The Woman Who Wouldn't

by Gene Wilder

  I passed a pastry shop as I was walking. In the window I saw delicious-looking cakes, pies, cookies, and assorted sweets that I knew would make Clara’s mouth water. What a stupid thought—bringing candies to someone with stomach cancer who might at this very moment, be finding out how soon she was going to die.

  I decided to walk to the University Hospital. I had written the address on a note pad in my hotel room: 24 rue Micheli-du-Crest. But I got lost. I asked for help from passersby, most of whom spoke English, and one kind lady gave me good directions. I arrived in front of the unimposing hospital building, walked into the lobby and plopped down, exhausted, into a large leather chair. I must have waited for thirty or thirty-five minutes, until I saw Karl Gross walking down a stairway. When he saw me, he walked up and took both my hands into his.

  “Well, dear Jeremy, I’m afraid I have only bad news.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Dr. Hartmann was very kind to Clara, very pleasant . . . and he made a few jokes to relax her . . . and then he took this long, thin tube with a little lens at the end—the one that I heard so much about—and he passed it through Clara’s throat and into her stomach . . . and he actually saw the cancer. I know her cancer from feeling her stomach and because of her symptoms and her blood, but Hartmann actually saw it. He took a little piece of tissue for biopsy and then gave Clara something to help her rest. When Hartmann got the results, he said—”

  I waited until Karl swallowed his need to cry.

  “—Hartmann said ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for her, my dear friend. I’m sorry’”

  “Does Clara know?” I asked.

  “Yes, she knows. She woke up half an hour ago, and when she saw me standing near her bed she sat up and said, ‘No good, Karl. It’s no good, is it?’ I never lie to patients. Anyway, with that one what good would it do? She would just call me a liar. So I said, ‘Yes, but I have hopes, Clara. I always have hopes.’”

  “Am I allowed to see her?” I asked.

  “Wait a little while. If I know her, she’s probably trying to make herself look pretty again, for you. Just a little while. Room 525. I’ll come back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to take a nap. I’m not so young, with all this traveling and all this news, and I want to be fresh for Clara. So I’ll see you, maybe in an hour.”

  We shook hands and he left. I saw that there was a taxi waiting to take him back to the hotel.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  AFTER TWENTY MINUTES I WALKED UP THE STAIRS to Room 525. I sat in one of the two straight chairs in Clara’s room, watching her breathe as she slept. Karl was right—she must have gotten up earlier, because there was a blush of rouge on her cheeks and a touch of lipstick. When she sensed that someone was in the room, she sat bolt upright.

  “Jeremy?”

  I got up quickly and took her hand. She was very hoarse, creaking and croaking from high notes to low, as she tried to talk.

  “I’m right here, Clara.”

  “How do you like my voice?” she squeaked, still a little groggy from the anesthesia.

  “It’s wonderfully sexy. Sounds like a creaky hinge that needs oiling. Are you ready for a glass of Gutedel—nice and cold?”

  “Ready!” she squeaked again. “Maybe even two.”

  “Oh my . . . Who knows what that might lead to?”

  “I hope it does lead to that,” she said in a desperate whisper. “I hope you’ll try. I hope I don’t frighten you now. I hope you still care for me. I hope I don’t die before we make love again.”

  “Do you want to try it right now?” I asked, trying to make my joke sound as serious as I could manage.

  “Let’s wait a day or two,” she said. “I don’t want to rush you. I know you must be very tired.” She giggled at her own joke and then coughed.

  “Lie down, Clara. I’ll hold your hand, but lie down and rest.”

  She lay back down.

  “I’ll do most of the talking,” I said. “You just nod your head yes and no.”

  And I talked for about forty-five minutes, until a quarter to eight, asking silly questions to which she could just nod her head.

  “Remember the Schwarzwalderschinkensomethingorother? Wasn’t that delicious? Shall we meet for dinner in a few nights and try the chunks of pork with vinegar sauce? Yes? And the Schaufele, somethingor-other, served with herbed sauerkraut? Maurice says it’s delicious. Shall we try it?”

