Where Madness Lies

by Sylvia True

  “No.” She walked to the window, touched a finger to the glass, and stared into the mist. “I don’t think it’s about darkness or light. Therese thinks that perhaps Rigmor’s post ovulation cycle is somehow out of kilter. Did you notice anything different the night of the symphony? Were there any warning signs?”

  “Nothing at all.” He felt disfigured by shame and guilt. He could only imagine this downturn was his fault.

  “I suppose there is no simple answer,” Inga said. “Not that I thought there was.” She sighed, seeming softer, more resigned.

  Arnold moved his desk chair to the center of the room so that Inga could sit. She peeled off her gloves.

  “Has she been able to do anything?” he asked.

  “Sometimes she sits in bed with her sketchpad. But the drawings are disturbing. They are of cages and frightful faces.” Inga shook her head.

  “She feels trapped, perhaps,” Arnold said.

  “My mother hovers and paces and brings soup that Rigmor doesn’t want. And yes, I do think she feels confined by the home, but she won’t leave her room, so how can she not feel imprisoned there?”

  “I have been wondering if it wouldn’t help her to go somewhere.”

  “Where?” Inga asked.

  “I was thinking of an institution, a place called Sonnenstein. She would have space to find her way. They have warm salt baths, music rooms, and beautiful gardens.”

  Inga looked horrified. “An insane asylum?”

  “God, no. It does offer shelter to some who are sick, but it is more of a spa, where she can rest, where she might not feel so closed in. There are people there who are not insane, who have mild disorders, some nervousness, nothing different from Rigmor. And I happen to know the director there. He is at the top of our field.”

  “What is his name?” Inga asked, taking out her notepad.

  “Paul Bohm.” Arnold hoped she wouldn’t interrogate him further. He had met the famous psychiatrist once, at a conference. It was highly doubtful Bohm would remember Arnold.

  “Aside from a needed rest, might this Bohm have other treatments?”

  “Yes, of course. And she would naturally have a private room. The setting is lovely. On the Elbe.”

  Inga jotted for a moment, then put away her notepad and stood. “Come at seven tonight. My mother will not be home.” Once again, she walked out without saying goodbye.

  Arnold wrapped his blanket around his shoulders. He did believe it would be best for Rigmor to try an institution. Yet something nagged at him, a sense that he was sending her away because of his own failings, as a doctor and a man. He imagined what other doctors might say, and each time he reached the same conclusion—that she needed a retreat, away from the city, away from her mother and sister, away from him.

  By the time Arnold arrived at the Blumenthals’, his ears were numb. Inga greeted him at the door and explained that Rigmor had been in a frantic state a few hours ago, but had calmed down since. When they reached the bedroom, Arnold sat and looked at Rigmor, who lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling. Inga helped her sister up.

  “Arnold is here.” She ran her fingers through Rigmor’s hair, beginning to plait it.

  “We talked about Sonnenstein,” Inga told Arnold.

  “I want to go,” Rigmor said, glancing at him. Her face was gaunt, and her voice weak. “I want to be with other people who are like me.”

  “There is no rush,” Arnold said. “It’s something we can think about.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” Rigmor said.

  Inga stopped plaiting and reached for something under the bed. “I told Arnold about your sketches.”

  “No,” Rigmor said, her voice strong for an instant.

  Inga dropped the pad at the foot of the bed.

  “Do you think it would be all right if I had a moment to speak to Rigmor alone?” Arnold asked, looking first at Inga, then Rigmor.

  Both women nodded.

  “I was so sorry to hear you weren’t feeling well,” he began after Inga closed the door.

  Rigmor put a hand on her chest. “I feel as if an entire ocean sits on me. It’s hard to breathe.”

  With great effort, she pushed herself up so that she was sitting straighter. He wanted to help, but he didn’t want his touch to feel intrusive. “I really want to go away. I can’t tolerate any more energy and time wasted on me.”

  Arnold cleared his throat. “Do you think that this episode had anything to do with us—with what happened at my home?”

