Three Women in a Mirror (17 page)

Leaning against the table, I looked at my rarest sulfide: a black dahlia with a silk butterfly floating above it. I hurled it to the floor.

The glass shattered, pieces scattered like drops, and suddenly I felt something damp along the inside of my thighs: my waters had broken.

I immediately felt a sharp pain in my abdomen that bent me double.

I cried victory: the birth was beginning.

The servants came running, Franz rushed in, the doctor and midwife were sent for. I was carried into the bedroom.

I had never known such joy. I felt like singing, dancing, kissing everyone.

Dr. Teitelman arrived very quickly—it was enough to make you think that doctors sleep with their clothes on—accompanied by the midwife and his assistants. Aunt Vivi took somewhat longer to get here, but she arrived perfumed and powdered, and with her hair done.

“I get the feeling this will go quickly,” announced the doctor.

Aunt Vivi took my hands and encouraged me to push.

I tried my best.

One thing that surprised me and confirmed Teitelman's optimism: I was not suffering as much as I had imagined. To be sure, the experience was not altogether pleasant, but it remained tolerable. I could not help but think, “So, I
was
made to have children.”

After two hours had gone by, Dr. Teitelman felt my belly, which was slightly less swollen. He also ausculted it, running his fingers down each side, over and over. His face betrayed no diagnosis, his bearing was merely that of a skilled professional.

Finally he left the room with the midwife. I could hear them talking quietly behind the door, then Teitelman said he would be absent for ten minutes.

“Doctor!” I screamed from my bed.

“Nothing will happen in the next ten minutes. Trust me. I am not leaving you alone.”

The midwife came over and gave me a big smile. Aunt Vivi caressed my brow.

“Where is he going, Aunt Vivi?”

“No idea.”

“It's odd, isn't it?”

“No, it's not odd.”

There was only a half-hearted conviction in her voice; she, too, failed to understand the doctor's behavior. After considering several eventualities, she leaned closer.

“My little Hanna, if he isn't here for the last contractions, then that's just too bad. For centuries women have given birth without a doctor. Don't be afraid.”

Half an hour later Dr. Teitelman reappeared, accompanied by a tall young man with a scraggly beard.

“Hanna, I'd like to introduce Dr. Nikisch.”

I stiffened.

“What? Does this mean you want to perform a Cesarean?”

Teitelman coughed, embarrassed.

“I would just like my colleague to be present at the birth because—”

“Because what?” I brayed.

He didn't answer. Vivi rushed over to him and grabbed him by the collar.

“What is going on with my niece?”

Teitelman blushed, pulled away, wiggled his Adam's apple as he readjusted his tie and shot Vivi an angry glance.

“That is why my colleague is here, to help me find out.”

Teitelman and Nikisch began examining me from every angle, even the most intimate. As they palpated, they conferred in an impenetrable way.

Finally, Teitelman told me to try pushing again.

“Well, about time!” exclaimed Aunt Vivi, who was furious with their behavior.

I tried again to push the child out. Waters and blood flowed.

Then the two men told me to stop, “to rest.”

As I was catching my breath, they went and isolated themselves behind the curtains by the window for a private discussion.

Nikisch came back and opened his bag.

“What are you doing?”

“Please trust us, Madam.”

“Is this a Cesarean?”

“Please, I beg you. Place your trust in us, you will not suffer.”

I almost called to Franz to help me, but I gave up. If my fate was to have my belly cut open to deliver my child, I had to accept it. Never mind if I did not survive!

Dr. Nikisch came over to me, holding a towel soaked in liquid.

I just had time to whisper to Aunt Vivi, “Tell Franz I love him.”

The towel stuck to my nostrils, I could smell something acid, then there came a great sense of peace, and I lost consciousness.

 

When I opened my eyes, I was on my own in the bedroom, which had been cleaned and tidied. My first reflex was to look for the child at my side; he was not there. My second? To evaluate the pain in my body; there, too, I could feel nothing. I gently slid my fingers beneath my smock and prepared to scream: but all I felt was a flat, painless stomach, with neither bandages nor scars.

