Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

“Yes,” said Asher Kusevitsky, addressing Professor Priel. “Schnitzler had some interesting things to say about Lautenburg. The man’s a fool, just as I thought. I won’t be sending him any of my scripts in the future.”

The walls of Professor Priel’s parlor were covered in examples of modern art. They were mostly allegorical works, in which personifications of philosophy poetry, or music were rendered in a style that owed a considerable debt to Klimt. The figures, usually women, stared out full-face against a background of strong tonal contrasts. In addition, there were numerous contemporary portraits, some of which were quite disturbing. Sketches and watercolors of troubled individuals-emaciated, gaunt, their skin discolored, suggestive of putrescence. The models might have been recruited from a mortuary.

All the art that Professor Priel possessed had been made by impoverished young men who had benefited from a Rothenstein creative bursary. Although he wasn’t particularly fond of the portraits, he recognized that they were original and most probably indicative of a significant trend. He had not, however, purchased them as an investment. He had bought them to bolster the confidence of the young artists. They were always delighted to see their work hanging on his walls.

The only non-modern piece in Professor Priel’s collection was a plaster cast reproduction of Michelangelo’s Moses. It occupied a central position on the sideboard. Even though it was only a fraction of the size of the original, the copy was still powerfully evocative: Moses the lawgiver, seated like a Titan or a great warrior, his muscled arm resting on the commandment tablets, his long beard a wild tangle of writhing serpentine spirals.

A servant arrived with tea for the professor’s guests and a glass of magnetized water for the professor. A daily circuit of the Ringstrasse and a glass of magnetized water was-so he believed-the key to a long and healthy life.

“Gabriel,” Asher continued, “tell Professor Priel about Liebermann and the von Kortig business.” He then turned to face Priel. “Listen to this. It’s quite scandalous.”

Gabriel Kusevitsky repeated Liebermann’s story.

When he had finished, Professor Priel was silent, his head slowly shaking from side to side.

“It’s political, of course, and what worries me is where it could lead,” said Asher. He spoke quickly, making expressive gestures with his hands. “I mean to say, if Liebermann is dismissed-and they get away with it-who will be next? Where will it end? Lieutenant Gustl has already cost Schnitzler his rank in the reservists, and I don’t believe for one minute that it was because he broke the code of honor by writing it, as the authorities insist. It cost him his rank because he is a Jew. One can see where this is going. There are passages in The Dybbuk where I am critical of the church. If things continue like this, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if an official turns up and closes down the theatre.”

“Liebermann,” said the professor. “What’s his first name?”

“Max,” said Gabriel. “Professor Freud speaks very highly of him. I’ve read a few of his case studies and was most impressed by his paper on paranoia erotica. It would be a great shame if his career was blighted because of political opportunism.”

“Oh, then I really must do something,” said Professor Priel.

Gabriel sipped his tea and returned the cup to its saucer. On landing, it produced an unusually loud chime.

“Be that as it may,” Gabriel continued, “he is not very active in our circle. He has not associated himself with our charitable organizations and causes.”

“Is he a member of the lodge?”

“No, I don’t think he is. I met him there when Professor Freud gave his last talk, but I had never seen him there before-and have not seen him there since.”

“I don’t think that should concern us,” said the professor. “He is a talented young man with prospects. He needs help, and I may be in a position to provide it. Rothenstein has some exceptional lawyers in his employ. One can’t just stand by and watch something like this happening. Asher is quite right. In the end, if something isn’t done, we’ll all be affected. Never forget what Councillor Faust was proposing in his article. Where can I find him, this Liebermann fellow?”

Gabriel was dressed in the very same jacket that he had been wearing in the Cafe Central. He reached into his pocket, found Liebermann’s card, and gave it to Professor Priel.

“He works at the General Hospital.”

“Good. I’ll see what I can do.”

Priel took a swig of magnetized water. He could feel the energy coursing through his veins, invigorating and refreshing his nerves and muscles. He looked over at the reproduction of Moses. A good man’s work was never done.

Nahum Nagel was sitting behind the counter of the general store, watching the scales seesaw. He was deep in thought.

Everybody was convinced.

Everybody was expecting salvation.

But was it really going to happen? When the thugs came again, what should he expect? Would the ground tremble as its massive feet stomped down the alleyway? Would the shop door be thrown open, would it duck beneath the lintel and grab the villains? Would it rip off their heads, right there, on the other side of the counter, before his very eyes?

The gossip went round and round in his head, like whispering in a cloister.

Alois Gasse… mud… Prague… golem…

Upstairs, his father was coughing. If they didn’t move very soon, the old man would die.

Nahum removed one weight and added another. The scale tipped and began, through its slow reciprocal motion, to negotiate a different resting point. As the dishes rose and fell, it struck Nahum that the process was like a dialogue between two parties: offers made, rejected, reviewed, and finally accepted. The angle at which the scale bar finally came to rest was, in effect, a compromise.

Nahum’s thoughts crystallized.

The universe that God made is imperfect. That is what Isaac Luria taught his disciples. We have no need of complex philosophical arguments to explain why God has let evil into the world. Its presence is a mistake. The vessels broke and must be repaired. Humanity can either assist in the process of healing or compound the disintegration of all things through acts of self-interest and cruelty. Luria places the fate of everything not in the hands of God but in the hands of humanity: the peddler, the kitchen maid, and the street cleaner. Everyone is responsible.

The familiar sound of hobnailed boots resonated in the alley. It grew louder, and the door swung wide open. Haas entered the shop and strolled up to the counter, kicking a tin of olive oil over as he came forward.

“Well,” he said. “I believe you owe me some money.”

“Where is your friend?” Nahum asked.

“Why? Have you missed him?” Haas laughed.

Nahum stared at the scales.

The zaddik had spoken with conviction.

You have nothing to fear. You have only to call and the golem will come to assist you.

“Give me the cash box!”

Nahum handed Haas the tin. The thug opened it up and looked inside. He turned the empty container upside down and threw it over his shoulder. It clattered across the floor.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

Nahum closed his eyes. Come to me, help me…

And, to his surprise, the prayer was answered.

The golem arrived, but not in the form that he had anticipated. It came not as a supernatural being. It came instead as blind, pitiless rage.

They are evil, and their evil is my responsibility.

Nahum opened his eyes.

“The money,” said Haas.