Frank Tallis - Death And The Maiden

Rheinhardt remembered the witch, Orsola Salak.

Who are you? That is the question: the policeman or the man with three women in his life?

Rheinhardt could have offered Orsola Salak many answers to that question, but all of them, he realised, would be secondary to the one fundamental answer which took precedence over all others. He did his job to make the world a safer, better place for his wife and children. Interposing himself between the badness of the world and his family had become his raison d’etre .

The uncanny atmosphere of ‘The Gypsy Fiddlers’ and the intense love he had felt for Mitzi while reading it had affected his state of mind. It was as if he had been opened up, released from the internal straitjacket of rationality. He found himself curiously willing to accept Salak’s prophecy.

‘ What are you? A policeman? Or a father and husband? The time is approaching, very soon, when you must ask yourself such questions. Be true. Otherwise …’

Salak’s implied threat sent a shiver down Rheinhardt’s spine. He was committed to the security office, but his commitment ended with the protection of his family’s interests. He did not want his wife to become a widow and his daughters to grow up without a father.

If I continue to play the part of the good policeman and continue this investigation, it might end in the grave for me …

The witch had advised him to be true, and that meant putting his role as a husband and father before his duty as a policeman. In the Cafe Central, Liebermann had presented him with a chilling scenario. The Rosenkrantz case was more complex and more dangerous than he had even imagined.

Rheinhardt stood up. He crossed to the window and moved the curtain aside. There was nobody waiting for him on the street below, no suspicious figure loitering.

‘What is it?’ asked Else. As usual, she had sensed his unease.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. He moved to the table and rested his hands on Else’s shoulders. ‘I thought I heard rain.’

Professor Freud lit a cigar and produced a flotilla of clouds that floated slowly over Liebermann’s head. Their conversation had touched upon several weighty subjects — masochistic impulses, psychasthenia, eurotophobia, and the mechanisms of repression — but as the evening progressed the atmosphere had become less collegiate and more convivial. Unusually, Freud had loosened his necktie prior to sharing some reminiscences of his early medical career.

‘One day,’ said the professor, between puffs, ‘I had a friendly message from Chrobak.’

‘The renowned gynaecologist?’

‘Indeed. He wanted me to take on a patient of his. You see, he’d just accepted a new teaching appointment and didn’t have enough time to care for her. I arrived at the patient’s house before him and found that she was suffering from attacks of meaningless anxiety and she could only be soothed by the most precise information about where her doctor was at every moment of the day. When Chrobak arrived he took me aside and told me that the patient’s anxiety was due to the fact that although she had been married for eighteen years she was still virgo intacta . The husband was absolutely impotent. In such cases, he said, there was nothing for a medical man to do but to shield this domestic misfortune with his own reputation and put up with it if people shrugged their shoulders and said of him: He’s no good if he can’t cure her after so many years. The sole prescription for such a malady , he added, is familiar enough to us, but we cannot order it. It runs …’

Freud picked up a pen and scribbled something on his prescription pad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to his young disciple.

Liebermann took the slip of paper and read:

R Penis normalis

Dosim

Repetatur!

Liebermann looked up and smiled.

‘Chrobak recommended this?’

‘Like many of his colleagues, Chrobak was perfectly aware of the link between eros and emotional disturbance. A year earlier I had overheard Charcot discussing a similar case.’ Freud reproduced the hand movements of the great French neurologist, ‘It’s always a question of the genitals — always, always, always! I thought to myself, if he knows that, why does he never say so? In due course my own clinical observations confirmed what had hitherto been merely anecdotal. I was convinced that many mental disturbances — and not just those affecting women — were attributable to problems arising in the bedroom, and subsequently concluded that, without satisfactory release, the accumulation of libido in the nervous system has a tendency to turn into anxiety. At that time, I viewed this transformation as a purely physical process, like wine going bad and becoming vinegar, but I have since, of course, rejected this simplistic view in favour of a more sophisticated etiological theory.’

Freud continued talking, but Liebermann was distracted by a line of thought not unconnected with the professor’s reflections. The room seemed to recede as he was drawn inwards and a ghostly image of Amelia Lydgate formed in his cranium. She was stepping towards him, moving closer, her head falling backwards in readiness to receive his kiss. He had been so cautious, indecisive and dilatory. He had supposed that because Amelia had once been assaulted the prospect of intimacy would be unwelcome to her, and even psychologically damaging. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps intimacy, real intimacy, could be corrective, healing.

‘Listen to this.’ Freud’s voice impinged upon Liebermann’s reverie. The old man was evidently about to tell a joke, although how this had come to pass was a complete mystery to Liebermann on account of his distraction. ‘Frau Weinberger,’ said Freud, tapping his cigar on the edge of an ashtray, ‘accompanied her husband Jacob to the doctor. After the doctor had given Jacob a complete medical examination, he called Frau Weinberger into his office, alone. I regret to inform you , said the doctor, that Jacob has been overworking and his health has suffered. His condition is critical and unless you take the following advice he will surely die. Each morning, wake him gently with a kiss. Be pleasant to him at all times and make sure he is always in a good mood. Cook him only his favourite meals and don’t burden him with chores. Never nag or make unnecessary demands. And, most importantly, never deny him his conjugal rights. A satisfactory erotic life is essential for his well-being. If you do as I advise for the next six months, I am confident Jacob will regain his health completely . On the tram home, Jacob asked his wife: What did the doctor say? Frau Weinberger assumed a grave expression and replied: He said you’re going to die.’

Liebermann laughed, but his laughter died when he noticed that the prescription slip was still in his hand. The words written upon it were as portentous as an ancient prophecy, and had many implications concerning his past and future conduct with Amelia Lydgate.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann’s music making was over, but a fragment of Schubert’s Abends unter der Linde — ‘Evenings under the Lime Tree’ — had lingered in Liebermann’s mind, transparent but curiously persistent.

‘Commissioner Brugel was unimpressed by Mathias’s supplementary report,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He said he thought that the results were inconclusive.’

‘I suppose there’s an element of truth in that,’ said Liebermann. ‘A man committing suicide might have kicked up some mud.’

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and replied, ‘I was advised, in no uncertain terms, to leave the Saminsky affair alone.’