Secret Dreams (55 page)

Little It found the iron stove in the kitchen. The oven was the safest place she knew. Crouching in the dark for hours at a time. Making it a big, soft nest with pillows. Keeping the door open a crack, so light shone in. And there studying the book, asking it to let her in and let her stay … Once, she must have fallen asleep. For she awoke in the warm dark. The maid had shut the door and lit the broiler underneath. At first she kept quiet, listening to the hissing of the gas below. But as the heat filtered through the pillows, she struggled to get out. The door jammed,- she pushed and hammered. No use … She must have screamed, because the maid yanked open the door and the pillows billowed with smoke. Her dress parched, the skin on her legs red. “‘Are you roasting me for dinner?' Little It asked. The maid got so mad she spat, ‘Shut your filthy mouth! Or I'll cook you with those pillows!'“

The book went back to the drawing room bookshelf and she to her room. But Mother found out about the pillows. Mother always found out…. From the awful time she broke the china horses, it all became blacker and blacker.

“I never really knew the time or where I was.” Except that she seemed to be standing on the ledge, looking out over a great chasm. And when the ledge finally gave way, she slipped. Falling forever in an abyss without end …

She had been staring at the wonderful pictures in Father's book. The Water Jug, À red clay jug, the naked figures black. A fierce man with a sword was slaying his brother. The fallen one bled from his belly. He wore a deer pelt, with antlers in the skull. The Slayer loomed over him, sword arm raised for the final blow.

Another picture showed the jug's back side. The Slayer chased a beautiful Lady in flowing robes. She fled, laughing in his face. Her body shone through thin veils. She held aloft the deer pelt, tempting him as she ran.

Around the top of the jug a line of men and women danced. The dancing ladies had needle faces like insects, or open yelling faces like Mother. The needle ones looked as if they would suck your insides out, the shouting ones as though they'd chew you up. The dancing men had serpents rising from their bellies, like tails in front.

Little It touched the dancing ring.

Like F-father, she breathed in awe…. Just like Father standing in the shadow of the hall. Father's secret pet, which he showed her when she paused with the lovely handle. Father's pet servant. Pet serpent … Then put away. Did she really see it?

A wisp of flowing veil brushed against her face. The fleeing Lady beckoned. “Come with me! Come!”

Little It wept. If only she could go with the beautiful Lady inside, if only —

Clop-clop-clop came Mother's hooves in the hall. Since the horses died, Mother's feet had turned into hooves. Rough horses' hooves that grew at her ankles. Little It shoved the book onto the shelf. Then Mother stomped in the parlor, flopping back and forth.

“What are you doing? Reading that book? Stealing my brush?”

Little It backed away, silently shaking her head.

“You lie,” Mother told her.

She shook her head harder.

“To the chair,” Mother brayed. “To the
chain''

No, Mother. No! she pleaded, but no words came out. Dragged by the hair to the kitchen. Strapped to the high chair. Mother had the large brown bottle, the thick wooden spoon, and she was pouring out her home brew. It smelled of red pepper and linseed oil, of stewed socks and toilet sweat, of garlic paste and soap. The spoon thrust into her mouth. Dose after dose burned its way down her throat. Where was Herr Kiss-Kiss, to hold her in his arms? The home brew wrestled in her stomach, climbing back up her throat —

“I think that's enough.”

Mother always knew when enough was enough.

“One leg! One leg!” Mother was shouting.

Little It stood in the hallway by the water closet. Her clothes half gone: a tattered gray chemise over her shoulders, underpants off, chill air striking her bottom. The dark wood door to the water closet stood open. Inside she saw the narrow, gloomy room, the white porcelain bowl gleaming dully, crouching like a dwarf. For some reason Mother had brought along her old brass potty.

“One leg! One leg!”

Little It strained to stand on one leg. The burning home brew burdened her guts, but she held on with all her might. She pictured a large balloon hanging off her behind like a bustle, a heavy, expanding bag like a cow's udder, filled with liquid, which shook and quivered and threatened to break, gushing forth.

“Do you promise not to use the brush? Promise not to look at the book? Promise me! Promise!”

