Fatal Lies (30 page)

‘Why, yes,' Wolf had replied. ‘There can be no other explanation for his disappearance, surely?'

‘Good,' the headmaster had muttered, evidently reassured by the boy's steady confidence.

Wolf turned the final page. None of them had been annotated. He had observed a few inky marks here and there but nothing of any obvious significance. Wolf closed the book and opened it again at the frontispiece, an antique etching of a bearded scholar in a library. At the foot of the title page, in small lettering, he read
Hartel and Jacobsen
, beneath which was the publisher's address in Leipzig, and the year of publication: 1900.

As far as Wolf could determine, there was nothing remarkable about the dictionary at all – except, perhaps, its quality. He traced the tooled indentations with his finger.

Why on earth did Herr Sommer want it so badly? He had been desperate, that night in the locker room . . .

Wolf inspected the inside covers in order to determine if anything incriminating had been slipped beneath the endpapers but it was obvious that no one had tampered with them. The space between the spine and the binding was also empty.

It was a mystery . . .

Suddenly irritated by his failure to discover anything there that he could use to his advantage, he threw the dictionary aside and picked up a thinner volume that he had previously laid at his feet. He reverently removed the bookmark and turned the blotchy print towards the paraffin lamp.

The great philosopher's words were like a prophesy – but not just any prophesy. This was a prophesy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.

THE KOHLMARKT WAS
bustling with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred Hussars, standing in the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black kaftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor – the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace – dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.

Liebermann had sent a note to Trezska earlier in the week, arranging to meet her at Café Demel (the imperial and royal confectioners). He had stated, with some regret, that their rendezvous could only be brief as he had some pressing business (a useful if somewhat overworked euphemism) to which he must attend later in the day. The young doctor had chosen Café Demel not only because of its reputation but for reasons of expediency, as he hoped to get the first of the day's
business
out of the way before Trezska's arrival.

Opening the door of the café, Liebermann stepped inside, and was immediately overcome by the aroma of coffee, cigar smoke, and the mingling of a thousand sweet fragrances. It was a warm, welcoming interior, suffused with a soft amber light. The gilt chandeliers were encrusted with opaque, faintly glowing globes, as densely clustered as
grapes on the vine. To the right, patrons were seated at round tables in a mirrored dining area, and to the left stood a long counter, dark wooden wall-shelves, and numerous display cases. Every available space on this side of the café was occupied by cakes and sweetmeats: candied peel, marzipan animals, fondants and jellies, whole discs of torte – covered with thick dark chocolate – jars of brandy snaps, Turkish delight,
vanillekipferl
, meringues, pots of raspberry cream and apricot sauce, pear compote, artificial coins wrapped in gold and silver paper,
guglhupf
,
apfelstrudel
, dumplings bursting with glistening conserves, pastry pillows and Carinthian cinnamon buns. In the centre of this cornucopia was a rectangular cake that had been made – with the aid of much yellow icing – to look exactly like the Schönbrunn palace.

A woman who was standing behind the counter came forward.

‘Good afternoon,' said Liebermann. ‘Herr Tishlar is expecting me.' He glanced at his watch – he was exactly on time.

The woman indicated that he should follow her to the back of the café, where he was instructed to wait by some doors. She returned in the company of a very stout gentleman whose tiny moustache was distinguished by curlicue extremities. He was still dressed in his kitchen clothes.

‘Herr Doctor,' he exclaimed. ‘Herr Tishlar, at your service.'

The master baker bowed low and performed an unnecessarily baroque flourish with his right hand. Liebermann recognised immediately that he was in the presence of a man who regarded his art as equal to that of Titian or Velazquez. The woman silently withdrew.

‘You are most kind,' said Liebermann, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a photograph and a magnifying glass. ‘I promise I will be brief. I wonder . . . would it be possible for you identify this pastry?'

The image he handed to Tishlar showed Zelenka's notebook and a blurry, untouched wedge of cake.

Peering through the lens, Herr Tishlar answered without hesitation: ‘Almond tart.' He then handed the photograph and magnifying glass back to the young doctor.

‘Are you sure?' said Liebermann – taken aback by Herr Tishlar's certainty.

