Fatal Lies (27 page)

First, a strong impression of anise, but then the arrival of other registers, seeping out slowly, teasing the palate – a suggestion of mint, a tarry undercurrent of liquorice . . . After he had swallowed the absinthe and it had numbed the back of his throat, he became aware of an unpleasant medicinal aftertaste – as if an iron button had been dissolving in the saliva beneath his tongue.

‘Well?' asked Trezska. ‘What do you think?'

‘Interesting . . .'

‘Any hallucinations?'

‘No . . . but I can well believe a sufficient quantity might induce them!'

‘It happened to me once,' said Trezska nonchalantly. ‘I was sitting in a café on the Place Pigalle. I had been drinking with friends and fell into a kind of stupor . . . I felt a summer breeze on my face and heard the sound of a brook. The sun shone down on my closed eyes . . . It was all very vivid – and seemed to last for ever . . . When I was finally roused, I collected my things together and walked towards the door. Yet I could still feel the heavy heads of flowers brushing against my skirt.'

She turned to face Liebermann. Her expression was shadowed with dark sensuality. The absinthe glistened on her lips – an enticement that he was simply unable to resist. Liebermann leaned forward and kissed her. When they drew apart, she smiled and, taking his hand, locked her fingers between his.

Liebermann could now see now why Trezska had been so insistent that they meet in Zielniski's. It was the kind of establishment where a couple could become quite intimate without attracting much attention.

Trezska asked Liebermann about his work at the hospital, and he told her about the deluded jurist who claimed to be in conversation with an angelic being from Phobos. She listened intently and, after he had finished, said: ‘But how can you be sure that this old man
is
deluded?' Then they embarked on a philosophical discussion about the nature of reality, a conversation which became less and less coherent as they imbibed larger quantities of absinthe.

Liebermann gazed out into the coffee house through a dense pall of cigarette and cigar smoke. The clientele of Zielniski's was comprised of workmen, artists, and a few women whose abundant cleavages and raucous laughter declared their profession. Music was provided by a zither player: an unkempt gentleman with an eye-patch and wild white hair. He plucked an itinerant melody that at times became nothing more than a random selection of pitches.
Occasionally something recognisable would emerge – a fragment of Strauss or Lanner, but no more than a musical paring, flotsam on a wash of watery strumming. No one seemed to mind, and indeed, after a while, Liebermann began to find the abstract ambient qualities of the zither player's improvisations quite pleasing.

Liebermann stared into the pallid opalescent mixture in his glass. He took a deep breath and asked:

‘What happened . . . that day, on the Prater?'

‘Ah,' Trezska replied. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ask.'

‘You had what? A premonition?'

She sighed.

‘You are a doctor . . . a man of science. You do not believe in such things, I am sure.'

‘I . . .' Liebermann was conscious of his own deceit but could not stop himself. ‘I have an open mind.'

Trezska did not looked convinced.

‘There are many respectable scientific societies,' Liebermann continued, ‘who take a serious interest in paranormal phenomena. Even Professor Freud, the most ardent of sceptics, has demonstrated a certain willingness to entertain the idea of mind-to-mind communication – telepathy . . .'

Trezska's features softened, indicating that she had decided to give her companion the benefit of the doubt.

‘Yes, I do get strong feelings sometimes. It is supposed to be in my blood . . . my mother's side.'

‘Second sight?'

‘Whatever you want to call it.'

Liebermann's expression became troubled.

‘But could it not be that . . . we were walking in an open space and, rather foolishly, chose to stand under the tallest tree. This, of
course, would be the tree most likely to attract lightning. If we had discussed our situation, we might have concluded that we were in danger.' Liebermann sipped his absinthe. ‘Now, could a similar process have taken place in your unconscious mind? You were not aware of the process but experienced only its product or consequence – namely, fear. Comparable dissociative processes operate in dreams, and serve to disguise their meaning.'

Trezska playfully tapped Liebermann's cheek.

‘Why must you try to explain everything?'

‘It is generally better to understand things . . . than not.'

Trezska selected a pink sugared almond from the bowl and pressed it between her lips. As she sucked the icing from the nut, she pouted. This repetitive and subtle movement aroused in Liebermann a desperate desire to kiss her again.

‘According to my mother,' said Trezska, ‘her side of the family are related to the house of Báthory.'

Liebermann's expression became blank.

‘You've never heard of Erzsebet Báthory?' Trezska continued. ‘The vampire countess?'

‘What?' Liebermann laughed.

‘She was a Transylvanian noblewoman. Legend has it that she first killed and then bathed in the blood of nearly a thousand young maidens – simply to preserve her beauty.'

Trezska produced a faint, ambiguous smile. Liebermann could not determine whether she was being serious or joking. He began to feel distinctly odd: woozy, detached. His vision blurred and he moved his head backwards and forwards to regain his focus.

‘Are you all right?' Trezska asked.

The strange jangling of the zither sounded peculiarly loud – a concatenation of gongs and bells.

‘I fear,' said Liebermann, ‘that Doctor Magnan's speculations
concerning the effects of absinthe on the brain may be correct.' His speech was slurring. ‘Indeed, I would hazard a guess that the active chemical ingredients have just reached my cerebellum and my paracerebellar nuclei, with predictable consequences.'

