Three Women in a Mirror (20 page)

He laughed at my fixed expression.

“If only you could see yourself, my darling . . . ”

I lowered my eyes to the crystal and saw my reflection: indeed, I looked ugly and ridiculous.

“So,” he insisted, “do I have the right to buy it for you?”

“It is ghastly.”

I turned on my heels, grabbed his arm, and we went off for a young couples' stroll along the Kärtnerstrasse.

Would you believe it? I was afraid the sulfide might have heard the terrible judgment I had passed on it, afraid it might suffer and that the next day when I went back there, in secret, it would have lost its brilliance or even preferred to be sold to a stranger. Yes, it's ridiculous. However, I am certainly not claiming to be anything but ridiculous. On the contrary.

Franz did not notice, but it took me several hours to get over my anger. To be sure, I knew his intention was only to make me happy. I would have to get hold of that exceptional paperweight, to gaze at it in my room, lying on my bed, alone, in order to banish my fear of a conjunction between these two separate worlds: the world of my globes and the world where I was Franz's wife.

What is the point of me writing to you if it is only to burden you with such anecdotes? Gretchen, rest assured: I have been saving the best for last.

Among my visitors, the most eager was still Aunt Vivi, naturally. To give you an idea of how ludicrous our relationship is, I will tell you what happened the day after the . . . how shall I refer to it . . . the Incident.

Aunt Vivi came to us in the drawing room, displayed great tact in finding the right words to console us: tender ones for Franz, warm ones for me, then she gave us a lively chronicle of recent births—mocking the pride of a mother as she held out a newborn more hideous than a monkey, or the emotion of a father who could not see his rival's red hair on his son's head, and so on. She so skillfully described both the ridiculous and pathetic nature of parents who had managed to produce offspring that we were almost glad we had failed.

Then Franz was called to the ministry and left us. She came over and patted me on the arm.

“You are going to hate me, my little Hanna.”

“Why?”

“Because I know all about your secret, what really happened during your birth. I was there.”

“Oh . . . ”

I shut myself off in a painful silence. I would not be able to stifle this private tragedy in silence, I would be obliged to share it with Aunt Vivi. For the professionals—the two doctors and the midwife—to know the details of my misadventure did not particularly affect me. A member of the family, on the other hand . . .

“Don't worry. I would stay silent even under torture rather than divulge your secret.”

To myself I thought,
Under torture, perhaps, but not under the chandeliers of your drawing room, with tea and macarons, in the presence of listeners waiting to be enchanted—that, I doubt!
Even I was partial to her talent for irresistibly mischievous and abrasively witty improvisation, the wild imaginings she lavished on her entourage.

She continued to reassure me: “If someone were to tell me that you have had a phantom pregnancy, I would conclude that you let the cat out of the bag. But
I
won't. I will be silent.”

The more she insisted, the less I believed her. Silent? Aunt Vivi? You might as well ask her not to be a woman.

“And anyway, I am the one, my dear Hanna, who told the doctors they must tell everyone the child was stillborn—can you imagine, those two idiots were preparing to tell Franz everything.”

The thought of my husband gave me a burst of sincerity: “Thank you, Aunt Vivi. It would have . . . I don't know . . . it would have killed him.”

“Or killed his love.”

She stared at me with a cold eye: she had expressed my fear. How did she know?

Nevertheless, I resisted: “All the same, Franz would not have held it against me!”

“No . . . not openly . . . he would never have admitted it to himself. Our thoughts are not reduced to what we can see of them or say. Behind the wall we have secret corridors, concealed cupboards, hidden drawers; that is where we sometimes accumulate our grievances, ambitions, and fears. Everything is fine until one day the lock snaps open, and it all spills out. Then you can fear the worst. On the surface Franz would understand what happened; his disappointment, frustration, and anger, however, would accumulate somewhere.”

Although I agreed with her—or perhaps because I agreed—I objected. “Come now, Aunt Vivi, I am not the first person ever to suffer a phantom pregnancy.”

