Deadly Communion (35 page)

‘Guilt — I suppose.’

‘What?’

‘That is why she gave herself up. Guilt. Like Erstweiler, her mental constitution was not strong enough to survive the emotional consequences of her own crime. When she and Erstweiler killed Bozidar Kolinsky, in a way they also killed themselves.’

Rheinhardt nodded in agreement. He took a second praline, the sweetness of which seemed to render him incapable of speech: an almost idiotic smile played around his lips. In due course he came to
his senses and said: ‘So —
Tristan anâ holâc
— thank you so much for getting tickets.’

‘Well, a celebration was in order, surely — and I thought the themes apposite.’

‘The reviews have been stupendous! The dawn of a new epoch in the history of opera — so they say.’

‘I am most eager to see Roller’s sets. Apparently, his work is richly symbolic. Everything he incorporates has meaning — even the colours and small decorative details. In this respect he’s a little like a psychoanalyst …’

They continued talking about the production’s excellent reviews until the orchestra finished tuning up, the lights dimmed, and the wiry frame of director Mahler appeared on the podium.

The prelude was exquisite, emerging naturally from the preceding moment of silence and repeatedly dissolving into mute lacunae before rising in a great wave of sound which — when it broke — created an indefinable yearning, the physicality of which united the audience in a collective and audible sigh. Mahler’s genius made the score entirely transparent, a slow tempo encouraging the ear to savour every melodic line and nuance. He was like some great anatomist, wielding his baton like a scalpel, revealing mysteries that had hitherto remained beyond the reach of human comprehension.

When the curtain rose, Liebermann found himself looking down on the deck of a ship, the rigging of which stretched out towards the audience. But this was no ordinary vessel: the sea that it had crossed was not the body of water separating Ireland from Cornwall but the deeper and less fathomable ocean of the unconscious. This vessel had sailed straight out of a dream. Liebermann noticed that the deck was strewn with curious objects: a gold chest shaped like a reliquary, a couch marked with pagan carvings, and sumptuous brocaded cushions.

Unfortunately, with the arrival of the singers, the music changed
— and the spell which had up to that point held Liebermann in thrall lost some of its potency. Although Liebermann was highly appreciative of Wagner’s orchestral writing, he frequently found the composer’s declarative vocal parts less impressive. Be that as it may, Liebermann was still able to enjoy the performance by focusing his attention on the statuesque figure of Anna von Mildenburg, who made an arresting Isolde. The great soprano was dressed entirely in silver-grey and wore a collar piece encrusted with semi-precious stones in a geometrical arrangement. It reminded Liebermann of Frau Vogl’s brooch …

During the first interval the two friends went outside to smoke cigars. They stood under the loggia talking about the performance and watching the carriages and trams rolling around the Ringstrasse.

‘How is Haussmann?’ Liebermann asked, suddenly recalling the last time he’d seen him: the poor boy writhing around on Sprenger’s floor.

‘I am pleased to report that he is fully recovered. In fact, he’ll be helping me with a little police business tomorrow morning.’

A beggar approached holding out a tin cup. As he advanced towards them a uniformed steward came out from behind the doors, waving his hands in the air: ‘Go on, away with you! Leave these gentlemen alone!’

Rheinhardt gestured for the steward to stand back, and dropped a coin in the cup.

‘Get yourself something warm to drink.’

The beggar bowed, touched the tin to his forehead, and shuffled off.

‘You shouldn’t encourage them, sir,’ said the steward.

‘No,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Perhaps not …’

When the curtain rose for the second act the stage was bathed in violet light: a garden, on a hot summer’s evening. An arched doorway and steep marble staircase led up to the keep of a fairy-tale castle that was partly obscured by trees. The battlements of the castle were glowing with a soft pink hallucinatory luminescence. Beyond a low wall, decked with lilacs, violets and white roses, the garden sloped
down to a glittering moonlit sea. The entire scene was constructed beneath a sky shimmering with thousands of stars. The effect was truly magical.

This, then, was the setting for the introduction of the idea of
Liebestod
— the love death — Wagner’s metaphysical conflation of desiring and oblivion. The orchestra surged, ecstatic and sublime, and the two lovers, Tristan and Isolde, sang of a need for each other so deep, so profound, that it would necessarily require their utter annihilation as individuals to be fulfilled.

