A Curable Romantic (17 page)

I looked at my father, watching the proceedings not a foot away, frowning so severely, the tip of his nose curved nearly to his chin. He looked at me with that same hard glint I would years later see flashing across Dr. Freud’s handsome gaze: that maddening mixture of pride, envy, anguish, revulsion, and despair that marks a father’s love for his son. I knew what he was thinking. He was afraid we were establishing a poor precedent. If a magnificent girl like this is the price one must pay for reading forbidden literature, what prevented the entire world from heading to our gazebo, prying loose its floorboards, unearthing my stash of heretical texts, my Mendelssohn, my Krochmal, and my Luzzato, rolling cigarettes and waiting for the inevitable discovery of their crimes with its swift, sweet punishment, for as my Hindele and I sipped from a single cup of wine, her face so close to mine we were almost kissing, I knew that even the most extraordinary piety would never have earned for me such an exquisite bride.

CHAPTER 8

I awoke to the roiling of cathedral bells. I rose from the sofa, where I’d fallen asleep the night before, and pulled back the heavy curtains from the window. The light of a bone-grey sky pierced my eyes. The room was freezing. I wrapped myself in the afghan Aunt Fania had knitted me, and I found my spectacles and sat at my escritoire, with a piece of bread and a little pot of jam, to scribble down my dream.

I’d dreamt again of the yellow lion. She lay next to me in bed this time, nibbling at my throat; and I awoke, as I always did from these dreams, quaking in fear.

(I’d discussed the lioness with Dr. Freud. In his opinion, she represented nothing more than a wish to return to childhood. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his head that a porcelain lion had been a favorite toy of mine, although I couldn’t recall ever having possessed such a thing, and nothing I said could dissuade him from his opinion.)

It was late, I knew. The morning’s newspapers had long been printed and long ago delivered to the kiosks where they were now for sale. Fräulein Eckstein’s advertisement had been waiting for me in one of them, I knew, since dawn. I had no idea how to proceed. I could have asked Otto Meissenblichler for advice, I supposed. As I’ve said, he seemed in possession of a never-emptying Wunderhorn of women. Literary houris, would-be actresses, bored schoolgirls, naughty Hausfraus, widows and virgins alike, seemed eager to immolate themselves upon the altar of his sexual genius. I ruled out knocking at his door, however. The last time I’d done so, I’d barely opened my mouth to call out his name when I’d heard it uttered by voices far sweeter and more plaintive than my own. The door of the bedroom flew open and, though I raised my arms against the sight and commanded myself not to look, no shield could prevent my beholding their four breasts and the two furry pelts that seemed to hang from their waists like scalps on a Red Indian’s belt. The brazen skin of
knee cap, hip bone, thigh, elbow, throat, belly, and buttock bruised my optic nerve until it failed and I went blind.

Besides, what help could Otto give me? We were too different, he and I. He was a voluptuary, a connoisseur of the actual, with no patience for the romantic chimeras that seemed to preoccupy me. While he was being caressed by two or perhaps even four arms, dandled by two or perhaps even four breasts, I was wooing two women, neither of whom was real: Fräulein Eckstein, about whom I knew nothing, and the fantasy of her I’d carried in my heart for the better part of a month.

Still, I dressed and made my way to the Stadtpark, passing newspaper kiosk after newspaper kiosk, until, finally, I plucked up the courage to buy a copy of the
Neue Freie Presse.
I sat on a park bench and opened its pages and found within it, exactly as I imagined I would, the advertisement Fräulein Eckstein had placed there for me, surrounded by a black border, a typographical enhancement for which, I assumed, she’d paid extra.

It read:

To the kindly oculist who looked into a young girl’s eyes last night — seeing what? I can only imagine: why do you ignore my messages? Meet me, I implore you, at least once, at the Café Pucher in the Kolhmarkt, noon, for Marillenknödel, today!

With jittering hands, I drew forth my watch from my vest and saw that it was already noon. I could have kicked myself. My first lover’s assignation and I was already late! I stood and turned in all four directions at once. Dropping the newspaper onto the bench, I flagged down the nearest stroller, an elderly man in a black cloak with the white beard of a biblical prophet, and asked if he knew the shortest route to the Kohlmarkt.

