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Secret Dreams

Page 11

by Keith Korman


  No! He shook his head, not trusting his mouth to speak. She lifted the corner of the sheet. Her tan legs stretched in long supple lines for him. It seemed cool under there, inviting, dark and safe. “Come,” she called. “Come to Nanny Sasha. Come …”

  He wanted to cry. And maybe even wet himself. He came.

  The old man in the tower slid from the chair and leaned against the stone wall, the two flies still cupped in the palm of his hand. They were doing a mating dance, showing each other their private parts. And even though their private parts were too minuscule to make much of an impression — still, they were showing off for him too. Should he be flattered? No … Animals copulated anyplace — in a cave, on a tree, in the palm of your hand. Lice bred in the seams of your clothes or in your hair. Mating like that meant nothing. Only the other kind of mating meant something. The human, warmblooded, brain-wrenching kind,

  Nanny Sasha had shown off her private parts for him. And he had returned her giving, pressing his little body toward all her secret places, loving them, worshiping them. How many times had he exposed himself to her? In the bath, on the potty, getting undressed. And how often she to him? Letting him in the water closet as she sat on the seat. Letting him stay with her as she searched for her clothes. She was a country girl, used to seeing things thrive or die. And he — her rooster chick, her piglet, her little nothing … She showed herself to him shamelessly. Guiltlessly Endlessly.

  The man in the tower stared into the upturned palm of his hand. He felt a tear roll down his cheek. He had gone shamelessly with Nanny Sasha, in his heart he had. And his father too. His own father. Had the two of them mended the broken antler in the small hours of the night? Mended it to make him doubt his eyes? His father lusted after her, he knew it in his bones. The desperate, insane wanting … His mother must have known. Any woman would.

  In a horrible flash he saw his mother in a rage: he had overheard his parents having an argument early on a Sunday morning. His mother clad in her pink satin robe, his father frozen in a chair, sitting in the book-lined study. His face remote, incomprehensible as big words in a book. As though nothing Mother said made the slightest difference.

  “Deny it!” Mother was shouting. “In my own house. Deny it to my face!”

  But what it was was not clear. As though it were some kind of vermin Father had brought in on his shoes. He hoped not beetles or cockroaches or anything related to the Scuttlers. His father mumbled something in reply.

  “Do you think I’m blind?” Mother snapped back. “Or stupid?”

  His father shrugged as if admitting what she said, that she was blind. Stupid. He glanced away and mumbled again. His mother’s voice rose in outrage.

  “I should have expected it!” Shrieking. “Expected it!”

  Father’s voice came distinctly, stern as old wood. “In my opinion, you gave permission long ago.”

  Mother stared the man to hell, her face red and swollen, her eyes yellow. “Permission …” The words choked out of her, a strangled sort of sputter. She went quite pale. An invisible line had been crossed between them. Something unforgivable had been said. Or suddenly admitted.

  His mother went into the bedroom and closed the French doors. Then from inside the bedroom came the sound of glass breaking. Immediately the French doors swung open so hard they shattered, broken shards falling to the carpet. Mother was crawling out of the bedroom on her hands and knees, sobbing as she came. This is what I’d do to you! This is what I’d do to you!” She had the long white bolster that always lay on their bed. With a broken piece of mirror glass she ripped at it. Streaks of blood had smeared across the creamy bolster. This is you! This in you!”

  Hanks of stuffing came out as she stabbed with the jagged glass. A rosy sweat floated over the pale skin of her arms. From where he crouched in the hall the woman seemed to be coming painfully toward him, straight at him, stabbing as she came. And every time she sobbed, This is you! This in you!” her eyes seemed to be staring into his own.

