by Suzy Vitello
My father had winked and told me that his sister-in-law ate goat testicles every morning with her roll.
“They have goats in Vienna?”
No, he’d assured me, they were imported from Hungary, and every once in a while a goatherd was cut up and served as well.
I was wise to my father’s jokes. Wiser than Mummi, truth be told, as more and more she would tug hard on the end of his moustache when he teased her about her family.
“But rumor has it, she can bring a lion to its knees,” I’d argued.
My father, dressed up like a knight and on his way to the beer hall, had replied, “As well she has, Sisi. But when it comes right down to it, she’s of the same blood as your mother. Nothing more than will and circumstance has her suffocating, while, look, we live as free as the swallows.”
In the portrait hanging on the wall, Aunt Sophie’s sons certainly did not look as free as the swallows. They looked bronzed in place. I pointed to the group of them. “Which one will be emperor?”
Mummi’s eyes crinkled to slits. “Sisi!”
“That one is willful, Ludovica,” our aunt said. She rose and stabbed her crooked finger at each son. “Franzl, Maximilian, Karl and Ludwig.”
“Franzl?” I said.
“Franz Joseph,” said Mummi.
The archduchess sat back down; I heard her knees creak, and she said, “Once the Revolution is over, Franz Joseph will govern all of Austria.”
My sister sat up straighter, as though the crown of an empress had already been placed upon her head, and she did not even lick her lips when the tray of sweets arrived. I hoped I was meant for her portion.
“Elisabeth, child, you have such long hair,” the archduchess mused now that cakes and tarts and tea had been placed in front of us. She reached her bony hand toward me to stroke the ends of my hair, which for this occasion had been waxed into spirals.
We four sat around the parlor table, Mummi’s spaniels at her feet like twin slippers. I was farthest from the archduchess, and Mummi jerked her chin, indicating that I should stand and walk toward my aunt. There was the matter of putting down the pastry I’d just snatched, wiping my fingers, and rising up in my sea of crinolines without knocking things left and right. I had to think it all through. But then, the moment passed, and my aunt turned her attention to Nené, who was not stuffing food into her mouth. Nené rose, graceful, slender and perfect as always, and stood in front of our aunt. The gnarled finger made a twirling motion, so Nené turned around before sitting once again on the stiff-backed chair.
“She has such a fine carriage, Ludovica,” the archduchess said. “He may have his faults, but your duke has excellent posture, and it is easily noticed in his girls.”
Mummi was the only Wittelsbach sister who had married well below rank. But compared with my aunt’s husband, stuffy Archduke Franz Karl Joseph, Papa was far more handsome, charming and exciting.
Mummi nodded when the archduchess complimented our posture, and she pointed a scolding finger in my direction. “If only my younger one were not so enchanted by his antics, she should be much further along in her training. She is already fourteen and behaves like a child.”
I wished to prove Mummi wrong, so I attempted a sophisticated scowl, but in doing so, I felt cake crumbs dribble over my lower lip.
Mummi’s brows knit. “Your napkin, Duchess,” she murmured.
My aunt offered a tiny cluck, and then played with the baubles around her neck, perhaps to show off their brilliance, for the gems were quite impressive. She said, “One must be careful, Ludovica. Your duke seems quite fond of the opposition. I would so hate for your children to find themselves on the wrong side of things.”
“Oh, sister,” gasped Mummi, reaching for a tart. “Let us not spoil this holiday with talk of politics. Now, tell me where your cook found such sizeable berries.”
It was more than true that Papa kept company with dangerous men. I’d met one, once, not long ago. The day Papa snuck me out and brought me hunting with his privy. While my aunt and mother and sister fussed over crumbs and petticoats, I let my mind gallop back to Papa. To the sound of earth churned by hoofs. The smell of morning waking up the blossoms. With the yammer of domestic affairs assaulting my ears, I left the stiff room in which we sat, and drifted off to my very first hunt a few months earlier.
