Mephisto Waltz Read online

  MEPHISTO

  WALTZ

  A Max Liebermann Mystery

  FRANK TALLIS

  PRELUDE

  GENEVA, 1898

  Luigi was sitting at a corner table inside a small, dilapidated café, sipping a black, bitter liquid, the color and taste of which described his mood with uncanny accuracy. There would be no “great deed.” Prince Henri of Orleans, claimant to the French throne, had changed his plans and would not be coming to Geneva, and life would carry on in much the same way, one disappointment following another, just as it always had. Why had he thought that it would be any different this time? He had been a fool to think otherwise. This was his fate, his destiny, to be frustrated at every turn. Abandoned by his mother, shunted between foundling homes and charitable institutions, laboring, vagrancy; only once in his life had he experienced contentment and that was while serving with the cavalry in North Africa. Apart from this single exception, his existence had been unremittingly wretched. It occurred to him that he might remedy the situation by returning to Italy. King Umberto would be easy enough to find. Unfortunately, Luigi had no money to pay for carriages or trains and the distance was too great to walk.

  One day he would die, and thereafter, it would be as though he had never lived. The thought filled him with cold horror.

  It was still very early and the other tables were empty. The proprietor, whose physique was oddly angular, lit an oil lamp and hung it over the open pages of a ledger. He licked the end of a pencil and began making entries. A mangy cat jumped up onto the counter and mewed for attention.

  Luigi heard the sound of footsteps and the accompanying tap of a cane on cobbles. A bell rang and a man entered. He was wearing a long coat and had the appearance of a gentleman. With unhurried movements he removed his hat and gloves and caught the proprietor’s eye. The cat arched its back, hissed, leapt off the counter, and skittered into darkness, its claws unable to find adequate purchase on the floorboards. A mysterious communication seemed to take place between the stranger and the proprietor, because the proprietor nodded—as if agreeing to a request—and immediately followed his pet into the kitchen.

  The stranger looked directly at Luigi. He was in his fifties or early sixties and his pointed beard and aquiline nose created a devilish impression: Lucifer, in the guise of an aging libertine. He sauntered over to the corner table and, without asking permission, sat down in a vacant chair. “Well, my friend, I suppose you’ve been considering your options.” His Italian was slightly accented.

  Luigi raised his eyebrows. He didn’t believe in magic but the stranger seemed to have read his mind. “I don’t remember having been introduced. You are . . . ?”

  The stranger smiled and the slow retraction of his lips made him look even more diabolical. “There’s nothing wrong with your memory.”

  “Then who are you? What do you want?”

  “A few minutes of your time—that’s all.”

  Luigi shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.” As he began to rise, the stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him down again.

  “But I know a great deal about you. We have mutual friends.” The stranger reached into his coat pocket and produced some coins, which he pushed across the table. “I understand that you are presently in need of financial assistance. Go on. Take them. Buy yourself a decent breakfast.” Luigi cautiously picked up the money.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  A cart rolled by, rattling loudly.

  The stranger removed a newspaper from under his arm and indicated an article. “When I was a child, on old serf who I adored used to say to me: ‘Every seed knows its time.’ Read this. You’ll find it very interesting, I promise you.” Then, the stranger stood, put on his gloves with some ostentation—tugging the hems to ensure that the fit was snug—before making his leisurely way back to the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Luigi called out.

  The man didn’t turn. He inspected his reflection, adjusted the angle of his hat, and exited the café. When the bell had stopped tinkling the silence was unnerving. Luigi checked the coins, fearing that he had fallen asleep and dreamed the whole episode. The touch of metal was reassuring. He bowed his head over the newspaper and began to read. The item appeared to be about a female aristocrat who was staying at one of the big hotels overlooking the lake.

  The proprietor emerged from the kitchen. “Who was that man?” Luigi asked.

  “What man?” the proprietor replied.

