Blue Damask (7 page)

     She looked down at her lap.  She had not.  She had been watching his face and the way his brown eyes glistened as he spoke. “No.”

     He curved one side of his mouth and straightened in the chair.  The train whistle blew.  “Oh well.  I hope you have a good memory.”

     She nodded.  “I do.”

     The train jerked, making them both sway as it picked up speed.  He turned to glance out the window as the station moved away to be replaced by the trunks of trees.  “Bucharest, I believe, is next.”

     They waited in her compartment at Bucharest.  She combed her hair and rolled it into a chignon and he watched.  She tidied her bunk.  She wrote up her notes.  The train whistle signaled the end of the stop and she looked up to find him still watching her.

     He spoke when she met his eyes.  “Why are you not married to some Austrian brewer raising a pack of howling boys in
lederhosen
?”

     She blinked at him in surprise.  She tried to suppress a laugh, for the look on his face was sincere.  “My sister is,” she answered truthfully.   “Though Augustus is not a brewer, but a grower of hops.”

     “And you, a nurse, they tell me.”

     Elsa paused.  It was not acceptable for the therapist to share personal information.  He was interested, though.  His eyes had lost the vacant stare they had earlier and his voice was warm and relaxed.  This was progress.  She would give him a little, but tried to keep it professional.  After all, her patient had the right to know her credentials.

     “I graduated from school just as the war began.  It was an easy decision to enter training to be a nurse.  The newspapers were clamoring for nurses, encouraging young women to enter the schools and hospitals.”

     He nodded.  “Those same newspapers also encouraged the young men to become soldiers.”

     “Yes.  That is true.”

     “Did your young man become a soldier?”

     Elsa put down her pencil.  “That is a personal question, Mr. Sinclair.”

     “Henry,” he said and his smile was silky smooth.

     “Are you thinking to seduce me now, Mr. Sinclair?”  She asked in a professional voice.  She tapped the end of her nose with her pencil.

     His smile faded.  “No.  Not really.  As I have said before, I am not Siegfried.  You deserve a hero for your bed,
fraulein
, not a madman.”

     She softened her expression, “Let us talk about you, then.  Is there a young lady now who wonders where you are?”

     He did not react as she expected, but merely shrugged his shoulders and looked at his hands.  “No.”  He raised his eyes and there was a bit of humor in them. He said, “Mothers are not inclined to give their daughters to a madman or a bastard.”

     Elsa nodded, making notes.  “I was led to understand,” she said carefully, “that your doubtful parentage was a family secret.”

     His face hardened then.  She noted his eyes.  She had begun to recognize the particular cast in them she associated with mention of his mother’s infidelity.  He stared at her.  She moved her eyes over his face, searching for an expression of anger, hate, resentment, shame.  She could see some remorse around the mouth, and loneliness, desperate loneliness.  Years of it.

     He answered her slowly, “It is not generally discussed in polite society, but my father’s cuckolding is common knowledge among those to whom such a thing is of vital importance.  Mainly the mothers of marriageable young women of exalted parentage.  You never met my father, but he was a small man, and had orange hair.  My mother was blonde.  You can see that I am very dark, and I am not a small man.  I am a walking announcement of infidelity.”

     “Yes.  I see.” Elsa bent her head and pretended to write that down.  She tried to compose her face back into professional blankness.  It would not move.  She turned her shoulders so she faced the bunk but she could still see his eyes in her mind. Elsa pretended to rub her cheek.  That did not work either.  She turned her body away from him and wipe her eyes with the back of one hand.  She knew he was watching her.

     He heard his voice.  “Do not weep for me.”

     But she did.  First small sobs and then an unpleasant gulp.  Oh, she was angry.  This is what Doctor Engel had known about her that she would not admit.  This inability to maintain her composure no matter the circumstances. Her face grew hot and she turned completely around so her back was to Sonnenby.  She did not have a handkerchief in her pocket this time.  One appeared silently over her shoulder.  She took it and blew her nose ungraciously.  “
Gott im Himmel
,” she breathed.

