In the end, it wasn’t half as bad as I’d thought it would be. There was a chest-high fence crowded with telescopes and a second safety fence some distance beyond that. I didn’t make it all the way to the front of the crowd but still enjoyed the breathtaking view of the city spread out like a carpet before us. We even managed to walk once around the platform. I kept to the inside wall, well away from the railing. As a reward, Nick bought me a wildly expensive cappuccino. The long line for tickets for the top-floor elevator killed any talk about a new challenge for my fear at the thousand-foot level. We decided not to wait, to instead go directly back down. As we waited for the elevator to return, I watched Nick. He went back to the railing, and suddenly I turned cold. I was about to shout for him to come back when he turned around with a smile and came running. He saw right through me.
“Darling, cut it out with that frightened, furrowed forehead. Do you really think I’d end this magnificent day by jumping off the Eiffel Tower?”
His smile grew broader. “And leave you here all by your lonesome at this dangerous height? With your French you might not even find the exit!”
Since he was so relaxed as he spoke, I nodded warily. “I’d rather not think about it, but the fear that you’ll take your life is always present.”
Now it was his turn to frown. I hoped I hadn’t made him angry. But he stayed calm. “Please get it into your head that those two exceptional situations were completely different. In the first one I was terrified that you never wanted to see me again, and the second one—how many times must I say it?—I was drunk.”
He took me in his arms. “Laura, I’ve married you. I’ll never leave you.”
He seemed to be absolutely convinced by what he said. And I felt reassured again, although I still had an uneasy, gnawing feeling. But he’d promised to seek professional help back in Munich, and so I changed the subject so I wouldn’t jeopardize the rest of our stay. Now that I’d seen the spectacular views of Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur from above, I absolutely had to see them in person.
That night, before going to bed, Nick gave me a present—a hideously kitschy key-chain with a glittering pink Eiffel Tower in rhinestones.
“So you will always remember the day with me in Paris when you went up very high. There was another one in plush, but it was too ugly even for me.”
“Really? Like this one here?”
Nick roared with laughter when I reached into my shoulder bag and solemnly handed him a key ring with a pink-and-red plush Eiffel Tower on it. We’d both had the same idea independently.
Between sightseeing tours and shopping expeditions, we recharged ourselves at the numerous street cafés, basked in the unseasonal, mild, sunny weather, and admired the famous Parisian elegance of the chic French women hurrying past. And when in the evening we came back to our room after a wonderful meal in an excellent gourmet restaurant, his tender touch, his passion, and his embraces drove away all my fatigue and worries. It was a picture-book honeymoon, and I held back my sad feelings when we got off the train in Munich.
But during the first night at home, I had to wake him around three in the morning because he was tossing restlessly and muttering incomprehensible words. When he was mostly awake, he admitted that he’d had his nightmare again. Then he threw his arms around me and quickly dozed off again. But I spent the rest of the night wide-awake, brooding. By the next morning, he’d forgotten that I’d woken him up, and claimed he could not remember his dream.
The day after we got home, we both had to leave for work and we said good-bye with a tender kiss.
Chris was glad to see me back. “There’s work to do. We’ve got two new clients. And the seminar organizer wants exact dates for next year’s lectures.”
She wanted to hear all about Paris, and her eyes gleamed when I told her about it. “Sounds like the perfect wedding trip. And it wasn’t even your proper honeymoon.”
Then she gave a dreamy laugh. “Richard suggested we get married in June and then fly to the Seychelles. Laura, I’m so happy I’ve finally found the right man. Like you and Nick. It was perfect timing. Neither of us had to envy the other her dreamboat.”
Nick was my dreamboat, but one with unexpected depths. I wondered if Chris and Richard had their deep, dark secrets, too. Was there anything that they carefully concealed from the outside world because it was too bizarre? Maybe Richard, who’d studied medicine and worked in a research facility, had odd sexual preferences or hobbies that Chris didn’t want the world to know about.
To me, any hobby that didn’t put your life in peril was more acceptable than my husband’s unpredictable attempts to put an end to his earthly existence. I loved the words my husband and used them frequently. I wanted to be able to say them happily and often at a ripe old age. And so I didn’t leave Nick in peace. I made him renew his promise to see a specialist about his dark moods and his disconcerting dream. He made no bones about the fact that he thought it was unnecessary—he felt terrific—and was considering it only for my sake.
“My colleague Marisa thinks it’s chic to go to a psychologist and dump her emotional garbage on him. She calls him her ‘coach.’ If you really think I should, I’ll ask her for a referral,” he said.
A week later, we stood in front of a modern office building in the Inner City. Nick looked unhappy.
“Laura, must we really do this? I feel great. I have no idea what to do with this character.”
“This character” was Dr. Harald Lighter, and his futuristic aluminum nameplate identified him as a psychological consultant and life coach. Nick had gotten his name from Marisa who swore by the man.
“Naturally, I didn’t tell her I needed a shrink but said it was for a friend who had some problems. Marisa recommended the guy very enthusiastically—she said he was so empathetic and competent.”