It had been a day of sunshine that burst, suddenly, through a bank of fog, and Papa and I had cantered toward his privy, which included the hunt master—Count S., who was legendary in the field. He sat at atop his large gray steed, surrounded by a dozen hounds, his bright red blazer setting him apart from the dull and drably dressed men. I was the only lady riding that day, and this pleased me. At first.
Count S. greeted us by way of a raised a finger to the brim of his riding cap as we took our places, and Papa pointed to the end of the line where I should take the tail position. The count chuckled and addressed Papa. “Your daughter does not look happy to be so far from you.”
Papa winked at me and said, “Let us see what she can do with that little mare. If she can keep pace, maybe we will invite her up the queue.”
The count nodded and smirked, which I thought supremely rude. I’d met this man before. He was much younger than the other men with whom my father kept company. According to Papa, he was wise beyond his years and might someday be a great leader. We referred to him only as Count S., for he had ties to the Revolution, and Papa thought it best I not ask too many questions.
This mysterious Count S. soon put his little brass horn to his lips and blew the loud blast, and then the hounds began to yelp and sniff the air. Any game was now flushed and running from the noise. The horses pranced nervously, except for my dear mare Psyche who, like me, did not like being at the back one bit, and she took the opportunity to sidle up toward the front of the pack. We passed several huntsmen taking swigs from flasks as she trotted forward. I tapped my mare a couple of times with a heel to ease her into a comfortable canter.
Then, we were off.
Into the wood we paced, over hedges and walls, two or three at a time. The newly blooming linden gave way to evergreens and scrub oak. The dense forest was still somewhat damp, chilly. But it was always that way in the woods: dark, frightening. Shapes shifting and looming. A screech owl just abed who-whooed at us, scolding that we disturbed her sleep. Psyche lengthened her stride, and shapes blurred past. I still followed the backs of several men, the plaited tails of their horses rising to reveal their strong haunches. Count S. rode a stallion—the gray’s dappled hindquarters were fully engaged, contoured with muscle, and they grew closer and closer as I urged Psyche forward until I was directly behind Papa and the count. The hounds were stirred up and their yelping grew louder yet.
“Game ahead,” yelled the count.
I eased Psyche over a large wall and then we leapt over a trickling brook. I wrapped the top of my legs around the leaping horn and sunk deep into the saddle as my chestnut mare gathered and stretched, rose and fell. Oh, how I loved jumping. Farther and farther we galloped, and I was even with the lead men, about to abandon decorum entirely and overtake them. Then, suddenly, the hounds spread out in a frenzy, sniffing, yelping, tearing at the ground.
“Fox,” roared Papa. And there it was, a red fox, atop a large rock, growling, yipping, its white fangs snapping at the hounds as they closed in on it. Before they could tear it up, the count whistled a shrill one, and instantly the dogs ceased and scattered. He aimed from his mount and fired a shot that killed it clean through.
Papa rode up on his big-barreled bay gelding and clucked his approval at the successful kill. The sound of the fox dying, its squeal, its twitching body with the bushy red brush curled around its haunches, caused my heart to pound.
Count S., so tall and broad, dismounted, drew his knife, and sliced off the fox’s head. The fox’s heart continued to beat out dark red blood in a thumping spray over the bright crimson of the count’s jacket. Next, he sliced off a
front paw. He then offered both the head and paw to Papa so he might perform the blooding. Papa, my dear Papa, addressed the huntsmen one by one, smearing blood on their cheeks. At long last he strode up proudly to my mount and dipped the paw into the severed neck. I leaned down and allowed him to write the fox’s steaming hot blood on my cheek and forehead. “An honorable kill,” he bid.
The count picked the headless fox up by its brush and in one stroke, he slashed it from the body. “Too bad; it’s a vixen,” he announced.
As the count came closer, bearing the tail of this creature, I felt the knife as well, a deep scooping of my insides when he revealed the sex of the beast. I hoped this vixen did not have kits somewhere, but it was too late for remorse. This cocksure crimson-coated hunt master approached, and held the fox brush before me.
“I present this token to Her Royal Highness Duchess Elisabeth in Bavaria,” he said, bowing. He offered me the blood-soaked tail as souvenir. I thought I detected a smirk. Perhaps the count felt he was bestowing the prize to a child? I snatched that fox brush heartily, making sure this revolutionary knew I was no little girl at play.
