Secret Dreams (48 page)

Her mouth yawned open.

“Now swallow.”

Slowly … the food crept down.

“All right now,” said the sharp voice, “just one more bite.”

The voice had lied!

And in that moment, Fräulein saw the spoon frothing over. Endless mouthfuls from a vile bowl of steaming broth, with boiled toes, scum and shreds of purple tongues, rolling eyes and swimming hair. She set her jaw, but the spoon crammed through her tight-clenched lips.

“Just tell me when,” the maid chirped brightly. “Just say enough.”

Two dollops of sour cream floated listlessly in the soup, sending out ghastly swirls of pink. The maid hovered,- a third gob of sour cream quivered suggestively on the lip of the serving spoon. “Enough!” Fräulein whispered politely. “Thank you, enough.” The final gobbet of cream slid abruptly off the spoon, splashing clumsily into her borscht. Drops of soup splattered like blood across the white tablecloth. The company stared in silent shock. She glimpsed a warped reflection of herself in a wineglass: drops of bloody soup across her exposed throat and breast, angry red against the pure, snowy powder.

“Oh, I'm sorry. So sorry,” the maid repeated in dismay. She dabbed at Fräuleins throat and breast with a cloth. A dark drop of borscht clung to a white pearl.

Fräulein feared she'd start twiddling at the dining room table. Spastically twitching her hand like one of those dayroom idiots.

Twiddling.

She'd heard that word before…. But never thought it applied to
her
. Rather to the little egg without a center, to the Queen — or the drooling Gurgler in the empty room next door. But never, never to Fräulein Schanderein. And she perceived quite clearly how this twiddle was an act, like eating or washing or sitting in the garden. What made her relentless hand want to go like that? Could she control it if she wanted? She had never tried. Amazing! Herr Doktor must have watched her for months on end. And now she formed a clear sentence in her mind: I have been doing this spastic thing for years, twiddling in public like one of Nekken's demented idiots in the big glass room. But the words were stopped in her throat by the ring of hard faces around the table. Numb shock in their confounded looks. Fear that at any moment she'd let loose, wipe food all over herself, pee in the chair —

They're staring at me.

They still think I'm crazy.

The maid ceased her dabbing and carefully backed away from the table. The girl felt her fear radiating like heat. Not of her mistress for the blunder of spilling the soup, but of Fräulein herself. Frau Emma clutched the edge of the table so, the blue veins in her hands stood out. Nekken's face wore a mask of sympathetic concern. He dipped his spoon into the soup and carefully took a sip. Direktor Bleuler looked immeasurably sad, as if some cherished hope had suddenly crumbled before his eyes. Hope in
her
.

Fräulein met Herr Doktors gaze across the table. What fathomless light in those eyes. Expectation. Acceptance. Affection. No trace of sadness. No pity. No cowardice or cold revulsion. Fräulein cringed at the thought of her spastic hand. A wave of shame struck her-, for all the months of twiddling in his presence. What a beast he must have thought her. Yet he never punished her, never slapped her hand, or tied it to the bed.

Tied her hand —

Tied her —

In the kitchen of her childhood house, pale-blue paint on the walls. A cuckoo clock in the shape of an Alpine chalet, with little white rocks on the roof and flower boxes at the windows, ticking away in the corner. Both her hands were tied…. Everything had frozen in time. The dining room table, the faces. One of her fingers threatened to tremble. The verge of a twiddle. Fräulein moaned inside. Don't care about them, what they think, what they do. Care about yourself.

Your power. You, She glared at the trembling finger, commanding it to obey. Slow. Stop. Mom

She was
not
going to twiddle.

The finger flickered, threatening a full-blown spasm.

She was
not
going to clutch the table,

Not
going to crack wide open.

The finger quivered insolently for a second. Then ceased moving completely. It lay innocently on the white tablecloth. Time began flowing freely again. Fräulein glanced from the spilled soup to the company.

“Oh, the poor tablecloth!” she said in genuine dismay. “Those awful stains. How will they ever come out?”

And with that simple remark Fräulein released the company from its strangled limbo, bringing them back on her side in one swift blow. Nekken clumsily dropped his spoon in his lap. Bleuler upset his wineglass into his soup plate. Frau Emma's death grip let go.