Nick insisted that I attend the first consultation with him. “Or else I won’t go,” he said. “Anyway, you’re the one who wanted me to get somebody to poke around in my psyche.”
I had high hopes that the proverb nomen est omen would prove true in this case and that Dr. Lighter would help lighten Nick’s burden. But my optimism was dashed as soon as we walked into his office. Maybe some women would find him attractive, but I found him to be a greaseball. He was of medium height and thin, and his dark hair was combed back and loaded with gel. As he fixed his black eyes on us and offered a limp handshake, I noticed that his left hand repeatedly, almost compulsively, slicked down his greasy hair. I caught myself wiping my hand on my jeans after his handshake.
He barricaded himself behind his desk and merrily asked us to sit down in the chairs in front of it. Fascinated yet revolted, I couldn’t stop looking at a black wooden sculpture on his desk. It looked innocuous at first sight, with two semicircular bumps and a red, lacquered link shaped like an old-fashioned telephone receiver between them. Upon closer examination, however, I realized this “artwork” represented the best part of a man’s manhood in its natural physical surroundings.
As soon as the doctor stopped touching his hair, he began absentmindedly stroking the red part of the sculpture. It didn’t give me a lot of confidence in the stability of his personality. My instinct was to get Nick out of there on the double. But I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to persuade him to see another therapist anytime soon.
When the doctor asked why Nick had come, I couldn’t believe my ears. Nick just shrugged and sighed and said it was to please his wife. Oh, he and the compulsive doctor got along famously. They joked, talked shop about cars, good Munich bars, and—I thought I’d wound up in the wrong film—parachute jumping. Finally, I could no longer contain myself and begged Nick to get to the point.
He gave me a surly look before turning to the eager therapist. “My wife is overly concerned. She has acrophobia herself and for that reason can’t empathize with my passion for jumping. Ah, yes, and then I’ve done something rather stupid
twice: I was drunk the first time, and now she fears for my life and thinks I need therapy.”
He laughed heartily, and Dr. Lighter laughed along with him. I wondered what field his doctorate was in and how he got it—maybe in African fertility rites? I cursed myself silently. I should have never trusted Nick to find a competent therapist. Clearly, my husband had pulled a fast one on me. I saw through him like a pane of glass. He never had intended to tell anybody other than me about his problems. Least of all a real, experienced psychologist or psychotherapist. He’d only gone along with seeing this windbag to get me off his back.
When our time was up, the self-styled “psychological consultant” turned to me and said that he’d rarely seen such a physically fit and mentally healthy man in his office as my husband. Then he recommended to me that, instead of using my husband as an excuse, I should think about getting some coaching with regard to my “generalized anxiety disorder.” He assured me in all seriousness that he could “get a handle on it” in about thirty sessions.
At that moment all I could think was how dearly I’d love to get a handle on the quack’s throat. But I struggled to keep my cool, and said between clenched teeth that I’d think about it. Then Nick and I left the charlatan’s office. We were barely in the stairwell when Nick burst out laughing. He could hardly control himself.
“There, sweetheart, now you’ve heard it from an expert. I’m healthy as a horse. You need therapy. What’s Marisa been doing with this guy for two years? Oh, well, she’s such a narcissist I doubt even this con man could do any further harm. I hope you’re satisfied now.”
His laughter died when my icy stare hit him. He reached for my hand, but I pulled it back in a rage.
He put on his hangdog look. “Darling, don’t get mad. I kept my promise and really tried.”
“You tried nothing. Except trying to take me for a ride.”
I was furious. That was the evening Nick and I had our first big fight as a married couple. The minute we walked through the front door, I threw my key onto the vestibule table and took off for the bathroom without a word. When I came back to the living room, a relaxed Nick was stretched out on the couch.
He made a pitch for us to make up. “That character was really a funny duck, don’t you think?”
I stared at him, enraged. “Stop acting as if we’ve been to a hilarious play. Goddammit, Nick, I’m dying of fear for you and am trying everything so we can lead a normal life. A life where I don’t have to worry constantly about when this thing will recur and whether I’ll get there in time to keep from becoming a widow. And you’ve nothing better to do than to lead me around by the nose and waste our valuable time with an incompetent, wannabe psychologist just to calm me down?”
“Honey, you worry too much. I feel super. You’re right, I have no desire to let some head-shrinker talk me into anything. Just relax a little bit more and don’t take things so seriously.”
“How can I relax when we’re talking about your life and our future together? Instead, I’m spending all my time wondering how it would feel to organize a funeral if I come to your rescue too late.”
Our argument got louder and louder, and at some point he flew into a rage.
“Just stop giving me the perpetual feeling I’m off my rocker and desperately need therapy!” yelled Nick. “I feel fantastic, except that my wife’s making a mountain out of a molehill and is two steps away from having me committed. Just because I swallowed a few harmless pills once and then took the belt off my pants when I was wasted. Maybe my ‘problems’ have to do with you. Before I met you, I never had these attacks. If I had, I’d have been dead ages ago!”