  He still had his coat on. His hands dove into his pockets and balled into fists. Yes, a part of him wished she would say it had nothing to do with him, but the larger part of him wanted the truth, wanted her to talk about her feelings of anger, or resentment, or whatever else she might be harboring.

  Rigmor’s eyes focused on something behind him. “Will you please talk with my mother? Tell her it would help me to go away.”

  “I can try,” he said. “But that night…”

  “I just want to go away,” she interrupted.

  “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  Her face tightened. “Don’t be. That will make things worse. Then I will worry about you as well.”

  He loosened his fingers and put his hands on the eiderdown. The only word that came to him was sorry. He was about to speak when the door flew open.

  Frau Blumenthal marched in, wearing a babushka and a fur coat. Inga followed.

  “What is going on in here?” Frau Blumenthal stood close to the foot of the bed.

  Inga sidled next to Arnold. “I asked him to come.”

  “Has there been any improvement since we have had this man in our lives?” she asked Inga, her anger verging on tears.

  “It comes in waves. We know that. This isn’t his fault.” Inga’s shoulders arched back, her stance defensive—a different woman, he thought, to the one who had braided her sister’s hair minutes earlier.

  Frau Blumenthal picked up the sketchpad. She flipped through the pages and fear crossed her face. As she handed the pad to Inga, Arnold peered over her shoulder. The sketch was of a woman who looked like Rigmor with chains around her ankles and a gag on her mouth. Behind her, a man carried a scythe; he had wolfish teeth and Hitler’s face.

  “If the wrong hands see that,” Frau Blumenthal said. “We could all be carted off.” She took the pad from Inga and threw it in the fireplace.

  “You are making catastrophes where there are none,” Inga answered.

  “Please stop,” Rigmor begged.

  “I’m sorry, my darling,” Frau Blumenthal told her.

  Inga turned to her mother. “We thought that it might be good for Rigmor to go somewhere. Somewhere she could get the right treatment.”

  “She is not going anywhere,” Frau Blumenthal answered, and then looked at Rigmor. “I don’t want you at some place where you will have no one.”

  “Arnold will be there,” Inga blurted.

  Was she serious? He would not be there. Why say something like that to Rigmor? It was not just a lie but a cruel one.

  “I spoke to the director today,” Inga continued. “He is one of the best doctors in the world. He is against any sort of punitive treatment. Rigmor would have a beautiful room overlooking the Elbe River.”

  “Have you already chosen the wallpaper as well?” Frau Blumenthal asked.

  “Mother, please—I want to go,” Rigmor said, and then shuddered so violently that Arnold was sure she was having a seizure.

  He held her shoulders to comfort her. The convulsion lasted only a few seconds, but left Rigmor paler than before.

  “She really should rest,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Frau Blumenthal, glaring at Inga. “She shouldn’t be involved in these arguments.” She kissed Rigmor’s cheek.

  Arnold glanced at Rigmor, hoping he could convey everything that he was feeling—that he was sorry for any pain he might have caused, that he understood how difficult it was for Rigmor to be tugged between her mot
her and her sister, and that he did believe a sanatorium might be just the thing she needed.

  * * *

  In the drawing room, Inga tried to find words that wouldn’t anger her mother, but all she could think about was Rigmor’s horrible sketch.

  “Frau Blumenthal,” Arnold began. “I understand the thought of an institution is frightening.”

  Inga nodded. He seemed to know how to approach the subject. She would keep quiet for the moment.

  “Sonnenstein is modern,” he continued, “not only in their beliefs, but their techniques. Dresden is nearby, and is known to have a good cultural center. Some say it rivals what we have in Frankfurt.”

  Inga watched her mother uncross her feet and plant them on the floor. She looked like a bulldog. “And in a year’s time there will be another place espousing to be the most modern. It means nothing. Rigmor is going nowhere. I will not have her in some decrepit institution left alone to rot.”

  “She will not be alone,” Inga said. “Arnold will be there.”