“The Kohlmarkt?” he said to himself, squinting. “The Kohlmarkt?”

“Never mind, never mind!” I cried, dashing off. My heart was in my throat. If I were late, I feared the Fräulein might give up hope and leave before I arrived. I had no idea how many of her previous advertisements I’d left unanswered, but surely, after the first few dozen disappointments, one’s expectations, as well as one’s patience, diminish. However, even if I
weren’t late, I would have hurried. After all, how often does love summon you by name, or if not by name, by general description?

This thought produced a terrible fear in me. What if I’d read the wrong advertisement? What if the advertisement I’d read hadn’t been intended for me, but for another one of Vienna’s kindly oculists? After all, the Fräulein hadn’t used my name. On what grounds did I presume I was the kindly oculist in question? Could I even be described as kindly? No, I couldn’t be. When had I demonstrated even an ounce of kindliness towards Fräulein Eckstein (or towards anybody for that matter)? On the contrary, I’d been rude and sullen towards her at Dr. Freud’s. What if I blundered into the Pucher only to discover one of my colleagues there dining on Marillenknödel with the lovely girl he’d met the previous evening, kindly Dr. Kessner, for instance, or kindly Dr. Loiberger, or any of the city’s other oculists, many of whom, far kinder than I, might have made the acquaintance of a young woman who wished to communicate with him through an advertisement in the newspaper? And even if the advertisement had been written by Fräulein Eckstein for me — I was struck by an additional horror — what prevented one of my colleagues from imagining the note had been written for him? Or worse: what prevented
all
of them from arriving at the café precisely at noon under just such an impression?

By the time I reached the café’s door, I was in a state of nervous collapse. I knew what I would find inside: kindly oculists, five to a table, each man looking at me in the same way I’d be looking at him, wondering, What the deuce is
he
doing here?

But of course, I found only Fräulein Eckstein, seated at a corner table, her elaborate hat peeking out from behind the front page of the
Neue Freie Presse.

“Dr. Sammelsohn?” she called, lowering the paper and squinting at me. “Is that you?”

“Ah, Fräulein, good afternoon,” I said, approaching her table, relieved to be the only oculist in sight. “May I join you?”

Oddly, this request seemed to have momentarily flustered her. “Oh!” she said, before saying, “No, of course. Certainly. Please, do. By all means.”

“You’re not waiting for someone, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, smiling oddly.

I took the seat across from hers and thought to immediately make my amends. “You must forgive me, Fräulein. I’ve been irresponsible and I’ve come to apologize for my abstruseness and to make good any expense you’ve gone to on my account.”

“Expense?” she said, tilting her head to the side.

“For the advertisements,” I said.

“The advertisements?”

“In the newspaper.”

The Fräulein laughed nervously. She shrugged, as though embarrassed, and smiled sweetly. “Forgive me, Dr. Sammelsohn, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

I leaned back and gave her a hard look. We seemed to have switched roles in the scene we’d played out the night before at the Freuds’. Perhaps this was all part of the velvety game of Viennese lovemaking, I told myself. Having arranged our assignation anonymously, we were required, I gathered, to continue the charade, pretending to have run into each other accidentally in order that it might appear so to the rest of the world.

“Ah. Never mind,” I said, with a knowing air. “I’m obviously mistaken.”

At this, the Fräulein seemed to relax. “In any case,” she said, “it’s nothing short of a miracle, running into you like this.”

“A miracle, Fräulein?”

“Yes, as there’s something I’ve very much wanted to ask you.”

“A question, Fräulein?”

“No, a favor, really.” She lowered her gaze. “Only I hope you won’t think it too forward of me, if …”

“If what, Fräulein?”

“No, I can’t,” she said, blushing. “You’ll think ill of me, I know.”

“But I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

“You won’t!” She playfully took my hands. “Do you really mean that, Dr. Sammelsohn?”

“I do, Fräulein.” The touch of her fingers, even through the calfskin of her gloves, stirred me to my core.

She took a deep breath. Her chin trembled. “May I make a confession to you, Dr. Sammelsohn?”

I swallowed nervously. “A confession, Fräulein?” Things seem to be proceeding more quickly than I’d anticipated. “That’s a bold word,” I said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? It
is
a bold word.”

