Secret Dreams (47 page)

“I'm pleased to meet you also,”

The old man relaxed and sighed as though some bridge had been crossed. He groped with relief, trying to explain. “What I can't believe, my dear Fräulein, what I can't believe is that you are finally. that you are really —”

At that moment the front doorbell rang, A common shiver seemed to run through the room, Bleuler never finished what he wanted to say. Really what? Not a freak? A little egg without a center? Herr Doktor had just put a glass of sherry in her hand but glanced guardedly at the door.

“Ah, that must be Nekken.”

Fräulein thought of an ice pick going through her liver. And of the words
You'll be crazy for ever and ever
. She seemed to be looking at her hands from a protracted distance, the fingers holding the sherry not really her own. The liquid in the glass trembled, but what of it? The doorbell! That's what everyone was thinking about. And oh, yes, a newcomer had arrived. Surely she knew the late arrival's name. It clung to the tip of her tongue. Very soon she would scream it.

The maid went to answer the bell. Fräulein frantically wanted to shout, Wait! Wait till I've remembered the
name
of the newcomer. If only she could whimper, Please, maid, come back, maid … At a sign from Herr Doktor, the maid stopped in her tracks. Did Fräulein catch Frau Emma frowning?

“Don't you like the sherry?” Frau Emma asked.

Fräulein sipped its sweet nothingness. “Yes, it's delightful. When it's done, I might even have another.”

The doorbell rang again, a long persistent chime. As if the person hanging on the bell had all the time in the world to go on asking for admittance. Fräulein steeled herself for the inevitable…. And with a nod, Herr Doktor freed the maid from her post by the stairs.

After a moment Herr Nekken came into the parlor with his overcoat draped on one arm and a gold-headed cane held nonchalantly between two fingers. He palmed them off on the maid and turned his attention to the group. At first his eyes passed indecisively over her with a sort of vapid anticipation: an eagerness to examine this unexpected face in the crowd but first having to deal with the social amenities. “Good evening, Herr Direktor/' he said. “And good evening to you, Herr Junior Physician.” But then he was drawn back to the rich blackness of the gown, the glint of pearls, to the woman calmly poised by the mantel. Still unknowing, but with a sweet touch of suspicion in his voice, he asked the company, “Won't someone introduce me to this charming creature?”

Direktor Bleuler made a deprecating smile into his whiskers and coughed softly. “Ahem, surely the young lady needs no introduction …”

No one spoke, leaving Nekken at a silent disadvantage. He seemed to waver.

“Allow me,” the girl said at last. She stepped from the mantel and held out her long white hand. “Fräulein Schanderein. Room 401.” Her hand floated in the air before Nekken, waiting to be kissed. The faintest gasp of surprise escaped him, but his composure was a mask and he spoke with no trace of unease. “Yes, of course. How silly of me. Forgive my rudeness.” And then he took her outstretched hand, kissing it with profound gallantry. He seemed completely intrigued, as if suspecting some trick involved, a secret, and he watched the young lady under his eyelids as if admiring a rare species of trained animal

“Let me congratulate you on your recovery,” he said, letting go her hand. “And let me compliment you on your exquisite gown. I wouldn't have recognized the devil herself. Where did you get it?”

Was there a flicker of fear in Herr Doktors eyes? Did Fräulein hear him catch his breath … like a wisp of steam escaping from an overheated valve? The Nekken waited for an answer.

“It was a gift,” she told him. Nekken smiled vapidly at the sound of her voice, as if her answer confirmed what he already knew. Yes, a trained poodle who jumped through hoops, a pretty tropical bird who chirped clever things.

“Will you indulge in another sherry?” he inquired, taking her glass from the mantel. “Let me get another for you.” He went to the small table where the decanter sat on a silver tray, his eyes never leaving her as he poured the flowing sweetness. She saw how each moment he was hoping for her to slip up. He poured the liquor without looking, knowing just the right moment to break off and put the decanter down. All the while chatting with his colleagues:

“She reminds me of that new soprano at the
Oper
. What's her name, now? Carl, do you remember?”

“Afraid not,” Herr Doktor replied. “I let my season ticket lapse this year.”

“Herr Direktor, do you recall?”

