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dragon-crocodile amalgam – and the composer’s full name: Gottlieb Toller. He thought he might ask Herr Barth if he knew anything about him. He heard the sound of a band playing a militarized version of a Strauss waltz and he adjusted his pace to keep in step with the thump of the bass drum. He thought of Blanche’s beautiful long face, her thin, bony wrists rattling with bangles, her tall slim frame. He did love her and he wanted to marry her, he told himself – it wasn’t pretence or social convention. He owed it to her to try and become well again, to be a normal man happily married to a wonderful woman. He had to see this through.
    He crossed the Ring with due caution and as he did so the band altered its tune to a quickstep or a polka. He felt his spirits lift with the rhythm as he ambled up Mariahilfer Strasse, the music fading slowly behind him, merging with the traffic noise, as the band marched off to its barracks, civic duty done, the good people of Vienna entertained for an hour or so. Lysander felt the sun warm his shoulders and a curious congregation of emotions assail him – pride in what he had done for himself, seeking his cure on his own terms, pleasure in strolling the now familiar streets of this foreign city and, as a muted undertone, a thin enjoyable melancholy at being so far from Blanche and her all-knowing, understanding eyes.
     
     
    7. The Primal Addiction
     
    ‘What about masturbation?’ bensimon asked.
    ‘Well, it usually works. Nine times out of ten, let’s say. No real problems there.’
    ‘Ah. The primal addiction.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Dr Freud’s expression . . .’ Bensimon held his pen poised. ‘What’s your stimulus?’
    ‘It varies.’ Lysander cleared his throat. ‘I, ah, tend to think of people – women – that I’ve been attracted to in the past and then imagine a –’ he paused. Now he understood why it was useful not to be facing one’s interlocutor. ‘I imagine a situation in which everything goes well.’
    ‘Of course, that’s a hypothesis. The hypothesized perfect world. Reality’s far more complicated.’
    ‘Yes, I do know it’s a fantasy,’ he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Sometimes Bensimon was so literal-minded.
    ‘But that’s useful, that’s useful,’ Bensimon said. ‘Have you heard of “Parallelism”?’
    ‘No. Should I?’
    ‘No, not at all. It’s a theory I’ve developed myself as a kind of adjunct to the main line of Dr Freud’s psychoanalysis. Maybe we’ll come back to it later.’
    Silence. He could hear Dr Bensimon making little popping noises with his lips. Pop-pop-pop. Annoying.
    ‘Is your mother alive?’
    ‘Very much so.’
    ‘Tell me about her. What age is she?’
    ‘She’s forty-nine.’
    ‘Describe her.’
    ‘She’s Austrian. Speaks fluent English with hardly any accent. She’s very elegant. Very fashionably smart.’
    ‘Beautiful?’
    ‘I suppose so. She was a very beautiful young woman. I’ve seen photographs.’
    ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Anneliese. Most people call her Anna.’
    ‘Mrs Anneliese Rief.’
    ‘No. Lady Faulkner. After my father died she married again to a Lord Faulkner.’
    ‘How do you get along with your stepfather?’
    ‘Very well. Crickmay Faulkner’s older than my mother – considerably older. He’s in his seventies.’
    ‘Ah.’ Lysander could hear the pen scratching.
    ‘Do you ever think about your mother in a sexual way?’
    Lysander managed to suppress his weary sigh. He had expected better from Bensimon, really.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. Never. Ever. No.’
     
     
    8. A Dashing Cavalry Officer
     
    Lysander looked at Wolfram in astonishment. He was standing in the hallway in full military uniform, his sabre dragging on the floor, shako under his arm, spurred black boots with knee guards. He looked huge and magnificent.
    ‘My god,’ Lysander said, admiringly. ‘Are you going on parade?’
    ‘No,’ Wolfram said, a little gloomily.