. Come now, Herr Erstweiler, apply yourself. What is long and rises up? What grows and stands erect?’

Erstweiler’s eyes opened wide.

‘Herr doctor — am I understanding you correctly? Are you implying …’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you implying that the beanstalk in my dream represents the male reproductive organ?’

‘I am indeed. Your dream is — fundamentally — a sexual dream. It is about sexual longing and a forbidden wish fulfilled.’

‘Herr doctor, this is ludicrous!’ Erstweiler sneered. ‘My dream is a recollection of a story told to me when I was a child. A story for
children!
How on earth could it be sexual?’

‘The unconscious often finds expression by appropriating innocent
material. Some memories — particularly if they are disturbing — are only permitted to enter awareness during sleep after donning a disguise. The more innocent the disguise, the more likely it is that the memories will find expression in a dream. Now, let us remind ourselves of the narrative: the boy — whose part you took in the dream — climbs up the beanstalk and discovers a castle on a cloud. In the castle is a goose who lays golden eggs, which belongs to an ogre. The boy steals the goose, but is pursued. On reaching the ground, the boy chops down the beanstalk and the ogre falls to his death.’

‘Herr doctor,’ said Erstweiler. ‘I am finding this conversation somewhat confusing …’

Liebermann ignored his patient’s objection.

‘We must delay consideration of the cloud for a short while and consider next the castle. Enclosed spaces — such as boxes, cases, chests, rooms, houses — and large buildings — are often symbolic of the uterus.’

‘Herr doctor, I asked you to convince me of my own insanity. But you seem determined to accomplish the very opposite. I find myself doubting
your
mental stability.’

‘A fact,’ Liebermann continued with blithe indifference, ‘which is underscored by the presence of the goose, whose golden eggs signal fertility.’

‘Herr doctor …’ Erstweiler’s fingers gripped his hospital gown.

‘Let us proceed,’ Liebermann pressed on, ‘to the proprietor of the castle. In my opinion, the ogre conflates two
real
individuals. Your father, whose ogre-like behaviour once caused you so much distress on top of the Stephansdom — a location, please note, that brought you close to the
clouds.
And Bozidar Kolinsky — who, like your father, was a brute.’

‘Bozidar Kolinsky,’ whispered Erstweiler. His grip tightened and the blood drained from his knuckles.

‘Indeed.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and watched the beads of perspiration forming on Erstweiler’s forehead. ‘In your dream, the ogre owned the goose. Now, consider
this,
Herr Erstweiler: over whom did Bozidar Kolinsky have an exclusive right of possession, by legal contract and in the sight of God?’

‘Frau Milena.’

‘Ergo …’

‘Frau Milena is the goose?’

‘And not just any goose — but a goose capable of laying golden eggs. I recall you saying that Herr Kolinsky was a miser …’

‘Herr doctor.’ Erstweiler swallowed. ‘I don’t feel well. My heart.’ He rested his palm on his chest. ‘I can feel it racing. Please, Herr doctor.’

‘We are almost finished.’ Liebermann touched his patient’s shoulder. ‘I hope that I have succeeded in persuading you that your dream was not as innocent as it first seems and that the characters therein correspond with real persons. But what of the story? Does the narrative itself correspond with actual events?’

‘My heart!’

‘Again, in my opinion, this is almost certainly the case, and I would propose the following: you fell in love with Frau Milena — and grew to hate her husband, Bozidar Kolinsky. It was unfair, wasn’t it? That an uncouth, brutish man should be married to someone so young and beautiful. Frau Milena seduced you — and together you
hatched
a plan. You would kill Bozidar Kolinsky, Frau Milena would inherit his property, take his miser’s horde, and you would both be able to—’

‘No, no, no …’ Erstweiler sat bolt upright and looked at the door. ‘Stop this! He’s coming — I can feel it.’