  The Countess von Hohenembs was standing in the foyer of the Beau-Rivage Hotel. She was aware of the manager and his assistant staring at her, even though she was facing away from them. It was like a sixth sense.

  Becoming the world’s most beautiful woman was an accomplishment that had necessitated a will of iron, grit, steely resolve, and fixity of purpose. She ate mostly oranges and very occasionally ice, flavored with violet. When she was feeling strong, she would stop eating altogether. Society gossips maintained that she drank blood, but in reality she only ever drank milk or clear soup. She had converted her dressing room in the palace, with its thick red carpet, brocade wallpaper, and gilt furniture, into a gymnasium. Below the enormous chandelier were parallel bars and monkey bars. She had even suspended rings from her doorframe. Sometimes she would hang from them, fully dressed, and raise her legs to strengthen her stomach muscles.

  Then there was the matter of her complexion, the preservation of which required face masks of crushed strawberries or raw veal. Her hair had to be combed for three hours a day, and every fortnight washed with cognac and egg yolks—a ritual that took from morning till night. Keeping her figure, which was impossibly slender, particularly for a woman who had given birth to four children, had necessitated determination on a truly heroic scale: asphyxiating corsetry and going to bed with her hips wrapped in vinegar-soaked bindings. Such measures, although extreme, had proved very effective. Her waist could fit into the circle made by the connected forefingers and thumbs of an average-size man.

  Maintaining her pre-eminence had damaged her health. She suffered from fatigue, shortness of breath, fainting spells, and “greensickness”; pain from sciatica, neuritis, and rheumatism. Specialists whispered about a murmuring heart. Consequently, she frequented all the best spas, the Hungarian Baths of Hercules in the Carpathian Mountains, Bad Kissingen in Lower Franconia. . . . None of them did her much good, and, over the years, she came to realize that she didn’t have quite as many problems as the doctors had suggested. Really, she had only one problem, and that was the passage of time. She was getting old.

  What was she to do?

  Her answer was to travel.

  Tall, dressed in black, and always equipped with a white umbrella to hide behind, she dispensed with her entourage and wandered the world like a glamorous ghost. She developed a particular fondness for being at sea, because time seemed to stop when she was out on the water and she could pretend she was like the Flying Dutchman, restless and immortal. So deep was her affection for the sea, that she had an anchor tattooed on her shoulder, like a common sailor.

  After all the fame and adulation, the portraits and the photographs, the fawning and the flattery, she yearned for anonymity. But even at sixty, the Countess von Hohenembs was still a very striking woman, which was why the manager and his assistant were still staring.

  The previous day she had visited Baroness Rothschild, not because she had wanted to, but as a favor for her sister. Unfortunately, the former Queen Marie of Naples had become somewhat dependent on the Rothschild family. It was a questionable arrangement. Funds made available in exchange for the company of a royal. Quite tasteless. Although the countess had enjoyed talking to the Baroness, they could never be true friends.

  “Has the luggage been taken?�
� the countess asked her lady-in-waiting.

  “Yes,” Irma replied. “Some time ago.”

  They were leaving a little later than intended. The countess stepped out of the hotel foyer into bright sunlight.

  “What a lovely day.”

  She set off at a brisk pace with Irma following a few steps behind.

  From the promenade, she could see across the glittering lake, which was surrounded by low mountains. The funnel of the steamship came into view and the prospect of crossing a large body of water raised her spirits. A lyric from an operetta came into her mind: “Happy is he who can forget what can no more be changed.”

  A man ducked beneath her umbrella. He was wearing a cheap, tatty hat and shabby clothes. His complexion was dark—an Italian, perhaps? She froze and was shocked when his arm flew out. The strength of the blow made her teeter, she lost her balance, and then she was lying on her back, looking at high white clouds in the blue of the sky. Her fall had been broken by her skirts, and her head had been protected by her thick cushion of pinned-back hair. How embarrassing. Faces began to appear, all of them speaking in different languages, all offering assistance. She jumped to her feet and thanked the people who had gathered, first in German, then in French and English. Irma was brushing the dust from her clothes. “Don’t fuss,” said the countess. The porter from the Beau-Rivage was there: “Countess,” he said. “Perhaps you should return to the hotel?”

