Entwined

by La Plante, Lynda

  “Breakdown?”

  “Well, that is what the therapist called it. Vebekka calmed down eventually, and even seemed to forget the entire incident.”

  “Did you ever check through the papers, find anything that provided a reason for her behavior?”

  The baron shook his head. “I took it to be just another of her—problems.”

  Franks remained silent for a moment before asking if the baron could get his contact in the United States to obtain copies of the newspapers from that day. The baron looked to Helen Masters with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, but he agreed to try.

  Franks fell silent, closing his eyes in concentration, and then asked, softly, when the baron said his wife behaved childishly, whether this meant she also spoke like a child.

  “I meant it in a manner of speaking. Her act was childish. She didn’t, as far as I recall, speak in a childlike voice.”

  Franks noted again a fleeting look of guilt, or recall, passing over the baron’s face. “Yes?…You’ve remembered something else?”

  The baron stared at the wall. “Last night I was wakened by her crying. I was confused because it sounded—dear God I’ve never thought of it before—like a child…so much so that for a moment, in my half-sleep, I thought it was one of the children, before I remembered they were in Paris.”

  Franks waited. After a long pause the baron continued.

  “I went into her room and she was sitting up in bed. There was a shadow on the wall from the drapes. She was sobbing, pointing to the wall. She said, oh yes, she said the drapes were a…no, they were a ‘Black Angel.’ Then she said over and over, ‘It wasn’t true! It wasn’t true.’ I have no idea what she meant, but when I closed the drapes tightly and there was no more shadow she went back to sleep. But her voice…”

  The baron looked to Helen, helpless.

  “It was like a little girl, the way she shook her shoulders, and…that hiccup, you know, the way children do? It was as if she were a child having a nightmare.”

  Franks clapped his hands. “Now we are getting somewhere, and I think some tea would go down well. For you Baron? And you, Helen?”

  Before either had time to reply Franks had scuttled out, but he did not close the door. He returned in a moment, after barking to some unseen assistant that he wanted tea, and produced a children’s picture book. He held it like a piece of evidence, as if in a court of law.

  “Your wife slipped into her handbag a similar book yesterday while she was waiting in reception. Interesting?”

  “When did she do that?” asked Helen Masters.

  “When she was here, sitting with Maja. Maja saw her. Odd, don’t you think? Especially since it’s in German. Do you know whether this book exists also in French, or in English?”

  The baron was standing with his back to the room, staring out the window, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. “How would I know?”

  “Has your wife ever been involved in shoplifting?”

  “No, never, my wife is not a thief!” the baron snapped.

  Helen took the tea tray from Maja at the door and carried it to the desk. Franks joked that kleptomania was about the only thing the baroness had not been diagnosed for! His attempt at humor failed, and Helen quickly passed the teacups around, then sat on a hard-backed chair.

  Franks seemed unaware of the atmosphere in the small room. He munched one biscuit after another until the plate was cleared.

  “Would you say your wife suffered from agoraphobia?”

  The baron replied curtly that his wife was not agoraphobic, or claustrophobic, turning to Helen as if for confirmation. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Franks brushed the biscuit crumbs from his cardigan. “But she is obsessive, tell me more about her obsessions.”

  “What woman isn’t!” the baron retorted, and then he apologized. “I’m sorry—that was a stupid reply, under the circumstances. Forgive me, but I find this constant barrage of questions disturbing, perhaps because I am searching for the correct answers, and I am afraid that everything I say, when placed under the microscope as it were, makes me appear as if I have not been caring enough, when, I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth.”

  The room was silent. The baron had cupped his chin in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Helen Masters focused on a small flower-shaped stain on the wall directly in front of her. Franks looked from one to the other.

  “Maybe we should take a break now!”

  Helen picked up the files, as Franks gave her a tiny wink. She went ahead to the waiting car, and was about to step inside when Louis announced he had to return to the doctor’s office. “I won’t be a moment, wait for me here!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Dr. Franks looked up in surprise as the baron knocked on his open door and entered, but he did not ask if the baron had forgotten something. He knew the baron wished to speak to him alone. He cleared his throat. “You know if you would prefer to have these sessions with me alone, Helen is a very understanding woman, perhaps more than you realize. She is, after all, a very good doctor herself.”

  “Yes I know, of course I know. I have tremendous respect for her. I wanted to talk to you privately, though.”

  The baron could not meet Franks’s eyes.

  “I’d like to tell you something concerning my wife.” He smiled, and Franks was struck anew by the man’s handsomeness.

  The baron moved to the office window, stood with his back to the room. “I have had many women, I suppose you might call me a promiscuous man, but I did love my wife—I say did, because over the years her illness had gradually made me hate her. I have, may God forgive me, wished her dead more often than I care to admit, and yet, when she attempts to kill herself my remorse, my dread of her dying and leaving me is very genuine, and my relief when she recovers, very real.”

  The baron rested his head against the glass.

