Secret Dreams (58 page)

The younger man fell into an embarrassed silence. He handed the little she-goddess back, not daring to meet his mentor's eyes. The older man seemed ashamed to see young Herr Doktor stricken so. He took the small stone and set her amid a dozen of her later grand-children. An ugly, unshapely lump, squirreled in between a lithe Egyptian princess and the forbidding figure of an Assyrian warrior king. A dreadful thought crawled into the older man's mind, like a worm swallowed whole, still living as it wriggled down into the pit of his stomach.

My God, he thought. This young man, my colleague, my friend, my best and only hope … Concealing himself. Hiding.

Lying.

To … me.

Once again, Fräulein stared at her frayed art book, its title still dimly readable across the blue-green cover. She had replaced its gutted in-sides with bound blank sheets of drawing paper. How many times had the guts of this aching book been cut apart, thrown away, made again from scratch? She flipped past some tentative starts — the lush torso of Lady of the Veils, the swollen serpents of Men with Tails.

She picked up a pencil and sharpened it. Her pencil skated dreamily across the paper.

How disgusting. How shameful. Imagine making the lovely Lady of the Veils do those awful things. Not like drawing her dancing or preening in her pretty nakedness — but this! A picture of the Lady going with the Deer Man. He had his huge man-thing out and was pressing it into the Lady's wet openness … gashing her.

And on another page the Lady had torn off his hugeness and was running with it, flaunting it over her head as all the Howlers with shrieking mouths came after — all fighting for a chance to touch the bloody god. And on another page, another shameful drawing, and another! She shut the book and pressed it to her chest.

“I should tear them up,” she whispered

Ja, she could tear them up if she wanted. Throw them away if she wanted. Or make another book — with even worse drawings — if she wanted. She chuckled to herself. Bad, naughty girl. Sure! Make drawings twice as bad. Nice drawings. Bad drawings. Filthy awful if she wanted.
Whatever
she wanted. No Sister Nuns. No Little It. No wolf at the door! Her laughter banged about the room. Laughter at being as bad as she wanted. As much as she wanted. Look, everyone, I'm laughing. Laughing!

The Zurich-bound train sped over the tracks, as the wheels clacked
gotta get home, gotta get back
, Herr Doktor bought a bottle of May wine and a pack of expensive cigarettes to keep him company on the ride. The countryside skipped past his window, the full, leafy trees and the stern telegraph poles rushing by in packs.

His head drifted in the rosy glow of evening sun in clouds. How dearly Herr Professor had taken him into the family, setting him at his right hand during dinner. Then coming into his room the next morning, balancing a tray of cocoa and cream. The older man sat on the bed as the younger man drank it in his dressing gown, propped up with pillows.

They had even called a special meeting of the Wednesday Society for Thursday, an evening devoted to his treatment of the Schanderein girl And as he talked, a deep silence gathered round the table, the cigars and cigarettes went out, the drinks were pushed aside. Ties undone. Cummerbunds unhooked. While time itself seemed to pause, leaving nothing but the words of his tale, tracing out the crooked, crazy path of her deliverance from madness. And when the tale was done, there came an even greater silence. Followed at last by murmurs of approval and tremors of awe, far more profound than any bravo or applause.

Then the questions! Endless! The night wore on … talk upon talk. And when every detail was seen from every angle, Herr Doktor felt beaten and sore. While the group of them remained around the table, worn and bleary-eyed like gamblers who had played through the night. Herr Professor rose at last. Gray dawn peeped in at the edges of the curtains.

“Fascinating tale,” he said dreamily. He cast a hooded glance in the younger man's direction. How clearly the old man wanted him placed before the rest. To stand alone. A lord among princes. Father and son would join their mighty forces. An alliance sweeping away the old order. Zurich and Vienna, A new power rising, a force to be reckoned with. London. Paris. Rome. Berlin. All ready to fall.

For so many years Herr Professor of 19 Berggasse had held out against the mindless hordes, so heroically, so alone. But now Elder Man and Younger Man were calling out their armies,- no mob could stand against them. The rabble of the city-states would either kneel — or burn.