‘Perhaps I should take you home?' said Trezska.

He felt her hand unlock from his, and the heat of her palm on his thigh.

‘Yes,' Liebermann replied. ‘Perhaps you should.'

IT WAS THE
dead of night. A thick mist had descended into the valley and the four boys had to consult a compass to find their way. They assiduously avoided footpaths and as a result their progress was slow. The ground was muddy and treacherous – an adhesive mulch that made each step effortful. Boggy hollows were brimming with ice-cold filthy water that filled their boots and soaked their trousers. Sometimes the trees would grow closer together, and the spaces between would become congested with prickly leafless bushes. Then the boys were unable to move forward, and had to retrace their steps and find some other way.

Wolf led the group. He carried a paraffin lamp, the light of which barely mitigated the darkness. Freitag followed, carrying a shovel, and straggling behind, striving to keep up, were Drexler and Steininger, each grasping the corners of a large, sagging jute sack.

Suddenly, Wolf raised his arm. The others stopped.

‘What is it?' whispered Freitag.

Wolf beat the air with his hand, a burst of quick downward movements indicating that the others should be quiet.

The boys froze, and listened intently. Wolf lowered the wick of his lamp, and attempted to peer through the opaque veils of turbid brume. Something scampered away, and Wolf sighed with relief. He consulted the compass again and pointed slightly to the left.

‘Wolf,' hissed Steininger. ‘Wolf, I can't go on.'

‘Keep your voice down.'

‘It's too heavy. Let's do it here . . . there's no need to go any further, surely.'

‘Freitag, you take over.'

‘No, Wolf, I'm exhausted. Drexler can carry it on his own – it's all
his
fault.'

‘It is
not
my fault!' said Drexler angrily. ‘If you hadn't insisted on playing your stupid games!'

‘I said keep your voices down!' said Wolf.

‘Really, Wolf,' said Steininger, dropping his end of the sack. It landed with a dull thud. ‘We've been walking for hours. We don't need to go any further.'

‘And we have to get back, remember,' said Freitag.

‘And what about our uniforms?' said Steininger. ‘We can't arrive for drill practice looking like this! We'll need time to get them cleaned up.'

‘I'll wake Stojakovic,' said Wolf.

‘No,' said Drexler. ‘We can't involve anybody else! Not tonight.'

Wolf paced around the circle of trees in which they were standing. He then tested the ground with his foot, kicking up some turf.

‘It's not too hard,' he said.

‘Then let's get started,' said Steininger, snatching Freitag's shovel and driving its pointed blade into the earth.

Drexler leaned against the nearest trunk and rested his forehead on his coat sleeve. His moment of repose was at once disturbed when he opened his eyes and observed in the contours of the bark a peculiar arrangement of knots, whorls and ridges which suggested the lineaments of a human face – an old, deeply lined face, with bushy eyebrows and a long wavy beard. The sad eyes were full of anguish. It was as if some unfortunate soul had been magically incarcerated in the timber. The image reminded Drexler of the fantastic stories of
E. T. A. Hoffmann. The boy drew back – and felt a freakish chill that made him shiver.

‘How deep should the trench be?' asked Steininger.

‘How should I know?' Wolf answered, irritably.

‘But what if animals . . .'

‘Dig him up?'

‘Well, yes . . .'

‘What animals?'

‘I don't know, but it's possible, isn't it?'

‘All right,' said Wolf, glaring. ‘Make it deeper!'

Drexler looked over at the abandoned sack and considered its contents. He felt a wave of pity and regret. The swell of emotion that made his eyes burn was only just containable, but his self-control gave him no satisfaction. He knew that this was just the beginning. There would be worse to come: guilt, nightmares, and various forms of mental torture. The terrible millstone of his secret would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his life, and would eventually drag him down to the depths of hell. He had never believed in such a place before, but now it all seemed quite plausible.

He turned away and stared into the darkness.

Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil – a heave of effort – and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off . . .

Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.

Steininger stopped digging.

An owl hooted.

‘What is it?'

‘I thought . . . I thought I saw something move. Over there.'

‘What?'

Freitag's voice shook: ‘It was big, like a bear.'

‘Don't be so ridiculous,' said Wolf. ‘If it was a bear we'd soon know about it!'

‘I didn't say it was a bear – I said it was
like
a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.'

‘Pull yourself together, Freitag,' Wolf commanded.

Freitag shook his head: ‘I'm going . . . I don't like it here.'

Wolf grabbed his arm.

‘Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!'

He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.

Freitag swallowed – subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.

‘Yes . . .' Freitag smiled – somewhat desperately. ‘Yes . . . of course. My imagination . . .'

‘Don't be a fool, Freitag,' said Wolf, releasing his grip.

Drexler said nothing but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too – exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering – big – like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.

‘Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.'

THE WAITER SWOOPED
by, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, Frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.

‘What's the matter – lost your appetite?'

‘Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I . . .' He massaged his temple and winced. ‘I drank too much.'

‘Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak . . . or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!'

Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.

‘I saw Miss Lydgate on Tuesday,' Rheinhardt added breezily.

Liebermann looked up from his soup.

‘Did you?'

‘Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.'

Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.

‘Was she able to assist?'

‘Well, she said that the numbers
might
represent some form of code – but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.'