Three Women in a Mirror (40 page)

At the time, Franz refused to divorce me.

He remained stubborn for years. This upset and chagrined me, because I knew only too well what it meant: Franz denied our separation, he wanted us to remain connected, he was waiting for me to come back and was prepared to forgive me.

Only last month did I receive papers to sign. A notary had taken charge of the procedure. What was hidden behind it? Had Franz finally agreed—which is what I hope—or did his family come up with a scheme to force him to relent? I will never know.

I left Vienna a poor woman. This brought me a sense of complete well-being. The money I had inherited from my adoptive parents had forged a destiny for me in spite of myself—that of an heiress. Now without money I would be able to go back to my true life. Or to reinvent it.

I went to live in Zurich to start with. In exchange for language lessons I rented an attic room and began to read Freud's work. Subsequently I began my second treatment, which was theoretical and not therapeutic, a procedure that enabled me to become a psychoanalyst in my own right.

Yes, you heard me, Gretchen! I am a doctor for the soul. I care for people who suffer. To be sure, for the time being I am finding it difficult to establish a clientele; but I do not lose hope that I will eventually manage.

In the meantime, to keep busy, I am writing a book on Flemish mysticism, an essay that I intend to send to Professor Freud when I have finished it.

How did this come about?

It was all because of a tree.

This time, it was no glass tree, made in Murano or Baccarat, but a linden tree which my own steps led me to.

I was visiting Belgium with Ulla, a friend from Zurich who teaches history at a girls' secondary school. We had just traveled through the bountiful region of Wallonia, and in contrast Flanders seemed poor, until Antwerp revealed its splendors, and then, subsequently, the jewel of Bruges welcomed us along its canals.

Although we did not have much time remaining, Ulla insisted on going to visit the béguinage. In order for you to understand why she so insisted, I should point out that Ulla is active in the feminist movement, in protest against the second-class status society has been conferring upon us for centuries. She is demanding the right to vote, and maintains that if we obey the laws, we should participate in their creation. She does not accept the notion that we are inferior in intelligence, even less so in our capacity to choose. Must we wait for a war and a shortage of men to rediscover, each time, that women know how to take responsibility, and even practice professions traditionally viewed as male? Although I am not as committed as she is, I approve of her struggle and I hope you do not belong to that category of silly geese who find it offensive.

According to Ulla, in the Middle Ages the beguines were the first liberated women, because they had designed an autonomous lifestyle that did not necessitate belonging to a couple or founding a family. They were free of the usual models—gallantry, marriage, motherhood, widowhood—and they dreamt of something beyond infants' diapers and dirty sheets. They were organized into a nonreligious community, and proposed an alternative model in an era of male domination. Moreover, very quickly, the men turned against them; more than once their way of life was attacked or even suppressed altogether.

Ulla wanted to pay a tribute to these pioneers and intended to write an article for a Swiss suffragette magazine.

I confess that that day I was more preoccupied by the blisters on my feet—I walked so little—than by Ulla's endless prattle, however fascinating.

Once we crossed the humpback bridge over the Reie, while Ulla ran from one house to the next, visited the chapel, and inspected the infirmary, I saw a tree, and sat down with my back against the trunk.

After removing my shoes I rubbed my toes then began to daydream.

Beneath the linden tree I was slowly overcome by a sense of peace. The place seemed miraculously familiar to me. No doubt it was the silence, interrupted only by the sounds of swans and geese, that reminded me of my childhood; perhaps touching the earth sent me back to the days when I used to stay for hours trying to hold the earth in my open arms with my face in the grass. Ancient feelings welled up inside me, troubling and comforting at the same time.

I had the sudden impression that life could be simple. That all one need do was breathe through one's lungs, look at the sky, and admire the light.

A butterfly landed on a primrose.

Both creatures were of the same color, a pale green and sunny yellow; they were equally beautiful, equally delicate, and the insect and the flower only differed through their lifestyle, one sending its roots into the earth, the other launching its fragile form into the air. Beneath the fragrant branches, settler and nomad came together for a conversation. What did they say?

Suddenly it seemed to me that the universe was concentrated there. The faint beating of wings seemed to be the plant breathing. The world was organized in a panoramic décor that provided a setting for this precious encounter between animal and vegetable and showed me what was essential: the continuity of innocent, tenacious life.

It was if as if a weight had been lifted from my body; hundreds of pounds fled from my back and my shoulders; I was lighter.

“Hanna, are you deaf?”

Ulla was shouting my name from the building where she had run into a colleague, a historian. She wanted to share her enthusiasm with me.

I left the tree physically but a part of me stayed behind. Calm reigned in my spirit. I had been given an important secret. It was impossible to put it into words, although the feeling remained.

The Flemish scholar Ulla was talking with shared her convictions.

I listened distractedly to their discussion, about the beguines in the past. On parting, the local historian entrusted Ulla with a medieval manuscript.

 

Back at the hotel, I sat by the window to daydream and take flight, back to the linden tree, while Ulla lay down on one of the beds and leafed through the precious pages she had been so enthusiastic about.

When it was time to go down to dinner, her excitement had subsided.

“It's all neurotic blah-blah, this poetry. The rambling of a frustrated middle-class woman. What a pity! It won't serve the cause of women, far from it. When I think that my colleague was indignant over the fact that
The Mirror of the Invisible
has never been published! I feel just the opposite. It deserves to be forgotten.”

She tossed the folder onto the armchair.

Once we had finished dinner, with nothing better to do I opened the file and leafed through it.

After a few pages I was stunned. The tree! Once again I had found the atmosphere of the tree. It was the tree that had written these poems . . .

This is the origin of my fascination with Anne de Bruges, the author of the work, a woman we know nothing about, and whom I have decided to explore. Ulla was surprised but conciliatory, and she promised to help me research into the archives.