And the train went clackety-clack,
can't wait to get borne, can't wait to get back
Herr Doktor settled down in his seat, his feet propped on the couch opposite. He poured his May wine into a silver traveling cup. Drained it and poured himself another. The fantasy of power shifted to a new one…. His time with Fräulein, going on as before, only more so. The girl coming every day to his office, where they analyzed her dreams. And helping her to study for medical school, helping her to become Fräulein
Doktor
. Then their timeless moments together on the couch. It was this last sweet thought he lingered over. Feeling her under her hands, holding her as she unbuttoned herself, undid herself for him.

Then going back to good, fine Emma. The two women seemed to blend in his mind. The plush train compartment came alive, belonging to one woman or the other. The walnut paneling above his head like Fräuleins skin along her arms, the delicate gold filigree like Emma's wide eyes staring at him as he came for her in bed. Tugging at his coat, he heard the girl clutching her own clothes. When he moved his feet on the couch, he felt the rasp of his hand across his wife's smooth spine. The padded armrest under his elbow was the tender curve of Fräuleins thighs, waiting to open. Beneath him, the taut seat cushions were Emma's spread behind as he rose and fell, emptying himself into her. The rush of air along the car was the girl's last sigh … while all about, the warm compartment cooed him steadily to sleep. And when the train whistled its lonely whistle across passing fields, he heard the women's wail, calling his name.

Calling him home …

But in the short time Herr Doktor had gone abroad, unexpected things had come to pass. In his hospital office he found a white envelope sitting on his desk. With a sinking feeling, he examined the letter. The girl's mother, Frau Schanderein, had plainly addressed it. But with a copy sent to Herr Direktor Bleuler. He read the woman's letter twice. It was strange and cryptic and totally unfathomable.

He went directly to his superior's office. Bleuler waved languidly for him to sit, nodding to himself as though he knew the reason for the visit. “The trip went well, did it? That's good. You can tell me about it later. Had a look at the mother's letter, did you? Came yesterday. What do you think?”

What was he supposed to think? He suppressed the urge to bite his nails. Finally he chose to remain silent and simply shrugged.

“My reaction completely,” Bleuler remarked casually. “Thought maybe you'd have some insights I overlooked.”

Insights! He suddenly waved the letter and burst out:

“What is this woman accusing me of? She says, quote: I've heard various tales of your behavior with my daughter in compromising private sessions. And then, quote: Have I a history of mistresses and conquests? And then, and
then!
Since I've paid a great share of her daughter's hospital bills, am I expecting additional favors in return? Favors! How many tales of my behavior has she heard? Stories of my dancing in her room? Of blood on my face? Which tales did the damn woman hear?”

“Heavens!” Bleuler implored, raising his hands. “I don't tell tales myself, you know.”

“Is it about money, then? Did she know I paid her husband's whore bill from that club in town? Perhaps the mother should know about that too!”

Bleuler quietly pushed back his seat, a look of silent shock in his eyes. His fingers played with a pencil. “Actually, I'm sure she does know,” he said flatly.

But Herr Doktor wasn't pacified. “How do I respond to this assault? Shall I resign? When the girl first came here she slobbered like an idiot, wore a ratty sheet instead of clothes. Next month she's to attend Burckhardts introductory lectures at the medical college.” His voice rose to a shout. “How long have we had? Tell me. Nine? Ten? Eleven months! Who cares! Freud does them in five years. Yesterday he told me so!”

Herr Direktor held up his hands in entreaty.
“I'm
not accusing you of anything. You've had remarkable success with the girl. No one's questioning that. I've read the reports,- I know what the poor creatures been through. Give me a little credit, please. The mother is obviously deranged. The father — worse than useless. The only question is how do we reply?”

Herr Doktor slumped back in his chair and picked a fallen page off the floor. Yes, of course, how to reply. He shook his head to clear it, but the room shifted. Again, Herr Bleuler's voice coaxed him.

