The Little Book (47 page)

For most of us these thoughts are only romantic conjecture, but for someone who believes he has traveled back in time they are part of the awful reality offered up by the unconscious psyche. Knowing that one were in the presence of such a child would give one the potential for real action that the rest of us would treat only in dreams and nightmares.

How, even after the cessation of their meetings, Dr. Freud must have been drawn back involuntarily, again and again, to the conversations with his most unusual guest and the details and nuances of his most unusual journal. And how, completely against his will, again and again, the great doctor must have been compelled to speculate about the inner turmoil that necessitated the creation of such a child and such a complex and haunting tale.

50

Woman of Substance

Wheeler felt the strongest urge to take Weezie away from Vienna. He proposed that they spend a few days in the nearby resort town of Baden.

"With whom as chaperone?” she said pertly when he first suggested it. Wheeler only looked at her, and she caught herself, blushing slightly. “A proper young lady does not travel without a chaperone, ” she said quickly, covering her naïveté. Then she looked down. “I suppose the rules of what a young lady does or does not do have been suspended somewhat.”

“I don’t mean to push you,” Wheeler said apologetically. “It’s just that Vienna is feeling awfully confined right now, and I would like to get away with you. If you can’t do it, I certainly understand, and—”

She cut him off. “I want very much to go away with you. It is just an adjustment, that’s all. My head is in two places these days. Part of me is back as a little sheltered Victorian girl from Boston, and part of me is a newly minted woman of substance in a brave new world.”

“We could be there in a little over an hour by train. There is a quiet secluded hotel near the baths. And lots of beautiful walks.”

“It would be good to leave Vienna for a while. I will have to tell Fraulein Tatlock I am visiting friends of Father. I hope she is not too inquisitive. ”

Wheeler smiled. “I don’t think Fraulein Tatlock was born yesterday.” He rose. “I need to make arrangements of my own. I will pick you up in two hours.”

She looked sheepish again. “Don’t you think I had better meet you at the station?”

“Of course,” Wheeler said. “You’re getting better at this than I am.”

He waited at the station for twenty minutes, watching the large minute hand on the station clock coming closer and closer to train time. Then he saw her enter through the large west door, not seeing him at first, looking around the expansive interior of the station. She was carrying a small suitcase.

“I thought you had stood me up,” he said, approaching her.

“I nearly did. Three times I leaned forward to tell the cab driver to turn around.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” He took her bag. “We will have to hurry.”

“I did not know how to dress, or how to look for such an occasion.” They were walking briskly toward the platform.

“You have two choices. Blushing bride or bossy wife.”

“What about brazen strumpet?”

Wheeler deflected the remark with a gentle laugh. Somehow he could not think of her as a woman of easy virtue.

“I hate being so torn,” she said, once they were seated and the train was under way. “I feel like such a featherhead, not being able to make up my mind.”

“Between what and what?”

“Between doing what is proper and—” She wrinkled her nose. “And doing this.” She was sitting erect, not touching the seatback. “I just wish I would either drop this whole business with you or accept it for what it is. I just keep vacillating back and forth like a reed in the wind. One minute feeling daring and exciting and the next minute overcome by guilt.”

“And what are you feeling right now?”

“The latter.” She had turned away to hide the tears in her eyes. “I think this is a terrible idea. I have ever since you left the café. I wanted so to tell you I would not be coming. It made me feel low and degraded to carry my bag downstairs at Fraulein Tatlock’s and to lie to her about where I was going. I wanted so to send a note to say I would not be joining you.”

Wheeler tried to hide the sinking feeling. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position.”

“I just wish I understood it.” Impatience crackled in her voice. “Even as I tell you this, I do not find myself convincing. I am not very happy with myself for showing such poor resolve.”

He watched her until she turned to him. “I am very glad you didn’t turn back, and I think you show excellent resolve.”

“Because I choose to do what you want.” There was a touch of defiance now in her voice.

“No. Because you do what you want.”

“And you think I want to degrade myself.”

“No. I think you want to discover yourself.”

They rode through the countryside, both watching out the window, she sitting erect and proper in her seat. “How does one sleep?” she said suddenly, catching Wheeler off guard.

“How do you mean?” He looked up to find her blushing.

“In these arrangements,” she said. “How does one sleep?”

“The usual way, I suppose.”

“I mean if one is proper.”

“Well, in that case, I suppose, in separate rooms.”

“And if one is a sensualist, how then?”

“Well, I believe sensualists would sleep side by side, without clothing.” She looked down, and Wheeler thought perhaps that she had taken offense. “Would you like separate rooms?” he said, as sensitively as he could.

“That would be a waste of resources,” she said properly.

“I could have a portable bed brought to the room.”

“No,” she said, looking very serious and determined. “I would prefer side by side and without clothing.”

They had ascended the path to the Rudolfshof Restaurant at the top of the Thereinwarte, overlooking the town below. “So, here we are in the middle of an illicit rendezvous,” Weezie said suddenly. “Do you suppose that everyone seeing us knows what we are doing?”

“Do you notice people staring at us, as if we are something terribly out of the ordinary?”

“Well, no, I haven’t noticed that. But one still feels self-conscious.”

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps the other people you are referring to are too concerned about their own intrigues to notice anyone else’s?”

That made her smile. “You are so good at seeing the lightness in all things. I do so appreciate that.” She paused as they walked along. “But still there are thoughts and worries that one cannot keep from revisiting.”

“Perhaps those are the ones asking to be reexamined.”

“Oh my,” she said in a little gasp. “That is awfully modern.”

“Well, it is true. Let’s try one.”

Weezie took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, summoning up her courage. “I keep reliving the awful scene with Herr Mahler. I can’t seem to get it out of my mind. I cringe when I think of the embarrassment.”

“Why do you think you fainted?”