  The man strode stiffly out of the study, staring straight ahead. His mother remained on the carpeted floor with her blood-streaked arms around the shredded bolster, and her face sank into the satin, sobbing, This in you … you … you …”

  The man sitting in his tower mumbled, “You —- you — you.” He meant all of them: his mother, his father, Nanny Sasha. They had all transgressed. His head felt terribly swollen, like two great fists grinding his brains together. What profane arrogance to waste your life on the mere appearance of a thing. A career. Religion. An empty marriage. Only your own family mattered. Your tribe protecting you in the wilderness. How miserably his own tribe had failed him. They sent Nanny Sasha away, of course. One day there, the next day gone. And he never saw her again. Passing into the realm of warm and swollen dreams …

  He leaned against the stone wall Where were those blasted flies? He felt one stuck in his ear. Now buzzing, keening furiously to be set free. He wanted to jam his finger in, gouge it out, but his hand wouldn’t budge. For a brief moment he understood the language of flies. A tempting siren of unbearable sweetness. How dare anyone talk about him inside his own head! How dare a couple of mealy-mouthed insects hold a personal conversation inside his own cerebellum! He became dizzy,- he closed his eyes and shook his head, begging them to cease, but they didn’t listen. He’d shut them up the minute he could stop drooling all over his chin. Amazing how much drool came out of a person’s mouth when he let it hang indecently open. Puddles and puddles. Someone should really wipe this idiot’s face.

  He tried to groan out loud. But all that came was the thread of spittle that ran down his throat. Doktor Jung should really know by now how to handle a difficult patient like himself. After forty years of practice, high time to learn, ja? First, the patient should commit himself into the care of a reliable institution. That would be the Burghölzli of Zurich. Get a nice corner room overlooking the garden. And then Herr Doktor Jung might come and see him. Ah, but see here now, sir —- Herr Junior Physician Jung resigned his post at the Burghölzli thirty-odd years ago. And the methods they used in 1905, ach! Disgraceful! Of course, the patient would have to take into account Herr Junior Physician’s relative inexperience. Perhaps they might consult Herr Professor Freud. Somewhat of an expert in cases of this kind. But would the great man consult on such short notice?

  Of course he would! Freud loved him! They would consult as they always had. When had you last slaughtered your father? Herr Freud would ask. Hah! His father was years and years dead. Too late to track the old man down. But had he not killed another man, another father? That was what Herr Freud really meant to ask. Oh yes, he had. Another man. Another father. In a crazy girl’s dream. Oh yes, he had.

  Chapter 4

  The Institution

  He had come out of his seizure (a fit of neuro-spasmodic paralysis, should he call it?) and managed to wipe the spittle from his shirt. Somehow he had tumbled down the tower stairs without breaking his neck. Once in the round hearth room, he had collapsed on a bunk to sleep a deep, dreamless sleep. How long? The fire that burned in the central hearth had died to embers. Perhaps the same day, then. A sultry dusk lingered at the windows.

  As he lay on the bunk the slats beneath the rag-stuffed mattress made his bones feel brittle and achy His paralyzed hands tingled, the circulation returning in hot needles of blood. Thank God the interminable itching in his head was gone. Those flies would certainly have driven him mad in the end…. He had killed his father once. Not the one in Nanny Sasha’s bed, as would have been proper, as it should have been. But he’d found another, a lord and master. And cut his throat not once but a thousand times, to the roaring applause and wild cheers of the mob. They gave him garlands for the killing, garlands and devotion and love. They all wanted the old Faker dead.

  As the seizure passed, he dimly remembered grabbing at an old framed photograph that sat on his desk. At the time, he had half a mind to burn the picture — that was why he came downstairs! — but he had collap
sed on the bunk too soon for that, saying to himself, “I’ll just rest here a minute first …” He still clutched it in his numb hand. He wondered how he had managed to break the frame and get the photograph out of the glass. He pried his fingers loose and let go.

  The faded picture showed the imposing edifice of the Burghölzli Mental Hospital. On the back, a credit: Hans Hunisch, Photograph, 10 Hellestrasse, Zurich, February 15, 1906. He stared again at the cracked photo,- the name Hubert Frisson & Co. leaped to mind. The buildings architects and also builders of elaborate, elegant mansions along Fifth Avenue in New York City. What a ridiculous, absurd piece of useless information! How could he ever —

  Ah, he recalled now: veined marble pillars flanking the doors of the main lobby — he had passed them a dozen times a day, for years on end…. A bronze plaque embedded in one pillar proclaimed a paean to the architects;

  Hubert Frisson & Co.

