Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis (english love story books txt) 📕

the room. Some of the boys shifted uncomfortably as his interrogative gaze made them painfully aware that they were not really listening. Wolf, however, leaned forward. He felt excited, but did not really understand why. The professor's gaze locked with his. Wolf was not unnerved by Gärtner's scrutiny: on the contrary, he welcomed it. The boy nodded his head.

Yes, he said silently to himself. I can be judge of myself—and avenger of my law

Professor Gärtner smiled at his most enthusiastic student.

39

LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING OUTSIDE Csarda—the Hungarian restaurant where Trezska had suggested that they should meet. Although the sky was overcast, it was not a particularly cold day. The table was well positioned and offered a clear view of the tree-lined boulevard along which crowds of people—from all walks of life— were making their way toward the amusements, beer-houses, concert hall, and theaters. A Carpathian peasant, wearing a white fur cap, was wandering somewhat aimlessly in front of the restaurant, obviously overwhelmed by the festival atmosphere of the Prater.

When Trezska arrived, Liebermann stood to greet her, bowed, and kissed her hand. Stepping back, he smiled, showing his admiration with tacit but unmistakable pleasure. She was wearing a maroon jacket, cut to accentuate the slimness of her waist. The garment was decorated with black braid and was slightly reminiscent of a soldier's tunic. The folded-back cuffs were threaded with silver. Her gray skirt—which clung tightly to the curve of her hips—was woven with a muted blue check. She had pinned her hair up, and her hat sprouted a plume of exotic feathers. On the lapel of her jacket was the same brooch that she had worn for her concert: a crescent of diamonds. Close up, the glittering stones looked large and very expensive: More expensive, thought Liebermann, than a budding concert violinist should be able to afford As soon as this thought had formed, it was followed by a second: A gift from an admirer, perhaps?

Ordinarily, Liebermann was not a jealous person but the experience of discovering Miss Lyd gate in the arms of her lover had affected him deeply. He had become mistrustful, suspicious. At once, the young doctor was disappointed with himself, annoyed that he had already inferred the existence of a shadowy competitor!

“Is anything wrong?” asked Trezska.

Liebermann was astonished. He had not, as far he was aware, betrayed his inner feelings with a frown.

“No, nothing's wrong.” Anxious to conceal his embarrassment, he risked a bold compliment. “You look wonderful.”

Trezska did not demur, but returned his smile.

Liebermann was relieved to find that their conversation flowed more naturally than he'd expected. He had judged that she might be, by nature, quite reserved—aloof, even; in fact, he was quite wrong. She was warm, friendly, and quick to laugh. He asked her if she had been to the Prater before, and she replied that she had—but only to eat at Csarda. She was not familiar with the amusements. Liebermann suggested that they should visit the Kaisergarten—to which she again responded with unexpected enthusiasm. From Liebermann's experience, beautiful, fashionably dressed women often allowed their hauteur to harden into a brittle carapace. Trezska's excitement was endearing.

They inspected the menu, and while they did so Trezska extolled the virtues of the head chef. She insisted that Liebermann try his gulyás.

“They do it correctly here… a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to. Gulyás was originally a shepherds’ dish—the midday meal. It shouldn't be too rich.”

As on all Hungarian tables, there were three rather than two condiment shakers: one for salt, one for pepper, and a third for paprika. When the gulyás arrived, Liebermann was given a soup, instead of a stew, and at the bottom of his bowl he found large tender chunks of mutton. Trezska offered Liebermann the paprika shaker, which he declined—his gulyás having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Trezska.

“Good—very good,” he replied. The gulyás was just as Trezska had described: wholesome rustic fare, but fragrant with tangy herbs and spices.

From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping glissandi and complicated embellishments suggested a Gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.

“An old folk song,” said Trezska, “Dark Eyes. It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.”

A capricious smile played around her lips.

Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Röger s interpretation of the Brahms D-major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Joseph Joachim.

“Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?”

“No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.”

“Oh,” said Liebermann. “Then, how long will you be staying?” he added hopefully.

“In Vienna? Another month or so. My old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rosé.”

Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rosé was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.

“What pieces will you be studying with Rosé?”

“Beethoven's spring sonata—and Mozart's E minor.”

“I am familiar with the spring sonata, of course, but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.”

“Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.” Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. “There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.”

The gulyás was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of dobostorte: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The dobostorte—named after