Liebermann grimaced. “Please accept my apology.”
“I do so with… with munificence.”
They moved along the wall, stopping to look at each painting.
The dwarf Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a mage standing in a pentacle decorated with runic symbols; a blind skald weaving his spell by the hearth in a timbered hall.
“Do you like them?” asked Rheinhardt, surprised that his friend was examining the images so closely. He knew that Liebermann's artistic preferences were modern and could not understand why he was spending so much time in front of each canvas.
“Definitely not.”
“Then please can we move along. We will never finish the exhibition at this rate!”
Liebermann sighed and followed his friend.
The next canvas was a large battle scene crammed with tiny figures. It reminded Liebermann of the work of Hieronymus Boschparticularly The Last Judgment, which was permanently exhibited in the art school. But when he drew closer to the canvas, it was apparent that Olbricht did not possess Bosch's technique, nor any of his humor. Liebermann fished his spectacles out from the top pocket of his jacket and pressed his nose up close to the painting.
“What on earth are you doing, Max?”
“Looking at the detail.”
A rather large burgher said “Excuse me, sir” in a gruff voice, indicating that Liebermann was in his way. He was wearing an artificial white carnation in his buttonhole, signaling his membership of the Christian Social party. The young doctor apologized and took a step back. The burgher narrowed his eyes at Liebermann and said something to his wife. Neither the young doctor nor his companion needed to hear the words to comprehend the nature of the slur. Rheinhardt was about to challenge the burgher but Liebermann raised his hand. They moved away quietly.
“Disgraceful,” said Rheinhardt. “You really should have let me-”
“Oskar,” Liebermann cut in. “It happens all the time. Come now, let us continue with the exhibition.”
The next canvas showed a woman with flaxen hair looking out at an infinitely receding Roman army. It was titled Pipara: The Germanic Woman in the Purple of the Caesars. Liebermann read an accompanying note: Adapted freely from the two-volume novel by Guido von List, recounting the legendary rise of a German slave to the position of empress in the late third century.
“What a fine woman,” said Rheinhardt, innocently.
The young doctor did not reply. He studied the painting for some time, and motioned that he was ready to move on. Then-strangely- at the last moment he found himself unable to proceed. His feet seemed fixed to the floor. It was as though the painting were exerting a strange influence, producing immobility.
Liebermann's mind was suddenly invaded by a haunting image: the shopgirl he had met on the streetcar-her carmine glove, receding into the gloom.
Rheinhardt, who had already taken a few steps away, paused and looked back at his friend. “Max?”
“This painting…” Liebermann whispered.
The string quartet struck up the introductory bars of a Strauss waltz. Liebermann recognized it immediately: Vienna Blood. Suddenly the spell was broken and he was walking toward his friend, an enigmatic smile raising the corners of his mouth.
68
THE ROOM CONTAINED NO furniture except for a small card table that had been placed in the center. From downstairs the muffled sound of carousing rose through the bare floorboards. An inebriated chorus of male voices seemed to be exploring the limits of musical coherence over an out-of-tune piano. The instrument rang out its discords, and occasionally a shriek of delight betrayed the presence of several indecorous females.
A single gas flame sputtered, tainting the air with pungent fumes. Above the lamp's stanchion and cracked glass bowl a black smear of sooty ejecta broke the continuity of a floral motif on the yellowing wallpaper.
Gathered around the table were seven men: Lieutenant Ruprecht Hefner, his seconds, Renz and Trapp, Count Zoltan Zaborszky, his seconds, Braun and Dekany, and the unparteiische-a pale-faced emaciated man with blue lips and transparent fingers.
Thirteen slivers of wood had been laid out on the table's green baize, arranged in a semicircle like the struts of an open fan. Twelve were identical. The thirteenth, however, was distinguished by a daub of red paint. The unparteiische pushed it into position, attempting to create a perfectly symmetrical arrangement.
“You may inspect the lots,” said the unparteiische in a voice that was surprisingly stentorian for such a cadaverous man.
Renz picked up one of the wooden slivers and rotated it in his hand. Being more accustomed-in his capacity as a second-to testing the weight and quality of pistols, he was not sure what more he could do. He shrugged, somewhat puzzled, and tossed the sliver back onto the baize.
“I am satisfied,” he said.
“Herr Braun?” said the unparteiische.
The younger of the count's seconds stepped forward. He was a gaunt fellow, whose prominent jawline and dark eyes suggested a certain rugged charm. However, the inherent nobility of his lineaments had evidently been ruined by a dissolute life. His thick hair was greasy and his chin scabrous, while the stubble on his cheek was speckled with silver bristles.
Braun touched each of the slivers, working his way systematically through the half-dial arrangement. Hefner noticed that the cuffs of his jacket were frayed, and that the man's hand was disfigured by a thin white weal-it looked like a dueling scar. The wretch toyed with the red slip for a few moments and then said, “I am satisfied.” This utterance was accompanied by an exhalation of breath that smelled strongly of alcohol.
The unparteiische handed Braun a velvet drawstring bag. The young man stretched it open and offered the exposed interior to Renz.
“Lieutenant?” The unparteiische prompted.
“Yes, of course,” said Renz, suddenly comprehending his role. The officer scooped the slivers together and dropped them into the open mouth of the bag. Braun pulled the string tight and began shaking the bag. The wooden slivers clattered inside. From the room below came a sudden burst of raucous laughter.
Braun continued shaking the bag.
Clatter, clatter, clatter…
He seemed to be taking his relatively minor task far too seriously. The unparteiische, unable to contain himself any longer, glared at the over-earnest second. The baleful look from his luminous eyes had the desired effect, and the young man handed the bag back with a muttered apology.
The unparteiische addressed Hefner and the count. “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Both nodded. “Good. Let us begin.”
The duelists positioned themselves at either side of the unparteiische, who loosened the string of the bag. Then, holding it out in front of him, he tilted it toward Zaborszky.
The count tucked his cane under his left arm and stroked his drooping oriental mustache. The expression on his broad, almost Mongolian features was difficult to interpret. It had a curious, almost alien intensity. He crossed himself slowly, allowing a limp forefinger to touch his forehead, chest, and shoulders-his hand moving over his body in extravagant arcs. An emerald ring glittered, then disappeared into the black velvet bag. Before withdrawing his hand, the count locked stares with each of the three Uhlans. He withdrew the lot. Holding it up, he turned the sliver around, demonstrating that it was unmarked.
Disgusted with the count's excesses, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and removed another unmarked lot. He held it up for a few moments, then threw it angrily onto the table.
The count was not persuaded by Hefner's example to change his ways. Again, he executed a lymphatic sign of the cross before tugging at the black ribbon attached to his vest. He retrieved the dangling monocle and pressed it into the orbit of his left eye.