I prumse, prumse, Little It tried to say, but her tongue was so thick, too hard to talk. She trembled, the balloon ready to break. She couldn't hold it any longer. She was letting go —

Just as Mother relented in a bored voice: “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, then. Go …”

Little It went for the dark, narrow toilet. “Not there!” The dented brass pot was shoved under her behind. The balloon exploded and the burning came and she was mumbling, “Prumse, prumse, prumse …” Her bottom stung, and still more came gushing out. The reek everywhere. She gazed down the hall. Past Mother's room. Past Father's room. Past her room and to the landing of the stairs … À figure stood there. Long-lost Herr Kiss-Kiss. The figure wavered and was gone.

She crouched in the water closet for hours. The home brew had long run out. Later Mother took Little It to the tub to wash her body. She brought out new clothes. The old rags were thrown away. So much easier just to let it all happen — not to fight or make a fuss. Mother fixed and combed her hair. Trimmed her nails. Rubbed cold cream into the sores around her wrists. “There now,” Mother said as she buttoned the pocket flaps of the pinafore. “A little princess, all done up.” Mother brought her to the kitchen, but she wasn't hungry. She fell asleep tied to the chair while the cuckoo bird nodded on his perch.

“How many times did I steal the silver hairbrush?” Fräulein said into the gloom. “How many times did Î touch myself in secret? How many thousand times did I wander over the pages of the pottery book, coming back to the picture of the Water Jug? How many times did she catch me? Strap me to the chair? Gag me with the home brew?”

She did not wait for Herr Doktor to answer, suddenly shouting, “How many billion times did I stand on one leg till Î shat on myself while Father just stood there, stood there and did
nothing?”

She broke off to catch her breath. “And always the sound of Mother going clop-clop-clop in the hall. Just the sound of her sent me shrieking to the toilet. Where I sat for hours, shivering and shaking. Even now when î hear stupid horses going clop-clop-clop in the street î need to hide. In some dark, small hole. In some dirty toilet. When will it go away? Tell me!”

Herr Doktor shifted uneasily in his seat. Her voice sank to sadness. “Will it ever go away?”

He made no answer. No one knew.

There was no answer.

Little It was dreaming her favorite dream. In the empty parlor, her precious book inched from its place on the shelf. It floated out the door and down the hall, coming to visit her. Drifting gently to her room … Then opened to the page of the Water Jug. And there Little It saw the Lady of the Veils. Yet even as she stared at the picture, the beautiful Lady rose from the page and sat by her bed.

The beautiful Lady of the Veils had become her fairy godmother, just as in the stories she remembered from long ago. And though her fairy godmother rarely said a word, still, through the silent touching of their eyes, they told secrets back and forth. How Little It loved the Lady, and the Lady loved Little It back. How very soon the beautiful Lady would take her away to a wonderful place where there was no prumse-prumse, no standing on one leg or home brew in the gag spoon. Soon, soon, they would go together. Hand in hand to a warm place where the Lady of the Veils would take care of her forever.

And whenever Little It woke from this dream she ran straight to the parlor to see if the beautiful Lady was still there.

In one corner of the fireplace lay the torn cover of the book, its veined marble edges charred. Pages ripped out. Some burned. A crumble of black ashes nearby filling the grate.

She fell to her knees, gently taking the empty cover. Scrap by scrap, she collected the torn pictures in it. Her heart was crying: the beautiful Lady of the Veils had prumsed, prumsed, prumsed to take her away. How could they go away if Mother had torn the beautiful Lady to pieces?

All through the night she stared at the shredded pages in the book. All through the day. Just staring at the cover. Seasons passed. Summer changed to fall, autumn to winter…. She found shreds that fit together. A torn piece, another. She stole some paste from the cupboard and white paper. She pasted the scraps in place.
There
. The beginning of a page. Months and months, a scrap here, a shred there. The Water Jug picture came together even though it had been badly slashed. The fallen deer man and his slayer were almost totally missing. When she could find no more, she left them unfinished.