‘The boy in the English fairy story killed the ogre with an axe. He chopped the beanstalk down — an image which also conveniently
suggests castration — just as you, presumably, chopped down Bozidar Kolinsky. It would not have been difficult if he was drunk. And I must suppose you did so with great vigour, drawing on a store of anger and resentment formerly reserved for your father. Each blow was an assertion of your new-found potency.’

Erstweiler called out: ‘No, no … please, Herr doctor. Do something.’

‘When it was dark, you dragged Bozidar Kolinsky down to the basement and hacked his body into little pieces. There are many places in Simmering where one can easily dispose of small packages: factory incinerators, the Neustadter canal …’

Erstweiler screamed: a loud, tormented wail.

Rheinhardt appeared in the doorway.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, dear God!’ cried Erstweiler. ‘I told you he was real … Can’t you see him? I am finished … finished!’

Erstweiler clutched his chest, his eyes rolled, and he fell back onto the rest bed. His arm stuck out at an awkward angle.

‘Good God, Max,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’

Liebermann rose from his chair and lifted Erstweiler’s wrist.

‘No one has ever died of hallucinations, Oskar. There is no need to worry. His heart is racing, but he is in no great danger.’

‘What happened?’

‘Exactly what I thought would happen. I confronted him with the truth, and his psyche divided. His mind was not robust enough to survive the trauma of killing a man in cold blood: memories of that dreadful murderous night could not be integrated with earlier memories and were subsequently projected onto a hallucinatory alter ego — his doppelgänger.’

‘He cannot remember what he did?’

‘The memories of that night exist in his unconscious; however,
whenever Erstweiler is reminded of his crime the anxiety and guilt become intolerable, and the memories are disowned — externalised.’

‘Will he remember now — when he wakes?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see; however, he has just had a pitiless and uncompromising encounter with the truth and there is a good chance that his defences have been shattered.’

Erstweiler groaned. He turned his head to the side and a thin plumb line of clear saliva dropped from the corner of his mouth.

‘What I don’t understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘is why his accomplice ran off, leaving her house behind and presumably whatever monies Herr Kolinsky had saved. I mean to say, it rather defeats the object of the exercise. Presumably the plan was to report Herr Kolinsky missing to the police and in due course they intended to embark on a new life together. They just might have got away with it!’

‘The answer is quite straightforward,’ Liebermann responded. ‘Frau Milena, like Herr Erstweiler, was not a natural wrongdoer. She would never have been able to kill her husband unassisted: she needed someone to do it for her. Even so, complicity was not enough to dilute her guilt. It must have risen up, unexpected, and crashed around her like a great wave of horror and misery. She could not cope, and in a state of extreme distress she sought relief by interposing as much distance as she could between herself and the scene of her crime.’

‘Where do you think she is?’

‘Who knows?’

‘I wonder when she left.’

‘That question I think I can answer. Her departure would have coincided with the onset of Erstweiler’s illness. The two are linked. One can imagine the poor fellow, waking up, reaching out across the empty bed, no longer able to benefit from the sweet, soothing balm of confederacy. He would have risen that morning and stood in the fierce heat of his own conscience. And — more importantly — he would
have been aware that he stood there alone. When he looked at himself in the shaving mirror he would have seen not Norbert Erstweiler, warehouse clerical officer, but the repugnant face of a murderer. Thus, the idea of the doppelgänger insinuated itself into his mind and sank into the seedbed of imagination that is the unconscious.’

Rheinhardt tapped Erstweiler on the cheeks with the palm of his hand.

‘Herr Erstweiler …’ The man groaned. His eyelids flickered — showing only the whites — and then closed again. ‘He looks delirious.’

‘He’s in shock, that’s all.’

Rheinhardt sat down in Liebermann’s chair.

‘If he remembers — when he wakes — will we be able to get a confession out of him?’

‘I expect so.’

‘This is all very extraordinary.’

Liebermann smiled.