     “It is compassion,” he whispered.  “Do not be ashamed of it.”

     “I am not ashamed,” she said with a sharp edge.  “I am angry that I cannot put it where it goes and keep it there.  It is not for you to see.”

     “Who is to see it, then?” he asked.  He had moved closer when he handed her the handkerchief.  Now he spoke to the back of her neck.  She could feel his breath.

     “No one,” she said.

     “That would be a great loss to the world of psychology.”  She heard him move back to his chair by the window.  “I have been treated, as you like to say, by many psychologists in the last year.”  She heard the chair creak as he sat in it.  “None have made me feel any better.  None have stopped the nightmares or the waves of anxiety that paralyze me from time to time.  All have lacked this one thing.  Compassion.  I see their clinical interest.  I see their curiosity.  I see their boredom.  What I never saw was a man who seemed to care whether I improved or not.  Sometimes I thought they hoped I would become more violent so they could try a new savage treatment on me.”

     “The orderlies you put in the hospital,” she whispered, “was that before or after this savage treatment?”

     He was so quiet she turned around again to look at him.  She used the handkerchief on her nose and sniffed.  He was sitting comfortably in the chair and looking at her calmly.  “After.  When they had come to get me for the second treatment.”

     “I have heard of many experiments with injections and restraints and electric shocks.  Doctor Engel thinks it is an abomination.”

     He leaned forward.  “I can tell you truthfully,
Fraulein
Schluss. It is.”

     She nodded to him.   “There will be no more of that, Mr. Sinclair.”

     He stood from his chair and opened the blinds.  The countryside appeared to slide by from left to right.  His broad back blocked out most of the light. “You are supposed to be cold and clinical.  Analytical.  You are supposed to see through my neurosis and discover the deep rooted tragedy that eats away at my mind.  After doing that you are supposed to say a few words that make it all better.”  He turned around to look at her.  “Am I not correct?”

     She stood up and took a few turns between the bunk and the wall.  He smiled.  “Pacing is the sign of a troubled mind, Madam Doctor.”

     “It seems you have learned a great deal in the asylum, Mr.—“

     “Henry.”

     Elsa put a hand to her eyes.  “Yes.  Henry.”

     He leaned against the dressing table.  “What is wrong with me, Elsa?  Can you fix it like you fixed my arm?”  He held up the injured arm.  He looked at it for a moment then frowned.  “I supposed there is more to it than a simple repair.”

     “Your hands must hurt.  Your lip.  Your throat.”  She shrugged.  “Time heals those wounds.”

     “But deepens the others.”  He shook his head slowly side to side.  “I am ruined.  There is not much that can be done, really.  I appreciate your efforts.”

     She leaned against the wall.  “You sound as if you are dismissing me now.”

     He spread his hands.  “I asked you a question.  You have not answered.  That in itself is an answer.”

     She agreed.  “If you had asked me three days ago I would have stood up straight and tall and assured you that I could cure your neurosis.  I might have waved my pencil in your face and ordered you to sit and tell me about your mother.”

     His face changed when she mentioned his mother.  She stopped, for she was about to tell him how the recent bloody murders had shaken her ideas of a clean and sterile concept of the mind.  But he had stopped listening to her and turned his body back to the window.  “I would prefer not to talk about my mother,” he said.

     “And the murders? The attempt on your life?”

     “Appropriate dinner conversation.”

     A knock on the door.  “Luncheon is being served in the dining car. Lord Sonnenby.”  Davies’ voice came through the thin wood.

     Elsa looked down at her wrinkled skirt and sagging stockings.  They had always eaten in their rooms before.  “Mr. Davies,” she said to the door, “Is that a good idea?”

     “Mr. Marshall will be here in a few minutes to escort you both.”