  “She was, Doctor, the most beautiful creature, I wanted to possess her the moment I laid eyes on her. She simply took my breath away. She was sweetness itself, she was naive, she was nervous, like an exquisite exotic bird. Her fragility made me almost afraid of her, as though if I held her too tightly, kissed her too deeply, she would be crushed. The more I got to know her, the more delightful she became, but in those days my fear of…”

  He hesitated as if searching for the right word, then he turned to face Franks. “I had a fear of breaking her. She soon assured me I could not, and during our courtship she became more vibrant, even more outgoing. She was very amusing, with a wicked sense of humor. She was a great tease. She was, Doctor, everything I had ever dreamed of. I married her against tremendous opposition from my family, especially my mother. Perhaps Mama had some insight into Vebekka, but I would hear none of it. The first few months of marriage, I don’t think I have ever known such happiness, such total commitment. I had never loved like that, or felt so loved, or been so satisfied.”

  The baron took two steps from the window, then turned back. His voice was hardly audible. “I had my first sexual encounter when I was fourteen. I had countless women, from society women to prostitutes. I was a normal, healthy man, obviously eligible, and known to be wealthy. I very rarely, if ever, had to court a woman. Perhaps that was why I wanted Vebekka so much, because she was, to begin with, unobtainable and completely disinterested in me. We did not sleep together until after we were married. I know it may sound laughable but I presumed she was a virgin.”

  Franks leaned back in his chair, waiting, but eventually he had to ask as the baron’s silence continued.

  “Was she? A virgin?”

  The baron drew out a chair and sat down. “No she was not, she was very experienced. I was a little—no, more than a little—I was shocked. My bride was sexually aggressive, demanding, explicit, and insatiable. As I have said, the first few months with her—I have never known anything so totally consuming, I never experienced such peaks of emotion, such sexual gratificatio
n, and then, then she became pregnant.”

  Franks made a steeple with his fingers, waiting. After a moment the baron continued, but was obviously very uncomfortable, running his index finger around the collar of his shirt, as if it constricted him in some way.

  “A few months after she became pregnant, she changed. She would not allow me to touch her, allow me anywhere near her, she was terrified she would lose the baby if we had sex. And then, this illness, whatever we want to call it, began. She broke my heart, Doctor. It was as if I had never known her. She behaved as if she hated me, and even when I was told that it was because she was ill, all I felt was her rejection.”

  Franks placed his hands flat on the desk.

  “But after the birth, she was herself again? Did you resume your old sexual relationship?”

  “No, she continued to reject me as a husband for a long time, at least ten months. Then all of a sudden it was as if it had never happened. I returned home one evening and she was my Vebekka again. But I could not be turned on and off like a faucet.”

  “So you rejected her?”

  The baron laughed, a gentle, self-mocking laugh. “My wife was a very persuasive woman. For two months it was like a second honeymoon, and then as quickly as it had begun, it was over—she was pregnant again.”

  The baron explained that after his second son was born he attempted to persuade his wife to use birth control, but she adamantly refused. So the pattern had repeated itself yet again, but after that third time, when she had been ill for six months, he had no desire to be reunited with her.

  “So you stopped loving her, after your third child?”

  “I realized she was sick, knew by then that she did not really know what she was doing during these periods. So I simply arranged my life around her.”

  The baron’s face flushed with guilt. He blamed himself. He had not been at home as often as he should have been. Then the guilty expression in the baron’s eyes was replaced by an icy coldness. When he spoke, his voice grew quieter, almost vicious.

  “My wife had taken to leaving the house late in the evening. She never took the car, always hired a taxi, and on many occasions did not return home until the following morning. I began to have her followed, for her own good, you understand.”

  “Were you considering a divorce?”

  The baron dismissed the question with a shake of his head. He spoke quickly, not disguising his disgust. “She was picking up men, truck drivers, cab drivers, wandering around the red light district. As soon as I discovered this, I confronted her with it. She denied she had ever left the house, but she continued her midnight crawls, even when I was threatened with blackmail, she denied she was—virtually soliciting.”

  “You mean she was paying for sex?”

  “Occasionally, or she was paid. It was a terrible time, and I was at my wits’ end. I have never considered a divorce. She is my wife and the mother of my children, we are a Catholic family. It was out of the question.”

  “Was? Have you changed your mind?”

  The baron picked up his coat, gave a distant smile. “Just a slip of the tongue.”

  His arrogance returned. He was again distant, icy cold.

  “If you can’t help her, then I am—and I assure you I have never considered this before—but I am prepared to have my wife certified.”

  The control slipped again. The baron leaned over Franks’s desk. “I don’t understand myself, you see, I just don’t understand, after everything I have been through!”

  Franks slowly stubbed out his cigar. ‘‘Understand what, exactly?”

  “That I can…last night, I felt attracted to my wife. I did not believe myself capable of wanting her again. I must not allow her to manipulate me. I am tired, worn out by her. You are my last chance, perhaps hers. I ask you not just to help my wife, but me. Help me!”

  Franks nodded. It was time for dinner, his stomach rumbled. He hoped the baron would leave. At that moment, Maja knocked on the door and popped her head in.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Masters said to tell you the car’s still waiting, but not to worry; she has taken a taxi back to the hotel.”

  Franks gave a pleading look to Maja.

  “And you have another appointment in half an hour, Doctor!” Maja closed the door.