  Karl Gross walked in, slightly out of breath.

  “I’m so sorry. I overslept my little nap. Did I hear the two of you talk about food again?” he asked as he took Clara’s hand.

  “She’s doing all the talking, Karl. I just ask questions.”

  Clara kissed Karl’s hand and whispered, “When can we go home?”

  “Well, my dear, Dr. Hartmann says we can take you back the day after tomorrow, if you feel well enough. Would you like that, Clara?”

  “Yes, I would. I have some important things to do,” she squeaked as she smiled at me.

  A little gong went off in the hallway and a nurse poked her head in the door. “Five minutes, please. Five minutes.” She said it in French and then repeated it in English.

  Clara looked heartbreakingly sad at the thought of our going. I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”

  I picked up my cloth bag full of underwear, socks, and sundries and walked out of the room with Karl. I waited until a nurse passed us in the hallway and then I called out loudly, toward Clara’s open door.

  “Good night, dear! See you tomorrow!”

  I led Karl across the hallway to the stairs.

  “Go back to the hotel, Karl,” I said very softly. “I’m going to stay a little longer.”

  “But the nurse and the orderlies will certainly—”

  I quickly embraced him as I whispered, “I’m hoping they won’t see me.”

  When I saw that there wasn’t a nurse in sight, I whispered, “Go now, Karl. Quick!”

  He gave me one of his devilish smiles and went down the stairs as I hurried back across the hall and into Clara’s room.

  Clara’s face lit up when she saw that I really did come back. I made a “Shh” signal with my hand, crossed to the other side of her bed, took off my shoes and trousers and jacket, stuffed them into my cloth bag, and put it under the bed. Then I got into bed with Clara.

  She didn’t know what was happening, but she held back a giggle during this escapade. I got under the covers and squiggled down a foot or more until my head was out of sight. Then I moved close to Clara’s side, hoping it would look, to a nurse, as if the bulge under the covers was all Clara.

  “Don’t talk,” I whispered.

  A nurse came in about two minutes later and said something in French. She probably, asked Clara if she needed more water or tea or something.

  “Non, merci,” Clara whispered, and turned over toward me, as if she were ready to go to sleep.

  “She’s gone,” Clara whispered.

  I wiggled up until my head was out of the cover.

  “You’re a very daring man,” she whispered.

  “Not always. Just when there’s a beautiful woman lying next to me in bed.”

  “Even in a hospital?”

  “Oh, that’s the most fun.”

  I leaned over and kissed her gently. “It’s time for you to go to sleep, Clara, if you want to be well enough to go home in two days.”

  I lifted Clara’s head onto the soft spot on my left shoulder. She took my right hand and kissed it, then held on to it lightly until she fell asleep.

  My conscience spoke to me very disrespectfully. “Well, Casanova, here you are, under the covers with a beautiful woman, in a hospital bed, hiding from nurses and orderlies, and only a touch away from the cute Belgie, who is sleeping on your shoulder and who just found out that she’s going to die. Have you figured out yet why you’re here?”

  “Of course, stupid,” I answered.
“I’m here to protect and give comfort . . . to the woman I’m in love with.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING, CLARA WAS SLEEPING PEACE-fully as the sun lit up the window shade in her room. I didn’t want to wake her, so I slipped out of bed, reached for my cloth bag, and tiptoed out of the room. I stopped at the doorway to see if there were any nurses in sight, then quietly crossed the hallway, went down the stairs, and left the hospital.

  Two days later, on Thursday morning, July 12, Clara, Karl Gross, and I took the train to Freiberg, where Herr Kreiss was waiting to drive us back to Badenweiler.

