Fatal Lies Frank Tallis (best fiction books to read txt) 📖

never laughed—never responded to banter. He'd just look at you, with a sullen expression on his face. He came to see me on several occasions, complaining of aches and pains, but I couldn't find anything wrong with him—well, not physically. He was a strange boy.… In the middle of our consultations he would often ask me questions of a philosophical nature. What is the meaning of life? What is the point of existence? Why doesn't God intercede to stop the suffering of innocents? And on one occasion he said something about mortal sin—something like: if atheists are correct, and there is no God, then there is no mortal sin… therefore, those who take their own lives might not go to hell, but instead find everlasting peace. Now, you must understand, I had only just taken up my position—and I was not used to dealing with cadets. The headmaster had gone out of his way to stress that the boys could be manipulative—that they might try to get medical exemptions in order to avoid certain onerous duties. I assumed that Pikler was a typical case. A malingerer. Given what happened, I now know that I was horribly mistaken. Some…” Kessler winced. “Some might accuse me of negligence. The boy was suffering from melancholia. I suspect that he initially presented with physical symptoms because he found these easier to talk about than his psychological symptoms, and his philosophical questions represented a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that he found perplexing and from which he could derive no pleasure. I should have…” Kessler emitted a long sigh that surrendered successive pitches like a descending scale. “Done something.… If I had referred Pikler on to a specialist, a psychiatrist—someone like you—then perhaps he would still be with us.”

Kessler looked at Liebermann directly. The moistness in his eyes evinced the authenticity of his regret.

“None of us,” said Liebermann, “are perfect—and medicine is an inexact science.”

An hour later, Liebermann was sitting with Thomas Zelenka's parents in the third district. It was a difficult situation: Liebermann was only there because he wanted to ask one question—a question that he knew would sound utterly absurd without first establishing some sort of context. Thus he set about the formidable task of influencing the flow of conversation such that its end point would be the gustatory preferences of the Zelenkas’ dead son.

Although getting the conversation from introductory remarks to the desired topic proved every bit as challenging as he had expected, once the subject had been broached, Meta Zelenka engaged in an extended reminiscence about her son's healthy appetite.

“Did Thomas,” said Liebermann—as casually as he could—”have a particular fondness for almond tarts?”

“No… not that I can remember.”

The young doctor—recognizing that he was perhaps already pushing his luck—changed the subject.

When he was about to leave, Fanousek, who had been eyeing him with some suspicion, said: “I thought you'd come about the dictionary. I thought it might have been found by now.”

Liebermann remembered Rheinhardt saying something about such a volume.

“I understand that it was very expensive,” said Liebermann.

“Very expensive,” said Meta. “More than we could afford.”

“Do you remember who published it?” said Liebermann, for want of a better question to ask.

“Yes: Hartel and Jacobsen—of Leipzig. We had to order it directly.”

Something stirred in Liebermann's mind—a recollection. Where had he last seen a Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?

“But why that particular dictionary?” said Liebermann, his curiosity aroused.

“It was recommended.”

“By whom?”

“By one of the masters.”

“Which one? Can you remember?”

Meta shook her head, and looked at her husband.

“I think it was…” Fanousek pulled at his chin. “Herr Sommer. Yes, it was Herr Sommer.”

52

DREXLER HAD BEEN EXPECTING NIGHTMARES—but when they came, he was surprised by their power and intensity. They were not like ordinary dreams at all. They were vivid and possessed an extra ordinary physicality

One of them—a macabre re-creation of the night they had journeyed into the woods to bury Perger—was particularly disturbing. Drexler had finished filling the grave and was ready to leave. However, he tarried a moment in order to flatten some loose clods with the blade of his shovel. A pale hand broke through the earth, and the fingers closed tightly around his ankle. He struggled to get free but it was impossible: the hideous grip was like the teeth of a bear trap. He called out: Help, help… Wolf, Freitag, Steininger, help me—but he had lost his voice. Horrified, he watched them walking away, Wolf's lamp fading until its flickering sentinel light was extinguished by a cloak of darkness. What had really frightened Drexler, however, was what had happened next. On waking, he had discovered that he could not move his leg. He could still feel Pergers bone-crushing hold around his ankle. Panic had threaded through Drexler's body—and his breath had come in short, sharp gulps.

“Not again, Drexler!” Wolf had reprimanded him. Yet the sound of Wolf s heartless voice had been strangely comforting—a reminder that a real world existed in which corpses could be relied upon to stay dead. Sensation had flowed back into Drexler s paralyzed leg, and the ring of pain around his ankle had become first a dull ache, and then nothing—a memory.

Drexler had once overheard one of the masters talking about a doctor in Vienna who could interpret dreams. If so, he did not need his services—he already knew what these dreams meant.

That afternoon, while sitting in the library, he had decided that he must do something.

Drexler crossed the courtyard with his head bowed. The rain was making circles on islands of reflected sky. He entered the chapel and inhaled the familiar fragrance of incense and candle wax. Dipping his hand in the font, he anointed himself with holy water, genuflected, and found a place on a pew with the other boys who were waiting to make their confessions.

In due course he entered the confessional box, knelt down, and observed the shadowy figure of the priest crossing the air through the window grille.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

He had