I was unnerved to find her staring so avidly into my eyes. May a woman stare so brazenly at a man and he not interpret it as a sexual provocation? However, drunk on her own liberated impulses, or mad with desire, or perhaps simply mad (what
had
Dr. Freud told me about her diagnosis? I struggled in vain to recall it), the Fräulein showed no sign of relenting, and it was I who finally looked away. Holding my hand and unwilling to surrender my attention, she lightly traced the lines of my palm with her finger.

“Emma,” I whispered, although too quietly, I hoped, for her to have heard me.

“Dr. Sammelsohn,” she said, “permit me to ask you a question?”

“A question, Fräulein?”

“A personal question.”

“Well, all right.”

She smiled shyly. “Do you love anyone?”

“I … I beg your pardon, Fräulein. Do I …”

“Love anyone?” she repeated.

I opened my mouth to answer her, but no words sprang forth.

“Ah, so you must!” She laughed, covering her mouth with her hands.

“Well,” I murmured, “there
has
been someone of late, I suppose …”

“And who is she, if I may be so bold to inquire?”

“Oh, but I haven’t the courage to tell you that, my dear Fräulein.”

“No, now don’t be shy,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. “We can share our secrets like girlfriends.” Vexed, perhaps, at hearing herself describe me as a girlfriend, she corrected herself: “Or like a brother and sister. Oh, but you know what I mean. Sometimes a person loves another but doesn’t feel free to declare that love. Isn’t that so, Doktor?”

My stomach dropped, my vision narrowed. What had Dr. Freud told
her? How much did she know about this last month, the month I’d spent pining for her?

“That’s true,” I said cautiously.

“Myself, for example.”

“Yourself, Fräulein?”

She sighed and, crossing her arms, sat back in her chair. “There’s no reason for you to know this” — her eyes followed someone walking across the room behind me and she lowered her voice — “but in the past …”

“Yes, Fräulein?”

“… I’ve always been attracted to older men.”

“To … to … to
older
men, Fräulein? But … but this was in the past, you say?”

“Oh,” she said, “you know, with their dignified beards and their …” She brought her fingers softly to her lips. “How it must chafe to receive a kiss from a man with a beard …” She blushed again and giggled. “Although I must say … your little beard, Dr. Sammelsohn …”

“My little beard, Fräulein?”

“… it seems so soft and silky, yes … Kissing you would be …”

“Yes, Fräulein?”

“… a lovely experience, I imagine.”

The conversation was getting away from us. An untamed horse whose reins we had dropped, it had broken free from the high road and was pulling us, exhilarated, into a forest of brackens and brambles. We must return to the high road immediately, I counseled myself, lest we be torn to shreds by this wild tangle of thorns! And yet, at the same time, no woman had ever spoken to me in so open a way, and the agony her voice occasioned in my person was not entirely unpleasant: an electrical storm sowed its turmoil in my breast, a siege of lightning lay claim to my undefended heart, a quiver of pangs shot, like flaming arrows, through my central nervous system, spiraling down to the core of my lowest self, where its havoc aroused my concupiscence from its long wintry slumbers.

“Fräulein Eckstein,” I managed to say at last, “may I be frank with you?”

The time had come to bare my breast, to confess my feelings, to reveal the whole complicated mess I’d made of everything. Yes, it was time to throw myself upon her mercy, to declare my intentions, to risk all, like a gambler, on one fatal spin of the wheel — although how much of a gamble was it when she had all but declared her love for me — for me and my kissable little beard?

“I was hoping we might both be frank,” she said, breathlessly, “and honest. Completely. Oh, how we allow our lives to become so
poisoned
with untruth! Dr. Sammelsohn, don’t you find that’s so?”

“I know. I know it,” I said. “I lie. I do. All the time. Why, I lie to everyone. No, only the other day, I lied to the milkman. I did. ‘Did you order butter?’ he asked me, having failed to deliver it, and I said, ‘No,’ although, in fact, I had. I had ordered it.”

“Then let us agree to speak only the truth to each other, Dr. Sammelsohn, shall we?”

“Fräulein, from now on, yes: the truth. Absolutely, agreed!”

“And let us bare our breasts together.”

“Metaphorically speaking, you mean, of course.”

“Shall I go first?”

“Or I. It doesn’t matter.”

“Let me then.”