  New York — London — Paris — Rome

  “Addresses of Distinction”

  Distinction was perhaps too light a word for what Messrs. Frisson & Co. built. They favored wrought-iron gates in the Gothic style, with spiked lamp cages on the gateposts. The Burghölzli had huge windows on the ground floor that opened like doors, the fittings of gold plate. The lintels over every window were red sandstone against blue granite. Then row upon row of half columns designating the various rooms and suites, five stories up like a layer cake. Round turrets at the building’s corners, with circular rooms on each floor,- the turrets of a different color than the rest, a black stone like the bastion of the Bastille. Then along the top of the layer cake, gables with triangular Flemish windows, the design stolen from the château of Chenonceaux on the Loire, with the palest blue slate roofing, the copper trim gone green. And finally, above the four spired turrets, smart brass flagpoles.

  By the time he arrived there the building had aged fifty years,- cold rains and sun and Zurich dirt had cracked the exterior stone. Inside, the marble wainscoting had yellowed with the grime of bodies and cigarette smoke. In some places, the orderlies’ gurneys had scraped the walls, leaving marks.

  A lush, well-planned garden flowered behind the building, but all this photo showed was window after window: staff offices, examination rooms, lecture rooms, communal wards … His own office had been in the back, in one of those cylindrical turrets overlooking the garden —

  No! No! No! This photo had been taken from the garden. His office had been in that corner turret, the fifth window up. There! Partly open, the way he always kept it, summer or winter, even on the worst days.

  Was that him? A dark blur leaning back in his chair, elbow resting on the sill? À smudge in the photo?

  How little photographs truly showed of a place. The fresh garden fragrance of the leaves and grass after the rain. The steamy food smell from the kitchen. The ozone cloud in the hallway outside the Galvanic Room. The fetid, musty odors in the lower reaches of the basement. No talking, no calls for help, no ringing bells. How could a mere picture show how they went about the business of treatment? Show triumph or failure. Or the common rhythm of life … ?

  What damn few choices they had back then. They held unruly patients under warm water to soothe them. They wrapped lethargic ones in cold, wet sheets to stimulate their systems. Hydrotherapy they called it: your choice of hot or cold.

  There was also the electroshock apparatus: a long wrought-iron table with overhanging cables attached to an electrical generator. A wide range of volts could be applied to different parts of the human body It worked in some cases of nervous paralysis or memory lapse. And it always worked in those cases suspected of shamming.

  Lastly, they had a limited kind of surgery. Excess cranial fluid might be released from within the skull to relieve pressure, or fluid drained from the spinal column with a tap. And on rare occasions a violent case was brought under control by removal of several grams of brain tissue.

  But what photo could show any of that? An iron table was just a table, a shower room just a place to wash your hair. No photo could show the forlorn cries falling on the stony ears of nurses and orderlies who had been around too many crazy people for much too long. Nor show the shallow look of bored cruelty on doctors’ faces as their patients’ imploring cries went unanswered; or the dull hum of staff conversations while a filthy young woman banged her head against her room door, laughing to herself minute after minute….

  This was a mental hospital, a madhouse. And no photo could ever truly capture the dayroom. A glass-enclosed solarium that gave onto the garden. Where they put the Incurables. For so they were. Forty or more … all curious cases, the odd and the notable. Some were war veterans with shrapnel in their brains, whose tiny government pensions had been turned over to the Burghölzli for their indefinite care. A rich widow who had willed her entire estate to the Pan-Germanic Society of Maidens for Moral Decency now spent her days under the delusion that she ran a bordello, with the dayroomers her stable. Most of the Incurables were not paying patients of the hospital but rather kept as specimens — living diagnostic examples. And when one ceased to function, that is, died, the Burghölzli hurriedly replaced it with another suitable specimen.

  The dayroom obsessed him, drawing him to it day after day. He used to find a spot to sit, and there he gazed through the glass inner doors as though into a pit of roiling chaos. Beyond the glass the noise was deafening: twenty voices babbled at once,- one voice stronger than the rest rose in tone-deaf verses, singing the same lines over and over:

  We stuck it in!

