Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov Page A

confidentiality is the most sacred cornerstone of the practice of Medicine. We must therefore restrict ourselves to generalities, by which I mean certain theoretical questions, the answers to which I have applied myself throughout my career with, if I may say so—no small diligence and success.”
    I had the distinct feeling that this was going to be a one-sided discussion, based upon the doctor's opening statement and tribute to himself. “Have I made myself clear, Inspector?” Möbius said, his thick eyebrows knitting together and forming a single dark streak above his spectacles. My inclination at this point was to tell him to go to the devil and that I was not accustomed to being lectured to in this fashion.
    After acknowledging the ground rules, I began my interrogation. “Dr. Möbius, you have opined in your lectures and writings that creative activities, such as those engaged in for example by Dr. Schumann, necessarily lead to a serious state of degeneration.”
    â€œMost definitely,” Möbius replied. “Not a doubt in the world about it.” He leaned back in his chair and patted a heavy gold chain that extended across the vast expanse of his abdomen like a suspension bridge. “Years of research have produced evidence that is beyond dispute, sir.” Möbius sniffed audibly, his way of both punctuating a sentence and expressing self-confidence.
    â€œExamples are legion,” he went on. “Take Mozart. Died at thirty-five. Schubert? Dead at thirty-one. Mendelssohn barely made it to thirty-eight. By the age of only thirty-three, poor Beethoven had become stone deaf. Moreover, he suffered from fits of rage. Degeneration, that's the reason. Everything breaks down…the body, the mind. Inner forces push and pull these so-called creative people apart, don't you see? Creativity and disease are blood brothers among people in the arts. Painters, composers, writers…they flirt with illnesses of every description. Had I the authority, I would confiscate every easel and palette in Europe…every musical instrument, writing stand, pen, ink pot…and I would retain these instruments of disaster under lock and key until Medicine has found a way to cure men and women of their addictions. Believe me, sir, creativity is a form of incurable addiction, plain and simple!”
    â€œBut what about Haydn and Handel?” I said. “They lived to ripe old ages. Bach, too, lived a full life, not only musically, but domestically and spiritually.”
    Möbius's hand waved dismissively. “Rare and unimportant exceptions.”
    â€œI take it, then, that you place little stock in Dr. Schumann's complaint concerning the ‘A sound’.”
    Möbius gave me a cold look. “I have already made it clear, have I not, that I am not at liberty to discuss a patient's condition?”
    Straining to remain civil, I said, “Very well, then, let us continue to speak in theoretical terms. Can one legitimately claim to be hearing a particular musical sound even when that sound is not in fact being produced anywhere within earshot?”
    â€œPeople who engage in the auditory arts,” said Möbius, “are inclined to suffer from auditory hallucinations. They hear music when no one else can possibly do so. There are studies, incidentally, that indicate people in the visual arts suffer a similar fate, except that they are constantly confronted by forms and colours not visible to others. It's a maddening process, to be sure, and one would do well to avoid such so-called creative activities because of the often frightening consequences and the terrible price they exact.”
    â€œSurely you're not suggesting that people turn their backs on music, painting, even literature, and devote themselves solely to running banks and shops and factories!”
    Möbius poked his thick cigar into the air, indifferent to the length of ash that tumbled to the carpet.