Liebermann always enjoyed such conversations with Miss Lyd gate. She was an unconventional woman, yet her peculiarities possessed a certain charm: her pedantic speech, her stiff deportment, and the quite extraordinary intensity of her facial expressions.
He was a psychiatrist, and something inside him—some nameless but essential part of his being—was irresistibly drawn to the unusual.
They continued their conversation until the sky darkened and it was no longer permissible for Liebermann to stay. He rose from his chair, exchanged a few pleasantries, and kissed Amelia's hand. On the landing he insisted that she stay upstairs—he did not expect her to show him out.
As he made his descent, Liebermann became acutely aware of the physical and mechanical properties of his body: locomotion—the movement of joints—his lungs expanding and contracting, his spine resisting gravity. Propriety and apprehension had turned him into an automaton—an artificial man, in every sense. Contrived, inauthentic, affected: a blood machine.
11
IT WAS MIDMORNING when Rheinhardt's carriage drew up alongside the wind-scoured statue of Saint Florian. The Gothic façade of the military academy looked much larger than Rheinhardt remembered, and where there had previously been nothing but darkness he now saw wide, flat exercise areas. Ranks of uniformed boys were practicing their rifle drill, responding to the abrupt commands of a burly Tyrolean infantryman.
Rheinhardt passed under the central arch, where he spied Albert—the old soldier—dozing in the cloisters. He shook the veteran's shoulder, gently.
“Permission to report,” mumbled Albert before his bloodshot eyes opened. He pulled himself up and croaked: “Ah, Inspector… Permission to report: I was asleep.”
“And I trust you are now refreshed,” said Rheinhardt. “I believe the deputy headmaster is expecting me.”
“He is, sir. This way, sir, this way.”
The deputy headmaster ushered Rheinhardt into his office and immediately apologized on behalf of Professor Eichmann. The headmaster had been called to an emergency meeting of the board of school governors; Becker hoped, however, that he would be equal to the task of assisting the inspector with his investigation.
Rheinhardt asked Becker to recapitulate the events surrounding the discovery of Zelenka's body. The deputy headmaster's account was entirely consistent—and delivered with calm authority. When pressed for more information about Zelenka's character, he simply repeated what he had said the previous Friday: he had known Zelenka quite well; the boy frequently asked for extra assignments; he was an enthusiastic student. Rheinhardt made a note, more out of politeness than necessity.
“Who else taught Zelenka?”
Becker went through the papers on his desk and consulted a timetable.
“Lieutenant Osterhagen, gymnastics. Herr Lang, drawing and calligraphy. Dr. Kloester, geography. Herr Sommer, mathematics…”
There were ten names in total.
A soft knock heralded the arrival of a maid who was carrying a silver tray.
“Your medicine, sir.”
She deposited the tray on Becker's desk and made a diffident departure. The deputy headmaster picked up a piece of folded paper and, holding it over a small glass of clear liquid, tapped the side gently. A line of white powder fell out, the tiny grains dissolving as they sank in the liquid. Becker finally stirred the concoction with a spoon.
“Excuse me,” he said to Rheinhardt, touching his temple. “I suffer from headaches.” He threw his head back and swallowed the liquid as if it were schnapps.
“Are all of these masters here today?” asked Rheinhardt, looking down into his open notebook.
“All of them except Sommer,” Becker replied. “He fell down the stairs yesterday and injured his leg.” The tone of Becker's voice was unsympathetic, almost dismissive. “He's gone off somewhere to convalesce.”
“Do you know where?”
“I'm afraid not. But the headmaster will know.”
“I would like to conduct some interviews.”
Becker looked at the timetable again and pulled at his forked beard. “You wish to interview all of Zelenka's masters?”
“As many as I can, and I would also like to interview one of the boys.”
Becker tilted his head. The lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles became white circles of reflected light.
“Isidor Perger,” said Rheinhardt.
“Perger, Perger,” repeated the deputy headmaster, straining to put a face to the name. He crossed his legs and drummed the desk with spidery fingers, making his hand crawl forward. Suddenly the drumming stopped and he called out.
“Ah yes, Perger!”
“I have reason to believe that he and Zelenka were close friends.”
“Very well. I'm sure that can be arranged. Will you be needing a room in which to conduct these interviews?”
“The provision of a room would be much appreciated.”
“There are some disused classrooms upstairs. Not very comfortable, but sufficiently removed from the general hubbub to ensure peace and quiet.”
Becker subsequently called for Albert, relieved him of his existing duties, and instructed him to act as Rheinhardt's adjutant for the day. However, when Rheinhardt left the deputy headmaster's office— with the shuffling old soldier at his side—he felt as if he were being indulged rather than assisted.
Rheinhardt followed Albert up a tightly curving spiral staircase, which eventually joined a long corridor with a vaulted ceiling. The space reverberated with the sound of treble voices conjugating a Latin verb by rote. Four boys were walking toward them, all dressed in the uniform with which Rheinhardt was becoming increasingly familiar: low shako, gray tunic, and trousers. Each was equipped with a full-size sabre (one of the boys had his weapon slung too low, and the tip of its scabbard scraped noisily along the floor behind him). Although Rheinhardt knew they must be fifteen or older, their small stature and wide, suspicious eyes suggested a more tender age.
“Good morning,” said Rheinhardt.
The boys halted, bowed, clicked their heels—and proceeded in the same tight and disconcertingly silent formation.
Albert ascended yet another staircase—this time wider—and escorted Rheinhardt to a musty, remote corner of the building where a row of half-open doors created wedges of ghostly light among the shadows. The “treasury smell” was particularly strong, having matured, like a piece of ripe cheese, in the undisturbed air.
“You can use any of these, sir,” said the old man, struggling to catch his breath.
The classrooms were strangely melancholy: abandoned desks, a waste bin on its side, scattered paper, and a blackboard on which algebraic symbols constituted only half of an incomplete equation. Rheinhardt selected the least cluttered interior and asked Albert to fetch the first master on his list.
Lieutenant Osterhagen was a tall broad-shouldered man with ruggedly handsome features. His blond hair was cropped short, and a deep cleft was visible in the middle of his clean-shaven chin. Remarkably (for a gymnastics master) he walked with a limp. When he sat down, with evident discomfort, he made a passing reference to the “old Transylvanian complaint.”
“Transylvanian complaint?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Nationalists,” said Osterhagen. “I took one of their bullets when my regiment was sent to deal with a situation—if you know what I mean?”
Rheinhardt wasn't sure that he did know what the lieutenant meant. Nevertheless, he thought it wise to nod politely and proceed with the interview.
“I'm not surprised he dropped dead,” said Osterhagen. “It was obvious there was something wrong with him.”