—
Thus might we die, undivided

—
One for ever without end

—
Never waking

—
Never fearing

—
Embraced namelessly in love

The voices of Erik Schmedes and Anna von Mildenburg were so full of passion and power that Liebermann felt something catch close to his heart.

Again and again the lovers sang of their longing to be free of the world, the bliss of non-existence, and the heady pleasures of communion with the night: the effect was completely overwhelming.

Mildenburg’s voice soared above the turbulent orchestra.

— Let
me die.

And Liebermann too wanted to die — in love — and to kiss the
face of eternity …

It was in all of them, this insane obsession with sex and death. They were all sick: Sprenger, Erstweiler, Rainmayr, Wagner, Mahler, Schmedes and von Mildenburg. And yes, he — Max Liebermann — had to include himself at the end of this list. He was just as afflicted with the very same madness.

What was wrong with the German soul?

Why were love and death so intermingled in the German imagination?

Liebermann glanced across at Rheinhardt and saw that his cheeks were streaked with tears.

We
Viennese,
thought Liebermann to himself.
What will become of us?

R
AINMAYR WAS AWAKENED BY
a loud banging sound. As he surfaced from a pleasant dream of rising above Vienna in a hot-air balloon, the artist realised that someone was bashing on his door. He rolled off the mattress and called out: ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

He did not get a reply.

Swearing under his breath, Rainmayr pulled his kaftan over his head and crossed to the window. Outside, he saw an empty cart. From his vantage point he couldn’t see who it belonged to.

The banging became more violent.

‘All right, all right — I’m coming!’ Rainmayr shouted.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Inspector Rheinhardt, together with a smartly dressed young man and two constables.

‘Inspector Rheinhardt? What on earth do you think—’

The artist stepped out of the way as Rheinhardt marched purposefully into the studio, followed by his companions. Rheinhardt made a sweeping gesture and the constables began to pick up Rainmayr’s sketches and canvases.

‘No!’ shouted Rainmayr. He turned on Rheinhardt. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this!’

‘I changed my mind,’ Rheinhardt replied. Then, taking a step closer to Rainmayr, he continued: ‘I have consulted the state prosecutor and the case against you is very strong. You are charged with possessing
indecent images and with the seduction of young women below the legal age of consent. Possessing and supplying erotica is a serious offence which carries a maximum penalty of six months’ hard labour. The seduction of minors — you will appreciate — carries a more severe penalty.’

‘The seduction of minors! You have no proof.’

‘I’m afraid I do. Your friend the actor — you know, the one who lives over there.’ Rheinhardt pointed towards the window. ‘He did not require a very large incentive to provide us with a statement.’ Rheinhardt smiled and patted his coat pocket.

Rainmayr watched as the constables lifted his unfinished canvas from the easel. The officer carried it out through the door and there was a crashing sound as he threw it onto the cart.

‘You lied to me! You said you wouldn’t do this!’

‘Herr Rainmayr … you may think me immoral, but I can assure you that I have a code of conduct which my conscience does not allow me to breach. It may not be a moral code that you share — but it is a moral code nevertheless. A man with your strong views on the nature of morality must surely understand this. Come, now — get dressed. There is much that we must do today.’

T
HE SECURE HOSPITAL WAS
silent but for the sound of the warden’s footsteps as he made his midnight inspection of the upper floors of the east wing. Occasionally, Herr Trommler would stop outside a cell door, gently ease the viewing panel aside and peer through the grille at the occupant within. Most of the incarcerated men slept like babies. Very occasionally, he would see a candle flame and the hunched back of someone writing. Some of the men fancied themselves as poets and composed verses into the night. The warden had read some of their work and was surprised by its naivety — lyrical ballads about maidens and heroes.

A curious screeching drew Trommler towards one of the cell doors. He hadn’t ascertained yet whether Sprenger was a sleeper or a poet. Until now, the new admission had behaved very much like a sleeper.

The warden slid the viewing panel aside.