‘Yes, it is.’ Then, remembering their previous brittle exchange, when Rheinhardt had questioned the propriety of probing the darkest regions of the mind, Liebermann added: ‘Psychiatry has its uses.’ He could not resist a final sharp reiteration of his belief in the sanctity of
all
knowledge, however unpalatable. ‘It is always better to know than not to know. One would be foolish to enter hell with a sputtering candle when a fiery torch was close to hand.’

‘Touché, my friend,’ laughed Rheinhardt. ‘Touché!’

L
IEBERMANN WALKED DOWN THE
hospital corridor in a way that betrayed his eagerness. His stride was long and his expression earnest. In due course he came to a room that was guarded by a constable. The officer bowed and clicked his heels.

‘Anything to report?’ asked Liebermann.

The constable shook his head.

Liebermann knocked on the door. There was no reply.

He knocked again.

‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ said the constable.

‘When was the last time you took a look at him?’

‘About half an hour ago.’

‘Was he asleep then?’

‘No. He was just staring into space.’ The constable shivered. ‘Those eyes … they go right through you.’

‘Thank you, constable.’

Liebermann turned the handle and entered the room. Sprenger was sitting up in bed. One of his legs was encased in plaster and his left arm was supported by a sling. Some blood had seeped through the bandage wrapped around his head. His gaze was locked on a fixed point on an imaginary horizon.

‘Good afternoon, Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann. The young doctor pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. ‘I hope you are feeling better today.’

Sprenger did not move.

‘If you are in pain, then I do hope you will say so. I have spoken to Nurse Egger who informs me that you have not requested any medication. This is most unusual given the severity of your injuries and I suspect that you are suffering in silence. It is perfectly reasonable — and acceptable — for you to request pain relief.’

Liebermann allowed a lengthy pause before continuing.

‘Do you know who I am, Herr Sprenger?’

The young doctor stood up and waved a hand in front of Sprenger’s face.

Not even a blink.

Liebermann wondered whether Sprenger’s condition was in fact more serious than he or Professor Bieler had appreciated. The undertaker’s impassive mien and uncanny stillness suggested brain damage.

‘Can you hear me, Herr Sprenger?’

Liebermann took Sprenger’s pulse, which was normal. He then produced a small mirror and directed light into Sprenger’s eyes. The pupils shrank. Sprenger’s breathing was slow and regular.

The young doctor sighed, crossed to the window, and gripped the iron bars. He looked down on an empty courtyard.

‘Elective mutism,’ he said flatly. ‘You are perfectly capable of speaking to me. You are just choosing not to.’

Outside in the corridor a trolley rattled past. The constable called out. Although it was not possible to hear his exact words, the tone of his voice was clearly playful. A coquettish contralto laugh followed. There were a few more exchanges, and the rattle of the trolley faded.

Liebermann sat down again.

‘I would like you to speak to me. I would like you to say whatever comes into your mind, without any attempt to censor the flow of ideas and images.’

Time passed.

‘Do you dream, Herr Sprenger?’

The undertaker turned his head slowly and looked directly at Liebermann. His eyes gathered in the light and shone like sapphires.

‘“Night is the other half of life, and the better half.”’

Liebermann sat up.

‘What does that mean to you — that quote?’

Sprenger turned away again.

After a few minutes, Liebermann stood and prepared a syringe. He took Sprenger’s right arm and carefully administered some analgesic.

‘That should help,’ said Liebermann. ‘You must get into the habit of asking for morphium when you need it.’

Liebermann put the syringe away and lifted his bag onto the bed.

‘I would like to understand your …’ Liebermann searched for the right word and, finding none suitable, settled on the neutral ‘objectives.’ He reached into his bag and removed a notebook and pencil. He placed them on Sprenger’s bedside cabinet. ‘I’m leaving some writing materials. Just here — in easy reach. When you are feeling stronger, I would like you to consider writing a history. Your history.’ Liebermann closed his bag and snapped the hasp shut. ‘For the moment, however, you should rest. I will try to visit you every day.’

W
HAT WAS IT LIKE
? Communion?