“Let me see now, let me see.” Bleuler pondered the divas name, stroking his whiskers. “Uli something. Played Salome. Danced the dance of the seven veils around John the Baptist's head.”

How wonderful to watch them talk, even over something she knew nothing about. They thought she looked like a girl in the opera.
Die Open
My God, what a world outside, beyond 401, beyond the cold marble walls. A world where women danced onstage and sang before an orchestra and didn't drool or twiddle or hide under filthy rags. A world of light and beauty, of self-possessed creatures and all who admired them. And for that moment, with the sweet-nothing taste of sherry fading on her tongue, how Fräulein longed to be out in that glorious world, if only to sit in the audience and be part of the throng of normal people, who sat quietly and watched.

“No, gentlemen,” Nekken said. “I know whom she really resembles.” He gave Fräulein her sherry with a hint of a smirk. “She looks like the Frenchwoman — Madame X — in that Sargent painting.”

“Who is Madame Eeeks?” asked Fräulein.

“Madame X,” Herr Doktor explained.
“X
— as in the letter. A great Parisian society lady. Sargent painted a portrait of her in a revealing black gown. It caused a sensation. The artist hid her name to protect her from rumor and scandal. Her real name was —”

“Excuse me,” Emma interrupted, her sharp fingers clutching the girl's elbow. Fräulein fought the urge to wrench her arm free. No, she thought, it would definitely not be proper to slap Frau Emma across the face. They're allowed to touch you in the outside world: people sometimes
touched,
. “Come along, Fräulein,” Frau Emma insisted. “Come help me in the kitchen.” Fräulein reluctantly let herself be led away. Frau Emma's fingers dropped from her elbow of their own accord,- she shuddered in relief. Nekken's eyes followed them intently. The last thing Fräulein noticed was Herr Doktor standing inconspicuously by the mantel, just as she had. A shade seemed to be pulled over his eyes, blank shutters against the people in the room. But she felt him writhing, simmering with an incredible effort not to show anything. Then their eyes met for an instant, the shutters opening so she might look inside, and ja, she saw his eyes were wet, blinking back his pride.

On the way to the kitchen Fräulein drew close to Emma and spoke politely in her ear. “Please don't grab my arm again, Frau Doktor. It makes me giddy. If you do it again, I'll have to slap you.”

The stately woman caught the hem of her dress, breaking her graceful step. She shot the girl a terrified sidelong glance.

“I mean it,” Fräulein said.

Once in the kitchen, Frau Emma gave orders to the hired cook. The maid bustled about, getting the service ready. By the hearth, a large orange house cat stared indifferently at all the ruckus, glancing once at Fräulein with precisely the same degree of attention, which was rather slight. Fräulein felt awkward and stupid … so she went to the cat and stood next to it. The cat rubbed itself up against her gown, leaving a streak of fur. She didn't bother to brush it off — it seemed somehow a compliment that the orange house cat paid attention to her.

She wondered if Frau Emma gave many dinner parties. Apparently the table hadn't been set or the silverware counted out. Two heavy candelabras were thrust into Fräuleins hands and she found herself following the lady of the house to the dining room. “I'm simply awful at this,” Frau Emma confessed. “I've never done it right.”

“I think you're fine,” Fräulein said, putting the candelabras on the white tablecloth. The lady of the house laughed darkly and thrust a box of matches into Fräuleins hands. “Here, why don't you light them.”

She stared at the box of matches. How very familiar, but what were they for, now? The candles. Strike the heads on the box. She did it slowly and deliberately,- the tiny flames danced brightly over the shiny plates.

The company was called to table. A reflection of Nekken's long, horsey face swam in Fräuleins water glass. She drank the glass of water down. Straight away, the maid filled it again. Were you supposed to drink each glass down as they poured it? She caught a panicked look in Emma's eye and decided not to drink the water right then. How strange the conversation sounded. Everyone seemed to be speaking in blocky, mechanical phrases, like paragraphs cut out of a book. One stilted block of speech after another. First Frau Emma:

“More wine, Professor Bleuler? More wine, Herr Nekken?”

Both replying: “No, thank you, Emma. No, thank you.”

