Three Women in a Mirror (10 page)

What am I to conclude?

Must I carry on with my deceit until I forget I'm playing a role? Sometimes I think, with regard to Aunt Vivi and my mother-in-law and all the women around me, that this is where they have ended up: they are logical and predictable, their reactions are part of the role they are playing, a role they believe in, a role that they will never put aside.

Or should I break with it all? Go off in search of myself? Find out what is really important to me?

It is frightening to write these words. I could leave, to be sure, but to do what? To find myself, of course, but what if I do not find myself? Or discover nothing? To leave everything and rush off to a fantastical appointment to which no one has summoned me, it would be madness . . . At this moment, I feel like rushing over to Franz and throwing myself into his solid arms and saying, “Hold me tight,” the way I often do. He loves these crises of mine, and laughs heartily, because for him this is just me expressing my attachment . . . He never suspects that, more than anything, I am revealing my fear.

Franz, therefore, has not tired of me. The young Count von Waldberg is enchanted that his friends have taken to me, and that the cream of Vienna society has embraced me so warmly. From time to time, he shares the flood of complements: “Irresistible, so captivating, so judicious, she has an enormous heart, she's a diamond, old boy, you've got your hands on a diamond.”

This is certainly a surprise: the moment I arrive somewhere, people quiver. While at the beginning I merely supposed that this was the attraction of novelty, the phenomenon has lasted for more than a year and is gathering momentum. Ever greater numbers cluster around me, and people fight for my company.

“It's incredible!” Franz exclaims. “The worst coquette attracts fewer people than you do. Men and women, young and old, everyone is mad about you.”

When we are on our way home from a ball and Franz reviews my performance, he is not surprised, he is jubilant. As a rule he gives me a kiss on the neck and adds, “In all honesty, I do understand them.”

Then his cool lips come closer to mine.

“And I remind myself what impertinent good luck I have had to be chosen by the bewitching Hanna . . . ”

He draws the curtains of our carriage.

“ . . . in the improbable event that I might have forgotten.”

You can well imagine what happens after that . . . either at home, or if we are still at some distance, in the carriage.

Since he is mad about me, Franz interprets my success through his passion: other mortals feel for me an echo of what he himself feels.

Poor Franz! If he only knew the reason for my pathetic triumph . . . When someone asks me, “How are you?” I eagerly reply, “And you?” As I have too little self-regard to speak about myself, I prefer to show an interest in other people. No one has noticed that I avoid answering their question, as my words seem to convey positive information; from that point on, whoever I am speaking with has done his duty and can now carry on discussing his favorite subject: himself. The road is clear! He tells me his joys and mysteries, he boasts as much as he complains, he flirts, he flaunts, he weeps, he provides me with impertinent opinions, he unloads all his secrets, he dares to speak of remorse as much as regrets, confesses to hopes, shares with me a flood of moods and worries, he does not sort, I take it all. I am a rubbish dump for words. While in society I may enjoy a praiseworthy reputation, it is only insofar as I have been reduced to an ear. As I have nothing to say, I enjoy listening; a crashing bore with putrid breath intrigues me more than my own little self. Therefore you can imagine how speedily people run to me the moment I cross the threshold of a drawing room.

In fact, my exploit stems from a magic trick: I am a priest who does not judge! I make my temporary confessional among the gilt and the potted plants. I am more pleasant to look at than most priests, and more tolerant, and I abstain from inflicting penance.

“Oh, that delightful Frau von Waldberg, what a treat! You have found the pearl of pearls, my dear Franz.”

They do not realize that the value of my conversation is to be found in its silence, and that my charm consists of patience.

“She is so amiable.”

Amiable because I abominate myself. My profound self-disgust exudes sociability.

My radiance is all a misunderstanding: as I do not exist and everyone else seems more alive to me than I do to myself, I let others invaded me. In fact, I could almost set up as a novelist, had I been given the talent of transforming my unease into words.

