Secret Dreams (16 page)

“No forgiveness necessary, Frau Schanderein,” he replied. “I'm barely thirty. I've been a doctor for three years. If I look too young, I suppose it's my mother's fault.”

The woman smiled thinly under the veil. And then more questions. How long at the hospital? she asked him. Three years, he told her. And who were his immediate superiors? Senior Physician Nekken and Direktor Bleuler, he told her.

“And why didn't one of these men decide to take on our case?” she demanded.

So that was it! They felt snubbed for not being handled by the Burghölzli's Herr Direktor personally! Insulted for being delegated down the chain of command to a junior physician. Weren't they important enough? Weren't they entitled to a Herr Direktor — or a senior physician at the very least?

Oh, lord; he wanted to laugh. Should he tell them Herr Direktor Bleuler had already looked in briefly on their child, that what he saw gave him little hope, and so he passed the case along? Should Herr Doktor tell them that if they found their way to his office, most of the other senior physicians (Nekken included) had also rejected taking them on? And what would the parents think if they actually met the lofty Bleuler? Herr Direktor was an addleheaded, forgetful, morose old wheezer. Not particularly brilliant: perfect, in fact, for the bureaucratic administrative post he commanded.

His colleagues called him “distinguished” and “eminent.” Harmless, meaningless words for a man whose sole achievement had been to hang on forever without the blemish of a scandal. He had sad, puffy eyes, and his gaze wandered about when you spoke to him, glancing down at his black laced boots, or over the top of your head as if you weren't there. But most revealing was his beard. He had the habit of continually stroking his thick badger's beard while he engaged people. A matted furrow ran down each side of his jaw, and he had even worn some of the hair away. Irreverent staffers raised gales of laughter in the cafeteria mimicking the old codger, pulling on their own faces and mumbling, “Ahem, ahem, gentlemen … To be a doctor, the first thing you must learn is … ah … to find your patient's room. And secure, if possible, ahem, a
correct
billing address.”

In point of fact, the Direktor had more than enough reason to be morose — for the Burghölzli Hospital almost never cured anyone's madness. And Direktor Bleuler was often heard to say, “Ahem, gentlemen … we are not in the business of results. Results are for hotel chefs and … ah … hairdressers. We are in the business of diagnosis. So Î urge you, the first thing you must learn is how to find your patient's room and, ahem, if possible secure …”

No, Herr Doktor knew, the eminent Herr Direktor had already had his look-see, stroked his beard, and sighed sadly. The senior physicians had had
their
look, smirked coldly, and passed the case on without a second's remorse.

Let some junior physician take it on if he wanted. Who knew, he might be saved an embarrassing failure if the bills were paid on time.

So perhaps the parents suspected as much, as clever, self-important people often do. The wife's interrogation went on, her voice provoking him at every turn.

“How many patients have you handled personally, Doktor Jung?”

“How would you diagnose our child?”

“You mean you haven't examined the patient yet?”

Frau Schanderein used the word “patient” as if she assumed all the doctors and staff called them that, instead of by their real names or cruel nicknames: Crazy Hans, Le Chat, Herr Tom Thumb … So he told them that seeing the family first was not that unusual, and that yes, he had glanced into the child's room, which was only one floor below. Now he asked them to tell him about their family history. And this demand raised a rumble of consternation. The husband blew out a great cloud of smoke as if the question were excessively personal, while his wife spoke up sharply:

“Oh, come now, Doktor, we're not the sick ones here, the child is. Perhaps if you can get her to talk, she'll tell you herself. As for our part — we were a normal family. Until the recent attack, the child was like any other. An attack of nervous
hysteria
. That is the right word, isn't it, Herr Doktor Jung?” The woman's hat and veil turned dramatically toward her husband, as though demanding he confirm every word she said. Cocking her head as if to say, Well, go on, you tell him.

But Herr Schanderein had let his pipe go out and held it impotently in his hand, staring idly into the bowl of ash. So the wife took up again. “We came to Zurich to see our child enrolled in medical school. The first attack occurred in the back of a carriage, near the railway station.”