Then Nekken.- “I say there, Carl, after all your recent experience, you should really write a book. The Curable Incurable Dementia. Send it to that man in Vienna, that one you know, Î can't remember his name right now. Do you think he should write a book, Emma?”

“It's not up to me at all.”

“Fräulein, do you think he should write a book?”

They all looked at her, waiting for an answer. She went from face to face. Their skin had taken on a waxiness like the painted plaster flesh of shopstore mannikins. And yes, like her parents in the carriage dream. Was Nekkens horsey face going to turn into a horse's ass any second and have a bowel movement on his plate? If that happened, Fräulein decided to say nothing about it.

“If he wants to write a book, he'll write one,” she answered. “And if he wants my help, I'm sure he'll ask.”

They all reached for their wineglasses with a general sigh, as if some great labor had been done. They drank deeply. She stared at the wine in her glass, untouched. How much easier talking with Herr Doktor in the garden alone. Just them and the clouds passing overhead, and once in a while the occasional scrape and clink of the gardeners' tools in the ground. But here at the table Fräulein felt slightly removed, dizzy, as though standing on a high, shaky platform. Observing the company's nodding, waxy heads and the blocks of conversation coming out of their mouths in lifeless chunks. Was it time to drink the water or the wine? Which fork to use? Achtung! Be careful! The maid is at your shoulder, serving you the soup. Remember to say thank you, and don't spill it.

She dropped her napkin to the floor. Should she pick it up?

“Thank you,” she said to the maid. “May I have another napkin?”

“Take mine,” said Bleuler. “No, mine,” said Nekken. The maid brought a fresh napkin.

The soup was a blood-red borscht,- it filled a white china bowl. Bits of onion and stewed meat floated on top. Fräulein dipped her spoon into the broth: a little white nub rose to the surface and sank again, while the stilted conversation went on around her.

“Why Emma, this is wonderful soup,” Herr Doktor said.

Then Direktor Bleuler: “Yes, yes, I agree. It is wonderful soup,”

And Nekken: “Yes, borscht is wonderful soup. My absolute favorite. Tell me, Fräulein, is borscht
your
favorite soup?”

She swirled her spoon, and the little white nub appeared again. She saw pale, puckered skin, the bone and flesh of a boiled pinkie finger. A shiver came to her limbs, as if the very hand that lost its pinkie were stroking her thighs. She swirled the spoon again, praying, Please, God, no, don't make it a finger in my bowl. Then I'll have to show them, get them to take it away, oh, please, God, don't make it a boiled finger in my bowl —

The nub of a white onion floated to the surface and sank again. Only a mistake, a mistake. An onion, not a finger. Couldn't anyone make a mistake like that? Fräulein brought a spoonful to her lips. She swallowed.

“Yes,” she said clearly to the company. “This is very good.”

Again, a wee sigh rippled around the table, and the glasses were drained. Fräulein wondered if you were supposed to drink a whole glass each time? When she dipped her spoon into the bowl, the nub of a white pinkie rose to the top and disappeared below…. The spoon dropped to her plate with a sharp clink. Did anyone see? Did they know the cook was a cannibal? She glanced at Herr Direktors plate,-the shred of what looked like a white knuckle floated there…. Bleuler dipped in his spoon and scooped it up. He smiled at her as he swallowed it down.

“Will you have some sour scream, my dear?” Bleuler suggested. “Borscht is always better with sour scream. Emma! The scream for Fräulein.”

Sour scream … ?

A bowl was brought. Sour
cream. A
huge bowl of it, a peaked white mountain.

“Be sure to give the girl plenty,” said Nekken. Then Bleuler again, “Yes, by all means give the girl plenty. Be sure she gets enough.”

The maid pushed the bowl almost under her nose and began dolloping it into her soup plate. “Yes, Fräulein, tell me when you've had enough, just say when …”

Fräulein went far away. A startlingly clear vision appeared in her mind. Also at a table. Also eating. But she could not move her arms or legs —- they were made of lead. She was eating and eating, gagging and choking, and still the food kept coming.

“Essen! Eat!” a harsh voice scolded. “One more bite and then you're through. One more bite and that's enough.” A huge spoon came toward her. She opened her mouth to swallow this last bite. If only she swallowed this last bite the huge spoon would go away.

“Open your mouth. Wider!”