Fatal Lies (26 page)

When they reached the
Adagio molto espressivo,
Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backwards as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marvelled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also shine so brightly. His stare dropped – briefly – to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the
pianissimo
passages he could detect the
creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet – the totality of a woman's smell – but it had slipped from his memory . . .

After they had finished playing the Spring Sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the
scherzo
, and wondered whether the
rondo
had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.

‘
Allegro ma non troppo,
' she said, curtly.

They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.

‘Well,' he said, evidently apprehensive. ‘It was very beautiful . . . a very lyrical reading . . .'

‘However?'

‘You inserted a few glissandi in the
adagio,
which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.' Not wishing to be harsh, he added: ‘I am simply pointing this out because Rosé will almost certainly object.'

‘And . . .?' Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann's features.

‘The vibrato,' said Liebermann. ‘Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.'

‘I see,' she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the
rondo
.

As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day.
It was as though the lightning strike had never happened – and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practise the Spring Sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rosé. ‘
Yes
,' she had said. ‘
If you don't mind – that would be very helpful . . .
'

When they had finished the
rondo
, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.

‘What was that?'

‘A folk song: did you like it?'

‘Yes. It sounded rather . . . unusual.'

Trezska played another angular phrase.

‘I learned it from a peasant woman. It had been taught to her by her mother, who had learned it in turn from
her
mother – the woman's grandmother. The song is called “The Reaper” – and it has been passed down, so she said, from mother to daughter, for countless generations. I asked her how old it was and she replied, “
As old as the world
.”'

Trezska drew her bow across the lower strings and produced a primitive, haunting melody. It was based on a simple modal figure – but was executed with excessive and wild ornamentation. The metre was irregular, changing every few bars. It was a sound that conjured an image of people working the land, engaged in perpetual backbreaking toil: it suggested great plains and an overarching sky – the scorching summers and bitter winters of an infinite steppe.

‘Quite extraordinary,' said Liebermann.

‘The
real
music of my country,' Trezska said proudly.

‘Would you play some more?'

‘No, not now. Another time. We have work to do . . .'

‘Of course.'

They played some more Beethoven, and a few Mozart sonatas –
including the little E minor. In due course, Liebermann raised his wrist and pointed to his watch. The law decreed that music making in Vienna had to cease at eleven – and it had just gone half past ten.

‘It is getting late – and, sadly, we must bring our music making to an end. Besides, you must be tired. Shall we find you a cab?'

Trezska smiled, and shook her head.

‘That won't be necessary. I have no intention of returning to Landstrasse.'

She glanced through the open double doors and across the hallway, to what she clearly hoped was Liebermann's bedroom.

GEROLD SOMMER PEERED
out of his window. He was grateful that the sky had cleared and the moon was shining brightly. A lamp at this hour would be conspicuous in the grounds of the school. He put on his coat, picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches, and hopped down the corridor on his crutches. Thankfully, Lang was a heavy sleeper. Sommer turned the key carefully and pushed the front door open. The air was freezing. He thought of returning to his room to get some gloves and a hat but decided against it. Too much noise . . .

The path sparkled with frost and was easy to follow. It took him to the front of the school. He passed the statue of St Florian and entered the courtyard. It was much darker beneath the cloisters, and it was at this point that he lit his lamp. He adjusted the wick so that it provided just enough illumination for him to find his way – but no more.

Once inside the school, he progressed to the back of the building and with great difficulty descended a flight of stairs that led to a large damp basement room, one wall of which was covered in lockers. They were arranged in alphabetical order. Sommer lowered the lamp, and read the names: Zehrer, Zeigler,
Zelenka
. He pulled the wooden door open and waved the lamp around, attempting to illuminate the shadowy recess.

Nothing . . .

He placed the lamp on the floor and thrust his hand inside the locker, frantically exploring the space with his fingertips.

Still nothing . . .

He cursed under his breath.

‘Looking for something?'

It was a young voice – one of the boys.

Sommer started and swung around.

On the other side of the room the speaker struck a match. The flame slowly rose to meet the end of a cigarette and cast a yellow light over the distinctive features of Kiefer Wolf. ‘It's no good, sir,' said the boy, exhaling a cloud of smoke, ‘all Zelenka's possessions were removed. Well . . . with the exception of one item.'

Sommer swallowed.

‘What . . . what was it?'

‘The only thing that I thought was worth taking: a rather fine dictionary.'

‘Give it to me.'

‘Why should I?'

‘It's of no use to you.'

‘True. But it's clearly of considerable use to you!'

As Wolf drew on his cigarette, his face reappeared – infernal, in the red incandescence.

‘What do you want, Wolf?'

‘Only that you continue to honour our arrangement.'

‘I've already said that I would. I'll keep my word . . . You don't need that dictionary as well!'

‘Have you read much Nietzsche, sir?'

‘What?'

‘Nietzsche – the philosopher.'

‘I know who he is, boy!' said Sommer, suddenly angered.

‘According to Nietzsche,' said Wolf, ‘you can never have enough power.'