Oh, Gretchen, I can see you frowning, I can guess there are wrinkles of disapproval on your brow. You do not like my thoughts, you condemn them.

You are right.

What is it? What do you reproach me for? Is what I have written just an illusion? Am I hiding the truth?

Well done, your gaze has cut to the quick—a surgeon's scalpel.

Yes, I do go on. I agree, I am hiding my shame, my true shame, my only shame.

Well then, enough dissembling: I'm still not pregnant.

It fills me with rage. A few months ago, as you recall, I didn't care, I kept an ironic distance, I even began to doubt that having a child was in the cards. Today it has become absolutely essential, given the urgent look in Franz's eyes, but above all because I seem to be incapable of it.

My helplessness dismays me. There are times when I don't know if I want to get pregnant to have children or simply to be rid of the insult of my failure.

It hardly matters; I find myself beneath what is expected of me.

Aunt Vivi, that well-heeled hussy, came back to sound me out, binding me hand and foot in the heady effluvia of her perfume: “Well, my dear, the dazzling moment?”

“I'm getting there, Aunt Vivi, I'm getting there.”

Her nose lengthened with disappointment, mere proof that her face was not suited for such a sentiment.

After Vivi, all the females in the family ascertained that I was making good use of their recipes. No matter how I reassure them that I am serious in my intent and am following their directions, they conclude from my flat stomach that I must be lying, or that I am indeed a hopeless case. In short, in their eyes I am no longer an innocent young thing but a guilty woman.

Recently, quite on the sly, I went to the doctor in order to find out whether my body contained some abnormality which might be making me infertile. The physician's reply suffered no ambiguity: “You are perfectly constituted, Madam, to bring children into the world.”

Consequently, Dr. Teitelman said he would require Franz to come to his office for an exam. I was speechless.

“Franz?”

“Yes. If the problem is not with you, it may be with him.”

While his reasoning was perfectly logical, it disconcerted me. Obviously, I have not said anything to Franz. And I never will. To consent to such an exam would be loathsome. Poor Franz . . .

I'm convinced that the problem lies with me; it is my deep inner conviction. I know I carry some original defect within me. I have always felt different. Now I am beginning to understand why.

Franz . . .

If anyone is at fault, if anyone is guilty, it is I! Until my last breath I shall protect my husband, and I shall assume our childlessness. And if someday he should insinuate that he needs a family, I will give up my place to a fertile body.

My sweet Franz . . . he committed a grave error in setting his sights on me.

Upon my return from the appointment, before my mirror, I looked at my naked body—thin, bony, useless; my eyes were bloodshot, my nose swollen from crying. My reflection returned the dreary reality: I am nothing but a wretch who is prospering from a misunderstanding and shamelessly misusing a gallant gentleman.

Thankfully, that evening my chambermaid knocked at my door, because just as her knocking reached my ears, my gaze had been lingering too insistently on a dagger hanging on the wall . . .

And then fortunately I had an appointment at Müller & Son for the following day to look at a sulfide paperweight: this most definitely prevented any fatal gestures.

My museum is my salvation. I travel in my carriage for miles, relentlessly, even on foot, from shop to shop, from stubborn dealer to wily crook. If people ask me about my paperweights, I'm unstoppable, no one can silence me; and it is difficult for me to go back to ordinary subjects. Often, on my pillow at night, my last thought is for a millefiori I saw that afternoon in a window display, and the next morning I wake up with its image still in my mind. Nothing else fills me with such impatience; I go numb in the legs, and my heart pounds as I enter the antique shop. While my passion is not a clandestine one, I do not let others see how carried away I can get, how strongly it affects me; and while I indulge it in broad daylight, my obsession is invested with all the delights of an adulterous affair.

In fact, I prefer the millefiori to the sulfides. What is the difference, you may ask. Sulfides are made of cameos beneath glass, whereas the millefiori are brightly colored displays of flowers beneath crystal, solitary blooms or bouquets, or clusters in a vernal carpet.