I screamed back, “You’re lying again! You’ve had that recurring dream! The night we met, you were roaring down the road like a madman and didn’t give a shit if you hit a tree or not. Parachuting is not a safe, normal hobby, either. And Hanna said you constantly did risky things as a kid. Will you finally admit that when you put all that together, it doesn’t say a lot for your mental health?”
Riled up but exhausted, I sank onto the nearest armchair and used my palms to angrily wipe away my tears. What a nightmare! Other couples had rows about things like whether the toilet seat should be up or down, or about splattered toothpaste in the sink. But we were arguing about his dangerous hobbies, his suicide attempts, and his aborted therapy sessions. And apparently now I was the one who triggered Nick’s urges to tempt death. I decided to pack my things on the spot. But a second later, Nick was in front of me, sweeping me up in his arms and kissing me madly. I wanted to fight it, but his inexorable grip was too much for me as he pressed his lips to mine and his tongue relentlessly sought entrance.
Between kisses, he ran his hands over my body and whispered, “I love you, Laura. Please stop fighting with me. I know you worry. But I really do feel good. You should see a few of my colleagues—then you’d know what real psychological damage is.”
His lips tenderly brushed my forehead, and he kissed me greedily again. I was too drained by our fight to challenge him, and I was swept along by his impetuous lovemaking. We threw ourselves onto each other—we couldn’t get enough—and I repressed my fears once more. I persuaded myself that as long as we could make love like this, we’d overcome every difficulty.
Chapter 14
The sharp blade of the meat knife glided effortlessly through the huge cut of beef sirloin. Nick made thin, regular slices, while I stood at the sink washing button mushrooms and rinsing lettuce leaves. As it turned out, Nick was very handy in the kitchen and loved to try new gourmet recipes even more than I did. Today’s dinner would be filet strips in a cream-and-mushroom sauce. Like many men, he loved the supermarket, mostly the biggest ones, and when he went shopping he’d bring back enough for us to withstand a five-month siege.
“There’s something primeval about wandering through the aisles and piling up the food. Like Stone Age men hunting mammoths and dragging huge masses of meat into a cave,” he argued against my protests that he was buying for a whole battalion instead of a two-person household.
We’d discovered a common passion for cooking after we’d returned from France five months earlier, and had started to cook for ourselves occasionally to relieve Hanna. She’d joined a group of single men and women her age and would go hiking or bowling with them when she wasn’t needed to take care of us.
“I don’t want to be a pest. You don’t need to keep me company. You need time to yourselves,” she’d explained to rationalize her new activities. But I could tell she enjoyed living her own life again after existing so long for Nick and his parents. She was always exhilarated when returning from her outings, and Nick would tease her.
“Are you sure it’s not just one man you go around with and you do who knows what with him?”
She stood at the kitchen sink and washed her hands energetically before reaching for a dishtowel. “I am not a hussy.”
“Oh, well, dearest Hanna. Who knows? Still waters run deep.”
Indignant, she threw the towel at him.
Nick laughed himself half to death, and I had to admit, I had the devil’s own time to keep from chuckling.
Other than the fight over the counselor, the first half-year of our fledgling marriage was without incident. In the positive sense. We worked a lot, enjoyed our life together, and planned house renovations. Nick’s parents had given us an extremely generous Christmas present.
“Angela and I spend most of the year in Spain, anyway. And the warm climate’s ideal for her arthritis, so we definitely won’t be coming back for an extended stay. It only makes sense to give the house to you two. You need room and a garden, especially when the children come. Make a guest apartment for us upstairs, and do what you want with the ground floor. We’ll pay for the remodeling,” announced Jürgen that Christmas Eve.
Unfortunately, Nick didn’t have the same enthusiasm for planning as I did.
�
��For God’s sake, with all those ideas of yours, workmen will be in the house for months,” he complained, half seriously and half in jest, and rubbed a tired hand over his forehead.
In April, I made my first concrete suggestions for revamping the first floor, with two bedrooms for the children, of course. He was dubbing an American feature film at the time, speaking the lead’s voice. What would eventually appear in the cinema and on TV as perfectly natural, actually took a lot of concentration and effort to create.
Hanna was having dinner with us and gave him a censorious look over her reading glasses. “That’s what renovations are, my boy. But you’re welcome to lend a hand to save on workmen. At least for the time being.” She chuckled. She very well knew how much Nick hated house repairs of any kind.
I knew Nick was a wonderful lover and a talented actor—and he was becoming a good cook—but he was a lousy do-it-yourselfer. He hated hammering or sticking recalcitrant strips of wallpaper on the wall; he said it was a pure waste of time. And his previous attempts at hanging pictures, unplugging drains, and putting together small pieces of furniture demonstrated his lack of motivation.
I grinned at him and Hanna. “If Nick’s to install the kids’ rooms, I’ll reach menopause before they can move in.”
He got up, threw us a mock withering look, and shoved his chair under the table. “You two possess enormous sensibility in your dealings with highly sensitive people. But continue with the near-demolition of my parents’ house. I’m going upstairs to do more useful things, like learning my lines for tomorrow.”
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