The hounds were tossed the rest of the carcass and soon tore it to shreds. I heard the count and the rest of the huntsmen laughing and joking about the tavern, where they would soon convene as Papa and I began our journey back to the stable. Psyche was slightly damp, so I dismounted when we neared the creek and splashed water on her while she drank.
“You did well, Sisi,” Papa said as he smiled at my fox brush, which I’d tied to the horn of my new saddle. “But you know your mother and your governess will have my head for this.”
“A small sacrifice, I think,” I teased, smiling back at him. I should have washed the smears of fox blood off of my face right then, but I was not eager to erase the smell and feel of my very first hunt. Without proper gloves, my hair loosened from its knot, I knelt by the brook and cupped water into my mouth carefully, making sure not to moisten the sticky blood. Flies were beginning to circle me, and Papa brushed them away and laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Never forget these times, Duchess,” he said. “I do not know what the future holds for any of us, but as a young lady, you will need to make some changes before too long.”
Now, having tea in a fancy hall with the archduchess, I longed for the flight of a horse. For adventure. But all that attended me was the sharp gaze of my aunt, and behind her eyes, a longing that cut more deeply than that of the count. For the archduchess had no living daughters.
Mummi had warned when we’d planned this summer holiday, My sister will watch every gesture. She will want to touch you. She aches so for a girl to fuss over.
“The little duchess is so sweet,” the archduchess said now, directing the comment at Mummi as though I were an animal at auction, “but heed the stains on her teeth. Once she’s of age, yellow teeth will prove a liability.” When she pointed at my mouth, Mummi’s spaniels barked, as though preventing a strike, and the archduchess’s forehead grooved. “Really, Ludovica, must those yappers accompany you everywhere?”
Mummi hushed her dogs but looked hurt. It was one thing to criticize her many children, but nobody got between Duchess Ludovica and her furry darlings.
I sighed, felt my hardened hair scratch against my neck, and helped myself to another teacake. My sister, still resisting the treats, had her eye trained on the eldest boy in the portrait. Franz Joseph, her hoped-for future husband. My crinolines were itchier than ever, but I knew that tea was nearly over, and soon, I could shed these silly clothes and run out into the woods nearby.
Chapter Three
Driving the ten miles from Portland’s Pearl District, up and over the hill on a ribbon of highway that cuts through Forest Park, I feel myself shrinking. It’s as if the bones that frame me are disappearing beneath my head. Small, smaller, smallest. What sort of inner spark could Dr. Greta possibly see in me? My fancy new food diary lies in my lap, my fingers tracing its bumps.
We are heading to a goat farm that belongs to Dad’s girlfriend. I wiggle in the passenger seat of the Volvo, looking out the window as we chug past Doug firs. I used to be comforted by the sound of the Volvo engine, but now it just reminds me of everything that’s broken in our family.
Dad is a mechanic—her mechanic—and she is a raiser of goats with an old car. He fixed her muffler, changed her timing belt, and soon enough began sampling her fromage blanc. Dad desperately wants me to fall in love with his girlfriend lickety-split. “I know that if you give her a chance, Willow can really be there for you. With the girl stuff and everything. Boyfriend issues, periods.”
At ninety-two pounds, periods aren’t part of my routine. I’d started a couple of years ago, but I’d been over a hundred pounds back then. I wasn’t about to share that with Dad, even though all of that info is on my discharge paperwork from Providence Adolescent Psych. “Will I have my own, um, bathroom?”
Dad likes to drive with both his hands on top of the wheel, as though lined up for a match in a boxing ring. He also holds his spoon wrong, inside of his closed fist. Quirks. He’s nervous answering this question, I can tell. “We only have the one bathroom, Princess.”
Princess. That was his long-ago nickname for me. He uses it now only when he needs to say something difficult, when we’re out of earshot of anyone else. Like when he revealed that he was moving out of our house and moving in with a woman in her twenties. “What is it, Dad?” I say now, not looking at him but feeling guilt wave out of him like invisible cell phone bars.