LIEBERMANN WAS UNFAMILIAR
with Zielinski's – but it was where Trezska had insisted that they meet: a small, dilapidated coffee house, close to her apartment in Landstrasse. He had chosen to sit at the rear of the coffee house on one of several quilted benches, arranged in pairs, with an oblong table between: a small velvet drape increased privacy by partitioning the heads of adjacent patrons.

Liebermann looked at his wristwatch. Trezska was late. As time passed, he began to look at his wristwatch with increasing frequency, succumbing by degree to worries about her safety. He was considerably relieved, therefore, when the door opened and she finally appeared. The young doctor waved, capturing her attention. Trezska smiled and rushed over, flushed and a little agitated.

‘I'm so sorry. My first lesson with Rosé – it lasted much longer than I expected.'

Liebermann stood and kissed her on the cheek. Now that she had arrived the wait that he had endured seemed inconsequential.

‘How was it? The lesson?' Liebermann asked.

Trezska pulled a dissatisfied face.

‘I could have played better.' She beckoned a waiter: ‘Absinthe . . . and some sugared almonds.'

Liebermann shifted along the bench and invited Trezska to sit next to him. She slid her violin case under the table and sidled up close.

‘Forgive me,' said Trezska. ‘I am exhausted. Rosé is a demanding
teacher – and very pedantic. At one point, he even questioned the way I was holding my bow! The Mozart was acceptable but the Beethoven . . .' She shook her head. ‘Very poor.'

‘What was wrong with it?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps I allowed myself to become overawed . . . the performance was too timid.'

‘What did Rosé say?'

‘He was polite enough – but clearly unimpressed. He wasn't happy with my phrasing and thought that I was treating certain rhythmic figures too freely; however, if I had been more at ease, I am sure I could have produced a more confident performance. Then he might have been better able to understand what I was trying to achieve and less inclined to seize on what he saw as technical deficiencies.'

‘Perhaps you will be able to communicate your intentions better next time? You will be more accustomed to Rosé – and less anxious, no doubt.'

Trezska took his hand and squeezed it affectionately – an expression of gratitude for his solicitous remarks.

The waiter returned and deposited Trezska's order, along with a carafe of water, on their table. She reached out and turned the bottle so she could examine the label. It showed an eighteenth-century dandy in a striped jacket and Napoleonic hat being approached by a flower girl. The legend read
Jules Pernod, Avignon
.

Liebermann asked Trezska about Rosé's teaching practices, and then indulged in a little musical gossip.

‘Did you see his wife?'

‘No.'

‘She is Director Mahler's sister . . . they married only last year. In fact, the day after the director himself got married. They say that when Rosé was at Bayreuth the orchestra lost their way in the middle of
Die Walküre.
He stood up and with great skill managed to get them
all playing together again. Mahler was in the audience and is supposed to have exclaimed – “
Now, that's what I call a concert master!
”'

‘How is it that you know so much about Rosé?' asked Trezska, a line of perplexity appearing across her forehead.

‘This is Vienna,' said Liebermann – as if no further explanation was necessary.

Trezska lifted the bottle and poured a small quantity of absinthe into two tall glasses. The liquor shimmered. It was translucent, like melted emeralds.

‘Watering absinthe is something of an art,' said Trezska. ‘One must conduct the ritual with the same reverence that the Oriental peoples reserve for their tea ceremonies.'

She picked up a miniature perforated trowel and balanced it across the rim of her glass. Taking a lump of sugar from the bowl, she placed it on the pinholes, then, tilting the carafe, she allowed a weak, twisting trickle of water to douse the sugar. The white crystals dissolved and opaque droplets fell into the glass, turning the elixir a milky green. After a few moments, the absinthe became magically opalescent. It seemed to emit a pale glow, like the mysterious light of fireflies. The air filled with a redolence that was difficult to describe – a sickly bouquet with coppery traces.

‘How long have you been drinking absinthe?' Liebermann asked.

‘Oh, for some time now: I first became partial to the
green fairy
's charms while I was studying in Paris.'

‘Yes, it is something of an institution there, I understand.'

‘More than that – a religion.'

Trezska maintained the steady flow of water.

‘You know,' said Liebermann, ‘I once read a monograph by the distinguished Parisian physician Doctor Valentin Magnan, of the asylum of Sainte-Anne. In it, he identified a specific neurological condition that he styled
absinthe epilepsy
. Magnan contends that
absinthe can affect the motor centres of the cerebellum and the paracerebellar nuclei, producing convulsions and hallucinations of sight and hearing.'

‘It is also the inspiration of poets,' said Trezska, ‘the favoured spirit of visionaries, and an extremely potent aphrodisiac.'

Their eyes met. Liebermann smiled and pushed his glass towards her.

‘You doctors,' she said, watering the second absinthe. ‘You seem to find fault with everything. You'll be saying that smoking is bad for you next.'

Liebermann drew on his cigar.

‘Well, I must admit, it has been suggested . . . but that can't be true.'

‘How is it cured, this absinthe epilepsy?'

‘Magnan recommends long cold baths – up to five hours – and purges of Sedlitz water.'

‘In which case, I would rather suffer from the illness than endure its treatment!
Proost!
'

They lifted their glasses and touched them together. The controlled, gentle collision produced a low-pitched
clunk
. Liebermann took a tentative sip and savoured the unusual flavour.