Waiting for Sunrise by William Boyd

that image. No – he was glad that he had told everything to Bensimon. Perhaps, at root, this was all psychoanalysis could really achieve: it authorized you to talk about crucially, elementally, important matters – that you couldn’t relate to anybody else – under the guise of a formal therapeutic discourse. What could Bensimon say to him, now, that he couldn’t say to himself? The act of confession was a form of liberation and he wondered if he needed Bensimon any more. Still, he did feel almost physically different from the man who had written down the events of that day. And writing it down was important, also, he could see that. Something had changed – it had been a purging of sorts, an opening up, a cleansing.
    He walked slowly and thoughtfully home from the tram-halt to the pension, stopping only to buy a hundred English Virginia cigarettes from the tobacconist at the junction of Mariahilfer Strasse and the pension’s courtyard. He wondered vaguely if he were smoking too much – what he needed was a bracing twenty-mile hike in the mountains. He started to contemplate pleasantly where he might go this weekend.
    Traudl was dusting down the glass-domed owl when he pushed open the door. She didn’t curtsey, he noticed, and her welcoming smile seemed a little more knowing. Not surprisingly, Lysander thought, now we both have our own new secret to share.
    ‘The lieutenant would like to see you, sir,’ she said, then, glancing around, whispered, ‘Remember about the twenty crowns.’
    ‘Don’t worry. He’ll just assume we – you know . . .’
    ‘Yes. Good. Be sure to say this, sir, please.’
    ‘I will, Traudl. Rest assured.’
    ‘And I put your post in your room, sir.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Lysander knocked on Wolfram’s door and, summoned, went in. He could see at once from Wolfram’s wide smile and the bottle of champagne in an ice-bucket that all had gone well at the tribunal. He was back in his civilian clothes – a caramel tweed suit with chocolate-coloured tie.
    ‘Acquitted!’ Wolfram said with a maestro’s gesture, arms raised in a flourish, and they shook hands warmly.
    ‘Congratulations. I hope it wasn’t too much of an ordeal,’ Lysander said.
    Wolfram busied himself with the opening and pouring of the champagne.
    ‘Well, they try to scare you to death, of course,’ he said. ‘All those senior officers in their dress uniforms and their most disapproving expressions – solemn, solemn faces. Keep you waiting for hours.’ He topped Lysander up. ‘If you keep your nerve, your dignity, you’re halfway there.’ He smiled. ‘Your excellent whisky was most helpful in that department.’
    They clinked glasses, drank.
    ‘So, it’s all over,’ Lysander said. ‘What made them see sense?’
    ‘An embarrassing lack of evidence. But I gave them something to think about. It helped move the spotlight away from the wily Slovene.’
    ‘Oh, yes – what?’
    ‘There’s this captain in the regiment, Frankenthal. Doesn’t like me. Arrogant man. I found a way of reminding my superior officers that Frankenthal is a Jewish name.’ Wolfram shrugged. ‘Frankenthal had the key for a week, just like me.’
    ‘What’s his Jewishness got to do with it?’
    ‘He’s not a Jew – his family converted to Catholicism a generation ago. But still . . .’ Wolfram smiled, mischievously. ‘They should have changed their name.’
    ‘I don’t follow.’
    ‘My dear Lysander – if they can’t pin the crime on a Slovene then a Jew is even better.’ Wolfram drained his glass. ‘Serves the disagreeable fellow right. And I have a month’s leave, by way of apology for my “ordeal”. So – you’ll still see a bit more of me. Then we go on manoeuvres at the end of September.’ He smiled. ‘How was the country girl, eh?’
    ‘Oh, Traudl, yes. Most enjoyable. Thank you very much.’ Lysander changed the subject quickly. ‘What would you have done if they hadn’t acquitted you?’
    Wolfram thought