Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

While Liebermann was recounting the dream, he was unnerved by changes in Kusevitsky’s expression. The young man’s eyes were opening wider and wider. His initial interest had undergone a strange metamorphosis, becoming, with its final transition, something closer to shock or fear.

Liebermann pressed on. “The old gentleman said to his son, ‘It isn’t good for you to be alone.’ Herr D pointed toward where he thought Fraulein Lisa was still standing, but she had in fact vanished. There. What do you make of that?”

“Extraordinary!” said Kusevitsky, his voice sounding slightly strangulated. “Quite, quite extraordinary! I must see this patient.”

“I’m afraid you can’t.”

“Surely you would have no objection? And it would not be so onerous for him to sit with me for an hour or two. Could he not be persuaded if told, for example, that he would be helping to advance scientific knowledge? You did say he was a professional gentleman.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Kusevitsky. He has left the country.”

“Do you have his address?”

“I can look, but why?”

“He is Jewish, of course-this patient.”

“Yes, he is, but he’s not very religious.”

“Even better. I don’t suppose you’d know whether or not he was familiar with Hebrew creation myths?”

“Well, because you ask,” said Liebermann tentatively, “I think I can say with some confidence that the answer to that question would be no.”

“In which case, Herr D’s dream is a remarkable example of an archaic remnant. Its elements correspond exactly with the legend of Lilith, as recounted in The Alphabet of Ben Sira. Herr D is Adam, his father is God, and Fraulein Lisa is Lilith.”

“And who, may I ask, is Lilith?”

“Adam’s first wife.”

“I thought he was married to Eve.”

“He was. But according to many Jewish sources, Adam had another wife before her: Lilith. She was a fiery and rebellious woman, refusing to obey her husband and God. Her fate was to become the queen of demons. She was much feared in ancient times, and is still feared today by the Hasidim. Some believe she makes infernal off-spring by stealing wasted seed, a belief that might explain the origin of the taboo against masturbation.” Kusevitsky sat back in his chair, recovering from his excitement. “Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. Please promise me that you’ll look for Herr D’s address. I would be most indebted.”

“Of course,” said Liebermann. “I’ll do my best.”

Liebermann was perplexed. He could not-would not-accept that his dream had been shaped by a racial memory, a narrative template buried deep in his own unconscious. The only other explanation was cryptomnesia, the spontaneous recall of something forgotten without any memory of having learned it. But this was hardly a compelling alternative. Where would he have encountered the Lilith legend before? And why should it have been so powerfully repressed? Kusevitsky, now less agitated, extracted a further assurance from Liebermann that he would look for Herr D’s address; they exchanged visiting cards, and the subject was allowed to drop from their conversation.

“And how are things at the General Hospital?” asked Kusevitsky.

Liebermann sighed. “Actually at present not very good. I’ve run into some difficulties.”

Once again, he was obliged to provide a summary of the events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig.

“My dear fellow, I am so sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “If there’s anything I can do?”

Liebermann shook his head. “No, but thank you for your kind offer.”

He became aware that the conversation on the other side of the table had stopped. Asher Kusevitsky and Schnitzler had been listening.

“They won’t be happy,” said Asher bitterly, “until they’ve got us out of the theatres, out of the hospitals, and, in the end, out of Vienna altogether! That’s what they really want. They want a purge. They treat us like a plague…”

“Mmmm…” Schnitzler hummed, the note rising and falling. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” He did not look sympathetic, like Gabriel, or angered, like Asher-merely curious. In fact, Liebermann thought he saw the author’s lips twisting to form a sardonic smile. “A story with definite potential,” Schnitzler added. “Yes, definite potential. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Liebermann, could you tell it again, starting from the very beginning.”

Herr Poppmeier was lying on a rest bed, his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. His youthful face had assumed an expression of perplexity. Liebermann, who was seated out of his patient’s view, was waiting for the salesman to resume speaking. The session had not been very productive. In fact, none of Herr Poppmeier’s sessions had been very productive. When asked to freely vocalize whatever came into his mind, without censorship or restraint, his chain of associations invariably led back to items included in the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. In due course, Poppmeier said, “I had another dream last night. Do you want me to tell you about it?”

“Yes, of course,” said Liebermann, eager for something substantial to work on.

“It’s not the first time either. I’ve had it before.”

“A recurring dream…”

“Yes.” Poppmeier crossed his legs. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’d love a cigarette right now.”

Interesting, thought Liebermann.

“Arabelle wants me to give up smoking,” Poppmeier continued. “She doesn’t like the smell of tobacco. I’ve tried, but it’s extremely difficult. I get so irritable, and then feel guilty afterward. I can be quite disagreeable.”

The salesman seemed unaware that he had strayed off the subject. Liebermann made a note: Delay-resistance?

“Herr Poppmeier,” said Liebermann, “you were going to tell me about your recurring dream?”

“Oh yes, so I was.” The salesman bit his lower lip. “It’s like this…” He drummed his fingers on the mattress. “I’m staying in a hotel, a very pleasant hotel with red carpets and gilt mirrors and busy waiters and miniature palm trees, a little like the Kaiser in Steyr, and-this is most peculiar, even embarrassing-I am a priest.” Poppmeier laughed nervously. “I am sitting in the foyer, listening to a string trio, when I am approached by the concierge and asked to give the last rites to a dying child.”

Mention of the last rites made Liebermann sit up.

“Go on…”

“I am escorted to a room that is full of my jewelry samples-rings, pendants, brooches. The rings are from the Prestige range and feature some very attractive stones imported from Bohemia. The pendants are heart-shaped, silver-with two opals set in a decoration of perpendicular silver bars. The brooches-”

“Herr Poppmeier,” Liebermann cut in. “Your dream?”

“Oh yes… There is a child in a bed, being cared for by a pretty nurse. For some reason, which I cannot justify, I refuse to perform the sacrament and leave.”

Poppmeier resumed chewing his lower lip.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. An absurd dream, but always remarkably vivid.”

“When did it first occur?”

“Difficult to say.”

“Do you think you’ve been having it for years? Months?”

“Not years, exactly-but for quite a long time.”

“A year, then?”

“About that, yes.”

Liebermann flicked through his notes and found the entry he was looking for: Frau Poppmeier: Gravida 3/Para II. Intrapartum death-1902 (early?).

Poppmeier’s wife had been pregnant twice before her current pregnancy and the second pregnancy had ended in the tragedy of a stillbirth. The timing was exact.