“Let's all be reasonable. The mother's lifetime work was making the poor girl crazy. Then you came along and made her better.
Cured
her, ja? And so that makes young Herr Doktor Siegfried the enemy now. All that remains for us is to … ah… disarm the mother. Perhaps we — the hospital — can waive the outstanding balance on the girl's bill. Perhaps we can congratulate the damn woman on her daughter's stunning progress. I assume you are presently being compensated for the private sessions? Fräulein is paying you something, isn't she?”

Herr Doktor pressed his fingers to his head. The room turned slowly around…. What was the man asking? How was the girl? How was she in private? Bleuler's voice prodded him:

“The girl is paying you something, isn't she?”

“Yes,” he said with effort. “She's paying me something. Privately. A private fee …”

“Fine,” Bleuler said confidently. Herr Direktor seemed so sure of himself, so ready to take the problem in hand. “Now as for the rumors. Ignore them. Who knows why people start rumors? Idle. Jealous. Stupid. People are all those things.”

Herr Doktor felt too exhausted to comment. Wearily, he said at last, “I'm not sure I'm capable of replying sensibly to this letter.”

“No, but I can. Official stationery and all that. I'll show you a draft before I send it out.”

The room stopped turning. Now Herr Doktor focused on the man's face across the desk. “All right… if you want.” Bleuler seemed pleased, chuckling softly to himself. He had taken on a measure of stature. Impotent during the long months of the girl's treatment, if he helped young Senior Physician in this small way, then he too had contributed to Fräuleins recovery. He began gently bouncing the heavy rubber eraser of his pencil on the desk, bouncing it and catching it deftly between the ends of his fingers on the hop: tap-tap-taptap, “Well, that's that/' he said with a thin smile. “Why don't you tell me about your trip?”

She let him spread her open in the quiet dark of his office. She thought of it as his “welcome home.” Her days had been uneventful — no sudden traumas, no frights, no conflicts, nothing to break the steady rhythm of wake, study, eat, sleep, wake again…. So there was nothing really for them to talk about. They quietly lapsed into what was simplest for them to do. He had kept his office dark on purpose. She barely said hello,- simply entered and walked across the carpet. She led him to the couch. It was so familiar,- they knew the rest. The touching. The taking. The sweet finish.

She sensed the trip had gone well, though he hardly spoke of it. She could guess what they talked about mostly. Her. His great success.

Is this what it meant to be his mistress, then? Groping in the dark, then, later, walking out of his house and back to her room? Always in his possession but never properly possessed? And him never really being
hers?

“What is it?” he asked.

Am I his mistress? she wondered.

People talk. Many were capable of saying it.

Bleuler, Nekken, Bosch, Zeik! They were all capable. Someone joked. Another lied. A cretin who scribbled dirty filth in a back stairwell: the crazy bitch is a doctor's whore. She'd seen a scrawl in the women's toilet.
You're a slut
, it read.
And so are you
, she scribbled back.
With worms in your cunt
.

Then last of all there was Frau Emma.

Wife.

Yet every time they met, the woman showed nothing but polite poise. If she suspected something, wouldn't there be the sharp flint of anger in her eye? A blackness in her smile when she greeted Fräulein at the door or met her coming weakly down the stairs from his office after an hour under her husband's hands? Why cajole the girl into the kitchen for tea? Blushing and a little flattered, Fräulein always came. She loved the way Emma brought out pieces of cake or leftovers from the night before, the way she clucked, “Look at you! Thin as a rail! Don't you eat at home?” While Fräulein, with her mouth too full to talk, devoured everything set in front of her, nodding eagerly when Emma said, ‘isn't that soup better the next day?” And hiccuping in laughter as the older woman chased Geschrei from perch to perch, until in frantic desperation the cat hid, hissing, under the stove.

To Fräulein they were like two girls together, talking for an hour about things that made no difference. Like what flavor frosting went best with orange buttermilk cake, or how many ribbons go well in your hair, or how difficult it is to sneeze politely with beef goulash in your mouth. The woman's books and private studies were strewn about the kitchen, just like Fräuleins at home. And from her books, Frau Emma showed her pictures and drawings from a time even older than the ancient dream tale. No ladies in veils — but there were deer men with antlers. And in one picture she saw the shape of Mother of Stone carved into the rock of a cave wall,