So I had managed to push the child out normally?

I wept with joy. For a time I was nothing but hot, comforting tears.

Then I stopped, impatient, to listen more carefully to the sounds around me. Was my baby hungry? Was he asleep? Where had they put the child to bed? Was it a boy or a girl?

I called out to my husband. The moment I said his name, I realized that my voice was too weak and would not be heard through the door.

So I waited. From time to time I dozed off.

A few minutes, or a few hours later, impossible to tell, Franz came into the room.

From his hunched posture and gray face, I understood that something bad had happened.

“Are you awake, my dear?” he asked in a listless voice.

“Franz, where is the child?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took my wrist.

“You must be brave . . . it is dead.”

Silence.

Not even a sob. Just acute pain. A dagger in my heart. A taste of bile filling my mouth. I would have liked to die, too. To avoid this suffering. To escape from the hatred welling up in me.

When I managed to speak, I asked Franz where our infant's body was. He answered that Dr. Teitelman, after wrapping it in cloths, had taken it away with him. He would not honor Franz's request to see the child.

“You must spare yourself, my friend. Your grief will be easier this way.”

That is all, Gretchen.

I thought I had hit bottom, as far as unhappiness was concerned.

Not at all. The worst was yet to come.

How could that be?

No doubt you will have difficulty reading the words that are about to follow—as much difficulty as I will have in writing them. But I must go to the end of my story, like Mary Queen of Scots to the executioner's block.

Later on that day Dr. Teitelman came in the room.

I was alone. I was no longer thinking, or moaning, I felt nothing. I just lay there, devastated, among the pillows.

He pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down heavily.

He was hesitant to speak. I felt as if I were emerging from hell, but I thought I might make it easier for him when I said, “I know everything, doctor. Franz told me what happened.”

He looked all around him, as if he were seeking a witness, then he moistened his lips, cleared his throat, and said in a dreary tone of voice, “Herr von Waldberg only repeated to you what I told him.”

“Pardon?”

“I decided it would be better to come up with an official version, an acceptable version, a story that would inspire compassion and not arouse any suspicion.”

I was silent. I knew I was about to receive a terrible blow. I waited for it.

Teitelman sat up straight, cleaned his glasses, sighed, then gave me a long, stern stare.

“There was nothing in the sheets I took out of here. There was no child in your womb, Hanna, nothing but water. You were not pregnant.”

 

Your Hanna

The hotel room looked like a tornado had hit it: chairs upended, the bed devastated, cushions scattered everywhere, rugs out of place, clothing lying about, bottles on the floor. A tangle of sheets and blankets, from television to armchair, looking like so many garlands flung about by the wind.

Down on the carpet, Anny was writhing around on top of a man—Zac.

With a raging enthusiasm, she could not stop moaning, first of all from discomfort, then to encourage her lover and convince herself that they were both enjoying this wild coupling.

Lying on her back, her legs spread, she placed her feet on her partner's buttocks, because she knew that ordinarily this position drove a man wild. And sure enough, like a motorcycle responding to a throttle, the man gave out a cry and began to accelerate his movement.

When she guessed, from the swollen veins in his neck and the redness of his chest, that he was nearing orgasm, she led out a few ecstatic cries. They came together.

The minutes went by slowly, and they both caught their breath.

The tornado had passed. Tranquility reigned once again in the bedroom. A few rays of golden sunlight, etched by the blinds, came to warm the darkness. From far away came the brassy notes of a jazz recording.

Anny adored these moments, which made all the effort worthwhile. Not only was she proud of having successfully accomplished her task, she no longer felt any tension, no longer expected anything, was happy just to exist.

Yes, she preferred the post to the desire or embraces that brought them closer. Her satisfaction did not come from sensual pleasure but from the relief that she gotten it over with.