‘Quite sure,' said the baker. ‘And – if you will forgive my immodesty – no ordinary almond tart!
That
, Herr Doctor,' said the master baker, tapping the photograph and pushing out his chest, ‘is one of ours. It is a Demel almond tart!'

Herr Tishlar guided Liebermann over to a display case and pointed to a roundel (sprinkled with castor sugar and strewn with striped ribbons) in a wooden box.

‘Notice the pleating around the edge,' he said with pride. ‘Unique! It is the work of Herr Hansing – each of our pastries is made by a dedicated specialist who makes nothing else.'

Liebermann examined the photograph, and then returned his attention to the pastry. His untutored eye was unable to discern anything particularly distinctive; however, the master baker's confidence was persuasive and Liebermann was happy to accept his expert opinion.

‘Thank you,' said the young doctor. ‘You have been most helpful.'

‘Do you require any further assistance?'

‘No . . . that was all I needed to know.'

‘Then I will bid you good day.'

Herr Tishlar bowed and sashayed back to his kitchen.

Liebermann, smiling broadly – perhaps too broadly for a solitary man with no obvious cause of delight – dropped the photograph and magnifying glass into the side pocket of his coat and found a table near the window, where he sat, still smiling.

Trezska was twenty minutes late; however, her tardy arrival did nothing to dampen his spirits. Liebermann dismissed her excuses and urged her to make a close study of the impressive menu. After some
deliberation – and two consultations with the head waiter – they both ordered the
Salzburger Mozart
torte: a sponge cake with layers of marzipan, brushed with chocolate cream and apricot jam, and decorated with large orange-flavoured pralines.

They talked mostly about music. Trezska described how she intended to play the Spring Sonata for Rosé at her next lesson – and the conversation naturally progressed to Beethoven. Liebermann regaled his companion with a musical anecdote concerning Beethoven's mortal remains and the composer Anton Bruckner. Apparently, when Beethoven's bones were being exhumed for skeletal measurement, Bruckner had barged into the chapel of the Währing cemetery, pushed the experts aside, and grasped in both hands Beethoven's skull – which he then began to address. Unmoved by Bruckner's devotion, those present quickly took back the skull and manhandled Bruckner out of the building . . .

Liebermann then asked Trezska if she would like to go to a concert at the Tonkünstlerverein – a recital including some Hugo Wolf songs and a performance of the Fauré Sonata for violin and piano. She agreed instantly, and became quite excited when he told her that Jakob Grün was the soloist.

As they spoke, Liebermann was distracted by Trezska's beauty: the darkness and depth of her eyes, the colour of her skin, and the shape of her face. Something of their lovemaking seemed to persist in the lower chambers of his mind: impressions of movement and memories of touch. He desired her – and that desire was predominantly physical; however, his attachment was becoming more complex. He had developed a fondness for her idiosyncrasies: the subtle cadences of her accent, the timbre of her voice, the way she moved her fingers when speaking, and the swift efficiency with which she could make small adjustments to her hair. It was in these little things – and the inordinate pleasure he derived from noticing them – that Liebermann
recognised love's progress. Cupid was a cunning archer, and penetrated defences by choosing to land his arrows in the least obvious places.

The clock struck two, reminding Liebermann of his other engagements.

He paid their bill at the counter and purchased a circular box of sugared almonds, which he presented to Trezska as they emerged from the café.

She grinned: ‘What are these for?'

‘For . . . introducing me to the transcendental properties of absinthe.'

‘I thought the green fairy made you feel ill.'

‘She did. However, that did not stop me from appreciating her magic.'

Trezska detected some deeper meaning in this remark – but she did not demand an explanation.

‘Thank you,' she said.

The atmosphere on the Kohlmarkt had become smoky and a few gaslights had already been lit. In the distance, the Michaelertor had become shrouded in a violet haze.

Liebermann took Trezska's hand, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled the fresh, crisp bouquet of clementine and mimosa. The familiar fragrance aroused in him a curious sentiment – a kind of proprietorial satisfaction.

She turned to move away, but at that very moment a gentleman stepped ahead of the advancing crowd and cried out: ‘Amélie.'

He was smiling at Trezska – and his expression was somewhat excited.

Trezska glanced back at Liebermann, then at the gentleman.

