She had turned her face toward him. Beneath the brim of her feathered hat, Amelia's expression was typically intense. A silver ribbon had loosened and was dangling past her ear.
“If my understanding of Nietzsche is correct,” continued Amelia, “then he is suggesting something much more plausible… something that—unlike comparable religious ideas—does not contradict science. Perhaps this is why I have been so preoccupied. I have had to reevaluate a notion that I had previously rejected. Nietzsche seems to have provided a perfectly rational explanation for a supposedly metaphysical phenomenon.”
“But how?”
Amelia's forehead creased.
“If time is infinite and there is also a limited amount of matter in the universe, then past configurations of matter must eventually recur. Is that not so?”
As Liebermann considered the argument, Amelia pressed on: “Imagine, if you will, that the world in which we live is analagous to a game of chess. Because of physical limitations—for example, the number of pieces, the number of squares, and so forth—there are only so many games possible. Therefore, if two immortal adversaries were locked in competition forever, at some point the precise sequence of moves that constituted a previous game must necessarily be repeated. And so it must be with atoms and the universe.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, slightly perplexed. “That is indeed a fascinating argument. If one accepts that time has no end and that matter exists in only finite quantities, then one is also bound to agree with Nietzsche; however, I find the idea of my own personal reconstitution vaguely depressing. It makes me think of all the mistakes I have made.”
“Nietzsche hoped,” Amelia continued, “that contemplation of eternal recurrence would inspire humanity to make wiser choices. If we are trapped in an infinitely repeating cycle of existence, then we should make every effort to live our lives to the full.”
Their destination came into view: a substantial town house, where Amelia occupied rooms on the top floor.
Liebermann had been so absorbed by Amelia's conversation that their walk across the city seemed to have taken no time at all. Reluctantly, he released her arm.
“Thank you so much for inviting me to the detectives’ ball,” said Amelia.
“I am delighted you enjoyed it.”
“It is such a shame that Inspector Rheinhardt was called away.”
“An occupational hazard, I fear.”
“And thank you also for your invaluable guidance on the dance floor.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Neither of them moved. The subsequent silence became awkward, and they both began to speak at once. Liebermann gestured that Amelia should continue.
“If I am to stay in Vienna, I must take lessons. Can you recommend a teacher?”
“Herr Janowsky. He instructs my younger sister. But you must not judge yourself unkindly. You did very well… considering.”
They were still standing close together. Amelia's face was tilted upward—the silver ribbon reflecting the yellow lamplight.
Liebermann's fingertips were troubled by memories of the ball. The warmth of Amelia's body—flesh, shifting beneath velvet. There had been so many accidental brushes, touches, inadvertent intimacies. Now these memories were crowding back, accompanied by turbulent feelings that he had hitherto sucessfully repressed.
“Dr. Liebermann.” Amelia said his name softly—so softly that it was as though she had merely inflected a sigh. The exhalation carried a faint note of inquiry.
He could smell her perfume—a heavy, soporific lavender.
He felt curiously dissociated—Too much champagne?—and became aware that he was leaning forward.
He stopped himself.
The moment passed.
Amelia was raising her hand.
He continued moving forward, bending low until his lips were pressed against the silk of her glove.
“Good night, Dr. Liebermann.”
“Good night.” His voice was strained. “Good night, Miss Lyd gate.”
The Englishwoman found her keys and opened the door. She paused for a moment on the threshold, and then stepped into darkness.
Liebermann did not go home. He felt far too agitated. Instead, he walked to the Josephinum, where he paused to gaze at the statue of Hygeia—the goddess of healing. He lit a cigarette, and addressed the deity directly: “Well, if old Nietzsche was right, I've just missed an opportunity: an opportunity that I shall continue to miss for all of eternity.”
6
RHEINHARDT, THE HEADMASTER, and Professor Klodwig Gärtner were standing together in the laboratory. It was an ugly, dilapidated room. Exposed water pipes followed the wall just below the ceiling, and from these oversize conduits brownish stains of varying intensity dribbled to the floor. A constant hissing sound filled the air.
“I thought he'd fallen asleep,” said Gärtner. “ ‘Wake up, Zelenka,’ I said. ‘Wake up, boy!’ But he didn't stir, so I said it again ‘Come on, boy, wake up!’ And I clapped my hands, loudly. Still—nothing. So I walked over and shook him.”
Gärtner was an old master—almost completely bald, except for two tufts of silver hair that sprouted above his ears. His eyebrows had the consistency of wire wool and curled up at the ends, giving his face a curious, demonic cast. This effect was assisted by a sharp pointed beard and a thin mustache. His nose was long and bent slightly to one side, suggesting that he might have been a pugilist in his youth.
“Was he breathing?” asked Rheinhardt.
“I don't know—I don't think so.”
Rheinhardt could smell alcohol on Gärtner's breath. He had clearly drunk more than was strictly necessary to steady his nerves.
“To be honest, Inspector,” Gärtner continued, “I didn't think to check. I simply ran to get the headmaster.”
Rheinhardt peered into one of several large glass-fronted display cabinets. It contained geological exhibits. Most of the collection was uninspiring. He studied the labels: slate with pyrites, basalt, flint, red sandstone. The only thing that captured his interest was a shiny black trilobite with large protruding eyes.
“Go on,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm listening.”
“We laid him out on the floor,” Gärtner continued, “but it was obvious something very bad had happened.”
Rheinhardt turned. “Where did you lay him out, exactly?”
“There, Inspector,” interrupted the headmaster, pointing between the two front benches where the high wooden stools had been pushed aside to accommodate a supine body.
The surface of the first bench was scattered with the paraphernalia of experimentation: labeled bottles with glass stoppers, small dishes filled with powders, a pipette, a rack of test tubes, a small burner, and a flask of brown liquid. Rheinhardt lifted the flask and swirled it under his nose. It was vinegar.
Zelenka's notebook was still open. Various chemical formulae were scrawled across the page, some supplemented with modest observations: bubbling, unpleasant smell, evaporation.
Gärtner addressed the headmaster: “You examined the boy with Becker, and then you told Becker to fetch Nurse Funke.”
“Thank you, Professor Gärtner,” said Eichmann. The sharpness of his tone indicated that such assistance was unwelcome. He could remember perfectly well what had happened—and did not need Gärtner to remind him.
Next to the notebook was a small pastry on a plate. It was untouched. Rheinhardt felt a sudden pang of pity—a tightening in his chest. He imagined Zelenka purchasing the cake from the canteen, saving it as a special treat to be consumed at the end of the day. It seemed unjust that the boy should have been deprived of this one last innocent indulgence.