Rest assured, my Gretchen, I will spare you the details. To tell everything is merely boring. Therefore I will not inflict a lecture about the objects of my worship on you, as I know from experience how boring collectors can be.

Oh, my Gretchen, you are indeed unfortunate to have such a pitiful cousin, a cousin who, moreover, has decided to burden you with her confessions.

 

Hanna

 

P.S. Gretchen! Forget what you just read!

Because I delayed in sending this letter, it is no longer relevant.

Today Dr. Teitelman has confirmed what the recently acquired roundness of my belly seemed to imply, along with the interruption of my period: I am pregnant!

This wonderful news cancels out all my earlier jeremiads. Franz wept with joy when I informed him, a short while ago; he has just left my arms to go and inform his mother.

As for me, I am now the happiest woman on earth.

In the mirror ringed by white bulbs, where she was carefully watching the makeup artists at work, she was beginning at last to see a face. Now that a serum had tightened her pores, Anny no longer felt evanescent; now that a moisturizing cream was giving color to her skin, she felt protected; the slightest touch of blush had strengthened her; every line of pencil made her denser; every stroke of the brush made her more solid.

Anny only recovered her serenity once she was painted; makeup brought her the ease and consistency she was missing. When she had sat down at the mirror with her naked face at the beginning of the session, she had felt as if she had no face, there was nothing there but a rough draft with no clear-cut features, a face devoid of emotion, like smooth sand on the beach after the wave has receded. Fortunately, the army of makeup artists had launched an assault on this void and fabricated a precise, expressive face for Anny, one that could tell a story or leave its mark on a roll of film.

“What lovely flowers! I've never seen so many.”

The head makeup artist was pointing admiringly at the bouquets that had piled up in the trailer.

“It certainly looks as if your friends adore you! They're celebrating your recovery.”

Anny smiled briefly. How could the woman be so naïve. For all these flowers, there was not a single one from a friend. They were all from professionals—producers, distributors, agents, directors. Besides, did she even have any friends?

There was a knock at the door.

The costume designer came in, escorted by three assistants.

They could hear the sounds from the set outside: drivers playing cards, an assistant insulting his flunkey, the electrician shouting to make his crew work faster. It's true that you rarely heard anyone shouting on set because crews communicated through microphones and headsets, however there were a few, including Bob, the ancient head technician, who swore they couldn't keep their communication gear on their head, sweating as they did in the California sun; so they resorted to the old methods, giving their orders with their lungs.

When the designer closed the door, a dignified, opulent silence fell over the star's dressing room.

Anny saw Ethan among the costume crew.

“What a nice surprise.”

She turned around, delighted, but the nurse from the Linden Clinic suddenly vanished; in his place was a man who turned out to be a member of the costume crew, and who, though he was tall and blond, bore only a faint resemblance to Ethan. Disappointed, Anny muttered an apology.

In those three seconds in which she had lit up with enthusiasm, the tall man noticed that his boss could not stand to see the star greeting such a lowly employee; the bullet had grazed his temple . . . He was reassured to see that Anny had been mistaken.

Nerves on edge—his usual state—the costume designer planted himself in front of Anny and growled, tight-lipped, “Anny, for your character we had agreed to use short sleeves. Sibyl, we want a woman with short sleeves! I can't imagine long sleeves. No, Sibyl, long sleeves would be ridiculous! Short sleeves are fine! That's the concept, I've imagined the whole line that way. So why is that hysterical director talking about long sleeves?”

Anny laughed and held her arms out to him.

“Because he's not filming a reportage on an accident victim.”

The costume designer suddenly saw the multiple gashes on Anny's skin left by the shards of glass.

“Oh, my poor baby, that's awful!”

He gazed at her arms, his mouth agape and eyes wide, his eyebrows twisted in consternation. Aghast, he said, “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

Anny thought her answer would erase his terrified grimace, but it remained etched on his face; basically the costume designer didn't care whether Anny was suffering or not, he was staring at her butchered flesh with concern that was solely aesthetic.