  “But,” Arnold began.

  Inga held up a hand for him to stop. “Not now,” she said, and turned back to her mother. “Rigmor needs a fresh start, and a facility where there are many good doctors. Let her try at least. If she hates it, or we hate it, she can leave whenever she wants.”

  “You would keep a close watch?” Frieda asked Arnold, her voice dropping.

  “I must be honest. I don’t, at the moment, have any intention of leaving my post at the University. I am unsure why Inga thinks otherwise.”

  Inga met his gaze. “Because I have spoken with Bohm, and he is offering you the position of assistant director.”

  She noticed his eyebrows rise, even as he glanced sideways, trying to hide that he was pleased by the news. Had there been more time, had Rigmor not been in such a bad way, Inga would have managed this differently.

  Frieda glared at Arnold. “If Inga believes it is best that you be there to help Rigmor, then that is what you will do.” For a moment, Inga felt proud. It was rare, unheard of actually, that Frieda acknowledged Inga had such influence.

  Frieda continued to watch Arnold, her mouth forming a perfectly straight line. Inga didn’t know what her mother was about to say, but it was not going to be pleasant.

  “Incidentally,” Frieda continued. “I know you did not take Rigmor to the symphony, as you said. You could not really have thought my driver wouldn’t have told me what occurred.”

  Arnold instantly turned red. “She doesn’t like crowds,” he said.

  It took Inga a moment to unravel the events. Rigmor and Arnold had had sex. For some reason it did not go well, and consequently Rigmor was suffering. And of course it was in large part Inga’s fault. But what could have gone so wrong?

  “If Rigmor really wants to go to this place you speak of,” Frieda began. “Then she will go. The two of you will work out the details.” She walked to the door. “I will take my whiskey in the small drawing room,” she told a servant.

  As soon as the door was closed, Arnold jumped out of his chair. “I cannot leave my post at the University.”

  “What happened between you and Rigmor?” Inga asked.

  “Nothing.” He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt. “I don’t believe we can have a productive discussion when emotions are so high. I will come and see Rigmor tomorrow if that’s what she wants.” Inga rushed to block his path to the door.

  “Rigmor was white as a ghost the morning after you were with her,” she said. “I will never forget it. I asked her at least fifty times what was wrong, and she didn’t speak. Not a word.”

  “It is between us,” he whispered.

  “So you did have sex?”

  His head dropped. “It didn’t work.”

  “But why?” she asked.

  “Faulty machinery.” He glanced at the window.

  “But you are young.”

  “It’s not about age.”

  “Has it worked with other women?” she asked.

  “I won’t answer that,” he said.

  “You need to tell me. If it hasn’t worked, and it is clearly you, she needs to know that. It could help her tremendously. Imagine if she is sitting in a pool of self-doubt because she thinks she might be unattractive to men.”

  “It has nothing to do with her,” he said. “She is completely aware of that.”

  Inga paced from the door to the fireplace. “I should have never suggested it.”

  “It is not your fault. I should have known better.”

  “But why didn’t she talk to me? I could have helped.”

  “We decided it was best to tell no one.”

  The realization that she was on the outside, that they didn’t want to include her, wounded Inga more than anything she could remember. She walked to the door and held it open for Arnold.

  When he was gone, she sunk onto one of the couches.

  Klaus came in about ten minutes later. Inga watched him, the way he lit his pipe, the way he sat as if his place in the world would never slip. Whomever he was sleeping with, Klaus did not suffer from faulty machinery.

  “Arnold seemed in a state,” he said.

  “He and Rigmor.” Inga stopped, feeling awkward with her own husband, not sure how to put it. “They. Well, they tried but it didn’t work.”

  Klaus puffed, and then chuckled. “My dear wife,” he said. “Our friend Arnold does not have a taste for women.”

  “But…” she began and stopped.

  “You did not see it?” Klaus asked.

  “No.”

  Klaus smoked contemplatively. “We are on tremulous ground. I suppose it would be unwise for people these days to show deviant sexuality.”

