Free Deadly Communion by Frank Tallis

paralysis: a repressed memory of a sexual assault. Liebermann had treated Amelia Lydgate and over time they had become friends. At first he had justified his continued presence in her life on medical grounds; then he persuaded himself that he was being altruistic, providing assistance and advice to a stranger who was alone in a foreign country; then he had recognised how her remarkable intellectual gifts and scientific skills (she was an expert on human blood and a talented microscopist) might be utilised by the security office. Rheinhardt had consulted her on several occasions. And so the justifications had accumulated, each one binding them closer together.
    Earlier in the year Liebermann had stood on the Charles Bridge inPrague with his uncle Alexander and had confessed his attachment. Alexander had suggested that — apart from his mother — there were three women in every man’s life: his wife, his mistress, and an unattainable object of desire. Clearly — Uncle Alexander maintained — Amelia Lydgate was Liebermann’s unattainable object: a fantasy innamorata, best enjoyed not in the flesh but in the imagination — an ageless reminder of the youthful propensity for infatuation and desire. Actual consummation would be a great disappointment.
    Another exquisite change of harmony …
    Liebermann studied Amelia’s hands, folded together on the green velvet of her skirt. His uncle might well be right, but he still wanted to reach out and cover her slim fingers with his own.
    The subsequent dances of the G minor suite jolted Liebermann out of his reverie, and the final movement — a lively gigue — brought the concert to a close. Insistent applause persuaded the pianist to give an encore — a delightful arrangement of ‘Sheep May Safely Graze’. At its conclusion the pianist signalled his fatigue by shutting the piano lid, and the house lights came up as he was leaving the stage.
    ‘Well,’ said Liebermann to his companion. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘Very much.’
    They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked to Café Central where Liebermann suggested that they should stop for coffee and cake. At an earlier point in their acquaintance he would have considered such an invitation impertinent, but their friendship was sufficiently established to render such scruples redundant. They entered the coffee house and found a table in the Arkadenhof, a courtyard decorated with small trees and covered by a glass roof. A curved balcony hung out over three arches and the seating area was enclosed between high fenestrated walls. Spherical gas lights seemed to hover in the shadows; however, closer inspection revealed the secret of their suspension — wrought-iron stands, painted black. A waiter emergedfrom the arches and escorted the couple to a circular table discreetly positioned behind a miniature orange tree. Liebermann ordered a schwarzer for himself and an Earl Grey tea for Amelia.
    ‘And would you like a pastry?’ Liebermann asked Amelia.
    The waiter interrupted: ‘Could I recommend the Scheiterhaufen? It really is quite exceptional.’
    ‘Well,’ said Amelia. ‘I defer to your expert opinion. Scheiterhaufen.’
    Her German was perfect, with the merest trace of an English accent.
    And for you, sir?’
    Liebermann shrugged and smiled.
    ‘The same …’
    ‘A very wise decision, sir.’
    They spoke a little about the concert, and Amelia remarked that music — being the most abstract of the arts — presented the uninitiated with a unique conversational challenge.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Liebermann. ‘Music can befelt as well as understood. It is always possible to discuss its effects, even if one has little or no technical knowledge.’
    ‘Indeed,’ said Amelia. ‘But I find conversations of that kind rather unsatisfying. A discussion of subjective impressions cannot progress very far: there can be no meaningful argument or resolution because the sine qua non of