     Elsa looked at Sonnenby.  He was dressed properly for public dining, though his hair could use a comb.  No amount of primping would hide his black eye and swollen lip.  She looked like a woman who needed a long hot bath and an iron.  “I am not so sure,” she said to Sonnenby.  “How do you feel about eating in public?  Surely the other passengers have heard of the murders.  They will stare.”

     They did stare.  Elsa tried to keep her eyes on her plate.  Sonnenby ate like a starved man across from her near the window.  Marshall sat next to him on the aisle and ate very little.  Conversation was limited to polite requests to pass a carafe or the salt.  The movement of the train clanked the glasses every now and then, and the stewards swayed as they served the meals.  Elsa was not hungry but she tried to eat.

     “
Fraulein
,” Marshall said.  “We reach Istanbul tomorrow morning.  A ship waits for us there.”

     She touched her napkin to her lip.  “Very good.”

     Marshall said, “I must congratulate you on your good work.  I admit I was doubtful at first.”

     She tilted her head.  “Mr. Marshall?”  She glanced at Sonnenby who finished his glass of wine and pretended to look out the window to hide a smile.

     “Look at him,” Marshall nodded toward Sonnenby.  Two weeks ago he was lying catatonic in an asylum.  Now he is presentable at table.  Remarkable.”

     Elsa felt her face grow hot.  “I assure you, Mr. Marshall—“

     “Archibald,” he said in a low voice.

     Sonnenby brought a fist down on the table making the glassware bounce.  Elsa and Marshall turned to him in alarm.  Sonnenby glared at him.  “You will not be familiar with her, Marshall.”

     “Mr. Sinclair,” Elsa soothed, “he is being polite.”

     “You are naïve when it comes to men.”

     Marshall looked from one to the other.  “Forgive me.”

     Sonnenby gave him a withering look and poured himself another glass of wine.  “We board a ship at Istanbul…” he prompted.  “We were discussing the itinerary.”

     “Right.”  Marshall continued warily.  “I sent a telegram to London concerning the recent unpleasantness.  I should receive instructions in Istanbul.  No one believes the Turk chose you at random, Lord Sonnenby.  He was an assassin.  We will have increased security on the ship and will be joined by another agent of His Majesty’s Foreign Service.  The attempt on your life is a great insult to the crown.”

     “Imagine that. Two weeks ago I was a great embarrassment to the crown,” Sonnenby said.

     Marshall reddened.  “Are you finished with your meal, Lord Sonnenby?”

     “I am,” he set his glass down.  “And I am ready to retire.  Will you send for my escort?”  Davies dined alone at another table.

     Elsa and Marshall exchanged glances.  She said, “I am happy to escort you back to your room.”  She put her napkin on the table by her plate and pushed her chair back.  The men stood.  She tried to smooth her skirt for the walk down the aisle to the sleeping cars.  The wrinkles were stubborn.  She felt the eyes of the other diners rest upon them and quickly dart away.  Lord Sonnenby followed her through the car and pushed her gently aside to get the door.  He whispered in her hair as he leaned past her to put a hand on the knob, “I must congratulate you on your good work…”

     “Oh,” she sighed.  “Please.”  She bent her head as she passed through the door.  His hand appeared on her elbow as though he were her escort.  She permitted it.  He stopped before her room and bowed.  “Miss Schluss,” he said, as he pushed the door open for her.

     Davies came upon them from behind.  “Lord Sonnenby, sir,”

     Elsa said, “Good afternoon gentlemen,” and closed her door.

     She sat at the little table by the wondow listening to the sounds of the train.  Every so often she could hear other passengers walking down the corridor and opening doors.  Some went to the water closet at the end of the passage.

     She heard no sounds from Sonnenby’s room, though they shared a wall between them.  She wanted to post a letter at Istanbul.  She had started one the day before, informing Doctor Engel of the attempt on her patient’s life and the violent response.  The words on the page looked strange.  They did not look like a report.  She read them, re-wrote them, amended them and then just wadded the paper and threw it in the waste bin.