Mortal Mischief (14 page)

'I don't understand,' said Clara. 'If there's nothing wrong with her arm, why can't she move it?'

They were sitting in a cosy wood-panelled alcove. Even though the café's vaulted interior was almost full their seating felt private. They were also isolated by the peculiarly potent, almost tangible intimacy of lovers.

'The arm is paralysed,' said Liebermann.

'All right, if it's paralysed how is it that she was able to hit Doctor Kanner? Can't you see? She's just pretending, Maxim!'

Having offered her very definite opinion, Clara began to dissect her apfelstrudel. She broke the sugar-coated pastry case: large pieces of cooked apple and several raisins spilled across her plate. The sweet bouquet of cinnamon and cloves mingled with the aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. Fixing her fiancé with an ambiguous expression that vacillated between impertinence and amusement, Clara scooped a cube of aromatic apple into her mouth.

'In a way . . . you're right,' said Liebermann. His words were almost lost in the din of cutlery, conversation and piano music. 'She
is
pretending. But not to us. She's pretending to herself.'

Swallowing quickly, Clara retorted: 'Maxim, how can you pretend to yourself – you'd know you were pretending!'

'Well, that depends on how you think about the mind,' Liebermann replied. 'What if the mind is not one thing – but two? What if the mind has a conscious region and an unconscious region? Then it might be possible for memories in the unconscious to influence the body without the conscious mind knowing anything about those memories. If this is how the mind works, then when she says she can't move her arm, she's telling the truth. She really can't.'

'But she
can
move her arm!' said Clara again, a hint of genuine frustration entering her voice.

'No,' said Liebermann firmly, 'she can't. There is a part of her mind – the unconscious part – which can move her arm. But that is not the part of her mind that corresponds with her daily thoughts, emotions, and perceptions.'

'Oh, it all sounds so . . . so . . .' Clara waved a chunk of apple on the end of her pastry fork.

'Complicated?' said Liebermann.

'Yes.'

'Well, I suppose it is.'

Clara smirked and offered Liebermann the piece of impaled apple. Glancing around to ensure that no one was looking, he thrust his head forward and took the glistening fruit into his mouth. His indecorous behaviour seemed to make Clara absurdly happy. She beamed like a naughty child who had just escaped punishment.

'And how is Doctor Kanner now?'

'Oh, Stefan is in excellent health.'

'Is he still pursuing that singer – what's her name?'

'Cora. No.'

Clara lowered her head and looked up with doleful supplicatory eyes.

'She was very pretty . . .'

Liebermann knew that a diplomatic response was required, and suppressing the urge to laugh replied in an offhand manner: 'I did not find her especially attractive.'

His words had the desired effect. Clara's face beamed again and she promptly offered him another chunk of apple. This time he declined.

The rain continued to patter against the window with patient determination. A tram rattled by, arcing around the phantom horseman.

'She's English, you say?'

'Who?'

'This patient of yours.'

'Yes.'

'They're rather odd, don't you think, the English?'

'In what way?'

'Lacking in warmth.'

'Sometimes . . . but when you get to know them they're much the same as us. I made some very good friends while I was staying in London.'

'Frau Frischmuth employed an English nursemaid last year . . .'

'And?'

'They didn't get on at all.'

Liebermann shrugged.

At the far end of an adjacent road, the ornate green dome of the Karlskirche shimmered in the distance like a fairy-tale palace. The pianist, who had previously been playing some unsophisticated waltzes, began a rendition of Schumann's
Träumerei
. It was delightful: innocent, wistful, almost veering into sadness but somehow resisting at the last moment as each inventive chord melted into the next. The music floated in the air like incense, wafting and lulling the mind into an opiate languor. Liebermann's fingers automatically shadowed the melody on the marble table top.

Surfacing from his reverie, Liebermann became aware that Clara was pressing her knee against his. He looked at her, and for a moment her confidence stalled. She blushed and looked away, but then, recovering her sense of purpose, allowed his leg to slip between hers. They maintained contact for a few seconds, and then simultaneously disengaged.

'Do you know what this is?' asked Liebermann, smiling.

'Yes,' said Clara. 'It's the piece about dreaming . . . by Robert Schumann.'

'And what are you dreaming of?'

'Can't you guess, Maxim?'

The look she gave him was little short of indecent.

18

'So,'
SAID
P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD
. 'Two Jews meet outside the bathhouse.
Have you taken a bath already?
asks one.
How come?
says the other.
Is one missing?
'

Liebermann laughed, although more at Professor Freud's delivery than at the joke itself. Freud had adopted a pronounced Yiddisher accent and had chosen to end the joke with a fixed gesture, hands raised, a grotesque parody of the mannerisms of Eastern Jewry.

'Let me tell you another,' said Freud. 'A young man goes to the matchmaker, and the matchmaker asks
: What kind of bride do you want?
The young man replies
: She must be beautiful, she must be rich, and she must be clever
.
Fine,
says the matchmaker.
But I make that three wives.
'

Freud stubbed out his cigar, and was unsuccessful in his attempt to stop a reticent smile from turning into a wheezy chuckle that continued for some time. He was looking very well, Liebermann thought. Indeed, Freud had been much happier since February – when, finally, after many years of unjustified delay he had been distinguished with the all-important title of Professor Extraordinarius. It was odd that a man whose advancement had been obstructed because of anti-Semitism should be so fond of Jewish jokes, many of which portrayed Jews in a less than flattering light. But then, Professor Freud was a complex man, and Liebermann was disinclined to analyse the father of psychoanalysis. There was only one individual equipped to embark on such a daunting enterprise, and that was Freud himself.

