by Gene Wilder
When I arrived in Clara’s room, Karl Gross was standing over her, checking all the tubes that were coming out of her thin face and body. I stood in the back of the room, near the entrance, and whispered, “What happened, Karl?”
“Her temperature went to one hundred and four last night, Jeremy. Since we went to Geneva she doesn’t eat much or drink enough water, so I decided to hydrate her.”
“May I come closer, so she can see me?”
“Yes, yes. Stand at the foot of the bed so she won’t have to move her head too much.”
I walked to the foot of the bed until she could see me.
“Look who’s here, Clara!” Karl said cheerfully. “Of all people, who do you think came to see you?”
Despite her tubes, which made her look like a mechanical doll, she broke into a big smile. Her tiny bare feet were sticking out of the blanket.
“Would you like to kiss me now?” she asked, with her sarcastic grin.
“Yes, I would,” I said. I leaned down and kissed her left foot. “Oh my,” I said, fondling her little toes, “I forgot what a good kisser you are.”
She started to laugh so hard that Dr. Gross had to warn both of us to calm down and behave. I came closer and held her hand.
“Well, shall we get out of here and go on a picnic, Clara?”
She looked at Dr. Gross, who seemed to enjoy our banter. I knew he was happy to see her smile again.
“Oh, I would wait for at least an hour, just to be safe,” Karl said, as he joined our little game.
“Well, what shall we do while we’re waiting, Clara?” I asked. “Do you want to play checkers or chess or sex or gin rummy or pinochle again?”
“Would you like to marry me?” she asked.
Both Karl and I were startled, but we both assumed she was carrying on with our silly game.
“Yes, I would,” I answered.
“Well, ask me!” she said.
I looked at her eyes and realized that she was serious, which, to my surprise, didn’t panic me in the slightest. I took her hand.
“Would you marry me, Clara?” I asked.
“Yes, I would.”
As I stared at her blue eyes, it was difficult to decide if she was saying these things because she felt so close to death and wanted to hear the words before she died . . . or if it had nothing to do with death, but rather something that she had on her heart and had the courage to say out loud.
I turned to Karl, who, by the expression on his face, was torn between medicine and love. “Can you help us, Karl?” I asked.
He paused while he tried to weigh all of these silly but probably momentous things.
“You know . . . the mayor of Badenweiler can marry you. Would you like me to ask him to come here?”
He looked at Clara first, then at me.
“Yes, please. Ask him to come,” I said, looking at Clara, who beamed.
THIRTY
THE MAYOR, OSKAR KLEIN, WAS A GENTLE MAN IN his mid-fifties with soft, round features and curly grey and white hair. He was humorous, serious, intelligent, and always very gentle.
Maurice, the waiter, and Karl Gross were our two resident witnesses. I had asked Maurice to please find Mr. Chekhov and tell him that I would be honored if he came to the local hospital, very quickly, to attend the wedding of Mrs. Mulpas and Mr. Webb. When Chekhov arrived he was slightly out of breath, but he had a sweeter smile on his face than any I had seen before. He stood at the back of the room, making sure that Clara couldn’t breathe any of the air that he exhaled.
Clara, with all the tubes removed, sat in a chair. I stood beside her as Karl introduced us to the mayor.
“Oskar, this is our dear Clara Mulpas . . . and this is our dear friend, Mr. Jeremy Spencer Webb.”
The mayor began the service in a casual way—in English, for my sake I assumed—saying what a pleasure it was for him to meet such nice people and that he hoped to see us again if we should come back to Badenweiler, after our honeymoon. I didn’t look at Clara when he said that. I just nodded a thank-you to him.
“My friends,” the mayor continued, without referring to any book or bible, “I have just a few words on this happy occasion.” (I’m sure Doctor Gross had instructed him carefully.) “My only advice,” Mayor Klein continued, “as someone who has been married forty years now, is just to be kind to each other and hold on to this love that you have. It is more precious than any other treasure you might find.”
No preaching, just a heartfelt sentiment. Good! I was grateful to him for that.
“Clara Mulpas, do you want to marry this man, and love him and stay with him for as long as you shall live?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Jeremy”—he had to look at a little card he held in his hand—“Jeremy Spencer Webb, do you want to marry this dear lady, and love her and stay with her for as long as you shall live?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then, by the authority I have been granted, I pronounce you . . . husband and wife.”
I was overwhelmed when I heard those words—much more than this womanizing, confirmed bachelor ever thought he would be. I leaned down, dripping a tear onto Clara’s pale face, and kissed my wife.
THIRTY-ONE
AFTER FIVE DAYS, CLARA WAS RELEASED FROM THE hospital. Her temperature had been normal for three days and Karl thought it would do her good to get out of the medical atmosphere and have some time with her husband.
He also suggested that Clara not move out of her room at the Sommer Hotel; he wanted to be able to see her at all times, just in case she had any physical troubles which, he told me privately, I should expect.
