Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

Gabriel stopped chewing his biscuit and waited.

“Hallgarten has already promised five thousand kronen,” Olga added, maintaining a steady gaze.

“It is a splendid idea,” said Asher, clapping his hands together. “And very modern. I like that.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Much good could be accomplished. Five thousand, you say?”

“Indeed,” said Olga. “A very generous donation, but-as I’m sure you will appreciate-such an ambitious project will require funding from other sources.”

Anna offered Gabriel another biscuit.

“Should you happen to meet in the course of your work any potential benefactors,” Olga continued, “who might consider our scheme worthy of their patronage, I trust that you will remember us.”

Olga straightened her back, which had the effect of pushing her bosom forward.

“Of course,” said Asher. “If the opportunity arises, you can be assured of our cooperation.”

“Thank you,” said Olga. “You are most kind.”

Now that the main purpose of inviting the Kusevitsky brothers had been accomplished, Anna and Olga were free to steer the conversation toward lighter topics-mutual acquaintances, some royal gossip, and an operetta that they had both found amusing. Having mentioned the stage, the women were then obliged to ask Asher Kusevitsky about his new play. He took their interest seriously-perhaps too seriously-and spoke for some time about his principal themes of mental illness, creativity, and mysticism. The action of the play concerned a man’s decline after possession by a dybbuk (an evil spirit and a staple character of old Jewish folktales).

In due course, Anna and Olga politely turned their attention to Gabriel, who in response to their inquiries explained that he was conducting research into the meaning of dreams. Anna began to recount one of her own dreams, but Gabriel stopped her, saying that he would be unable to interpret it without asking her questions of a personal nature and that she would probably be embarrassed to answer them in the company of guests.

“Then some other time, perhaps,” said Anna.

When tea was finished and the Kusevitskys had been shown to the door by one of the servants, Anna and Olga retired to the drawing room, where they sat on a couch, heads together, conferring.

“Are you sure they’ll be useful?” asked Anna.

“I hope so,” said Olga. “They know Professor Priel, who is Rothenstein’s brother-in-law. That’s how Gabriel Kusevitsky got his scholarship; the professor put in a good word.”

“If Rothenstein took an interest in our project…”

“We would be able to do everything-and very soon too.”

“Where do the Kusevitsky brothers come from?”

Olga paused and looked off into space. A single straight line transected her forehead.

“I don’t know. I was introduced to Gabriel by my cousin Martin. They studied medicine together.”

“Do they have family in Vienna?”

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

Anna caught sight of herself in a silver decorative plate standing on the sideboard. She patted her hair and positioned her necklace more centrally.

“He’s interesting, isn’t he?”

“Asher, yes, although he did go on a bit about his play. Didn’t you think?”

“No, I meant the other one. Gabriel.”

“I didn’t really understand what he was saying: symbols, dreams…”

“And very intelligent.”

“Did you”-Olga rested her hand on her friend’s arm-“like him?”

The question contained a hint of alarm.

Anna shrugged. “I did find him interesting. Why? What is it?”

“I don’t think they’re the right type.”

“Right type?”

“They’re intellectuals, too preoccupied with their work.” Olga assumed a piqued expression. “Did you notice when I sat up straight?” She repeated the movement, lifting the fulsome weight of her breasts. “They didn’t even look!”

Anna laughed and squeezed her friend’s arm. She had noticed, and she too had been surprised by the Kusevitsky brothers’ indifference.

From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann

Have recently been playing through the complete Chopin Studies, but am quite dissatisfied with my overall performance. Especially No. 12 in C minor. The left-hand part is extremely demanding, and I lack the necessary strength and flexibility. I was in Schott’s and discovered a book of intriguing five-finger exercises devised by Professor Willibald Klammer, a hand surgeon and amateur pianist from Munich. Apparently he is the world’s leading authority on strains and breaks and has been consulted by many virtuosi including Caroline von Gomperz-Bettelheim.

The Klammer Method consists of sixty-two exercises executed at the piano and a supplementary set of twenty-four exercises that can be practiced anywhere (finger stretches, contractions, wrist rotations, and so forth). In his introduction, which is copiously illustrated with finely produced anatomical drawings, he fancifully compares his method to the ascetic disciplines practiced by the fakirs of India.

I asked Goetschl if any of his other customers had found the Klammer Method useful, but he couldn’t say. He only had the one copy. Needless to say, I bought it. I plowed through the exercises and then attempted the C minor again. It sounded much the same. Even so, I think I will persevere.

As I was playing through the exercises, I kept on thinking about the incident on Professor Friedlander’s ward: Baron von Kortig and the priest. Did I do the right thing? I think so. Yes, I did do the right thing. The young baron was not a man of strong character, and the appearance of the priest would have filled him with terror. That is no way for anyone to die.

Rabbi Seligman did not leave the synagogue after the service. He stood alone at the back of the building, deep in thought.

The Alois Gasse Temple was a modest building. It did not have the vast, overwhelming majesty of the “Central Temple,” or the ornamental charm of the “Turkish Temple;” however, its manageable proportions were pleasing to the eye. Late-afternoon sunlight fanned through the arched windows. Through this shimmering haze Rabbi Seligman could see the newly restored ark, the cabinet containing the sacred Torah scrolls. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a gilded tower decorated with intricate carvings: columns, vines, flowers, and urns. The middle panel showed a crowned eagle with outstretched wings, and at the very top, two rearing lions supported a blue tablet on which the Ten Commandments were written in Hebrew. In front of the ark was a lamp-an eternal light-burning with a steady, resolute flame.

“Rabbi?”

Seligman started, and wheeled around.

The caretaker was entering the temple through the shadowy vestibule.

“Kusiel? Is that you.”

“Yes, only me.”

The caretaker was in his late sixties. He wore a loose jacket and baggy trousers held up with suspenders. His sky-blue skullcap matched his rumpled collarless shirt.

“What is it, Kusiel?”

“I wanted to speak with you about something.”

“The damp? Not again, surely.”

“No, not the damp.” The caretaker rubbed the silver bristles on his chin. “Noises.”

“Noises?”

“I was here last night,” Kusiel continued, “repairing the loose board on the stairs, when I heard footsteps. I thought there was someone on the balcony, but when I went up, there was no one there.”

The rabbi shrugged. “Then you were mistaken.”

“That’s not all. There was a banging, a loud banging. I don’t know where it was coming from.”

“What? Someone was trying to break in?”

“No. I checked everywhere. No one was trying to break in. And then… then I heard a moaning sound.”