  The trip wasn’t sad or somber—I think because Clara was happy to be going back to a place that felt as close to “home” as any she knew, and also where she had been happy. It was a sunny day, and when Clara saw the rolling lavender hills as we approached the outskirts of Badenweiler, she squeezed my hand and said, “This is good picnic weather, isn’t it?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I THOUGHT I WAS CURED OF MY CRAZINESS. AFTERwe returned to Badenweiler and got settled into the Sommer Hotel again, Clara took a little nap before dinner and I went for a quiet stroll through the village. I needed to breathe some fresh air.

  I walked into the bakery, the butcher shop, the cheese shop—just to smell things that were different from the smells in a hospital.

  I went into a children’s clothing store. It seemed that they specialized in baby clothes because there were photographs of babies on all the walls, dressed in a variety of different outfits. I saw one particular photograph that looked like a photo of me when I was three years old. My mother used to show it to me when she was going through her photo albums. She mailed that same photo to me years later, when I was on tour and she was ill and in the hospital. It had a lipstick mark on my little face, with the quote, “I kiss you, darling—now, as I did then.” It was signed “Mama.” She died a few days later. The craziness didn’t happen in that children’s store; it happened when I walked to the edge of the village and suddenly climbed the tallest tree in sight. Don’t ask me why. I climbed so high that I didn’t know how I was going to get down. I must have been at least thirty feet off the ground when I saw a man walking below me, carrying a loaf of bread under his arm. I hollered as loudly as I could and I know he heard me because he looked up and waved, but then he walked away. I didn’t know if he understood that I was in a panic or if he was just waving to be friendly. After five minutes, a policeman came with a fire truck. A ladder was raised and the policeman helped me down. When I was asked, in the policeman’s very halting English, what the hell I was doing up in that tree, I quickly made up a story about trying to save a poor cat who looked terribly frightened. The policeman looked at me with a pained expression, then said something in German, which I roughly translated as “I think you’re nuts.”

  AFTER I got back to the spa, I showered and shaved, put on a fresh suit and shirt—wearing my new Geneva tie that I thought Clara would like—and walked to the Garden café. Clara was later than usual and I started to worry until I saw her walk in. She waved to me as I got up, but as she came closer, I saw that her face was moist and white.

  “You didn’t have to rush, Clara. I would have waited for you.” I helped her into her usual chair.

  “I’m fine. I don’t want you worrying about me, Jeremy,” she said. “I’m not a cripple, you know.”

  I leaned over and felt her forehead.

  “You have a fever, Clara. I’m taking you back to your room.”

  “Oh no . . . oh no, please. I wanted this evening to be so pleasant.”

  “It will be—once I get you back to your bed and call Dr. Gross.”

  As she started to get up, she said, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Stop talking nonsense and let me help you. Just take my arm and lean on me.”

  “Everyone will think I’m drunk.”

  “Good! That’s what we want. Shall we sing a little song and act tipsy?”

  “No, no. Don’t do that. I know that you would, but don’t,” she said, half in panic and half in a giggle.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  AN HOUR LATER, CLARA WAS LYING IN BED IN Alight blue nightgown while Karl Gross examined her, listening to her heart, taking her temperature—which was 101 degrees Fahrenheit—pressing on her lymph nodes and tapping her chest with his fingers. He felt her ankles and wrists. I sat watching near the back of the room. I had learned a bit of this routine when my mother was ill. When Karl was finished, he patted Clara’s hand.

  “Well, my dear, I think you did a little too much for a young woman who just left the hospital and takes a train ride and takes a car ride and wants to jump right back into life and start climbing mountains the moment she arrives home. . . . Yes? Nothing serious,” Karl said, looking straight at me when he said it, “but you must get lots of rest, eat healthy food . . . and save your mountain climbing for a little while,” he added, looking at me again with that lovely twinkle in his eyes. “Do you think you can manage that?”

  Before she could answer, I rose and said, “Yes, she can.”

  “Good! Look what a luxury you have, Clara. Two wonderful doctors to take care of just one patient. You are a lucky woman.”

  She smiled politely, quite aware that Dr. Gross was coating everything with his optimistic cheeriness.