Rostov station or Zurich station? Herr Doktor wondered. But he asked instead:

“Does the girl have any special interests?”

And the wife answered, “No, just the usual.”

“Nothing at all? Does she draw, or collect butterflies, or play a musical instrument?”

The husband was shaking his head no. He let the pipe fall on the rug, spilling charred tobacco. “Erik!” the wife snapped. The moment passed into uneasiness as the husband collected his pipe.

“Are you saying your daughter has no keepsakes, no personal things, no other interests aside from … ah … entering medical college here?” The father had become sadly crestfallen, as if the questions were intended to hurt him personally. The mother stiffened behind the feathered hat and veil, becoming priggish and tight-lipped,

“Moreover, it seems the patient is not exactly a child, being nineteen years of age.”

Again, no comment.

Finally Herr Doktor leaned back in his chair and let out a long-drawn-out sigh. At last he said, “I don't believe either of you is being candid with me.”

The husband seemed to shrink inside himself. The wife swelled with indignation, bristling all over.

“Don't be absurd, young man. I demand to see the Direktor, so he can be informed as to the extreme tone of this interview, the insolence of your
personal
questions.” Herr Doktor remained calm and silent, letting her go on. But she deflated as he failed to meet her on the rampart of her anger, trailing off with, “If you think you can just get anything you want from us …”

After a few more quiet moments, he said, “In cases where a person is withdrawn, I am always curious to discover the conditions leading up to the attack. I apologize if such curiosity seems inquisitive to the point of rudeness. As to your seeing Herr Direktor Bleuler — by all means, let me make an appointment for you with his secretary. Perhaps I am at fault for not explaining everything fully. But I was under the impression you understood Direktor Bleuler is already familiar with your case, as are several of the other senior physicians. And that it was decided I should look into it further.” Herr Doktor paused for a moment.

The husband was working himself up to say something. “No, no one told us anything,” he said doubtfully, as though long suspecting a hidden truth.

“Of course,” Herr Doktor went on, as gently as he could, “if I am not suitable for you, or you don't think the Burghölzli can help, we can sometimes recommend private physicians in town, or specialists in other cities.”

A grim eventuality was dawning on the parents. An understanding, as they now saw the possibility of having their child back on their hands. In her present distressed condition, this prospect was dreadfully unnerving. With a sharp turn of the head, the wife shot a look at her husband that said, He'll do as well as anyone. Go on, tell the bastard what he wants to know.

Clearly irritated, she fiddled with the brim of her hat and, as she did so, twitched aside the veil. For a brief second, the black lace fluttered from her face. And in that moment Herr Doktor saw a strikingly beautiful woman, once upon a time young, but now glittery and brittle like the crystal prisms of a broken chandelier, … Hard, mascaraed eyes, sharp mouth, piercing nose. Not really a woman any longer but the statue of a woman, ruthless and cunning, imposing her stony will at every opportunity and hardened with discontent at every turn. When the veil dropped back once more, it fell like a shade, shutting her off from the world. Herr Doktor knew he would get no more from her this day.

The husband put his pipe away, since it had proved only an encumbrance,- and by shoving the brown briar into his coat pocket, he seemed to concede all at once the uselessness of fighting anymore. He started haltingly, as though pained to admit:

“She never was really normal. What I mean is, she can talk — when she wants to. She can read — on and off, that is. Some years were bad.''

“Bad?” Herr Doktor asked.

“Some years were bad. Where she fell behind. But she seemed to catch up. Î suppose we spoiled her, the way people do with their children —”

“You
spoiled her,” the wife cut in. She seemed to think this a crucial point of some kind. Like a disadvantage.

A flash of anger came into the husband's eyes, and then died without a trace. “What I mean,” he went on, “what I mean is, maybe we weren't strict enough, but Î always thought she caught an infection.” An
injection
. He seemed to put a lot of stress on that word, as if it explained everything. “You know, like the grippe. Only in the brain. Getting in her skull and making her sick. She was so young when she had her first attack. Maybe five years old. She didn't eat for a week, î was sure she had caught something. But then every couple of years she'd have another attack —”

He halted suddenly. He had a handsome, fair-weather face, which seemed just right for easy smiles and breezy summer days, but now it was clouded and crumbling. He hid it in his hands…. The wife looked away in disgust, stiffening noticeably, humiliated by his weeping. She cast a sidelong glance at him, with a cruel twist of her chin. “Stop it, Erik! Erik, pull yourself together!”