  “It’s hardly deviant,” Inga said, thinking of Klaus’s appetite for bottom-smacking.

  “You have a more evolved intellect. I’m afraid that is not the case with the masses.”

  She should have recognized it ages ago. After all, Arnold had never once, not even for a second, tried to flirt with her. She had wondered why that was the case, and decided it was his way of protecting Rigmor, of showing affection for only her. It was one of the reasons Inga had thought Arnold and Rigmor would be a good match. What a fool she was.

  Klaus went to bed, and Inga stayed in the drawing room, feeling hurt that Rigmor had not trusted her. Her dear sister, her truest companion and friend had chosen another confidante.

  * * *

  Arnold went to a pub. People drank and sang folk songs and danced as if the world was a good and happy place. He had six beers and then, on his stumble home, he sang, and shouted, heil dummkopf.

  The next morning, he sat in his office with a pounding headache. He looked at the phone, half expecting it to ring—to be Inga scolding him, or Frieda telling him she had reported him to the head of the University, or Bohm calling to talk about the position.

  And what if Bohm did call? Arnold couldn’t just leave his job. He had ties in Frankfurt, and the University was not some second-rate institution. In fact, it had produced a number of Nobel Prize winners.

  He thought of Rigmor, how pale and thin she’d looked. But she had seemed to have her wits about her, and was clear about what she wanted.

  When a call finally came, at ten minutes to four, Arnold grabbed the receiver on the first ring. He announced himself and then held his breath. It was Bohm. The conversation lasted for a solid twenty minutes. By the time it ended, Arnold felt exhausted but also deeply interested.

  The truth—he hadn’t published in over a year, and his patient roster had declined, which he attributed to the wave of nationalism. People pumped themselves up with extremism, a false remedy.

  Two days later, when the official offer arrived from Sonnenstein, Arnold signed the document.

  Chapter Eleven

  Holgart

  Belmont, Massachusetts 1984

  When Inga woke, her nose was a bit congested, probably from the dry heat in the hotel. But her throat did not hurt and her mind felt alert, so
no need to worry about catching a cold.

  An idea, fully formed, sat in her brain. She knew exactly what had to be done, and it did not involve booking a ticket back to Switzerland. Instead she had the front desk place an overseas call to Arlesheim.

  Arnold answered on the fourth ring. She announced herself quite loudly, even though Arnold sounded a few meters away, not an ocean’s distance from her.

  He asked about her journey and her health, and if the hotel was suitable. All well-meaning questions that she did not have time for at the moment.

  “You said you knew someone at McLean,” she said. “A man with a good position?”

  “It’s been a number of years since we spoke, but I’m sure he’ll remember me,” Arnold replied.

  “Could you arrange a meeting for me with your friend? Preferably sooner than later. I am free this morning.”

  “I will call now. And how do you find Sabine?” he asked. “Once I complete the task I have in mind, I think she will improve more quickly. She has had these types of episodes before, so it is not simply post-partum as we had hoped. I will let you go so that you can make that call.”

  It wasn’t long before her own phone rang. Dr. Holgart said he could meet with her in an hour.

  When Inga stepped into his office, she felt instantly at ease. Here was a room that befitted a man in charge. A beautiful Oriental carpet softened the space. On one end of the room was a long mahogany desk; on the other, a tasteful sitting area with a sofa and three armchairs. Although she lived in a smallish chalet in a Swiss village, Inga’s aristocratic roots remained. She still found comfort with the elite—a fact that she did not advertise, but recognized was not easily changed.

  Holgart shook Inga’s hand. “I am so pleased to meet a friend of Arnold’s,” he said.

  His skin was tight and plastic, as if he belonged in Madame Tussaud’s. He wore a handsome gray suit with a polka-dot bowtie. He had small blue eyes and such thin eyebrows Inga wondered if he did something unnatural to them. She thanked him for seeing her on such short notice. After they sat, he spoke to her in his mediocre French, telling her of the places he’d visited in Europe.