Ordinarily, Liebermann was not a jealous person but the experience of discovering Miss Lyd gate in the arms of her lover had affected him deeply. He had become mistrustful, suspicious. At once, the young doctor was disappointed with himself, annoyed that he had already inferred the existence of a shadowy competitor!
“Is anything wrong?” asked Trezska.
Liebermann was astonished. He had not, as far he was aware, betrayed his inner feelings with a frown.
“No, nothing's wrong.” Anxious to conceal his embarrassment, he risked a bold compliment. “You look wonderful.”
Trezska did not demur, but returned his smile.
Liebermann was relieved to find that their conversation flowed more naturally than he'd expected. He had judged that she might be, by nature, quite reserved—aloof, even; in fact, he was quite wrong. She was warm, friendly, and quick to laugh. He asked her if she had been to the Prater before, and she replied that she had—but only to eat at Csarda. She was not familiar with the amusements. Liebermann suggested that they should visit the Kaisergarten—to which she again responded with unexpected enthusiasm. From Liebermann's experience, beautiful, fashionably dressed women often allowed their hauteur to harden into a brittle carapace. Trezska's excitement was endearing.
They inspected the menu, and while they did so Trezska extolled the virtues of the head chef. She insisted that Liebermann try his gulyás.
“They do it correctly here… a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to. Gulyás was originally a shepherds’ dish—the midday meal. It shouldn't be too rich.”
As on all Hungarian tables, there were three rather than two condiment shakers: one for salt, one for pepper, and a third for paprika. When the gulyás arrived, Liebermann was given a soup, instead of a stew, and at the bottom of his bowl he found large tender chunks of mutton. Trezska offered Liebermann the paprika shaker, which he declined—his gulyás having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Trezska.
“Good—very good,” he replied. The gulyás was just as Trezska had described: wholesome rustic fare, but fragrant with tangy herbs and spices.
From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping glissandi and complicated embellishments suggested a Gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.
“An old folk song,” said Trezska, “Dark Eyes. It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.”
A capricious smile played around her lips.
Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Röger s interpretation of the Brahms D-major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Joseph Joachim.
“Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?”
“No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.”
“Oh,” said Liebermann. “Then, how long will you be staying?” he added hopefully.
“In Vienna? Another month or so. My old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rosé.”
Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rosé was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.
“What pieces will you be studying with Rosé?”
“Beethoven's spring sonata—and Mozart's E minor.”
“I am familiar with the spring sonata, of course, but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.”
“Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.” Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. “There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.”
The gulyás was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of dobostorte: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The dobostorte—named after its creator József Dobos—had become, in just over ten years, the first world-famous Hungarian dessert. And deservedly so, thought Liebermann. The chocolate cream was dense, buttery, and exquisitely rich.
After discreetly paying the bill, Liebermann offered Trezska his arm, and they set off in the direction of the amusements. As they got closer, they were absorbed into a bustling, noisy crowd. The air was filled with the babble of several languages: German, Hungarian, Slavic, and even occasional snatches of Arabic. On either side, marquees and little huts began to appear. Fortune-tellers, sausage vendors, a troupe of acrobatic dwarves, strong men, and belly dancers were all plying their trade. The most bizarre attraction was an “electrocution extravaganza”—where a long line of venturesome young men were awaiting their turn to be galvanized.
“Where are we going?” asked Trezska.
“Venice.”
Trezska threw Liebermann a puzzled look, but the young doctor simply smiled—as if to say You'll see.
They continued walking until they came to a wide concourse that was dominated by a massive double arch. Capital letters running across the top read: VENEDIG IN WIEN—Venice in Vienna. The structure was decorated with ornate moldings, at the center of which was a bas-relief of a winged lion, the symbol of Saint Mark. Two giant planets hovered above the columns at either extremity.
“What on earth?” Trezska's pace slowed.
“A re-creation of Venice,” said Liebermann, tracing an arc in the air with his hand. “Here, in Vienna.”
“What… you've reconstructed the whole of Venice, in one of your parks?”
“Well, not exactly… but something very close to it.”
Trezska's expression communicated a mixture of amusement and surprise at this astounding demonstration of Viennese hubris.
“Extraordinary,” she whispered.
They passed beneath one of the arches and were immediately transported to northern Italy. Renaissance villas overlooked a piazza, on which ladies and gentlemen were milling around—smoking, talking, and sipping champagne—as if they were attending a society function.
“Come on!” Liebermann tugged Trezska's arm. “This way.”
They crossed the square, ascended a broad stone staircase, and came to a canal on which black lacquered gondolas were sedately moving in opposite directions.