Three Women in a Mirror (28 page)

“Monsignor,” exclaimed Braindor as he hurried up to him, “I have come to relieve your impatience with regard to Anne, the virgin of Bruges, my little protégée.”

“That's all well and good, but why have you come alone?”

“I have brought you one of her poems, which will enable you to evaluate the level of her spiritual requirements. If only our ordinary Christians could come up even to her ankle.”

Braindor unfolded the paper on which, in his most elegant handwriting, he had added two words above and below the lines. In a clear, resounding voice he read:

 

Jesus.

He draws me to him and never retreats

He hungers for me and feeds my hunger.

I must live as He inspires me,

Respect His call until the end.

He makes of me who I am.

Tense, incomplete, thirsty.

This effort, it is I, it is He.

I have promised to deserve him:

Jesus.

 

July 13, 1906

 

My dear Gretchen,
First of all, let me put your mind at rest. You were alarmed on reading my previous letter. Although your tender consideration is most compassionate, I could sense you did not approve: you condemn my expense and temper my severity with regard to Aunt Vivi.

On the first point, may I remind you that I am aware of this; not only did I confess my shortcomings to you, but I have acknowledged that my passion for paperweights truly is excessive. Do not forget that I am seeking a cure.

On the second point, I believe you idealize Aunt Vivi. You would like to touch up my portrait so that it will resemble your own. Alas! In spite of your wishes, she has not taken your place, she has shown herself to be incapable of playing the essential role that you have played over the years, which is that of a devoted, cautious and generous older sister. When you meet her, your ideal will be shattered in her presence: the real Aunt Vivi will prove perversely indiscreet, moderately tolerant, and not at all kindly. To be sure, she has all her vices, and I suspect that even her qualities have their origins in failings: if she looks after other people, it is out of curiosity; if she takes the time to talk with someone, it is to be able to repeat what they have said; if she offers to help, it is in order to dominate. She doesn't like people, she likes for them to be in her debt.

Lately I have been able to build a protective wall between her and myself. When she starts digging too deeply into my thoughts, I warn her: “Dr. Calgari has forbidden me from talking about this matter.” Since she is pleased that I am visiting his office, and boasts about having been the one to lead me there, she feels obliged to respect the therapist's advice.

And this is the important news I want to share with you: I have started my psychoanalytic treatment with Dr. Calgari. You cannot imagine how interesting it is. Better than that: you cannot imagine how interesting I am.

Absolutely, my words resonate with dazzling immodesty. Don't be shocked. This is a stage in my treatment.

Twice a week I ring the bell at Dr. Calgari's and lie down on his couch; he sits behind me at a respectful distance, and I come out with whatever is in my head.

I had never had the opportunity to speak about myself—except in my letters to you. After my initial sessions, as I went back down the stairs, it seemed as if I had already said everything that was on my mind and that I would have nothing left to tell the next time. But then off I would go again, everything started over, and I was surprised by my own stories.

We have talked a great deal about you, dear Gretchen; Dr. Calgari has been evaluating the prominent role you have played during my childhood and youth—and still do today, naturally. A child who lost both mother and father at the age of eight after a fatal accident needs to transfer her affection onto a person she can trust. In the beginning, I don't know why, I lied about our actual connection: I described you as my cousin, the way I usually do. But then because of three cleverly stated questions, I was forced to confess that we are not blood relations.

“What is the importance of that?” I asked him.

“You know better than I do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You must be better able than I am to gauge what you stand to gain from your lie, since you are the one who is lying.”

This will give you an idea of the tenure of our relationship: Dr. Calgari analyzes everything, both what I tell him and what I keep silent, equally.

There are times when one sentence will be enough for him to cast a shadow upon my certainties. For example, I concluded recently that I had not suffered from the absence of my parents, and he replied, “That is what you would like to believe.”

“No, I know my own opinions, after all.”

“Your opinions are the tip of the iceberg, Hanna, the part you are aware of. But beneath them there are other thoughts, thoughts that will not be expressed in words but in slips of the tongue, or acts, or certain behavior. Allow me to question the fact whether you suffered from your parents' absence or not, when everything indicates that you do not want to be a parent yourself.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your difficulty in becoming pregnant is psychological. The doctors have confirmed that there are no physiological barriers.”

“Of course, but—”

“And your phantom pregnancy enabled you to gain time without getting pregnant for all that. It was a ruse that enabled you to respond to the pressure of your in-laws, to make your husband happy in an illusory way, and you could pretend to be a normal mother. But in fact you are afraid of becoming a mother, probably because you missed your own, or for a reason that we will unearth together . . . ”

He has a tendency to interfere with my private life. When this happens I feel obliged to get angry. For example, I refuse to give him any details regarding my physical relations with Franz. His efforts are in vain. He brandishes his status as a therapist, or constantly reminds me that when I go to see Dr. Teitelman I am perfectly happy to let him examine what, normally, only my husband has the right to see; but I remain firm. Everything is fine between Franz and myself, that should suffice for Calgari.

Moreover, the only time I nearly curtailed the treatment was when he went into all that again, overstepping the bounds of modesty: “Why do you claim to like making love with your husband when in fact you found a way to keep him at a distance for nine months?”

That day I left his office without saying a word, slamming the door behind me. At home I swore I would never go back.

I waited for Dr. Calgari to send a message of apology. Oh, three sentences. A simple mark of respect. A proof of good upbringing. A gentleman's remorse. In short, just a few lines scribbled on a card, reflecting his regret that he had offended me.

For eight days I waited hopefully for that letter.

