Rheinhardt kneeled down beside her and searched her pockets for identification, but all he could find was some small change, a handkerchief and two keys. The woman’s hat was lying on the ground a short distance away, next to what looked to the inspector like an item of underwear.
‘She hasn’t been stabbed or shot,’ said Rheinhardt, opening her coat. He could not see any bloodstains on her plain white dress.
‘Strangled, sir?’ Haussmann inquired.
Rheinhardt repositioned himself and looked at her neck.
‘No, I don’t think so. Smothered, perhaps …’
The inspector stood, brushed his trousers, and went over to retrieve the discarded item of clothing. As it unfurled, his suspicions were confirmed. He was holding a pair of red cotton drawers.
Haussmann frowned. ‘Was she … used?’
‘I imagine so.’
The drawers fluttered in the slight breeze. Rheinhardt, feeling suddenly disrespectful, folded the garment gently and placed it back on the grass.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
A man wearing a homburg hat and spectacles was looking over the bushes. It was the photographer. The man’s companion — a teenage boy — appeared behind him, carrying a tripod.
‘Ah, Herr Seipel,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Good morning.’
‘May we begin, inspector?’
‘Yes, indeed. You may begin.’
Rheinhardt stood back from the corpse. Then he took out his notebook and recorded a few observations before addressing his assistant: ‘Come, Haussmann.’
The two men set off in the directon of the Theseus Temple.
On arriving at their destination, Rheinhardt and Haussmann ascended the wide steps.
The inspector rubbed his hands together and surveyed his surroundings. Directly in front of him he saw the white stucco walls of the Court Theatre and the steeples of the Votivkirche. Turning his head to the left he registered the Gothic spires of the Town Hall and the classical splendour of the Parliament building, on top of which two winged charioteers, struggling to control their rearing horses, faced each other across a tympanum densely populated with marble figures.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Rheinhardt.
His assistant was surprised by the unexpected question, and replied cautiously: ‘No, sir. I haven’t.’
‘Neither have I. Given that we find ourselves so close to Cafe Landtmann, it occurs to me that we might get something to eat there before we proceed to the Pathological Institute.’
‘Yes, sir — as you wish.’
‘Just a few kaisersemmel rolls.’ The inspector paused, twisted his moustache and, finding the prospect of his imaginary repast inadequate, added: ‘And a pastry, perhaps. I had a rather good plum flan in Cafe Landtmann only last week.’
They walked around the covered arcade that followed the featureless exterior of the Temple. Neither of them looked up to admire the new and delightful prospects revealed by their circumnavigation: the black and green domes, the baroque lanterns, the blooming flowers and ornamental hedge gardens. Instead, they kept their gazes fixed on the stone pavement, which had been worn by countless predecessors to a silvery sheen.
Haussmann suddenly stepped ahead and squatted down.
‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘A button.’
He handed it up to his superior.
It was large, round, and made from wood.
‘Any footprints?’
Supporting his body with his hands, Haussmann leaned forward and inspected the paving more closely. The position he had assumed — conveying a general impression of sharp corners and angularity — gave him a distinctly feral appearance. He looked like a rangy dog, sniffing the ground. His reply, when it finally came, was disappointing.
‘Nothing.’
Rheinhardt held the button up and said: ‘It’s from her coat.’
3
Where to begin, then? With a birth or with a death? And there it is, you see — the two, always together. When does a life begin? At conception? That is a beginning, but it is not necessarily the only one. Nor is there any reason why we should privilege conception. The colour of my eyes, for example, which I inherited from my mother, preceded my nativity. In a sense, the traits that eventually combine to become an individual are already in the world before he or she arrives. Conception is merely the point at which they converge. Therefore, when we are conceived we are as obligated to the dead as we are to the living. I existed — albeit in a rather dispersed form — long before a provincial priest splashed my forehead with holy water and gave me a name. There is no fons et origo. I have no beginning.
You want a history. You want chronology. But nothing is ever that straightforward. You see, even starting my story is fraught with philosophical problems. One thing, however, stands out. One thing I can assert with confidence. I killed my mother. Others see it differently, of course, but I can only see it that way. She died minutes after I was ‘born’. Imagine — if you will — the scene: the doctor descending the stairs, my father, rising from his chair, eager, but suddenly confused by the medical man’s expression. Is the child all right? The doctor nods: Yes, a boy. A fine, healthy boy. My father tilts his head. He knows that something is wrong. Your poor wife — the doctor mumbles — I’m afraid there was nothing I could do to save her. Swiftly, the doctor recovers his authority. Some technical talk follows. An explanation — but not one meant to elucidate. That is how doctors are — you should know that. He shakes my father’s hand and leaves. My father, shocked, numb, hollow, ascends the stairs and enters the bedroom where the women are still removing the bloody sheets. His wife is dead. One of the women covers the corpse’s face and makes the sign of the cross. She looks at my father and smiles, a merciful, sad, sweet smile, the smile that graces representations of the Madonna, and gestures towards the cradle. Your son, she says. My father steps forward and peers at the tiny creature wrapped in swaddling.
You will allow me to make an observation: I have since come to understand that my father’s response to his misfortune was by no means typical. When women die during childbirth, it is frequently the case that loving husbands find consolation in their offspring because something of the beloved is preserved in their person; however, my father seems to have been deficient in this respect. He did not see my mother in me. My presence in the world did not make him feel any closer to her. Quite the contrary. I would say that I merely reminded him of her absence, which made his loss even more painful.
A cheerless house, then. Blighted. Cold. Gloomy. Long silences — the clock ticking. That is the atmosphere in which I grew up.
There was a photograph of my mother on the mantelpiece. I still see it if I close my eyes — vivid — shining in the darkness: the repeated curlicue motif that flowed around the edges of the silver frame, the posy of little alpine flowers, the candle that was sometimes lit (but was mostly unlit). My father was in the habit of referring to my mother as an angel, and so it was that I came to think of her as possessing wings.
When I was alone in the house I would creep into the sitting room, take the photograph from the mantelpiece and study her face. My mother was a very beautiful woman: golden hair, big eyes, and delicate features. There was something in the background of the photograph which I mistook to be white feathers, folded neatly behind her back. Communing with my mother’s image was a private activity. It had to be, because my father disapproved. He discovered me once and snatched the frame out of my hands. He was furious and said that I should be careful with such a precious object. If I dropped it the glass would break. It was irreplaceable and I should show more respect. I remember that he had a strange look in his eyes. I was frightened and thought that he was going to punish me. Recalling the incident now, I would say that my father’s strange look was a jealous one — possessive.