I will tell you more about it in my next letter, if you don't mind.
The Mirror of the Invisible
: isn't that a splendid title?

On the back of the envelope you will find my address in Zurich, an address that is becoming ever more temporary by the day because some connections in the psychoanalytic community in Belgium have promised to find me an offer of employment, so I am planning to leave Switzerland. Well, we shall see . . .

Please answer, dear Gretchen. I beg you. Whatever it was I did, please forgive me. And forgive me, too, for whatever I failed to do. I am waiting impatiently for your message.

 

Your faithful and loving Hanna

What have you learned from success?”
“Nothing. It came to me as a gift, that's all.”
“And what have you learned from failure?”

“That I love my profession more than success.”

“What have you learned from the cinema?”

The journalist, her pen between her lips and her tape recorder in her hand, was pleased with herself for asking such a sharp question, and waited for Anny's reply.

“That I have a curvy butt.”

Anny stood up, said goodbye to the interviewer and left the room.

Johanna thanked her colleague; pleased with this exclusive face-to-face, the two of them promised to have lunch in town, kissed each other noisily and said goodbye.

Johanna went out to join Anny, who was staring at the ocean. She had sold her mansion in Beverly Hills and settled here on the coast in a long white bungalow on the shore, a house meant for an engineer, a doctor, or a middle-class couple, not a star who was a multimillionaire. Johanna had been annoyed; but when she realized what a great story the photographers could make it—with the editorial gains of depicting Anny in her temporary retreat—she had come to terms with it.

“Bravo. You give her the material for a great article.”

Anny nodded, without taking her eyes from the whitecaps on the waves.

“Ethan's getting out tonight.”

“You're not going to pick him up at the prison?”

“No. I sent a car for him. I refuse to let you delegate a regiment of paparazzi outside the prison to immortalize me in his arms.”

Johanna did not even try to defend herself. Anny was grateful for that. She turned to her agent.

“I am fine now.”

On hearing this intolerable sentence, Johanna exploded with spite: “No. Ever since you've been ‘fine,' you have not been well at all. Anny, you have one of the most exciting professions on earth, one of the most lucrative, and now you go hiding yourself away here as if you didn't give a damn. I asked you to study that script,
My Father's Wives.
Everyone in Hollywood is dying to get their hands on it, it is going to be
the
big deal next year. But all you do is yawn and long for Ethan!”

“I read it.”

Johanna clapped her hands. Finally!
My Father's Wives
was shaping up to be the next major ensemble cast comedy. Agents were under great pressure, fighting to get roles in the film for their clients. Anny Lee was the first actress contacted, but for two months she had not even bothered to reply.

“The studio bosses want you and no one else, do you realize that? Only you! They wouldn't let other top actresses even get near.”

“Well that's a pity, because I won't be doing it.”

Johanna turned pale. Anny went on gazing at the Pacific.

“Darling, that's impossible. It is
the
film.”

“You're right, it's
the
film
,
the
stupidest
film of the year, and God knows there's plenty of competition. Did you laugh one single time when you read the script? I didn't. Have you seen the characters? All I saw were stick figures with their mouths full of vulgar garbage.”

“That's what people want nowadays.”

“Well, they have bad taste.”

“The play was a triumph on Broadway!”

“It's not because thousands of people heaped praise on useless bullshit that you'll get me to change my mind.”

“Anny, wake up! We're in Hollywood, honey! Some projects you just have to be part of. And I think you don't realize how privileged you are. You belong to the exclusive club of actresses who get to see the script before anyone else. You can pick and choose.”

“Precisely, I choose to turn it down.”

“It's suicide!”

Anny walked over to the coffee table littered with screenplays.

“Johanna, you seem to think that I'm giving up work. I'm not. I want to find a part as soon as possible. In a great film, one I can be proud of.”

She pointed to the pile of manuscripts.

“Look . . . I promise to read all of them, this week. There's bound to be one good one in there, isn't there?”

Johanna shrugged, disgusted. She should have stayed and worked for the family firm in Seattle instead of fretting her whole life away trying to succeed in Hollywood. To build a star's career from the ground up, only to hear something like this!

“That's enough. Have fun celebrating with your jailbird. I've wasted enough of my time here.”

Johanna slammed the door. As she walked to her car she expected Anny to call her back any minute. She had lived this scene a hundred times; and a hundred times, she had turned around, exaggerating her sorrow; a hundred times, Anny's good heart had not been able to stand the conflict and she had run after her.

When she got to the door of her car, she glanced furtively back at the house. Anny did not appear.

Puzzled, she sat behind the wheel and spent a few minutes reapplying her makeup.

In vain.

Anny had gone for a walk along the shore.

 

That evening Ethan rang the doorbell. Anny opened, they kissed and hugged and then without saying a word they went to the bedroom where, respectfully and almost shyly, they rediscovered each other.

At dinner Ethan told her about the prison, the humiliation of living in a cell, his relations with his fellow detainees, and the cult of bodybuilding that reigned supreme. You could tell from a prisoner's muscle mass whether he was serving a long sentence or not.

“I'm still thin as a rail. Five months of jail wasn't enough to turn me into an athlete.”

Everything came naturally to them. They spent their first night together as if thousands had preceded it.

Their schedules were in tune, and their moods, too. They lived every moment to the fullest.

Ethan felt himself come back to life in this seaside setting.

Anny read her screenplays. Instead of getting angry, she laughed at the nonsense they sent to her. In addition to the special effects films, with characters who had about as much depth as a matchstick, she went through twenty “ass-wigglers,” as she called them—stories that called for nothing more than a bimbo walking across the screen from time to time. Nor could she find anything in the more elaborate scripts.