“Well?” said Professor Pallenberg.
“I must confess that I am not familiar with this particular”Kanner hesitated, bit his lower lip, and finally forced out the word“treatment.”
“No,” said Pallenberg. “It is largely unknown to students of your generation.”
The patient rotated clockwise, slowing by degrees to a perfect standstill. After a moment of stillness, the rope began to unwind and the hanging man turned in the opposite direction. The restraining jacket gave him the appearance of a giant pupa.
“As you know,” Pallenberg went on, “Herr Auger has not responded to conservative treatments-particularly morphia and veronal-and I thought it time to try a different approach… something that I remembered from my student days in Paris.”
“Suspension is a French treatment?”
“Indeed. I am one of a select company of Viennese doctors who had the pleasure of studying under Charcot at the Salpetriere. Do you know Professor Freud?”
“Not personally.”
“He was another. A great man, Charcot. The Napoleon of the neuroses.”
“I have read some of Professor Freud's translations. But I have never come across this specific”-he found himself hesitating again“therapy.”
“Well, that isn't surprising. Charcot's pioneering work using hypnosis as a treatment for la grande hysterie has somewhat eclipsed his other contributions. In my estimation, iron-filing ingestion and suspension in harness are two original interventions that have been sadly neglected.”
“Might I ask,” said Kanner tentatively, “how suspension works?”
“Well,” Pallenberg replied, “Charcot proposed certain theories that-to be frank-are not compelling. But I always suspected that his work in this domain merited further consideration. I remember the case of an engineer who suffered from delusions of persecution and who benefited greatly from suspension. Then there was a sailor who believed that one of his legs had been amputated while he slept somewhere off the coast of Portugal… I have long since wondered whether certain forms of delusion-among which we must include the Cotard-are caused by an abnormality of circulation. Perhaps Charcot achieved these successes because suspension had some subtle effect on the course of arterial blood flow in the brain. It is my earnest hope that Herr Auger will be the beneficiary of such a process.”
“Could a similar effect not be achieved by encouraging Herr Auger to lie in bed with his feet raised on some pillows?”
Professor Pallenberg shook his head. “No, I doubt that very much.”
Kanner, accepting his role as the junior party in the exchange, stood corrected.
Professor Pallenberg approached his inverted patient. A dull creaking sound accompanied the periodic clockwise and anticlockwise rotations.
“Herr Auger,” said Pallenberg, addressing the reverse-horripilated head. “How are you feeling?”
“I do not exist,” came the gentle, resigned reply.
“That is self-evidently not true, Herr Auger,” Pallenberg responded somewhat tetchily. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me how you feel?”
“I am not here.”
Kanner was relieved to hear Herr Auger's usual response. If the poor man did not believe in his own existence, then it seemed unlikely that he could be suffering very much.
Pallenberg shrugged and caught Kanner's eye. “One cannot expect very much progress at this very early stage. I would be most grateful, Doctor Kanner, if you could ensure that Herr Auger receives fifteen to twenty minutes of suspension daily. The winch is simple to operate but you will obviously need some assistance from the porters.”
“Very good, sir.”
Pallenberg nodded curtly. “Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”
Recognizing that he had been dismissed, Kanner bowed, and left the room. He descended the stairs in an oddly detached state, somewhat overwhelmed by his encounter with Professor Pallenberg and the unfortunate Herr Auger.
By the time Kanner had reached his office, his mind was occupied by other matters. Before entering the room he looked down the corridor both ways and then quickly slipped inside. He went immediately to his desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a heavily embroidered sash and apron. The apron bore the image of a temple between two columns that were marked J and B respectively. Kanner quickly stuffed the items into his doctor's bag and closed the hasp. Then, sighing with relief, he looked at his watch.
66
LIEBERMANN AND RHEINHARDT WERE attempting Guglielmo's aria from the first act of Cosi Fan Tutte. Rheinhardt's Italian was less than perfect. “Guardate… taccate…” Look… touch…
He struggled with the liquid vowels. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
They had not conferred greatly on the selection of songs, yet their musical evening contained an unusual number of piano and voice arrangements taken from the operas of Mozart. It was a fact that made Liebermann feel distinctly uncomfortable. Unconsciously, they were looking for clues. “Il tutto osservate…” Observe everything…
Their music-making had always been sacred: they had always resisted discussing other matters, however urgent, until the final chords of the final song had faded into silence. But now Salieri seemed to have violated their tradition. He had insinuated himself into the music room-between the very notes of Mozart's divine melodies. He stood in the shadow of the Bosendorfer: an unwelcome, ghostly presence.
After performing the Mozart pieces, they returned to more familiar territory-lieder by Brahms. The luscious, romantic harmonies seemed to repel the spectral visitor (at least temporarily) to some distant outer region. But when the recital was done-ending with Wir wandelten-Liebermann still felt uneasy. For it was not only the thought of Salieri that was causing him discomfort. There was also the matter of his pending confession. He had resolved to inform Rheinhardt of his decision to terminate his engagement to Clara, and he was not sure how his friend would receive such news.
The two men retired to the smoking room and took their respective places in front of the fire. They lit cigars, sipped brandy, and permitted themselves a few moments of quiet repose. When the room had become hazy with smoke, the young doctor spoke.
“Forgive me, Oskar. I owe you an apology.”
The inspector turned. “Oh?”
“It was remiss of me not to respond to your note last week.”
“I had assumed that you were ill.”
“No, I was not ill. And you are due more than the dashed-off reply that I sent on Monday.”
Rheinhardt detected that his friend was unusually tense. His restless fingers betrayed an inner state of agitation.
“What is it, Max?”
Liebermann hesitated. Then, bracing himself, he threw back his head and swallowed a medicinal quantity of brandy. “Last week,” he said deliberately, “I had to make a decision regarding a personal issue, which left me feeling utterly dejected. Indeed, my spirits were so low that I could barely summon the energy to attend my patients.” Liebermann studied the refracted rainbows in the finely cut glass. “The decision I made was one that I believe will not meet with your approval.” He looked anxiously at his friend. Rheinhardt dismissed the remark with a hand gesture and signaled that Liebermann should continue. “You will recall that I once expressed some doubt as to whether I should proceed with my engagement to Clara Weiss.”
“Indeed. We spoke at some length on the subject.”
“Well, Oskar. In spite of your wise counsel, I have found it impossible to dispel the feelings of apprehension surrounding the prospect of our union. I arranged an interview with Clara's father and explained that I could not-in good faith-marry his daughter. Needless to say, he was horrified and forbade me to see Clara. I understand she has since been removed from Vienna, and I suspect that she has been taken to a sanitorium.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and expelled a great cloud of smoke. “So, you see, Oskar, I have achieved much since we last met. I have thoroughly embarrassed my parents, caused incalculable pain to a woman whom I had previously professed to love, and declined membership of a family who have hitherto shown me only kindness and the deepest affection. I wouldn't blame you for thinking badly of me.”