  “Now I have ordered a big pot of soup for you, with plenty for Jeremy, also. It has good broth and vegetables and basil and a little garlic, and I want you to drink as much as you can. I’m sure that Dr. Webb will see to that, won’t you, Doctor?”

  “I promise,” I answered.

  “And if you’re very good, Clara, tomorrow you can have a little wine, also. But just a little. So good night, my dear child.”

  He gave Clara a kiss on the forehead.

  “Jeremy,” he said to me, “you know how to take a temperature?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. I left the thermometer on the desk, in the little glass with alcohol in it. Let me know if her temperature goes up or down, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good night, my boy,” he said, squeezing my hand extra tightly. “I’m just across the road if you need me,” he said, as he left the room.

  When Karl was gone, I rubbed my hands together.

  “Well now . . . What shall we do till the soup comes? Cards? Checkers? Chess? Sex? Gin rummy? Pinochle?”

  “WAIT!” she cried out. “What did—What was—Did you just say sex?”

  “SEX?” I said. “Are you crazy? At a time like this? You shouldn’t have such thoughts on your mind right now. You’re in bed with a temperature. It’s much too early to be thinking about naughty things like that. We need to wait at least another day.”

  She looked at me with that Svengali glare of hers. “I know what you did,” she said. Then she started to laugh. “All right. I can wait a day or two. Then will you stick to your word?”

  There was a knock, knock on the door.

  “Depends on how much soup you drink,” I said as I went over to open the door.

  A waiter wheeled in a covered tureen of steaming hot soup that rested on a rolling cart. I thanked the waiter and after he left I wheeled the cart over to Clara’s bed. When the sides were down the cart became a small table. There were two soup bowls, two spoons, two knives, four soft rolls, a plate of butter, and two large napkins. A big ladle was resting beside the tureen.

  “Do you want to have your soup in bed, Clara? Maybe you should . . . or would you be more comfortable sitting down at this little table?”

  “I’ll sit with you at the table. We can pretend we’re in the Garden café again. Would you pour our soup? I just want to go to the bathroom for a minute.”

  I filled each bowl with soup and vegetables, split two rolls and buttered each half, and pulled two chairs up to our table. Karl must have told the kitchen to give us enough soup for six people.

  "When Clara came out of the bathroom I helped her into her chair.

 
; “First, let me take your temperature before you eat,” I said. “The soup is hot and I don’t want your temperature to shoot up because of the soup.”

  “You really are a doctor,” she said.

  I took the thermometer, shook it down, placed it under her tongue, and waited for sixty seconds, staring at how pretty Clara looked, fever and all. When I took the thermometer out it was still 101 degrees.

  “The same. That’s all right—soup and a little kissing and a good night’s sleep—that should do the trick.”

  Clara ate one and a half bowls of soup. They were small bowls, but she was trying her best. She also ate half of a buttered roll. It was a good start.

  At nine-thirty I helped her back into bed although she didn’t really need help, but it was nice to embrace her again.

  “I suppose you want me to kiss you?” I asked.

  “You are a naughty boy. Well, yes, I do.”

  “Well, ask me!” I said.

  “Would you like to kiss me?” she said, with a crooked smile.

  “Yes, I would,” I said.

  I leaned over and kissed her tenderly for at least a minute.

  “Now time for sleep,” I said. “Dream of pleasant things . . . dream of two fawns watching us as we lay on the blanket in the woods, hugging each other.”

  Clara held my hand for a few seconds, holding back a reservoir of sadness as she stared at me. Then she smiled and said: “Good night, dearest.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE NEXT MORNING I HAD SOME TEA AND THEN rushed over to Clara’s room, but the receptionist said that she had been taken to the local hospital in Badenweiler. He told me where it was located, which was actually almost next door to the tree I climbed to save the cat that wasn’t there. I ran, then walked for a few seconds to catch my breath, and then ran again. In ten minutes I was there.