Vienna Secrets Read Free Page B

said Liebermann.
    “Is he?”
    “Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen him at the university. I think he’s a professor, a member of the philosophy faculty.”
    “A friend of Professor Freud’s, perhaps?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    Mendel’s interest in the identity of Rothenstein’s companion was short-lived. “Banking,” he sighed, his thoughts returning to Rothenstein. “If I had my time again, that’s what I’d do. The textile business is all well and good, but it’s only one step removed from the market stall. Banking is something else entirely, a different world. A man like Rothenstein doesn’t have to concern himself with factory managers like Doubek, or suppliers like Zedlacher and Krakowski. He doesn’t have to go to Prague to check up on incompetent accountants! Which reminds me—another trip is well overdue. No, a man like Rothenstein is invited to the Hofburg. A man like Rothenstein dines with emperors. When Rothenstein speaks, people listen.”
    “His friend from the university isn’t listening,” said Liebermann.
    Mendel turned sharply.
    “Why have you always got to say something clever ?”
    Liebermann did not respond. There wasn’t any point. He already knew that if he tried to defend or justify himself it would make matters worse. Mendel’s rebuke was simply a venting from a reservoir of suppressed anger (the depth of which the young doctor did not care to contemplate). He had disappointed his father in two ways. First, he had shown no interest in taking over the family business, and second, only five months earlier he had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s closest friends. The first of these “disappointments” had placed a considerable strain on their relationship; the second had almost destroyed it. Liebermann’s mother had worked a small miracle in getting father and son to talk again; however, the truce that she had brokered was fragile.
    Mendel’s remark had created an uncomfortable atmosphere that effectively killed further conversation. Subsequently, it was a great relief to father and son when a dapper fellow wearing a spotted bow tie and a floral vest emerged from the crowd and came straight toward them.
    “Liebermann,” cried the new arrival, taking Mendel’s hand and shaking it vigorously.
    “Blomberg.”
    “What did you think of the talk, eh?”
    Mendel shook his head. “I didn’t really understand it.”
    “Nor me…” Blomberg turned slightly, extending his hand again. “This must be your son—the doctor?”
    “Yes, this is Maxim. Maxim—Herr Blomberg. You remember me mentioning Herr Blomberg, don’t you? He’s the gentleman who owns the department store.”
    Liebermann bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Blomberg.”
    “And you too, dear boy…. Dreams, eh? Well, we all have our dreams, don’t we? I’m not sure what Professor Freud would make of mine, but I suspect that all my dreams have the same meaning. I have only one wish, and it’s certainly not unconscious. Another department store… on Kärntnerstrasse!” Blomberg’s eyes glinted a little too brightly. “That’s what I dream about.”
    “Have you seen who’s here?” asked Mendel, his gaze flicking across the room.
    “Rothenstein? Yes, of course. I might try to have a word with him later. You never know, eh?” Blomberg tapped the side of his nose.
    Mendel pulled a face.
    “Ach! Always the pessimist!” Blomberg raised his hands.
    “Pessimist?” said Mendel. “A pessimist is just a well-informed optimist!”
    People were still streaming out of the lecture hall and dispersing around the room. They were joined by two more of Mendel’s friends, and the conversation turned from business to politics. Liebermann was expecting these men to express views similar to those held by his father. He expected to hear them criticize the mayor and lambast the traditional enemies of Austrian Jewry: the clerics, the aristocracy, and conservative Slavs.