“I cannot say. I just felt a rush in my head, and the next minute I was looking up at Herr Mahler and the maid from the chaise.”

“What was happening as you began to swoon?”

“He was showing me his music.”

“Tell me the details.”

“I had been standing beside him at the piano as he leafed through the sheets of music. He picked up one and began telling me about it, pointing out notes on the melody. I think he was assuming I was far more facile at reading music than I am.”

“Did he touch you?”

“He was leaning toward me. I could feel his arm against mine.”

“And he was pointing with his finger?”

“No,” she said, struggling to recall. “He had picked up a bone and he was pointing with it, tapping the sheet music. I think he was very excited—”

“Wait,” Wheeler said. “He was pointing with a bone?”

“No,” she said impatiently. “I said his baton.”

“Go on,” Wheeler said.

“He was tapping his baton on the sheet music and directing my eyes to the lines of melody, and I couldn’t focus on them. They began to swim in front of me.”

“He was leaning into you, excited.”

“He was very intent on having me see exactly what he had tried to do with his music. It was a Hungarian folk piece, and he wanted me to see how he had arranged the counterpoint.”

“He was attracted to you.”

“No. He was showing me the music.” She was looking a little flushed. “I was trying to follow, but I couldn’t keep up.”

“Think about how he was touching you.”

“It was just his arm against mine. Pressing closer so that I would follow his words. I could smell his breath.”

“And he leaned closer.”

She was looking very uncomfortable now. “His arm was against mine, and I could feel his side against mine. He is not a very large man. I mean he is wiry.”

“You felt his leg against yours?”

Perspiration had formed on her brow. “I think we must stop talking.” She reached for the glass of ice water.

“You felt him pressing against you as he tapped the sheet music.”

“I was trying to concentrate on the music. His words were enthralling. This was the great Gustav Mahler, and he was explaining to me how his melodies worked, and I tried to concentrate on his words, but I couldn’t. All I could feel was his breath, and—”

“Him pressing against you?”

“Yes. I wanted to stop. I wanted to see the music, but I couldn’t. I wanted to back away, but I couldn’t. And my head began to swim and my knees buckled, and—” She stopped, looking puzzled. “His arm,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t fall to the floor. His arm caught me. His arm had been around me. As I swooned, I felt him catch me. His arm—”

“Go on.”

“He had placed his arm around me, and his hand. His hand had slipped around—”

“Go on.”

“My head swam. It is not very clear. I can’t really remember it very well.”

“His hand had slipped around, you said.” Wheeler was not letting her off.

She struggled with the memory, fighting through layers of cobwebs. “He tapped the paper with the baton, and his words were getting more and more excited. He pulled me toward the music with his arm around me, and I tried to follow.”

“And his hand?”

“His hand had slipped from my shoulder. He was so very much involved in telling me about the music, he was not aware of what he was doing. And I was beginning to swoon, and his hand slipped—”

“Keep going. Where was his hand?”

“It had slipped to my bodice.” Wheeler didn’t speak. He just watched her running the thought through her head.

“What was going on?”

She seemed to be struggling. “He was excited about the music—” Wheeler wouldn’t take his eyes off her. “Herr Mahler was showing me—” Finally, she closed her eyes and pursed her lips. When she opened them, there was in them a new clarity. “Herr Mahler was seducing me.”

“Why did I not remember?” she said later. “I honestly did not remember those details. It was like complete amnesia.”

“And now?”

“Now they are clear as day. I was standing beside him and he came closer and closer and put his arm around me and I started to swoon. His arm was around me and his hand moved to my bodice.”

“Bodice?”

“To my breast.” She smiled. “It is all so easy to say now that I have said it before.”

“You are a very attractive woman,” Wheeler said. “Herr Mahler is a very temperamental and artistic man. He made a pass, we would say in California.”

She wrinkled her brow. “But why did I not remember it that way? There are whole sections I just did not remember. And now they are lucid and clear.”

“There is more,” Wheeler said.

They had acquired a room in a hotel near the river. Weezie had stayed in the café while Wheeler had secured the room under the name Mr. and Mrs. Harry Truman. He and Weezie had walked quickly through the lobby and up the stairs. She sat on a cushion on the window seat where she had been for the better part of an hour. “I keep going back to my aunt Prudence.”

“She is an awful woman.”

“She meant well,” Weezie said quickly in defense.

“I don’t think you have to stand up for her. She sounds harsh and cruel and unfair to a child.”

“She meant well—” Weezie began again, and then stopped. “She was harsh and cruel.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if it felt good. “That is exactly what she was. And it is funny. I have never said that to anyone.”

“It feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Aunt Prudence was harsh and cruel and unfair to a child.” She paused and looked down, as if knowing that more was expected of her at that moment. “She was dreadfully unfair to
me
.” The silence that ensued let the words settle, and then she began a gentle laugh. “And furthermore, she was a—”

“Go on,” Wheeler said, smiling at her mirth. “Exactly what was she?”

Weezie ceased her laughter, pulled herself up, and spoke with school-girl diction. “She was a witch.”

“Are you sure?” Wheeler probed now in mock seriousness.

“Absolutely,” she said, throwing her head back, laughing. “She was definitely a witch. She kept a broomstick in the closet.”

She told in great detail the incident with the soap, how she had heard the story from the girls at Winsor School and how she had mentioned it at the dinner table and how Aunt Prudence had reacted and the awful taste of soap in her mouth.

“How did your mother die?” Wheeler said suddenly.

“Diphtheria,” she said without thinking. Then she looked amused with herself. “You know for years I thought she died from eating chicken at a picnic. I was only eight, you know, and I guess no one bothered to explain it to me.”

“Eating chicken?”

“Swallowing a bone. In fact, sometimes I have to catch myself even now. That image was so clear to me.”