“Insufferable,” whispered Trapp.
When the count was ready to proceed-determinedly in his own time-he explored the contents of the black bag for what seemed like an eternity before withdrawing another blank sliver.
The unparteiische-whose neutrality was being sorely testedoffered the bag to Hefner. But before the soldier could respond, Braun called out, “Stop!”
He stepped forward and peered at the bag. The three Uhlans shifted impatiently, their collective movement producing a jangling of spurs.
“Would the gentleman explain,” said the cadaverous umpire, “why he has seen fit to interrupt us?”
Braun pointed at the bag. “I thought I could see a hole.”
“Where?”
Braun took the bag from the unparteiische, lifted it above his head, and turned it around.
“No-I'm sorry. I was mistaken.”
He handed the bag back to the unparteiische.
Renz and Trapp groaned.
Braun faced them indignantly. “Sirs-I will not be party to an improper contest. When our business here is concluded, my conscience dictates that I must leave this building secure in the knowledge that it was fate alone that harmonized the discord. As you well know, it is our solemn duty-mine and yours-to intervene if there is even the slightest possibility that the code of honor is being violated!”
Before the Uhlans could respond, the unparteiische raised his hand.
“Thank you, Herr Braun. You have been most vigilant. I take it you are now satisfied that the duel can continue?”
“I am,” said Braun, still glaring at the restive Uhlans.
The unparteiische offered Hefner the bag for the second time.
Without hesitation, Hefner plunged his hand into the bag and pulled out his lot. He glanced at it in the sheltered bowl of his cupped fingers. The Uhlan's face showed no sign of emotion. Turning the sliver of wood around, he exposed the fatal red daub.
Renz and Trapp gasped.
The unparteiische looked directly at Hefner. “The duel is concluded. Count Zaborszky has won. You know what this means… I trust that you will respect the code and fulfill your obligation within the next week.”
69
THE LONG, DESCENDING STREET was almost empty, and as Liebermann drew closer to the Danube Canal, a dense frozen fog seemed to be building up. It curled around his legs with feline curiosity. The ninth district, a bastion of respectable middle-class values, was strangely transformed, as if an old dowager had exchanged her wardrobe for that of a Circassian dancer. In her new garb of twisting diaphanous veils, she seemed suddenly equipped to deliver illicit pleasures. And perhaps-on this particular evening-she would…
Professor Freud had invited Liebermann to become a member of his Wednesday-evening psychological society long before its inaugural meeting. But so far a combination of factors-Clara, hospital work, Salieri-had stopped Liebermann from attending. Subsequently the society had been convening in his absence for more than a month. When the first opportunity to attend finally presented itself, Lieber-mann dispatched a note to the professor expressing his earnest hope that the invitation was still standing. Freud's response was friendly and included a request that-if at all possible-Liebermann should bring with him some case material for discussion. So it was that Liebermann came to be clutching in his hand a manuscript provisionally titled Herr B: Notes on a case of paranoia erotica.
It occurred to Liebermann that Sigmund Freud's Psychological Society was, in many ways, similar to the numerous secret societies that congregated in Vienna. Once again, a charismatic leader had gathered a small group of followers around him-a cabal who would spread the tenets of his doctrine and challenge the settled order of things. There was something about this city-his city-that attracted intrigue, conspiracy, and sedition. Visionaries and prophets found it irresistible.
Liebermann suddenly remembered the lampposts outside the Opera House, the feet of which were cast in the form of four winged Sphinxes. Then he recalled the Sphinxes in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, the Sphinxes in the Belvedere gardens, and the Sphinxes on Professor Freud's desk. The city was full of Sphinxes…
Secrets, secrets, secrets.
Conscious of a mounting and almost childish excitement, Liebermann quickened his step.
The large doors of Bergasse 19 were open. He crossed the threshold and walked down the long cobbled entryway, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. At the other end of the passage were panels of black glass, which ordinarily would have afforded the prospect of a pretty little courtyard and a chestnut tree. But this evening they reflected back the semi-transparent image of a young doctor wearing a long astrakhan coat.
Liebermann turned right, ascended a small curved staircase, and walked past a single spherical gas lamp that was mounted on a floridly ornate iron banister. It was surrounded by a foggy halo, and the muted light barely illuminated a black lacquered door at the center of which was a simple nameplate: prof. dr. freud.
Liebermann rang the bell and was admitted by a maid who took his coat. He was ushered into Freud's waiting room, the decor of which conveyed an impression of shadowy opulence: red drapes and dark wood; a cabinet displaying a small collection of statuettes; and, on a pedestal, a large plaster copy of Michelangelo's Dying Slave. The walls were covered with pictures that reflected Freud's preoccupation with antiquities: Roman ruins, some eighteenth-century prints of classical scenes, and, inevitably, a Sphinx, brooding in front of a pyramid. Around an oblong table sat Freud and three others.
“Ah, there you are,” cried the professor, rising energetically. “I am delighted you could make it! And, if I am not mistaken, I observe that you have brought us some case material. Paranoia erotica, you say? Well, that will be a rare delight.”
Freud introduced his three companions, using only their surnames: Stekel, Reitler, and Kahane. Liebermann recognized the first two from Freud's Saturday lectures at the university. The third man was not familiar, but it transpired that he was the director of the Institute for Physical Therapeutic Methods. As they made polite conversation, Liebermann was surprised to discover that in spite of Kahane's professed interest in psychoanalysis, he was still treating (or, more accurately, tormenting) his patients with electrotherapy.
A few minutes later Freud's final guest arrived. He was a man in his early thirties: a stocky individual whose facial features contracted disdainfully around a large nose. He wore round glasses, sported a small mustache, and his prominent chin was divided by a deep vertical cleft. Liebermann knew him to be Alfred Adler, a doctor to whom he had been introduced by a mutual friend the previous year. Liebermann had once been asked to accompany Adler at a party, and had been truly amazed by the power and sweetness of the singing voice that had issued from his crooked mouth. It was as if-by divine intercession- the man's deficiencies of appearance had been compensated for by an extraordinary musical gift.
Eventually, all the company were seated and Freud passed around a large box of cigars. As an incentive to partake, each place at the table was furnished with an attractive jade ashtray. No one refused, and as matches flared and dimmed, the room became filled with clouds of billowing smoke.
The professor indicated that he was ready to begin. He announced that there would be two presentations: the first delivered by Dr. Stekel and the second by Dr. Liebermann (whom he also welcomed to the society). Proceedings would then be suspended for fifteen minutes before they resumed with a group discussion.
Stekel, a good-natured general practitioner, gave a lively description of a twenty-two-year-old female patient suffering from hysterical hyperalgesia-a disorder characterized by excessive physical sensitivity. It was not, however, a remarkable case study, and Liebermann found his attention wandering. He was feeling somewhat apprehensive and had begun-almost unconsciously-to rehearse his talk.