While Zac drifted off to sleep, she gently nudged him aside and got lightly to her feet.
Phew, that's over with
. No sooner had this thought occurred to her than she realized, for the first time, how strange it was. As if it were more important to have made love than to make it . . .

She took a look at her surroundings: perfect. Everything had been knocked over, a fantastic display of animalistic desire.

Before going to the bathroom, she glanced at her partner in debauchery: sprawled on the floor, his calves on a pouf, his shirt sleeve rolled around his left ankle, Zac's breathing was borderline snoring. Suddenly the director seemed very coherent to her: his lovemaking was just like his directing style: impetuous and forceful, eager to reach the crisis point. A real temperament.

I just hope the film is good
.

She hurried into the shower, and the lukewarm water ran over her body like a reward, a more intimate and precious delight than what had just happened.

Anny felt stronger. Not only did the director no longer intimidate her, but this would also give her power over David. To prove her independence, she had cheated on him. And she'd also found a way to make sure that the director would always appreciate her. Hadn't she noticed lately that Zac was wasting a lot of time on lighting David, careful to clothe him or undress him to make him look better?

She slipped into a negligee, and twisted her hair to dry it. She looked in the mirror above the sink, thought she looked pretty, and, surprised, cried out, “Ethan is such an idiot!”

He had refused to sleep with her. Incredible. The only one who had ever dared. She might not have yielded to the director—or at least not as quickly—if Ethan had not made her unsure of her charms.

While she fixed her hair she grew calmer, reassured as to her powers of seduction. She would try to think more kindly about Ethan. Didn't she still need him? She'd rather have her shots than those adulterated chemical substances that she had to go looking for in bars or in the street, and which cost a fortune. Besides, a handsome nurse administering morphine at home—wasn't that more in keeping with her star status?

She laughed.
Handsome nurse? I'm being charitable. In all honesty, Ethan has impossible looks.
Everything was exaggerated: his height, his thinness, the bridge of his nose, his blondeness.
He looks like a caricature of himself.

From the other side of the wall the filmmaker's throaty voice called: “What are you up to, babe?”

“I'm thinking about you.”

Anny had answered right back, which meant she could immediately go on with her own thoughts. Yes, Ethan reminded her of a puppet, a harlequin mobile a child might hang in his bedroom.

The director came in; she almost cried out in surprise.

Seeking a kiss, Zac put his arms around her. She stopped him.

“No, I just showered. You're sweaty, and you stink like a man who's just made love.”

And to spare his feelings she added “Who's just made
wonderful
love . . . ”

“Is that true?”

Batting her eyelashes, she assured him that it was.

Zac stretched happily, then plunged into the jacuzzi.

Anny made a face: if there was one thing that surprised her about men, it was how blissful they were after sex! In that respect, she felt that men and women were not equal. Sensuality was something that fulfilled men, but not women. Men went after pleasure and they got it; not women.

Had she ever met a man who was not euphorically satisfied after he'd been laid?

No. Well, yes—David, perhaps; she had noticed a certain anxiety on his face . . . because he expected her to applaud, no doubt. David was an actor; in other words, a woman with balls.

She went back into the room and embarked on the labor of an archaeologist: to dig her clothing out from under the layers left by their torrid tryst: layer of sheets, layer of blankets, layer of cushions.

Crouching down to try to extract her bra from behind the minibar, she noticed an empty chocolate bar wrapping caught in a dust bunny; the sight of it made her suddenly aware of how sordid the situation was. As if in a slowly ascending camera shot she saw herself, in a humiliating position, trying to retrieve her underwear in a strange hotel room, while a hairy macho man was singing in the shower.

Is this your life, Anny?

She looked up. To the imaginary voice she replied,
This isn't my life, it's just life. I might add that my life is somewhat less pathetic than other people's. This is a five-star hotel, for Christ's sake! And that guy whistling there in the bathroom has already had two Oscar nominations.

She decided to get out of there as quickly as she could and hid behind her dark glasses to go down into the lobby.