On Clara’s first night out we went to the Garden café, naturally. Maurice looked over us like a mother hen guarding her chicks. Clara had the soup with vegetables, basil, and garlic, which she loved so much, and I had figs and Parma ham. We shared a poussin. “Sharing,” to Clara, meant that I ate four fifths and she had two small bites. But she liked the scalloped potatoes that came with the chicken and she ate quite a bit of them, for which I was very proud of my wife. “Proud of my wife”—a phrase I never thought I would say, or even think.
“Now listen, my little cherub,” I said, “I know you’re a tough lady, but I think we should put off more strenuous and emotional . . . and loving activities . . . for at least another day or two, if you agree.”
“I agree—but just for a day or two.”
THIRTY-TWO
OUR FIFTH RENDEZVOUS
Two days later, I rented the resort’s plough horse from a man named Herr Bonhoffer, who owned the horse, and who was responsible for all of the garden vegetables that were grown in the two-acre field just south of the spa. “Charger,” as the horse was called, ploughed the field in the early spring to get the ground ready for planting. But now, in July, the horse was just taking a lazy vacation.
Herr Bonhoffer’s price for renting Charger was to be paid in German marks only, not in francs. I supposed that this was because he was an elderly German man who didn’t understand anything that was French. But five marks for five hours for Charger was certainly a reasonable price.
It was a beautiful, sunny day and normally I wouldn’t have worried about jackets or sweaters, but I told Clara to please bring a sweater in case the weather were to suddenly change. No colds for my wife.
I lifted Clara onto Charger’s back. The horse wasn’t wearing a saddle—first, because Clara said she was brought up riding horses, and second, because Charger didn’t have a saddle.
I gave Clara our blanket to hold. It had cushions wrapped inside and I carried the picnic basket. I took hold of Charger’s reins and off we went: “Sir Jeremy” leading “Lady Clara” and her steed, through the foothills of the Schwarzwald, always keeping an eye out for any dragons that might be in the neighborhood.
When we reached our small grassy plateau, I helped Clara down. She spread the blanket while I led Charger to the stream, so he could have a cool drink. Then I tied his reins, very loosely, arou
nd a nearby tree that was surrounded with tall grass, and I walked back to Clara.
She had our lunch laid out on the blanket: green beans, broccoli, cauliflower, carrots—I would bet this was an order from Dr. Gross to the chef—plus a dipping sauce, two large napkins, and a very small jar filled with Gutedel. I twisted off the lid and we each took a sip. The wine wasn’t “nice and cold,” but it was fine, and still fairly cool.
We ate our vegetables like good children, just as Karl must have envisioned. When Clara had eaten enough, she lay back onto one of the cushions and gave me one of her unmistakable looks, half smile and half invitation. I lay down next to her and she snuggled into my arms.
“Would you like to be inside me?” she asked.
As always, direct and to the point. If only I could learn that virtue from her one day. I wonder, How many days with her do I have left?
“Yes, I would,” I answered.
She sat up, took off her sweater and started unbuttoning her pink and lavender blouse.
“Would you help me off with this long skirt? . . . I’m too excited to deal with it.”
I helped her off with her skirt and her long slip and then I got undressed. Clara slipped off her pink underpants. When we were both naked, I lay down beside her and started to kiss her, when she suddenly popped her head up.
“Is my breath all right? There was some garlic in—”
“Your breath is fine. Very tasty.”
I kissed her as I touched her, and she held on to what she called my willy.
“This is fun,” she said. “Are you ready, dear?”
“Yes.”
When I entered her, she didn’t jump or get as emotional as she did the only other time we made love. She was relaxed, and when she looked into my eyes as she reached her climax, she smiled and half-whispered, “Thank you, darling.”
Shortly after we made love, I pulled Clara’s sweater over her shoulders so she wouldn’t be cold. After she put on her underpants we sat on the blanket, sipping a little more wine.
“Gustav never wanted me to touch his willy.”
“What an ignoramus,” I said.
“He kissed me on my lips once in a while, but he never wanted to touch my body, or any of my intimate places—just wanted to pump away until he reached his climax. Then he’d get up quickly and smoke a cigar.
She was deep in thought for almost a minute and then asked me something that took me completely by surprise.
“Would you teach me to play a musical instrument, Jeremy? I don’t mean the piano.”
“Oh! Well, let me see. How about . . . What if I taught you to play a concertina? It’s not too difficult and it wouldn’t take up all of your precious breath.”
“A concertina?”
“Yes, it’s like a small accordion that you just squeeze in and out, and it has little keys on each side that you press to get the melody. What do you think?”
She looked thrilled.
“That’s perfect. Thank you, dear.”
“Yes, but I want something in return,” I said.
“Oh? Do you mean right now?” she said with a tiny grin.
“No, no, it doesn’t have to be right now, although we could start now and continue later.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, completely puzzled.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“What are we talking about?” she asked.
“I want you to give me French lessons.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes. Don’t look so surprised. If my wife speaks French, I want to be able to speak French. Concertina for French lessons—is that a deal?”
She hugged me and said, “Je t’aime.”
“What does that mean,” I asked.
“You’ll have to wait for your first French lesson to find out.”
