Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

“Herr Doctor?”

Liebermann looked up.

“Will I have to stay here… in the hospital?”

“For a short period, for observation, yes-after which it might be possible to treat you as an outpatient. Let’s see.”

“What is the matter with me?”

“That is what we must find out.”

“These symptoms… I know what they are, obviously.” Again, Poppmeier winced, and a hectic rash appeared on his neck. He loosened the stud holding his collar. “I was once told that you psychiatrists treat people by learning the meaning of symptoms. Well, you don’t have to be a psychiatrist to understand the meaning of my symptoms. I know what they mean already, and they still won’t go away.”

“You are quite right, symptoms often remit when patients discover their significance; however, there are meanings-and then there are hidden meanings. It is the latter that are most important.”

“I don’t understand. Hidden?”

“Hidden in your own mind.”

“But if they are hidden, how can we find them? And where are they hidden?”

Liebermann smiled. “Tell me, Herr Poppmeier, what did you dream last night?”

Councillor Schmidt was sitting in his room at the town hall, smoking a cigar and thinking about his mistress. She had started to make unreasonable demands. From his experience, all women were the same in this respect. They became over-curious, meddlesome. They always wanted more. Private dining rooms, trinkets, and bouquets were no longer sufficient to keep them happy. They became morose, subdued in the bedroom, and maddeningly inquisitive.

Where are you going tomorrow night? Is it an official engagement? Will there be any society ladies present?

And so on…

He treated these questions as he might the singing of a canary, being barely conscious of the incessant warbling until its cessation.

Inquisitive mistresses were a liability. He did not want them, or anyone, to know his whereabouts. His plans (and he now had many of them) could be endangered by loose talk. The less people knew, the better.

Schmidt leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. The cigar tasted good. It was expensive and had been given to him, with other incentives, by a business associate in return for a small favor. The associate’s lawyer had needed to study a certain title deed in the town hall archive. A promise of future preferment was all it had taken to persuade the archivist to hand him the desired document.

The tobacco was pungent, but teased the palate with a fruity sweetness. Schmidt dislodged some ash and continued thinking about his mistress.

Yes, it’s been diverting enough-especially at the beginning, when she was more vivacious, lively, and appreciative. But the dalliance has probably run its course now. Time to move on.

There was a knock on the door.

Schmidt quickly shifted his feet off the desk, spread some papers, and picked up his pen. Adopting the vexed attitude of someone in the middle of a taxing piece of work, he called out, “Enter.”

The door opened, and his nephew appeared.

“Oh, it’s you.” Schmidt relaxed and tossed his pen across the desk.

He saw that his nephew was clutching his mail. It was Fabian who opened and read all his official correspondence. The majority of which consisted of requests for assistance, support, advice, good causes-the sort of thing he could let Fabian attend to. The mayor’s motto was “We must help the little man.” A laudable sentiment, but in practice remarkably time-consuming and very unprofitable.

“Come in, dear boy,” said Schmidt. “What have you got for me?”

“Uncle Julius,” said Fabian, “you’ll never believe what’s happened. There’s been another murder-a decapitation again, just like Brother Stanislav and poor Faust.”

“Where?”

“The Ulrichskirche. I tried to walk through Ulrichsplatz this morning and was stopped. There were policemen and a journalist. They said it happened in the small hours.”

“And the victim?”

“A Jew, a penniless Jew.”

“A Jew, eh? Perhaps someone with a bit of backbone has finally decided to retaliate, an eye for an eye. What do you think? One of the dueling fraternities? When I was your age, I can remember Strength and Unity was full of high-spirited fellows.” Schmidt stubbed out his cigar. “The reports in the newspapers have been so tame-so assiduous in their efforts to avoid stating the obvious-that it wouldn’t surprise me. The censor is supposed to protect the public interest, not a parasitic minority.”

Fabian handed Schmidt the wad of papers. “Your mail, Uncle.”

“Anything I need to look at?”

“Not really. Oh, no… there was something.” Fabian licked his finger and, leaning forward, rifled through the papers. “Yes-this, from Professor Gandler at the hospital. You must reply today if possible.”

Schmidt took the letter from the pile and began to read.

The stove had been lit, but the room still felt cold. As before, Liebermann found the dull, lifeless decor of Barash’s parlor enervating. It seemed to sap his strength.

“I followed your advice,” said Liebermann. “I have just returned from Prague.”

Barash tilted his head to one side and raised his chin.

“You surprise me, Herr Doctor.”

“I visited the Jewish cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue, just as you recommended.”

“Then I hope you benefited from the experience.”

“The cemetery and the synagogue have a very particular atmosphere, a poignancy that is difficult to describe.”

“Again, you surprise me. I had thought you would be inured to such influences.” The zaddik toyed with the tassels hanging from beneath his frock coat. “So, Herr Doctor, do you understand now?”

From outside came the sound of a man whistling. The melody was full of the complex embellishments that typified the music of Eastern Jewry, exotic intervals and imitative sobs and sighs. Liebermann waited for the melody to fade.

“I discovered the grave of Rabbi Loew and learned of his remarkable ministry, how he protected his people in difficult times.”

“Your journey was not wasted,” said Barash concisely.

A lengthy silence followed.

“May I ask…” Liebermann was hesitant. “How does one go about making a golem?”

Barash’s expression altered. It might have been a smile, but if so the small, flickering light of good humor did little to relieve the darkness in his eyes. The overhang of his brow ensured that his face could never be wholly free of disapprobation.

“The procedure is described in many places,” the zaddik replied. “However, the clearest instructions can be found in the commentary of Eleazar of Worms on The Book of Creation.” Liebermann’s face showed no sign of recognition. “Eleazar ben Judah of Worms,” Barash continued, “was a thirteenth-century German kabbalist and liturgical poet. His instructions for the making of a golem have been revised and presented as a separate work. It is called pe’ullath hayetsirah, which means ‘the practical application of The Book of Creation.’ Eleazar tells us that two or three adepts should take part in the ritual. Untilled earth is kneaded in running water and molded into human form. The transformation-from inanimate to living matter-is achieved through the recitation of letters taken from the Sefer Yetzirah. Other methods have been described, but it is Eleazar’s method that commands the greatest respect among students of kabbalah.”

“Not difficult, then? Simply a matter of following instructions.”

Barash glowered. His expression was as oppressive, and baleful, as the gloom preceding a deluge.

“The ritual is highly dangerous. It must be observed precisely or catastrophic consequences will follow. An error in the ritual would not damage the golem, but it would very likely destroy the creator. He would be returned to his primal element. He would be sucked back into the earth.”