“You mustn't fret, Fräulein. We'll put a pinch of salt on the cloth and later a cold wash. Helga, dear,” she said to the maid, “a little salt, please. Here, Herr Bleuler, let me get you another glass. My, how clumsy we are today. See, there's my fork on the floor.”

The awkward moment ended. Fräulein could rest now. Neither hand showed any sign of twiddling. À deep, consuming tiredness swept over her like a warm wind, making every movement labored and pointless. She closed her eyes for a moment. No one really mattered any longer. Only the bleak victory of remembering her childhood kitchen mattered. And now she knew she would recall all of it, everything she had to know. She mustn't forget to thank Frau Jung for a lovely evening. Yes, and meanwhile remember to be polite, by all means polite.

The dinner went on splendidly. Fräulein had a second helping of chocolate mousse for dessert. The company had a grand time. Nekken seemed a trifle quiet, lost in the thread of some deep calculation. But Direktor Bleuler emanated a rich flow of approval Tangible results were something he appreciated.

Over brandy and coffee in the parlor, he took Nekken quietly aside. “You know, this requires we look into that Austrian fellow again. The one he's so keen on. Get his books somewhere. Let's not be the last to discover him.”

Nekken raised his brandy in a private salute. “Hardly a chance of that, eh?”

Before the end of the evening even Nekken warmed up. He told a very funny tale about a stud horse and a rabbi's wife. The short of it being the rabbi's wife buying the stud horse, rescuing it from the glue factory with every intention of serving it at table. Then leading it to the kosher butcher to be slaughtered. After long arguments and debates over the propriety of eating such treyf, the butcher throws up his hands in exasperation, crying, "I'm a kosher butcher, not a mohel. Take my word for it, circumcised or uncircumcised, horse meat is horse meat!”

The company roared with laughter, Herr Doktor more than anyone. He kept saying, “Horse meat is horse meat!” until tears of laughter ran down his face.

Bleuler and Nekken left together in the Direktors carriage. At the door, the elderly gentleman took his host's hand in both his own. “Lovely dinner. Charming girl. I congratulate you, Herr Senior Physician.”

When they had gone, Herr Doktor returned to the parlor. The clinking sound of Emma and the maid clearing mountains of dishes drifted faintly in from the kitchen. Fräulein lay curled on the couch, eyes closed, wisps of loose hair circling her face. Her gentle breathing filled the room. He wished he could touch hen Carry her upstairs in his arms,- feel the velvet dress against his skin. Lay her down on the carpeted floor of his bedroom and take the dress away.

She woke as if she felt his thoughts upon her, baring his insides with silent, inviting eyes…. “Do you want to play the Queen with me?”

He groped for an armchair and sank down. He saw it all. The orgasmic kill. How she put her hand over the dagger's hilt, helping to drive it in. Wiping off the dripping blade. Touching her wet fingers to her lips. His head reeled. Did he want that? Playing the Queen in the bedroom — while unawares, Emma and the maid cleaned the remains of dinner down below.

“Isn't that only between us?”

“We can go upstairs,” she replied.

Herr Doktor glanced doubtfully in the direction of the kitchen. “They'll hear.” But the girl dismissed the idea with a naughty toss of her head. “They won't understand. We'll just be noises in the dark.” The faint clink of plate and silver grew,- Herr Doktor felt the impending event of someone coming in. His hands were damp. “Not now …," he said in half a voice. Her eyes darkened with disappointment, but she didn't argue. “I hear your carriage/' Herr Doktor told her. “Best not keep it waiting.”

The carriage driver had been off drinking and sat nodding in the rig, flicking his whip at the toe of his black boot. He peered dreamily at Fräulein and Herr Doktor as they came out of the house. “Ah, the princess/' he muttered under his breath.

“I did well,” Fräulein said to Herr Doktor.

He took her hands. “You did. Very well.”

Fräulein wanted to take his face in her hands and touch her lips to his hard mouth. But the cold presence of Emma descending on them flowed like a chill breath of warning. They paused, and the echo of their urge to kiss fled under the soft lights of the house…. Herr Doktor stood stupidly by the door as Fräulein handed herself into the carriage. She waved good-bye to him and the watchful Emma as the carriage rattled off. Soon the fleeing wheels rang dead on the road. The evening over.