“Nor are you the first to disguise it as a miscarriage.” There was a long pause and then she added, “Most fortunately.”

In silence our fears collided, both the legitimate and the illegitimate. I could just imagine what Viennese society would make of my story: initially everyone would spread it around out of curiosity, out of a desire to shine by telling such a preposterous tale, but then it would be to harm me; they would call me an imposter, a manipulator, a madwoman; jealous women would feel sorry for poor Franz and wish he could find another spouse—one of them, for example.

Aunt Vivi concluded, “Believe me, my child, it is better to feed people a minor drama than an authentic tragedy.”

Although I did subscribe to her words, I heard myself protest, “An authentic tragedy . . . aren't you exaggerating?”

She stared at me with her violet eyes.

“What do you intend to do, my child?”

“Nothing . . . ”

“In the way of treatment?”

“Aunt Vivi, I am not ill!”

She bit her lips and wiggled them back and forth, which made it look as if the tip of her nose was moving.

“No, you are not ill in the usual sense of the term. However, who can certify that you won't have another phantom pregnancy?”

“Oh, no, not twice.”

“Why not?”

“Not twice.”

“Can you explain why it would not happen again?”

It seemed obvious to me. But I could not find the reasoning.

Aunt Vivi poured herself another cup of tea and went on, “Do you still hope to have children?”

“Yes. More than ever.”

“Then you can fall prey to illusion once again. What has changed?”

“Because it happened once, it won't happen again.”

“Oh, no? Most people repeat the same errors their whole life long. Women fall in love with men who beat them. Men are attracted to tarts who fleece them. Children fall under the spell of just the wrong sort of friend. There are victims of crooks who learn nothing from their misfortune and continue to be fooled. No, my dear, for most people once is not enough.”

“What can I do?”

“That is just what I am wondering, my dear. And believe me, if I find even an embryo of an answer, I will let you know at once.”

I looked down. Not only was Aunt Vivi rubbing my face in my failings, her use of the word “embryo” was particularly offensive. I clammed up.

She stood up, suddenly lively—she liked to leave an energetic memory of her visits—and she reached for a few more
macarons
, which she popped into her pretty mouth.

“There are two feelings which human nature despises: gratitude and complicity. No one ever feels them for very long. I took a great risk in revealing to you that I knew the truth: the risk of losing your affection.”

She was waiting for an answer. Naturally, I gave her the answer she wanted: “Aunt Vivi, I am very glad to share my secret with you, it would be very ugly of me to reproach you for it.”

In that very instant I understood that she had trapped me. The clever woman knows how to turn situations to her advantage. As she had guessed my fear and my vexation, she had made the first move, expressing the reticence in my mind for me, and concluding in a sorrowful tone: “You would not think anything so ghastly, I hope?” And that is how I found myself telling her that I had nothing but the utmost appreciation for her, and that I would always love her . . .

 

A few days later, as I was in my room stroking my paperweights, I was informed of Aunt Vivi's arrival, and she rushed up to me, her cheeks pink with excitement.

“Listen, my dear, I've heard about a Jewish doctor who performs miracles. According to the rumors, he has cured some desperate cases, or at any rate cases where his colleagues had failed abysmally. Because he is surrounded in mystery, he has a great reputation with artists and writers, which to me personally seems somewhat suspicious. But I did find out, thanks to some friends' inquisitiveness, that he had restored the sight of a young girl who had been blind for three years, and that he cured another one of her mania. What is surprising is that he does not touch his patients, does not operate, nor does he administer any medication. He is nothing like your usual charlatans and village wizards. Apparently all he does is talk with his patients. I don't believe it for a second, I'll say that again. Some sort of magus with esoteric formulas. But he's the talk of Vienna, and he is considered to be the last hope of the incurable. A very controversial personality, I have to admit. Some say he's a quack, others that he's a great scholar. In any case he is
the
fashionable physician. His name is Sigmund Freud.”

“Do you want me to go see him?”

“Don't even think about it. Waldbergs are not treated by Jewish doctors.”