We started to pack up our lunch things. As I was reaching for my trousers, Clara said, “Why don’t we wade into the stream—just up to our bellies? Then I’ll feel nice and clean before putting on that silly skirt again.”
I walked over to the stream and put my feet into the water while Clara and Charger watched me. The water had warmed from the sun. Cool but not cold.
“All right, but just up to your belly.”
We both took off our underwear again and waded into the stream. Clara washed herself and afterward I wiped Clara’s legs dry with the cloth napkins that we hadn’t even used. I helped her on with her slip and skirt, pulled off her sweater so she could put on her blouse, and then slipped her sweater back on.
When we were dressed, I boosted Clara onto Charger and led them both through the hidden dangers in the enchanted forest, back to the castle in Badenweiler.
THIRTY-THREE
THE NEXT FOUR WEEKS WERE BEAUTIFUL, BUTClara asked if we couldn’t be together when she went to sleep, because she would often wake up in the middle of the night and get terribly frightened. Even though Karl Gross had suggested that Clara not move out of her room, so that he could see her at all hours in case of an emergency, I requested a one bedroom suite in our hotel and told Karl that if Clara showed even the smallest change, physically or emotionally, I would call him and he could come right over, whatever time it was.
The suite was very comfortable, with a living room that looked out onto the hills, a pretty bedroom with fireplace, a large bathroom, and a small kitchenette. The chambermaids made up what they called an “Italian double” in our bedroom, which meant tying a large sheet around the two twin beds, making it into a double.
I sent a cable to my agent in New York:
Josh . . . I got married. I’m very happy.
Feeling fine now. Going on extended
vacation. I’ll keep in touch.
Love, Jeremy.
Clara, Charger and I went on a few more picnics, but then the weather changed. There was almost a full week of rain, so we stayed at “home” and had warm meals brought to us, which consisted mostly of soup, fish, salads, and—of course—a little Gutedel in the evenings.
During the days, I gave Clara concertina lessons and she gave me French lessons. After two weeks she learned to play one of the easier Chopin preludes, which delighted her. At night, as we heard the rain pouring down while we were lying warm and cozy in our “Italian double,” I finally learned what “Je t’aime” meant. Not so long ago I only knew what fucking meant.
THIRTY-FOUR
IN THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST SOMETHING WASwrong with Clara. She looked all right, but she was in pain, terribly constipated, and she said that her whole body ached. Fearing the worst, I called Dr. Gross. He told me to bring her to his office immediately because he wanted all of his equipment nearby and wanted to take some blood, which he had been doing on a weekly basis.
Karl examined Clara slowly and carefully, but he kept shaking his head from side to side. When the results of her blood came back from pathology, he just stared at the two of us. All my fears for Clara, which I had forced to the back of my mind, suddenly came crashing into my heart.
“My dear child,” Karl said as he looked at Clara, “you are pregnant.”
I was dumbfounded. Clara took a moment to recover from the shock.
“But Karl, the doctor in Brussels said that I could never have children. Never!”
“Perhaps he wasn’t a very good doctor. Who sent you to him?”
“Gustav, my ex-husband.”
“Who was paying for the doctor?”
“Gustav.”
“Don’t go to that doctor again,” Karl said, holding back the anger he felt at Gustav and his inept doctor friend.
“Now both of you—I don’t know if this wonderful news is really wonderful—not until we find out what’s happening to the cancer in Clara’s stomach. I don’t want it to affect the little embryo that she’s carrying, but—patience! We all have to have patience right now.”
Clara squeezed my hand.
“Meanwhile, I’m also happy to tell you that you’ve gained some weight, Clara. I expected you to lose a few pounds
each week and instead you gained a few. So, thank you for eating the way I told you. But, much more important, you’ve been in love, which is not only good for the appetite, but very good for having babies. Now please, both of you, go and relax, which of course is impossible. I want to call Geneva.”
THREE DAYS later, Karl received a “gastro scope” from Dr. Hartmann. Karl had watched Hartmann perform the fairly simple procedure and he was feeling confident. Clara was lightly sedated and I was allowed to stay in the room.
Karl placed the tube into Clara’s mouth and gently guided it down, into her stomach, and there he finally saw what he was looking for . . . Nothing! He let out a very quiet burst of joy and continued looking for a while longer, but the cancer was gone.
TWO HOURS later, Clara and I sat in Karl’s office, sipping herbal tea as he spoke to us.
“I’ve heard of this kind of remission and read about it, and I’ve just talked to Dr. Hartmann about it, but I’ve never seen it. He said that the few patients he knows of who have had such a remission, all had an infection first and then a high fever . . . and once in a great while, the tumor disappears.”
Clara smiled through her tears while she squeezed my hand.
“As a scientist I don’t believe that God decides such things,” Karl said. “But the immune system—that’s a different story. Like an army, it gets ready to fight the first infection, which you had in your lungs, Clara, and after it kills the infection, sometimes it gets so angry that it just keeps on marching and kills the second, much more dangerous enemy. So, you had a nice infection and a very high fever and a great army to fight battles for you—and here you are, with just terrible constipation and nausea . . . Isn’t that wonderful? I told you, I always have hopes.”