Sprenger was standing in the middle of the cell, arms outstretched. He was gazing up at the moon through a small barred window. Shafts of silver light angled through the opening and illuminated Sprenger’s body. He was naked, his clothes folded neatly on the bed. The screeching sound emanated from something which Sprenger held tightly in his right hand.

Trommler recoiled in horror when he realised that Sprenger was squeezing the life out of a plump rat. His horror turned to disgust when Sprenger convulsed and Trommler heard the smack of vital fluids spilling onto the concrete floor.

Trommler banged on the door and directed his flashlight into the cell.

Sprenger turned around slowly. He was still tumescent. Dropping the dead rat, he acknowledged Trommler with glistening, bloody fingers.

‘Night is the other half of life, and the better half,’ said Sprenger, smiling. The flashlight faded, but the smile impressed itself indelibly in the ineffable substance of Trommler’s soul. It was destined to reappear in his nightmares.

‘S
OMETHING
FOR
YOU
FROM
Inspector Rheinhardt,’ said Liebermann, handing the parcel to Amelia Lydgate.

‘For me?’

‘Yes. With gratitude for your assistance.’

The Englishwoman looked bemused.

‘But it is I who owe a debt to Inspector Rheinhardt. It was he who permitted me to attend Professor Mathias’s autopsies and I have profited greatly from my association with the professor.’

‘It is Inspector Rheinhardt’s opinion that your contribution to the investigation was significant and should therefore be rewarded.’

Amelia blushed, placed the parcel on her gateleg table and stroked the wrapping paper.

‘Well? Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘I will. But first, forgive my discourtesy, some tea? I must make you some tea. Please, do take a seat.’

Amelia excused herself and Liebermann sat down. He looked around, registering the various features of the familiar room: the blue vase with its unvarying choice of white blooms, books of Latin and Greek, the journals of Amelia’s grandfather Ludwig Buchbinder and, hanging on the wall, three mezzotint views of her homeland: the Royal Greenwich Observatory, the great cathedral of St Paul’s and a pastoral scene under which was written the words
The Heath from the South Front of Kenwood House, Hampstead
.

It had been over a month since Liebermann had visited the opera house with Rheinhardt, but as he waited for Amelia’s return his auditory imagination spontaneously recreated the glorious strains of the love duet from Tristan and Isolde. Once again he heard the voices of Erik Schmedes and Anna von Mildenburg. Beneath their declarations of love the orchestra heaved and swelled.

The inner music fragmented as the creaking stairs forewarned Liebermann of Amelia’s arrival. She entered the room and placed a tray of tea things on the table next to Rheinhardt’s gift. After pouring Liebermann a cup of Earl Grey tea and offering him a
vanillerkipferl
biscuit, she picked up the parcel and squeezed its surface. Something soft was contained inside.

‘Open it,’ said Liebermann.

Amelia’s hesitancy — her embarrassment — was affecting.

The habitual intensity of her expression was interrupted by a brief smile. Amelia tugged at the yellow bow and carefully unfolded the wrapping paper. The movement revealed some brightly coloured fabric inside. Lifting it up, she allowed the material to unfurl.

‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘It’s … beautiful.’

‘A reform dress from House Wolnik,’ said Liebermann, sipping his tea. ‘After her arrest, Frau Vogl transferred the deeds of her salon to her assistant Wanda Wolnik who, it seems, has a talent for design equal to her mentor’s.’

Amelia stroked the material and blinked at her guest.

‘How did Inspector Rheinhardt know that I …?’

‘He had a little help from his wife, who knows about such things — and I may have said something or other,’ Liebermann answered.

‘Thank you,’ said Amelia. A vertical crease appeared on her forehead. ‘I will write a note to Inspector Rheinhardt and his wife. It is a gift I will treasure.’

‘And wear — I hope,’ said Liebermann.

Amelia held the dress up against her body.

‘Oh, it’s so beautiful,’ she repeated.

‘Why don’t you try it on?’ Liebermann suggested.

Again — the briefest flickering smile.

‘If you wouldn’t mind …’

‘Of course not.’

Amelia left the room.

She was gone for some time. Liebermann finished his tea, ate a biscuit, and flicked through a textbook on blood diseases. The subject matter did not interest him much and he abandoned its study in favour of further consideration of the mezzotints.