“But if he's good at what he does . . . ”

She grabbed my hands to bid me keep silent.

“It's reasoning like this that makes one lose one's bearings. You must not go against your principles.”

“According to my principles, I have nothing against Jews.”

“Naturally, neither do I. However, you will admit that is no reason for us to entrust ourselves to Jews if we are not Jewish ourselves. There are hierarchies to be respected, Hanna, otherwise our world will collapse. And besides, Franz would be furious, he could not bear the thought of a Levantine undressing and examining you.”

“You just told me this doctor didn't touch his—”

“Examining the body or examining the mind, it's all one. You cannot agree to such an intrusion by just anybody. It will not happen in my lifetime, and I will never have to blush at the thought that I sent you to a Jew.”

From her pinched nostrils and the sudden disorder in the locks of hair around her ears, I noticed that Aunt Vivi was becoming extremely agitated. Yes, dear Gretchen, I know this attitude must shock you, as you did not hesitate to marry Werner, who is half Jewish. How can I explain?

Here in Vienna, in the circles I frequent, one's origins are even more holy than money. Not only is one expected to socialize with families of equivalent means, in this caste, one must also be mindful, according to Aunt Vivi, of “one's color.” To allow a Jew admission into this circle where families are constantly visiting one another, even if the man is elegant and the woman is splendid, is considered poor taste, a breach of propriety, or even an insult to those who obey the rules. “What, you inflict a Jew upon me when I visit you, whereas I spare you their presence when you visit me? Do I deserve this?” The aristocrats have no idea why they must divide people in this way, they just know they have to do it, under pain of betraying or offending those to whom they are close. The selection counts for more than the reasons behind it.

I have, however, seen very rich Jewish families strutting about at the most enviable gatherings. Such a mixture of races immediately lowers the status of the reception, and gives it a rather too colorful, cosmopolitan aspect, turning it into some sort of left-wing students' ball, where the worst elements of society rub elbows with the best, where everything has equal value and nothing has any worth. At such events, a true Waldberg understands that his hosts have become resigned to the presence of Jews because they have so much money; but a true Waldberg does not view gold as a virtue—for he receives it at birth—and considers that there are more precious qualities that cannot be acquired: the race to which one belongs, a pure, prestigious lineage. This is the message the Waldbergs are sending by refusing to invite Jews to their homes. And anyone who tries to circumvent this code will not be raising himself above the others, but merely excluding himself.

What I am telling you now is mere information, and I do not subscribe to any of it. Above all, I hardly thought of it during my conversation with Vivi, because I was so focused on my problem. So I exclaimed, “If I cannot go to see this Dr. Freud, why are you telling me about him?”

“This man was smart enough to predict precisely what we are saying. Well aware that as a Jew he would never get the clientele from a certain segment of society, he has trained a group of doctors in his method. Among his disciples there are several normal individuals—well, what I mean is, not Jewish. So I am suggesting that you go and see one of them.”

I do not know why, dear Gretchen, but when I kissed Aunt Vivi goodbye, I agreed to the principle of such a meeting. And four days later, I had my first appointment.

I trusted Vivi's perspicacity and daring. The memory of her furious pendulum, which had detected the abnormality of my pregnancy, incited me to set off with her down these perilous paths of nontraditional medicine and the occult.

To keep Franz from suspecting anything, Aunt Vivi had come up with a strategy: she invented the pretext of long sessions trying on corsets—nothing could be more boring for a man. Therefore Franz prudently abstained from escorting us.

The carriage brought us to the door of a six-story building where Dr. Calgari had his office. This detail alone was very amusing: I was about to see what an apartment looked like! I confess I found it hard to imagine how people could consent to living piled up one on top of the other. Could you stand it, dear Gretchen, having four or five families camped out above your head, running, singing, dancing, making noise, sleeping, fornicating, defecating, and getting on with their lives without a thought for you moving around under their feet? Personally, it would make me feel as if I were being trampled, suffocated, and hit on the head.