She found nearly all the beautiful Lady, but some pieces were mere slivers, as particular attention had been taken to tear and slash and mutilate her image. Her beautiful breast, which shimmered through the veil — entirely gone. Little It carefully drew it in….

Little It talked to her redrawn picture, talked to the beautiful Lady the way she used to talk to Püppchen, saying things like; “I've remade you. Reborn you. So we can live together. So you can take me away …” Whispering to the picture in the dark, whispering her own life into it until she fell asleep. And the Lady of the Veils came to sit on her bed, cooing softly: Soon, soon, we're going soon….

The lights came on. Caught! She tried to hide the book under the mattress but never made it. Mother held the Brass, waving it around. “What's this, eh? What's this?”

It's the Brass, she tried to say, but all she could manage with her stiff, awkward mouth was: “Iddah bah.”

“Bad. That's right, it is bad.”

No, no, no — not right — but too late.

‘‘Herr Kiss-Kiss, fetch the syringe!” Mother ordered. But the man seemed reluctant to do her bidding,- he stood at the door uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. “Now, I say. “ With a crushed sigh the rubber syringe was brought, the man looking away, handing it to Mother without meeting her eye.

“Hold her down.”

Father stiffly came for her, laying his mechanical hands upon her jointed body. Nightdress peeled off. Mother held the snouty end of the syringe in the air. She squeezed the big pink rubber bulb. The pointy black spike spat a stream of water. She could feel it enter her, fill her up, like a bloated tongue going round and round inside. Mother's face came close. “Don't you
dare
let go! Don't you dare!” An immense pool of water gathered deep inside, pressing to break out. She was ready to pop open, the dam ready to crack, explode —

On the bed. On her self.

A scream danced in the air of the room, a scream that never died. The brass potty filled as the water kept gushing out of her, flood upon flood. And the Brass itself kept growing. Now the size of a coal scuttle. Now a soup pot. A bathtub. A huge cauldron. She sank into it, the cauldron walls rising higher and higher.

And she was falling —

Plummeting into a lightless cavern, down an abyss of no time, no pain, no tears. Only the rush of air sounding strangely like the Lady of the Veils —

Cooing:

Soon

Soon

Soooon

WISH FULFILLMENT

When the falling finally stopped, Little It had turned into a mannikin, packed in the steamer trunk. A dummy they took out of the dark occasionally and sat in a chair by the corner. The dummy did not wish to be disturbed.

Daylight dawned at the Nunatorium.

All through the long day the mannikin watched the beams of sunlight crawl across the gray stone floor, listening to the faint rustling of the Sister Nuns as they drifted to and fro among the high stacks of books. Often a Sister Nun settled into a chair by a small writing table, turning the pages of a book that she read out loud to the dummy, her dry voice floating into the high stone vault:

Sometimes the Sister Nun moved the mannikin's pale wooden hand across the print, touching the letters to see if they would speak. Trying to get the dummy to read along with her. But the words from the Sister Nun's book never took form in the dummy's empty head. The Sister Nun droned on, regardless:

At the close of the reading the Sister Nun looked over the mannikin's face to see if it had been following along. But no flicker of life. “Ah, well” The Sister Nun smiled. “Well try again tomorrow. ” And put the dummy away in the trunk for the night.

In the world beyond, snow and rain fell. There was a time of gusty wind. A time of ice and a time of melting. A time when leaves plastered their dead hands against the windows and a time of still emptiness. The limp mannikin sat in a corner of the high-vaulted room. Upon the desk lay a large black portfolio composed entirely of blank white sheets. The mannikin's pale wooden hand held a pen. Thick leather tomes grew at its feet. And when the mannikin finished copying from one book, they put another in its place. If the inkpot ran dry, a Sister Nun came with a fresh one. The wooden hand copied histories and biographies, treatises and forgotten alchemies. They were copied for the mannikin's education, or simply because they were old and rotting, or just to give the mannikin an occupation. It did not matter. The wooden hand traced down all set before it. And the words issued into its hollow head like the sound of wind moaning in an empty cavern, rising and falling and then dying away without a trace. A moan like the faintest echoing coo from the Lady of the Veils …