  Franks rose to his feet, and the baron was already by the door, his hand on the handle.

  “Thank you for your time, I appreciate it.”

  Franks clasped the baron’s hand in a firm handshake. “I thank you for your honesty, and let us hope we will achieve some results.”

  At last Franks was alone and he slumped into his chair, buzzing the intercom for Maja. She appeared almost immediately, and smiled. “My, that was a long return visit! I hope it was fruitful!”

  Franks laughed, and rubbed his belly. “I need food; I am starving to death!”

  Maja brought in a tray of sandwiches and coffee, and the evening paper. He settled back, making himself comfortable, his eyes skimming the headlines, and then he flipped the paper open to the second page, glancing over the ads for the circus, paying no attention to the late afternoon news bulletins. One small five-line article stated that the Polizei had discovered a body in a small East Berlin hotel that evening.

  Chapter 5

  The chambermaid had not changed the bed linen of Room 40, because the do not disturb sign was hanging from the door. It was not until later in the afternoon when she was vacuuming the corridor that she tapped on the closed door, and, receiving no reply, entered using her master set of keys. The curtains were drawn and the television set turned on, the sound so low it was hardly audible. The room was neat, except for the unmade bed, its coverlet bunched on the floor.

  The maid fetched clean towels, sheets, and pillowcases, and went back into the room. She tossed the clean linen onto the chair, and drew back the curtains. She went into the bathroom, collected the dirty towels, and dropped them onto the floor. Two were bloodstained and she picked them up distastefully between finger and thumb. She then replaced the towels with fresh ones, and was washing down the sink and bath when a friend popped her head around the door to ask if she was nearly through for the day, as it was after three.

  Both women got off at two-thirty, they each had other jobs in the evening. Together they began to clean the room, and one pulled the sheets back.

  “It’s not been slept in. Christ! it’s freezing in here, they must have turned off the heat. Some people are weird.”

  Together they bent down to the rolled bedcover, and tugged it from underneath the bed. And screamed virtually in unison.

  Tommy Kellerman’s body rolled out of the cover, the section over his head dried hard with dark blood.

  Screaming at the top of their lungs, the women ran down the corridor. A waiter carrying a loaded tray of dirty dishes was about to step out of the elevator when they appeared, shouting garbled words as they pointed frantically to the room. The man ran into the room and was in no more than a few seconds. When he came out, his face drained as he whispered: “Dear God, it’s a child—somebody’s killed a child in there!”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  By the time the Polizei arrived, the corridor was filling with gaping onlookers and guests. The manager of the hotel tried to keep some semblance of order, shouting for people to stand back. He looked disheveled, having just been dragged out of his quarters. His collarless shirt hung out over his hurriedly pulled-on pants.

  Polizei Oberrat Torsen Heinz pushed his way through the throng, holding up his badge. Three uniformed officers followed behind him. Torsen was the first of them to arrive at the open bedroom door. He asked if the doctor or forensic team had been there. He could see the tiny body, the small foot in the red sock, and his stomach turned over. He did not attempt to remove the congealed mess beneath the bed cover as he walked gingerly around the body.

  The manager hung in the doorway, demanding to know who had torn pages out of his register
.

  The doctor arrived and took only a second to certify the body as deceased. The pathologist scuttled in, followed by two lab boys from the forensic department. They began yelling for everyone to clear out of the room.

  Oberrat Heinz checked the room quietly, using a pencil to open a couple of drawers. The doctor looked over to him as he departed. “It’s not a kid, it’s a dwarf or a midget and he’s taken one hell of a beating, but that’s stating the obvious. G’night.”

  The pathologist carefully slipped plastic bags around the tiny red socks; he applied a bag to Kellerman’s right arm and hand, then reached for his left. He stood up rubbing his knee and, looking down, realized he was kneeling on a set of broken dentures. He gestured to Heinz.

  “I’m sorry, I think I may have broken them; my mistake, but someone should have checked this area.”

  Heinz stared at the broken teeth, and then stepped out of the way as the pathologist continued his work, about to wrap Keller-man’s left arm in a protective plastic bag.

  “Jesus, look at his arm, it’s been hacked, a big chunk of skin removed, just above the wrist.”

  Heinz sent one of the uniformed officers out to check for any garbage that might have been removed.

  The pathologist’s team slipped a plastic sheet beside Kellerman, rolled him on top of it, then tied all four ends and lifted up the body.

  “He booked in early yesterday, according to the chambermaid,” Torsen Heinz said to no one in particular. He tugged at his blond hair, watched as two men dusted door handles and the mirror, then made his way down to the reception area. The manager, now wearing a jacket, insisted he had been on duty and had seen no one come in other than official guests. Heinz listened, knowing that local prostitutes used this hotel, but said nothing; he simply asked to see the guest book. The manager shoved it toward him, pointing with a dirty fingernail to the torn pages. He scratched his greasy head, and tried unsuccessfully to recall the dead man’s name.

  “What about his passport, did you see his passport?”

  The manager was sweating. “I saw it and checked it. I know the rules. He had luggage, a sort of greenish carryall. Did you find it?”