As Freud's chuckling petered out, he raised a finger.

'One more. Then I'll stop.'

'As you wish,' replied Liebermann.

'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?' asked Freud.

'I don't know,' said Liebermann. 'How do we know that Jesus was Jewish?'

'He lived at home until he was thirty, he went into his father's business, and his mother thought he was God!'

This time Liebermann burst out into genuine laughter. 'Why have you started collecting jokes?' he asked.

'I haven't
started
. I've been collecting them for years. I'm thinking of writing a book about them.'

'Jokes?'

'Yes. Jokes. It is my belief that jokes, like dreams and slips of the tongue, reveal the operation of the unconscious.'

The professor lit another cigar. It was his third since Liebermann had arrived, and the study was thick with smoke. Some hung like a dense fog around the feet of the ancient figurines on Freud's desk. From Liebermann's point of view, Freud's collection looked like a mythic army emerging from a primal swamp.

'Are you sure I can't interest you in another?' asked Freud, pushing the box of cigars across the desktop. 'They're very good, you know. Cuban.'

'Thank you, Herr Professor. But one was quite enough.'

Freud looked at Liebermann as though his reluctance to take another cigar was completely beyond comprehension.

'My boy,' said Freud, 'I consider smoking to be one of the greatest – and cheapest – enjoyments in life.' He drew on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and smiled blissfully.

'I see that your collection is growing,' said Liebermann, pointing at the figures. 'Every time I visit, you seem to have acquired another.'

'Indeed,' replied Freud. He reached out and stroked the head of a small marble ape, almost as though it were a real pet. 'This is my latest acquisition. It is the baboon of Thoth. Egyptian, of course, 30 BC – or thereabouts.'

Liebermann did not know a great deal about archaeology. Nor did he understand the aesthetic appeal of antiquities (his sympathies were decidedly modern). Even so, he did not want to offend the professor and so nodded his head appreciatively.

While Freud was admiring his collection, Liebermann seized the opportunity he had been waiting for.

'Actually, Herr Professor, I wondered whether I might consult you in your capacity as an archaeologist?'

Freud looked up and smiled, a little embarrassed.

'Archaeologist? Me? It's a hobby, that's all . . .'

Liebermann gestured at Freud's bookcase.

'Still, I don't know anybody who has read more on the subject.'

The professor nodded vigorously. 'That is true. You know, I'm ashamed to admit it but I've read more archaeology than psychology.'

'Perhaps you should have been an archaeologist?'

Freud blew a cloud of smoke over the desk.

'Ahh,' he said. 'But, in a way, I am. Don't you think?'

Liebermann tacitly accepted the professor's point. Then, reaching into his leather bag, he took out the statuette from Charlotte Löwenstein's apartment.

'Do you think that this is an authentic antiquity?' He showed it to Freud. 'And if so, do you have any idea what it's supposed to be?'

Freud placed his cigar in the ashtray and reached out – his expression becoming more intense and serious. He took the piece gently in his hands, and began to rotate it, inspecting every detail. The silence was disturbed by the sound of the professor's children, running and shouting upstairs. Freud raised his head, momentarily distracted by the noise, before falling once again into a state of total absorption. Liebermann was judging whether it would be considered impolite to remind the professor of his presence when Freud suddenly announced: 'It's Egyptian. Certainly looks genuine – but it's difficult to say. You'd have to get a dealer to confirm that.'

'And what's it supposed to be?'

Freud looked up and fixed Liebermann with his penetrating stare.

'There is only one deity with a snout and a forked tail. That is Set or Seth. The god of chaos – the god of storms and mischief.'

Liebermann appeared unperturbed, yet inside his head his thoughts were racing. The professor's words were like hammer blows: storms and mischief. He had always assumed that Fräulein Löwenstein's murder was a clever illusion. Nothing more than a sophisticated stage trick. Mischief, most certainly, but mortal mischief. For the first time Liebermann experienced doubt. What kind of illusionist could conjure a storm? Liebermann remembered Thursday's unseasonal deluge: massive forks of lightning – followed by apocalyptic thunder – and rain spilling from the gutter and crashing on to the pavement below like a waterfall.

'Where did you get this?' asked Freud.

'It belongs to a friend of mine,' answered Liebermann. 'He asked me to get it valued.'

'Ah,' said Freud, holding the piece up to the light. 'It won't be worth a great deal of money. Egyptian antiquities aren't very popular in Vienna. It's all Baroque and Biedermeier these days.'

'Is it?'

'Oh yes. But there are some good dealers on Wieblinger Strasse. You should take it there.'

'I will—'

'And,' Freud cut in very quickly, 'if your friend isn't satisfied with the offer, please let me know. I would be keen to add this little fellow to my collection.'

The professor placed the statuette on his desk, between the ape and a bronze of Horus. Then he patted the demon's head, saying: 'Handsome little fellow. Handsome.'

A spiral of smoke curled around the creature's legs and tail, evoking, once again, an impression of primeval power – the awakening of an ancient and frivolous malevolence.

Part Two
The Third Person

19

I
T WAS EARLY EVENING
, and the gaslights were low. Rheinhardt poured his
Türkische
coffee from a small copper pot and raised the cup to his lips. Dissatisfied, he added another half-teaspoon of sugar and took a second sip.