“Willow’s brother is coming to spend the summer,” Dad manages.
I picture some dirty hippie dude. A lover of patchouli and hemp. “When was that decided?”
“Rather suddenly, I’m afraid,” Dad admits. “We’ll talk about it later this afternoon, after you’re settled.”
“How many bathrooms did you say you have?” My repulsion disorder is rising to flood stage. This situation is getting worse and worse. Now, there will be four of us in the ramshackle one-bathroom place—and two of them total strangers. I reach into my left pocket to feel the comforting shapes of cell phone and iPod. Then with my right hand, right pocket, I feel the cylinder of Luvox as the crooked farmhouse looms up ahead. Dad takes his hand from the wheel and angles his arm out the window, indicating that we’re about to turn onto a winding gravel drive.
I miss the Pearl already.
For the past few months, Mom and I had been a sort of upscale urban gypsy team. We got long-term loft-sitting jobs, bouncing from one concrete cube to the next. It was all word of mouth: collectors, appraisers, critics who mostly lived in New York or Paris or wherever, but maintained penthouse apartments in Portland for summers, when the weather was more reasonable than other places.
We lived in an entire floor on top of the very first LEED Platinum condo structure, and then we were snatched away by a doctor who was in Boston and needed someone to water his orchids. So we watered these drippy, delicate things until a visiting ambassador from Arabia needed help dusting his bronze collection, which was scattered amongst several apartments of the Rose City Condo Complex. And there we were until a money guy with a couple of floors in the Ruby in the Pearl needed an attendant to monitor the whereabouts of his slacker son while he went back to Connecticut to save his empire.
All we really needed was a parking space and Wi-Fi and we were fine. We had unlimited access to high-end media and electronics; our loft in the Conrad, where Mom and I lived the last four months, had hand sanitizer dispensers in the lobby, and a graffiti-free, modern streetcar right outside to zip us wherever we wanted to go. The loft-sitting gig I had just been pried from had been particularly fabulous. The owner was the head of the local chamber music organization, and smack in the middle of the living space was a perfectly tuned, recently rebuilt Steinway concert grand.
That piano was the number one thing I’d miss out here in the sticks. But a close second was the bathroom. At the Conrad, our bathroom had p
iped-in birdsong; the bathing area was carved from rock, and painted on the ceiling was a scale replica of the Milky Way. Handmade glass tiles surrounded a Japanese soaking tub, and the bamboo cabinetry built around the vanity had antibacterial properties that satisfied my repulsion disorder needs.
At least at first.
Dr. Greta said that being in a false environment actually contributed to my breakdown. Clean could always be cleaner. Perfection was a moving target. In that pristine bathroom, I scrubbed and scrubbed, hands-and-knees style. Every night, after Mom went to bed, I buffed the glass tiles, but there remained the smallest film. The more elbow grease I used, the foggier the glass became. One night, I mixed the wrong cleaners. The hair burned right off my head and I woke up in the hospital. Then, the 72-hour hold became a week at Providence. “I had no idea she was this bad,” Mom told the doctor.
But all that is history. In line with my therapy, I replaced ritual with regimen. Dr. Greta had mapped out a plan. I had the pills. And now, in graduate-level desensitization, I’m about to share a 1928 outhouse-style bathroom with Dad, his girlfriend, and, apparently, The Girlfriend’s brother, who would no doubt forget to put down the toilet seat.
Not that I would sit on it anyway.
As we lurch to a gravel-crunch stop beside a faded red, paint-peeled structure, I push the spine of the food diary into my ribs, its bumpy leather binding like a corset bone, flattening me. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, I count in my head, visualizing my body collapsing as I push stomach closer to backbone.
Dad turns to me, puts a hand on top of my hand, and says, “You ready?”
I sink my top teeth into my bottom lip. Nod. I promised myself that I would practice what Dr. Greta called perfect presence. Meaning I would not isolate myself behind an iPod or a book or some other distraction during the first hour here. I would make eye contact. Shake a hand if it was offered.