Ostensibly, I failed to show up for two appointments, convinced that this would arouse his bad conscience, and that his empty couch would remind him of his shameful behavior.

To no avail.

By the tenth day, I was in such a rage that I showed up at his office at the appointed time in order to insult him, to tell him to his face what a scoundrel he was, to inform him how one is supposed to behave in the real world.

He did not seem the least bit surprised to see me—as if he knew I would come—nor did he try to calm me down or deny what had happened; on the contrary, he sat through my violent diatribe in intrigued silence.

“Well, stop listening to me as if you were dissecting a frog. You look as if you're not the least bit concerned!”

“That is perfectly true, Hanna. What you are telling me does not concern me: it concerns you. Today's session is allowing us to make good progress.”

I lost my temper again. What made him think this was a session? I had come to teach him a thing or two about
savoir vivre
, he mustn't get it all mixed up. He wasn't expecting me to pay him for the service, was he? What astounding nerve . . .

How did he do it? I have no idea. In any case, he managed to make me rid myself of all my anger: not only did I end up lying down on his couch but an hour later I paid for the consultation, thanking him effusively.

There are times when I pressure him to get on with the matter of my paperweights, since that is the principle reason I have come for treatment. Thus far he has stubbornly refused. “Later,” he says, again and again, as if he weren't the least bit interested. Sometimes I suspect him of putting it off to get more money out of me, but as soon as I catch myself thinking such a petty thought, I scold myself and reiterate my trust in him.

Believe it or not, there are amusing moments during the treatment. For example, I have to tell him all the dreams I remember, or say the first thing that comes in my mind in answer to a word he gives me. Here's an example:

“Fragment?”

“Past.”

“Tea?”

“Gossip.”

“Saucer?”

“Squeaky.”

“Mother-in-law?”

“Uh . . . respect.”

“Flower?”

“Life.”

“Springtime?”

“Carefree.”

“Light?”

“Attraction.”

“Vienna?”

“Walls.”

“Waltzes?”

“Waldberg.”

“Dinner?”

“Silence.”

“Silence?”

“Crystal.”

“Glass?”

“Purity.”

“Jewish?”

“Incisive.”

“Franz?”

“ . . . um . . . ”

“Franz?”

Silence.

And yes, it's peculiar, but there are certain words I cannot bounce off. Either I am blocked, or I hesitate. When this happens, I can hear Calgari's pen behind me, scratching frenetically on his notepad. When I beg him to enlighten me as to the meaning of these exercises, he explains that the associations my mind makes provide insights into its workings. For me, glass represents an ideal of moral purity—and I agree, although this conclusion will hardly contribute to curing me of my passion for glass paperweights! Sometimes one's mind goes back and forth: this means that one's censor, which sorts things, is suppressing any hurtful, aggressive, or carnal instincts. Finally, when there is a blank in one's consciousness, it means that one's entire mind is confused as to where to go, and no authority seeks to take charge.

While I find this explanation brilliant, allow me to invalidate the consistency of its relevance. When I fail to react to “Franz,” nothing else comes to mind other than “Franz . . . ” but I cannot say that. To repeat a word is against the rules of the game. Worse than that, the ironical face that Calgari makes when I justify myself removes any vague desire I might have to insist.

You may find me frivolous, dear Gretchen—are you making fun of my activities? But you must trust me or, rather, trust Dr. Calgari, because often, in the middle of my incoherent words, he points out elements that are connected: these revelations bring me a solid sense of well-being.

The other day we went back to the tapestries that decorate—in a manner of speaking—his waiting room. Let me remind you that they form a diptych,
The Rape of the Sabine Women
and
The Return of the Sabines.
On the first tapestry, the Romans, who have a shortage of women in their city, have come to abduct the wives of their neighbors the Sabines; in the picture it is obvious that the women are resisting their abductors. On the second one, we see the Sabines returning several years later when they have been able to arm themselves: they are trying to re-conquer their women but, once again, paradoxically, the Sabine women resist; they cling to their Roman husbands, and hold up the children born of these forced unions. They refuse to leave. Every time I look at these pictures I am filled with anger.

“Why don't you like them, Hanna?”

“Those women do nothing, it all happens to them. They must endure, regardless. No matter what happens, they are always victims. The men control their destiny, based on their own needs or their desire for revenge. Not only do the women exist only through men and for men—those same men mistreat them. While already I loathe
The Rape of the Sabine Women
, I like
The Return of the Sabines
even less. What shocks me in the second episode is that the women refuse to be set free, and they cling to the men who once abducted them and possessed them by force. Worse than that, to justify themselves they point to the babies that were born of rape. They accept the violence enacted upon them, and they have become complicit with their torturers.”

“Do you hold this against them?”

“No, I feel sorry for them. I hold it against the men.”

“Do you feel close to the women?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“I have never suffered that type of violence, ever.”

“And yet the way in which you tell their story is very enlightening. Your reading of the picture reveals correspondences with your own existence. According to what you have told me, your childhood was very happy, and you lived a carefree life in the countryside until they came to marry you off. Do you not see yourself as an abducted Sabine woman?”

“That's . . . exaggerated.”

“What should the Sabine women have done, in your opinion, once they got to Rome?”

“Run away.”

“Have you ever thought of running away from your marriage with Franz von Waldberg?”

I remained silent. He continued, “Can you understand how they might have begun to love their abductors?”

“Perhaps . . . if those abductors were not despicable scoundrels.”

“Naturally. If they were men like Franz.”

“Exactly.”

“However, there is something in this story, dear Hanna, which intrigues me. The women did not have children with the Sabine men, but only with the Romans.”