‘I'm sorry . . . but you have mistaken me for someone else.'

The man had a handsome, harmonious face, which momentarily appeared shocked before resuming an expression of composed amiability.

‘No – surely not. It is you!' He laughed – as if he had just penetrated the meaning of an exclusive joke. ‘Franz . . . remember?'

He appeared eager, expectant.

Trezska's brow furrowed.

‘With the greatest respect, I have no idea who you are.'

‘But . . .'

The gentleman now looked confused.

Trezska turned to look back at Liebermann – a silent request for assistance. He stepped forward and said simply: ‘Sir . . .?'

The gentleman had not noticed the young doctor and now started for the second time. He withdrew slightly.

‘Of course . . .' he said, smiling contritely at Trezska. ‘I must . . . I must be mistaken. Please, dear lady, accept my sincere apologies . . . and to you, sir,' he added, making brief eye contact with Liebermann. ‘Good afternoon.' Straightening his hat, he strode off towards the Graben.

‘How very peculiar,' said Trezska.

‘Yes,' Liebermann replied.

‘He gave me a fright.'

They hesitated for a moment, both of them somewhat discomfited by the encounter.

Trezska shook her head.

‘Never mind . . . Now, you must get going or you will be late.'

After leaving Demel's, Liebermann walked to the Volksgarten where he caught a tram to Otakring and his next appointment.

Doctor Kessler was a middle-aged man, balding, with rounded cheeks and oval spectacles that perched on his snub nose. ‘Ah,' he said, studying Liebermann's security-office documents. ‘I suppose you want to know more about Thomas Zelenka?'

‘No,' Liebermann replied. ‘The boy I need to know more about is Domokos Pikler.'

‘Ah yes,' said Kessler. A line appeared across his otherwise smooth brow. ‘Pikler.'

‘Do you remember him?'

‘Indeed. I had only just been appointed at the school when . . .' Kessler allowed the sentence to trail off. ‘I presume,' he started again, the tone of his voice more guarded. ‘Your question bears some relation to
that
reprehensible article in the
Arbeiter Zeitung.
'

‘The article by Herr G . . . yes.'

‘I don't know about all the other allegations, but I do know one thing: the correspondent – whoever he is – was completely wrong about Pikler. The boy did not die because of persecution and bad luck. He was not forced to stand on a window ledge, and he did not jump off.'

‘It was suicide . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

Kessler looked uneasy. His pate had begun to glisten with a film of perspiration.

‘I would like to be frank with you, Herr Doctor. Could we speak, not as investigator and school physician, but rather as two medical men?'

Liebermann understood the nature of this appeal. It was a request for professional confidence – an assurance that discretion would be exercised.

‘Of course,' said Liebermann.

Kessler pushed the young doctor's security-office papers back across the table.

‘He was a glum fellow, Pikler. Very glum. He never smiled, never laughed – never responded to banter. He'd just look at you, with a sullen expression on his face. He came to see me on several occasions, complaining of aches and pains, but I couldn't find anything wrong
with him – well, not physically. He was a strange boy . . . In the middle of our consultations he would often ask me questions of a philosophical nature.
What is the meaning of life? What is the point of existence? Why doesn't God intercede to stop the suffering of innocents?
And on one occasion he said something about mortal sin – something like: if atheists are correct, and there is no God, then there is no mortal sin . . . therefore those who take their own lives might not go to hell, but instead find everlasting peace. Now, you must understand, I had only just taken up my position – and I was not used to dealing with cadets. The headmaster had gone out of his way to stress that the boys could be manipulative – that they might try to get medical exemptions in order to avoid certain onerous duties. I assumed that Pikler was a typical case. A malingerer. Given what happened, I now know that I was horribly mistaken. Some . . .' Kessler winced. ‘Some might accuse me of negligence. The boy was suffering from melancholia. I suspect that he initially presented with physical symptoms because he found these easier to talk about than his psychological symptoms, and his philosophical questions represented a desperate attempt to make sense of a world which he found perplexing and from which he could derive no pleasure. I should have . . .' Kessler emitted a long sigh that surrendered successive pitches like a descending scale ‘. . . done something . . . If I had referred Pikler on to a specialist, a psychiatrist – someone like you – then perhaps he would still be with us.'