  We twirled it round’

  Yes, she took it all,

  Right on the ground!

  This ditty from an Incurable who fashioned snatches of black cloth and white paper to make himself a minister’s collar. A narrow, horse-faced man of about fifty-five, with protruding purplish lips and gray-ing hair that he sometimes pulled out in tufts. He had been a school superintendent — who suddenly one day failed to appear for work. But soon he warmed a bench in the public park and there, nine parts drunk, sang his lewd verses. From that day forward no one had gotten any more from Herr Superintendent than that ditty he chose to repeat. Because of his previous position, the local magistrate had to get involved in the man’s commitment to the Burghölzli. To the delight of the whole court — spectators, clerks, and sergeant at arms — the magistrate maintained a straight face when each question asked was answered by:

  “We stuck it in!” or “She took it all!”

  In the end an exasperated magistrate finally inquired, “Pardon me, Herr Superintendent, but do you realize where you are going?” To the howls of the court, Herr Superintendent urinated nervously down his leg, replying meekly, “Yes. Right on the ground….”

  Delusions ran rampant in the dayroom: a young peasant lass had convinced herself she was a little boy from China, She tied a headband around her head so tightly her eyes went slanty, and she always spoke accordingly in “Chinese.” There was a dignified dowager who had become Queen Victoria and went regally around the dayroom, inspecting her territories and protectorates. Occasionally she would mount punitive actions against the Pathans in the Kandahar — “Those devil blackies!” — and would have to be restrained.

  The Barber of Seville, a small, sallow Spaniard, offered to shave anyone who would sit still for him, yet he wanted to shave nothing but their genitals.

  Only by great vigilance did the staff manage to keep a razor from falling into his hands. Despite this, he cleverly fashioned a piece of cardboard into a “razor,” which he stropped on his belt, and he often shaved one particular man,- a fellow so withdrawn he never noticed anyway….

  The hospital also cared for the Sisters of Mercy, a pair of pinheads who stared happily out into the garden all day long. Both, pale, hairless creatures with narrow pixie skulls and fairly sunny dispositions. Obviously content with each other, they never tormented any of the others. And though called sisters, they weren’t biologically related. The male (he had a penis but no testicles) came f
rom a convent hospital and was perfectly harmless. The female had been sold by a circus when her huckster died of drink. This sister was sexually active, and in everyone’s mind her strange appetites were linked to her master’s excess. She required an eye on her at all times when she went into “heat.” Still, the two sisters were drawn to each other out of some mutual sympathy…. While watching them chatter back and forth with no apparent content to their speech, Herr Doktor slowly came to see them as the menagerie’s two most human attractions. Unhappily they proved him prophetically correct: when one of the sisters died of a bad cold, the other wasted away shortly thereafter. Died of grief, people said.

  And finally the repugnant cases … A man called the Bricklayer, as he had really been one once. He defecated on himself with such regularity the staff had long ago ceased trying to tidy him up more than twice a day. Periodically, orderlies assigned to the dayroom could be heard calling out sadly, “Ach, another brick!”

  There was an aging hormone case, a giantess, whose pituitary gland had gone rampant, making her grow seven feet tall. She licked her fingers and toes as if she were a house cat, and so she had always been known as Le Chat. During years of attempting to clean her “paws” she had twisted her limbs like a yogi contortionist. A select few of the staff knew her identity: the illicit offspring of a renowned Hungarian count and his twelve-year-old sister. The institution was amply compensated for the care of the counts “niece.” Rumor had it the pitiful child’s “aunt” committed suicide at the time of her birth, abandoning into a cruel world yet another poor orphan.

  But perhaps the most engagingly disagreeable case was Herr Tom Thumb, an unctuous, talkative dwarf about twenty years old — delivered to the institution by the same local magistrate after a brief court appearance. Herr Tom Thumb was lucid and congenial, always ready to regale a willing listener with the true stories of his early youth. “People spit on you when you’re made like me. You can’t even walk down the street in peace. Once I went to Zermatt to take the mountain air, and right there on the street a workman stepped out of a Brauhaus with his stein in his fat fist and spat on me. Spat on me! Pah! Just like that!”

 

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