She said it with almost a ventriloquist's voice, her lips barely moving, as though the young doctor across the desk wouldn't notice a papery hiss. He was reminded of a silly woman at a dinner party trying to kick her drunk husband under the tablecloth to shut him up. And since everyone pretended not to have seen her, she felt perfectly safe.

Now the wife spoke up sharply, as though to distract him from her husband's disgraceful behavior. “Herr Doktor!” she chirped, “Herr Doktor, if you discover an infection, will you be able to cure it?”

He could see that in her heart she wanted to believe her husband. That their daughter had an infection like malaria, that reappeared throughout a person's lifetime. With an infection there was some hope at least — this Herr Doktor might concoct some potion to cure the child. But he couldn't simply ignore the husbands behavior, even if that's what the Schanderein woman clearly wanted. So he addressed the man, face still buried in his hands.

“Herr Schanderein, how long do you and Frau Schanderein plan to stay in Zurich?”

Herr Schanderein's fair-weather face came up a deep shade of pink. His eyes were wet, and he wiped them before speaking. “How long do you think we should stay?”

“I need a chance to observe your daughter — examine her if possible. Then we should have another conversation. Shall we say a week?”

“And then you'll know for certain whether it is an infection or not?” This from the mother, in an imperial tone.

“Am I the first doctor you have consulted in all these years, Frau Schanderein? I seriously doubt this. So let me be frank. There is slim hope that I will discover in a mere week what has eluded so many of my predecessors for so long.”

Frau Schanderein became chilly,- pulling herself up properly in her chair and demanding once more, “Now tell me, how old are you, Herr Doktor?”

“Thirty,” he repeated evenly “And you asked me that before.” That made Herr Schanderein smile, but his wife ignored it. Was she unaware of repeating herself? Or was this some sort of ploy to dominate him? She hammered out a steady stream of questions;

“So you say the hospital specializes in nervous disorders? Does that mean disorders of the brain?”

He said it meant that. And other parts of the body.

“But curing a disorder of the brain is rare/' she objected. “Isn't it true no one can even agree on what disorders of the brain really are?”

He said it was true: no one agreed.

“But then you imply disorders like my child's have been cured. What were they? Who cured them?”

By way of an answer, he reached into a bookshelf by his elbow and took down several thin pamphlets and a larger book. He told the Schandereins the persons in those pamphlets suffered disorders of the brain, he told them some had been treated with success. He told them they could read the pamphlets if they wanted. Herr Schanderein tentatively picked one. He paged limply through it, seeing without comprehending. He read the title softly to himself as though not sure what it meant:
“Studien über Hysterie
…” He lingered over the authors' names, as if partly recollecting them. “Breuer and Freud.” Then he picked up the larger book. “Freud by himself now, I see.
Die Traumdeutung
… but this one's about dreams,” he said, confused.

Frau Schanderein sniffed at the pamphlets. “There are plenty of Gypsies in Rostov who'll listen to your nightmares. Are you trying to tell me my daughter has the same disorders as are in those little papers?

He told her no, that every person was different,- cases might be similar and yet not alike.

Frau Schanderein physically exulted in the prospect of catching him in a contradiction, ruffling with pleasure where she sat. “Oh, so these are not the same disorders. Something similar, perhaps.” She seemed to swell in triumph. “So in fact my daughter's affliction is not in those little papers at all.”

She picked up the dream book, demanding with some contempt, “And what about this one?” She flipped through the opening pages to see where it was published. Then she closed the book, putting it back on the desk, plainly having seen enough to satisfy her curiosity. “We could have gone to Vienna as easily as Zurich,” she said disdainfully. “It's a good deal closer, besides.”