In passing, you might be interested to learn that the dye I use on my hair — a mixture of lead oxide and slaked lime — was first used in ancient Egypt. I discovered the method of preparation in one of the good doctor’s books.
Stohl had a small laboratory in one of the outbuildings, where he experimented with various substances in order to discover a chemical compound capable of suspending the disintegration of human flesh indefinitely. The notion of perfect preservation had acquired for him some of the glamour that past generations have afforded the Philosopher’s Stone or the Sangrail.
Herr Doctor Stohl was not a man whom one could get close to. He was always distant, monastic. Yet I know that we shared a certain affinity, a common bond. He had very particular views concerning education. If you have a question, he would say, do not ask me. Just watch — and learn. He taught by example, eschewing words in favour of demonstrations and surprisingly eloquent lacunae.
I remember with what great care he went about his work. He took such pains to do things properly, making sure that every crevice and crease was cleaned with disinfectant — eyes, mouth, and all other orifices: the way he trimmed beards, or shaved off stubble, never leaving the tiniest nick. Did you know that eyeballs have a tendency to sink down into their sockets after death? Doctor Stohl devised invisible supports to ensure that this would not happen. He taught me to tilt the head slightly so that mourners could see more easily the face of their loved one. Under his benevolent tutelage I was even inspired to learn a little Latin and Greek.
You have been wondering about my erotic life.
Did the stillness of the bodies arouse me?
I will be honest: Yes.
And did I succumb to the obvious temptation of their proximity?
The first time it happened was not long after I started my first job. The daughter of an American financier fell down some stairs and broke her neck. She was removed to the undertaker’s within a few hours of her death. As soon as I saw her I felt an electrical excitement that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Her body was aglow with a faint purplish light. My Angel was close by.
I was supposed to lock up the premises after the others had left and then leave myself. I locked the door, but I did not leave, choosing instead to remain with the American heiress.
What was it like?
I must remind you that I am disadvantaged by language. There are no words that can express what I have experienced — and continue to experience. How can I expect you to understand? You, for whom this world is a sealed container, for whom the horizon and the sky are an absolute boundary.
Yes, there was satisfaction. But it was a communion once removed.
How can I explain?
It was like being intimate with a woman whom one does not love but who has recently brushed against the woman with whom one is infatuated. You detect a hint of the beloved’s perfume on her skin — and it is maddening.
Are you familiar with Faust? Get me a kerchief from her breast, A garter that her knee has pressed.
The poet’s words describe me welclass="underline" a man discharging into a void while clutching a garter!
Yet I could not stop myself. When opportunities arose, I took them. Such was my desire for Her.
You cannot imagine how I suffered. The anguish and agony. Lying there upon the mortuary table: yearning, wanting, desiring. The inadequate comfort of a cold embrace — my virility reduced to a shrivelled nothing in a dry mouth. The fading violet of Her presence, teasing, tantalising.
It was never going to be enough. I knew that even then.
Two months ago I travelled to Paris. The western facade of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame has three portals, one of which depicts Mary as the Bride of Christ. The Virgin in Majesty is transformed from Mother to Empress.
I don’t know why I have written this …
You said that I should write down whatever came into my mind — without any attempt to censor thoughts and memories. Well, there it is. Notre Dame. What of it?
No, there is a connection. I see it now.
I was at my lowest ebb. I thought that I could not endure separation from Her a moment longer and resolved to end my suffering. It would be easy enough. A sleep followed by eternal, blissful consummation.
On returning to Vienna I prepared a lethal tincture of opium. But I did not drink it.
As I sat in my bedroom, glass in hand, I began to doubt the wisdom of my actions. To everything there is a season — a time to be born and a time to die. Perhaps I was being impatient. I might become the instrument of someone else’s fate, but I should not wrestle my own destiny from the gods. Such presumption reminded me of so many Greek heroes, whose over-reaching ambition was ill-judged. It occurred to me: I did not need to die in order to summon Her. Someone else’s death would do just as well.
37
Rheinhardt had arranged to meet his assistant outside Ronacher’s variety theatre. He had given Haussmann an hour to discover Liebermann’s whereabouts. During that time, he had searched for — and found — a cafe, discreetly situated in a back street, where he could revive his spirits with a favourite prescription of strong Turkische coffee and a slice of poppy-seed cake. Emerging from the shadowy interior into the broad bountiful light of a crisp morning, he felt better prepared to face the day. When Haussmann finally appeared, however, it was clear from the young man’s expression and gait that his mission had been unsuccessful.
‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is not at home, sir. I telephoned from the Post Office. And the hospital said he wasn’t expected until this afternoon. I even tried the little coffee house by the Anatomical Institute.’
‘And did you get something to eat while you were there?’
Haussmann’s eyes slid to the side.
‘Yes, sir. But I was only there for a few minutes.’
‘In which case, you made excellent use of your time. We have a busy day ahead of us and it is difficult to work on an empty stomach. Come now. Let us see if anyone is inside.’
They found the stage door, rang the bell, and were admitted by an attendant wearing a shabby uniform. Rheinhardt showed his identification and asked to see the manager.
‘You’re lucky,’ said the attendant. ‘He’s not normally in this early.’
They ascended several staircases until they came to a door. The attendant knocked and opened it without waiting for an invitation to enter.
‘Not now, Harri!’
‘It’s the police,’ the attendant called into the room.
‘What — for me?’
‘Yes, Ralf.’
Rheinhardt repositioned himself and saw a balding man in a colourful waistcoat and shirtsleeves sitting behind a desk. In front of him, on wooden chairs, were two gentlemen with long black hair and shaggy fur coats. Their shoulders were massive.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ The manager addressed his guests. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’
‘When shall we be returning?’ The voice was deep, rumbling, and strangely accented.
‘Later. I’ll have the new contracts ready for you by then. I promise.’
The two men stood, and as they did so their extraordinary height became apparent. They were immense: identical twins, with brown skin, black eyes, and wide features. The first stooped to get through the doorway and Rheinhardt was obliged to tilt his head back to greet him.
‘Good morning,’ said Rheinhardt, looking up into the round moonlike face.
‘Good morning, sir,’ the giant replied in stilted, grammatically compromised German. ‘I am very glad to be having seen you.’
His brother followed, but as the second giant ducked beneath the architrave he glowered back at the manager and uttered something in a strange tongue — so venomous and sibilant that it was clearly meant as an insult.