He helped Emma clean up, following her silently about and seeing what needed to be done. In half an hour the party debris had been washed and dried and stacked away. He waited for her to say something, but when Emma had still not broken the silence, he broke it for her.

“It went really well, don't you think? I mean the girl's really come along, hasn't she?”

“Yes, she's splendid,” Emma said in a coarse, black way. Then turned abruptly and went up the stairs, kicking Geschrei off the top step in passing.

“Why are you acting like this?” he shouted.

Ja. Why did Emma resent the whole business so much? Everything should have been all right. Fräulein had been a perfect guest. The Method proved —the girl even curing herself! Soon they would know what drove her mad. Look how much had happened.

She's just jealous.

There, he'd said it. But the jaundiced words did not lift the crushing weight from his shoulders. A thick sense of foreboding grew upon him, the bedroom door ground slowly open, as if reluctant to let him enter. Emma lay in bed already, a lifeless lump. He hated her for going to sleep so effortlessly, without thinking or talking or even saying good night.

Geschrei crept in at his heels and circled his calves in the dark. The cat going round his legs had a comforting animal touch. He slipped off his satin robe and slid gingerly under the covers. How odd he never dreamt of Fräulein. Or did he once, lifetimes ago? What difference did it make? He yawned and stretched….

She'd be crazy in his dreams too.

* * *

He woke in the deep middle of the night, got out of bed, and put on his blue satin robe. When he gently opened his bedroom door the cat followed his steps. This time the door didn't seem heavy at all; a light touch, and he glided through as if the whole room were wishing him away. “Come on, Geschrei, lets go see her,” he said to the cat. “Let's see if she got back safely.”

“Meow,” said the cat, agreeably.

He brought Geschrei to the hospital. She purred in his arms the whole way. When the carriage let him off at the iron gates, he set the cat down in the cobblestone drive, where it trotted off toward the main doors. He had expected to be alone, but under the light of the spiked lamps he saw a distinguished man in dark traveling clothes arguing with Francis, the porter. Francis was refusing the gentleman admittance.

“Please tell him I'm here,” the man said. “I know he'll want to see me.

“But he's not here now,” the watchman replied wearily.

“Can't you send a message or tell him I've come?”

“No, certainly not,” the porter whined irritably. “I can't send a message this time of night. Doktor Jung will be here in the morning with the day staff. Now good night!”

Herr Doktor trotted anxiously up the curved drive. It became terribly urgent to set this straight. “But I'm here, Francis! I'm here — who wants me?”

Francis the porter poked his head out into the night chill. “Why, bless me! Herr Doktor himself. I have a gentleman to see you, sir. Herr Professor … ah, Herr … Terribly sorry, sir, didn't catch your name.”

Geschrei rubbed against the man's dark trousers, a fine charcoal twill. The gentleman turned from the door in surprise. “Oh, there you are,” he said, holding out his hand. “I've been asking after you.”

They shook hands in the damp night air. What a wonderful way to meet, so unexpectedly. The gentleman looked a bit rumpled, as if he had slept sitting up in the train from Vienna and come from the station without brushing the sleep from his eyes.

“Well, come along, then,- let's not stand out in the cold.” The porter held the door. “Thank you, Francis, Does Herr Professor have any bags?”

“No bags, sir He came just as he is,”

They walked down the long marble entrance hall “You see,” the elder man explained, “on these sudden trips I find it simpler not to pack. Just wear an extra set of clothes under the first. Put a toothbrush in your pocket. Who can tell? Get to the hotel, borrow a fresh pair of underwear from the concierge, hang your second suit in the closet, and
voilà!”

“But what about hats?” the younger man wondered. “How do you wear two hats?”

“Two hats! Two hats!” The elder gentleman shook with laughter. “I say, my head is big, but not big enough for two hats!” They both laughed so raucously the duty nurse had to come out of her office and tell them to be quiet.

“What do you say,” the elder gentleman wondered, gently taking his younger friend's arm in a confidential way, “what do you say I share my extra hat with you?”