The venerable assumed an expression that Liebermann associated with the ingestion of a particularly bitter pill.
“But that is impossible, Herr Doctor. You are not a Mason!”
Kanner, who had been sitting quietly throughout the exchange, coughed to attract the venerable's attention. “Master Losch?”
The venerable turned his head.
“The fundamental tenet of the Royal Art,” said Kanner, “is that all men are brothers and must be judged according to their good works. I am proud to call Doctor Liebermann my friend and honored to count him among my most esteemed colleagues. I trust him implicitly. Tomorrow's ceremony will be exceptional in so many ways… I beg you to give Herr Doctor Liebermann's request the most serious consideration.”
The venerable sighed and allowed his fingers to come together again.
“To allow a man who has links with the security office into Elysium is one thing. But to permit him to attend a ritual is altogether different. Herr Doctor Liebermann is evidently of good character and we have much to lose if his speculations prove to be correct. Moreover, it is incumbent upon me to take whatever measures are necessary to ensure the survival of the lodge… Brother Kanner, I promise that I shall give Doctor Liebermann's request the careful thought that it deserves.”
83
It was a glorious morning. Clara was seated on the terrace, next to the stone balustrade, from where she could enjoy the most spectacular alpine views. The sunlight was dazzling. So much so that she had to lower the brim of her hat to examine the snow-covered slopes. She took a deep breath-and felt quite dizzy: the air possessed the invigorating vitality of champagne.
Clara had already taken a bath in the hot springs and was feeling quite virtuous. However, she had decided to abandon the lettuce and buttermilk diet prescribed by Doctor Blaukopf, which seemed to be doing her no good at all. Besides, she was singularly unimpressed by Doctor Blaukopf. How could she respect a man who failed to notice the stains on his necktie and hunched his shoulders? Like all medical men, she reflected, his priorities were entirely wrong.
When the waiter arrived, she realized that the fresh air had sharpened her appetite, and so she ordered cinnamon coffee, freshly baked Kaisersemmel rolls, plum preserve, honey, eggs-and a little fruit.
While she was waiting for her breakfast to arrive, Clara observed the marchioness stepping through the open veranda doors. She was wearing a long black dress buttoned up to the top of her neck and had a fur pelt wrapped around her shoulders. Clara recognized the pelt from the previous evening. One of its extremities was decorated with a diminutive feral face with needle-sharp yellow teeth and black glass eyes. Clara marveled at how young the marchioness looked-a quite extraordinary phenomenon, considering that Aunt Trudi had established that the woman must be at least thirty-two.
The marchioness glided past.
“Buon giorno,” she said softly, managing the strange accomplishment of being both polite and indifferent at the same time.
Clara bowed, then wondered whether she had committed a social indiscretion. Had she bowed properly? Had she bowed too low? Should she have bowed at all? Perhaps she should have merely returned the greeting. She would consult Aunt Trudi later.
The waiter arrived with a tray piled with breakfast things. Clara broke the Kaisersemmel in half. The warm bread steamed in the cold air and emitted a fragrance like ambrosia. She smeared one of the pieces with creamy yellow butter and heaped on a generous mound of preserves that seemed to glisten from within like amethyst. When she bit through the crust, an explosion of sweet pleasure rippled through her body. This was not a delight that she was prepared to forgo again, irrespective of medical opinion.
As she contemplated the nearest summit, memories of the previous evening surfaced in her mind. She had been playing cards in the games room with Aunt Trudi and they had been joined by a young cavalry officer called Lieutenant Schreker. She had found his conversation most entertaining. He was witty, amusing. He had attended countless balls and seemed to know hordes of important society people. And how romantic that he should be convalescing after receiving an almost fatal sabre wound in Transylvania. His regiment had suppressed a revolt organized by some renegade Hungarian aristocrats. It all sounded so very exciting.
How different he was from other men she had met. How different he was from Max, who was always talking about the hospital- patients and illness. Psychoanalysis!
While they had been playing a round of taroc, her feet had accidentally come into contact with Lieutenant Schreker's boots. She had blushed and looked down at her hand, but before doing so she had caught a glimpse of Schreker's expression. He had been smiling. It was a wicked smile, but at the same time, she had to admit, he looked devilishly handsome. Clara conjured in her mind an image of the dashing Uhlan. How smart he looked in his uniform-the star on his collar, his polished spurs, and those blue breeches that clung tightly to his long rider's legs… Even though she was alone, Clara blushed again.
A few more early risers had wandered out onto the terrace. Frau Gast and her daughter Constance; the wretched little banker who had taken an unwelcome interest in Aunt Trudi; Herr Bos, who suffered from a rare respiratory disorder and constantly coughed into his handkerchief; and the eccentric English professor (who attempted German with great enthusiasm but was at all times utterly incomprehensible).
Clara found herself gazing at the open veranda door and wishing that Lieutenant Schreker would be the next person to step out. And that was exactly what happened. Her heart was suddenly beating faster-and unaccountably she found herself a little breathless.
The handsome officer stood tall and straight-backed, enjoying the spectacular view. Turning to find a seat, he spotted Clara instantly, smiled, and marched across the terrace.
“Good morning, gnadige fraulein.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant Schreker. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, and what a beautiful morning it is.”
“Yes-very beautiful.”
The sun had burnished the officer's blond hair.
“May I join you for breakfast?” Clara glanced at the open doors. The officer read her thoughts and, wary of impropriety, added, “I presume your splendid aunt will be along shortly.”
Clara raised her eyebrows, parted her lips, and-assuming her most flirtatious expression-replied, “I hope not.”
84
Rheinhardt sat in his office at the Schottenring station. There was nothing more to be done. The palace had been informed and a number of plainclothes officers were keeping the Masonic charity Humanitas under surveillance. He would soon join them.
The inspector absentmindedly opened his desk and discovered a bottle of slivovitz and a bag of marzipan mice. He had purchased the mice some time ago as a treat for his daughters but had forgotten to take them home. Unable to resist, he took one of the mice from the bag and was about to put it into his mouth when he noticed the creature's expression. It was a little masterpiece of the confectioner's art, capturing exactly the murine equivalent of resignation. Rheinhardt assumed this was intentional. Thus, children could bite their heads off with equanimity, knowing that each mouse had already accepted its fate.
Rheinhardt wished he could do the same.
There is nothing more to be done.
Suddenly he was gripped by a superstitious sentiment that his fate and that of the mouse had become connected: if he ate the mouse, he would be colluding with the forces of destiny. He did not like the idea that things were preordained and the feeling of impotence that came with it. He dropped the mouse back into the bag and hoped that the animal's reprieve would be translated into corresponding good fortune for him.