  “No,” she replied. “That won’t be necessary.” She didn’t want to miss the steamship.

  Acting as if nothing had happened, she took her umbrella from Irma and continued walking. “What did that man actually want?”

  Irma was shaken and confused. “The porter?”

  “No,” the countess replied, slightly irritated. “The other one. That dreadful person.”

  “I don’t know. But surely he must be a vicious criminal . . . a lunatic!”

  “Perhaps he wanted to take my watch.”

  They crossed the gangway and almost immediately the steamer departed. The countess was relieved. Looking over the water, she suddenly felt very weak. Her legs lost all of their strength and she collapsed.

  “Help!” Irma cried. “Is there a doctor on board?” Several people came to her assistance but none of them were medically qualified. One of them, however, was a retired nurse. “Let’s get her comfortable and massage her chest.”

  Three men carried the countess to the top deck and laid her on a bench. Irma unbuttoned the countess’s bodice. Was it delayed shock? Or was her corset too tight?

  “What’s that?” said the retired nurse.

  A tiny brown spot had appeared on the countess’s batiste camisole, and when Irma looked closer she saw a hole. The countess’s eyelids flickered and she stirred.

  “Are you in pain?” Irma asked.

  “No,” the countess replied. “I’m not in pain. What happened?”

  Before Irma could reply the countess had lost consciousness again.

  The captain decided to turn the boat around. He smiled benignly at Irma and said, “Don’t worry. We’ll get the countess back to the Beau-Rivage in no time.”

  “She’s not a countess,” Irma whispered.

  “What?” The captain leaned closer.

  “She not a countess,” Irma continued. “She’s an empress. She only uses the name Hohenembs to disguise her true identity.”

  The Captain swallowed. “An empress . . .”

  “Yes. Empress Elizabeth of Austria.”

  The captain studied Irma with renewed interest. He searched her face for signs of eccentricity, but she was perfectly respectable and her expression was quite serious. “Ah,” said the captain. He paused, emptied his lungs of air, and when he opened his mouth to speak again, he was disappointed to hear only a second, this time slightly tremulous, “Ah . . .”

  The steamer chugged into its vacant berth and the gangway was extended. A makeshift stretcher was constructed from oars and velvet chairs and the “countess” was carried back to the hotel. When the doctors arrived, they could do nothing to save her, and at ten past two, Empress Elizabeth of Austria, Queen of Hungary, Queen Consort of Croatia and Bohemia, was pronounced dead.

  On the promenade, a man with an aquiline nose and pointed beard was leaning against the railings. He raised the brim of his hat with the handle of his cane, lit a cigar, and walked off toward the town center.

  PART ONE

  A Man Without Qualities

  ONE

  VIENNA, 1904

  Liebermann was sitting opposite his father in The Imperial. The pianist had just finished playing a wistful ländler and before the applause had finished he was already several bars into the “Trish-Trash Polka.”

  Mendel raised his menu and one of the waiters—noting the gesture—swerved toward their table. “Thank you, Bruno. A topfenstrudel for me and apfelschmarrn for my son.”

  The waiter glanced at the empty cups. “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “A melange for Herr Liebermann and a schwarzer for Herr Doctor Liebermann?”

  “Precisely.”

  Bruno bowed and departed, weaving between the tables and dodging his colleagues. The Imperial was full of patrons, all of whom seemed to be talking very loudly.

  “So,” said Mendel. “How are you?”

  “Very well, father.” Liebermann replied, “And you?”

  “My back, my knees . . . what can you do? A man of my age has to expect aches and pains.”

