as a duty.” Exactly. I have made this quote my own. My obligation is that which I impose on myself. Němcová says that one cannot be ordered to do absolutely anything. I, on the contrary, am convinced that absolutely any order may be filled, as long as one is convinced one is serving a just cause. And I am certainly convinced of the importance of my cause.
The enemies of Austria-Hungary never rest and one must be forever on the alert. Society is full of conspirators. The other day at a reception, the former ambassador of France told me that the Austro-Hungarian government makes the same mistake as similar regimes by thinking that revolutions are prepared by groups of secret conspirators. He said, “Revolutions emerge from unbearable social conditions, but you, my friend, like the rest of the Austro-Hungarian police, have shut your eyes to this obvious fact!” It is rather the French who have shut their eyes to the network of conspiracy that is being woven across our empire! As a police representative, I am the best defense against the conspirators: with a good nexus of informers, control over the mail, and other such tactics, I will create a state of permanent fear within society. I will be unpredictable, mysterious. Taken to extremes, this strategy will make the people tremble. Yes, I wish to keep the Czechs in a state of terror. May they tremble before making any decisions on their own. In Austria-Hungary we have no need of a few geniuses, but rather of a mass of happy subjects.
In other words, there can be no compromise. I shall write a letter to Herr Kempen about this woman writer.
Božena Němcová belongs to certain circles of so-called ‘emancipated’ women. She is an educated, well-informed person. At all events, she is an outstanding personality, capable of exercising considerable influence.
A rather special woman, this Němcová. Why is she complicating things for herself? She has now started to publish her novel, The Grandmother, in monthly installments. I forgot to ask Fraülein Zaleski about the book and above all, about the coded political programs and revolutionary messages that might be found within. I’ll have her brought here at once.
The student of medicine came in with a heavy suitcase and headed for the patient’s room with eyes fixed to the floor. From the suitcase, he took out various glass cups, cylinders, small bottles, needles and scissors . . . A thousand years’ worth of knowledge transformed into objects, she thought. As if he’d overheard her thoughts, he glanced at her, a slight smile on his lips, and asked her to undress and lie down on the sofa that they now used as an examining table. Meanwhile, he went on blowing into his flasks in order to clean them, before placing them on the chair next to the bed.
“Please lie face down.”
He undid her corset, leaving her back exposed. He rubbed the palms of his hands together; ssssssh . . . and the fragrance of a beech forest filled the room. He started to massage her back with his palms, fingers, fists, the backs of his hands, and his forearms. The touch of his hands was firm and tender at the same time, and produced tickles, then caresses that stretched out over her skin and penetrated beneath the epidermis, deep into her body. He then proceeded to take the glass cups, one by one, and she felt the circular objects cover her back, sticking to it like suckers.
He took the cups off her body. A new smell of wood filled the air, probably pine, this time, and his palms spread that perfume over her skin, up to her shoulders, then down, until he was putting pressure on her waist, then he continued on to her buttocks and thighs.
He laced up her corset.
“Turn over, please. And try to relax.”
Eyes fixed on the ceiling, she made an effort to slacken her tensed muscles and make herself comfortable. The doctor, or rather the trainee, placed a chair behind her head and sat down. Having rubbed his fingers with an oil that smelled like a jungle after the passing of a monsoon, he rubbed her nostrils and, like some mad painter, used the tips of his fingers to draw all kinds of doodles and scrawls on her cheeks, chin and forehead.
Now his fingers slid down her neck, over her collarbone, to her shoulders. They followed the shape of the bone from which the ribs emerge. Through her silk underclothes, they traced