Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing. “Ridiculous.”
“Let's get one. There's no better way to see Venice.”
Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colorful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated, he said “Just one moment,” dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moët and two glasses.
The gondolier cast off and guided his vessel through a network of canals. They glided beneath bridges, past grand palazzos and theaters, past old churches, and through gardens of exotic trees. In due course, the illusion overcame Trezska's resistance. She sipped her champagne, suspended disbelief, and succumbed to the romance of the world's most magical city.
Sensitive to the demands of the situation, the gondolier sought out a small, secluded pool, overlooked by a façade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little café opened directly onto the water, and from inside came the jangling of mandolins. The gondolier moored his vessel and, catching Liebermann's eye, winked and vanished into the café.
Immediately, the young doctor and his companion drew closer together. They lowered their voices, and began to speak more intimately. Liebermann told Trezska about his family: his garrulous mother, his disapproving father, his two delightful sisters. He told her about the district where he had grown up, the schools he had attended, and his time at the university. He told her about the cities he had visited and about his fondness for English literature and London. And after a short hiatus, during which they both listened to the delicate, persistent thrumming of the mandolins, Trezska reciprocated. She told Liebermann about her father, who had also been a violinist— but who had died when she'd been very young. She told him about her mother, whose aristocratic family had disowned her when she had married below her station. And she told him about her life in Budapest: of Castle Hill, shrouded in autumn mists, the scent of violets in the spring, and the magnificent, ruthless winters, which froze the Danube, making it possible to walk from Pest to Buda.
The gondolier reappeared, and soon they were off again, drifting through the gently lapping waters. On the floor, the empty bottle of champagne lay on its side, rolling with the gentle movement of the boat. Liebermann leaned back, and felt Trezska's head resting on his shoulder. An easy silence ensued, one that did not require filling. Above Liebermann s head, the strip of sky between the roofs was becoming darker.
When the gondola reached the landing from which they had begun their odyssey Liebermann helped Trezska out with one hand while tipping the gondolier with the other.
“The champagne has made me feel sleepy,” said Trezska. “Shall we go for a walk?”
“If you like.”
“Away from all these people…”
“Yes, of course.”
Liebermann led Trezska out of the make-believe world of Venedig in Wien and off toward the Freudenau. They strolled down the Haupt Allee, talking with less urgency—increasingly more at ease. As they progressed, Liebermann became conscious of a sudden plunge in temperature. It was getting windy, and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.
“Quick,” said Liebermann, “let's shelter under there.”
A large solitary plane tree was close by, and they dashed to take cover beneath its canopy of tangled branches. The patter of rain became louder, and the Prater was bathed in an eldritch luminescence. A subtle flickering illuminated the clouds, and a low rumbling followed. Then, quite suddenly, there was a bright white flash, a tremendous clap of thunder, and the skies opened, releasing a torrential downpour.
Liebermann noticed that Trezska looked agitated. Her eyes were wide open and she had begun to pace.
“It's all right,” said Liebermann. “It'll soon stop.”
His solicitous remark had no effect. She continued to appear uneasy. Liebermann wondered whether she was pathologically frightened of thunderstorms. But the sky had been getting more overcast throughout the day, and she had showed no obvious signs of distress. He dismissed the thought: a brontophobic would have been anxious to get inside hours ago.
“What's the matter?” Liebermann asked.
Trezska attempted a smile, but failed miserably.
“I…” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “I don't like it here.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, puzzled. “The rain will stop—and then we can leave.”
“No. I think… I think we should go now.”
“But we'll get soaked.”
“It's only rain. Come, let's go.” Trezska looked at the sky and pouted.
“Are you afraid?”
She paused for a moment, and then said: “Yes.”
“But it's just—” There was another flash and a boom so loud that the ground shook. “A storm.”
“Come,” she said. “I'm sorry. We can't stay here.”
“But why not?”
“We just can't!” A note of desperation had entered Trezska's voice. While Liebermann was still trying to think of something to say, she added, “I'm going.” And with that she marched out into the violent weather.
Stunned, Liebermann watched her, as she held her hat in place while striding determinedly back toward the amusements. Then, realizing that he was not being very gentlemanly, he ran after her.
“Trezska?”
When he caught up with her, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She did not slow down to make his task any easier.
“We must get away. Now hurry.”
They maintained their pace, walking briskly into sheets of cold rain. Liebermann s clothes were soon drenched, his hair was plastered to his scalp, and a continuous flow of water streamed down the back of his neck.
Whatever is the matter with her? thought Liebermann.
There was another flash, but much brighter than its predecessors. The grass seemed to leap up, each blade sharp and distinct in the dazzling coruscation. The rain looked momentarily frozen, becoming rods of crystal suspended in the air, and a fraction of a second later there was an explosion—a great ripping, accompanied by a shower of bark and smoldering splinters. Liebermann swung around and saw flames licking the trunk of the scorched plane tree. They had been standing exactly where the bolt had struck. If they had not moved, they would have been killed.
40
COMMISSIONER MANFRED BRÜGEL looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.
“Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult—very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.
Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.
“Now, according to my nephew,” said Brügel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You interviewed my nephew—and several other boys.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”
Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.