  “Perhaps you should lose some weight.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Pintsch told you to do.” He paused and added, “Over a year ago, I think.”

  “Life has too few pleasures as it is,” Mendel grumbled. “I’m not giving up eating. You’ll appreciate what I’m saying when you’re older.”

  “I didn’t tell you to stop eating, Father—and nor did Professor Pintsch.”

  “Maxim: the empress ate only oranges. Look what good it did her.”

  “She was assassinated.”

  “There you are.”

  “I’m not sure I follow, Father.”

  “I want to enjoy the time I have left. It might not be very long.” Their brief exchange had already begun to sound peevish and argumentative. Liebermann changed the subject. They discussed the newspapers and Mendel mentioned a banker whose name had appeared in the obituaries. “I went to school with him—he used to live on our street. Ended up mixing with royalty, who’d have thought it?”

  Bruno returned and deftly unloaded his tray before withdrawing discreetly.

  “How is Hannah?” Liebermann asked. He pitied the younger of his two sisters, still stuck at home with aging parents.

  “Happy enough,” said Mendel. He paused before adding, “Almost eighteen.” It was not an innocent observation and he was frowning.

  “She’s still very young,” said Liebermann.

  “Not so young that I don’t have to think about her future,” Mendel snapped. A group of immaculately groomed men and women at an adjacent table roared with laughter. “I know that you have—” Mendel rotated his hand in the air “—opinions: opinions concerning how your mother and I go about such things, but how else is Hannah going to meet an eligible young man? Herr Lenkiewicz has a son—Baruch—a bright boy with a good head for figures. He’s already keeping his father’s books and their business is expanding. We arranged for them to meet—Hannah and Baruch.” Mendel shook his head. “It wasn’t a great success.”

  “I’d be happy to make some introductions.”

  “What?” Mendel was unable to conceal his disapproval. “One of your psychiatrist friends?”

  “Not necessarily. But really, Father, would that be so bad?” Mendel glared at his son. “Hannah is interested in people, not figures, and she likes reading, art—”

  “Then she needs a husband who can afford books and paintings—a husband with good prospects.”

  Liebermann picked up his fork and tasted his apfe
lschmarrn—apple pancake sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. He was mildly surprised by the complexity of its flavor. The sweetness of the fruit was augmented by hints of caramel and vanilla. An uncomfortable silence was eventually relieved by some fitful talk about politics. Liebermann noticed that, on several occasions, his father was about to say something, but then appeared to decide against it. Mendel was also showing signs of agitation, his fingers were restless. Mendel cleared his throat and said: “Leah came to see your mother the other day.”

  Leah—the older of Liebermann’s two sisters—was always visiting their mother. Clearly, there was something particular about this visit that had distinguished it from the others.

  “Oh?” said Liebermann, chewing and swallowing.

  “Yes,” Mendel continued. “Last week, she was on her way home from the theatre and she saw you walking down Alserstrasse.” Mendel looked up from his topfenstrudel. “She said you were walking, arm in arm, with a woman; a very attractive woman.”

  Liebermann put his cup down and dabbed his mouth with a serviette. “Ahh, that would have been Amelia.”

  “Amelia.” Mendel repeated the name and maintained eye contact.

  “She’s English.”

  “I don’t recall you having mentioned her.”

  “Actually—”

  “Not the sort of thing I’d forget, Maxim.”

  “She lives with Mimi Rubenstein.”

  Mendel’s expression showed sudden recognition. With increasing confidence he said, “The governess who moved in after Herr Rubenstein died? The one who needed somewhere to live?”

  “Yes. That was Amelia.”

  “Wasn’t she ill?”

  “She had just completed a course of treatment at the hospital.”

  “With you—wasn’t it?”

  Liebermann hadn’t expected his father to have such a good memory. His reluctance to answer extended the syllable: “Yes.”

  Mendel dug his fork into his topfenstrudel. “Am I to understand, then, that you have formed an attachment to one of your patients?”