A Curable Romantic

by Joseph Skibell

  “He’s stunned! Ha! Yes, stunned into silence! We tend to have that effect on people.”

  It was true: I was stunned into silence, and I was speechless to deny it. I was as mute as a man who has bitten off his own tongue and, gasping in alarm, accidentally swallows it.

  “May I ask the name of the one who is addressing me?” I finally managed to say.

  With an athletic grace I’d never seen in her before, Fräulein Eckstein stretched out on the bed and kicked off its covers. She lay on her side, propped up by her elbows, and cocked her head against her fist. An ironic look played across her face.

  “It never changes, does it? ‘Tell me your name.’ That’s always the first thing they ask.”

  The rude shocks kept coming! Before I could respond to this odd statement, a second voice, also from inside Fräulein Eckstein, responded to the first: “Only too true, too true,” it said.

  This voice was masculine as well, with a lilt similar to the first’s. My ear couldn’t quite place the accent. Its geographies were unknown to me. What distinguished it from the other voice was a certain raspiness; and each time it sounded, the Fräulein’s physique took on a more hulking aspect. “That’s him?” the raspy voice cried. Making use of the Fräulein’s body, its possessor seemed to glare out of it at me suspiciously.

  “Ya’akov Yosef ben Alter Nosn?” the other inquired politely, inclining Fräulein Eckstein’s chin in my direction. “That is you, isn’t it?”

  The two seemed to be sharing Fräulein Eckstein’s body, taking turns with it, as it were, like two men peering through a tiny window, each stepping back to let the other have a look before stepping up again.

  “We’ve heard so much about you,” the gentler voice said, before whispering to his friend, “Not as prepossessing as she made out.”

  “She’s in love,” the huskier fellow replied, also in a whisper. “You know how she tends to exaggerate things.”

  Fräulein Eckstein sat upon her mattress in an attitude that was shockingly gruff, one foot flat upon the floor, the other tucked beneath her thigh, her legs uncrossed and parted. Periodically, she scratched herself — under her arm, along the inseam of her crotch, at her throat as though whiskers were irritating her skin. When the two beings inside her conversed, not with me, but with each other, her head moved first to the right, then to the left. The effect was not unlike watching a madman having a conversation with himself. The two, it seemed, were brothers, for despite the well-known folkloric prohibition against an immortal surrendering his name, they were only too happy to introduce themselves to me.

  “What are you going to do with it, anyway?” the gentler one asked. “Besides, who can pronounce it correctly?”

  He identified himself as .

  (This, in any case, is my rough typographical approximation of the word he spoke. In truth, when I asked for the spelling, he grew uncharacteristically truculent and employed all manner of diversion to dissuade any further inquiry along these lines. “What are you planning to do? Put it in a book?” he snarled. In pronunciation, the name sounded something like a blowing wind, and I soon realized it belonged to the angelic being who had met Ita after she’d parted so violently from her life.)

  “As we always do,” he said, sighing. “The poor thing is as addicted to unhappy lives as an addict to his morphine.”

  “And your brother?” I asked him. “What role does he play?”

  Before the brother could answer, brought Fräulein Eckstein’s hands together, in a gesture of supplication. “Dr. Sammelsohn? Pardon us, but the space here is hardly sufficient for one of us, never mind two.”

  “Would it terrify you horribly if we left this sausage casement and revealed ourselves to you in a less narrow guise?”

  “It’s difficult to judge such things in advance,” I said.

  “A sensible man.” nodded.

  “Just how terrifying are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, horribly,” the brother said with a laugh. “Not at all,” promised in the same breath. “Don’t listen to him. Stop it now, He’s only joking.”

  (It was then that I caught the brother’s name. It sounded like water draining from a tub.) What could I do? I’d witnessed so many frightening things in the last few days. I couldn’t imagine surrendering to my terror now. Instead I said, “Certainly. Do as you wish. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “Then on that wire that stretches from wall to wall, and upon which nurses hang a curtain to allow their patients to dress and undress in modesty, hang a curtain yourself, a sheer bedsheet, and we will appear behind it in order to address you.”

  I did as they asked, finding exactly what they’d requested in a trunk at the foot of Fräulein Eckstein’s bed. How much time passed in this way, I cannot say. Time seemed of no importance here, until I thought of poor Dr. Freud, waiting outside the door, imagining God only knows what perverse raptures Fräulein Eckstein and Ita and I were committing in our odd ménage a trois.

  “You might as well invite him in, your friend,” said.

  “Ah, yes, that’s right,” added. “He’s sleeping outside the door, isn’t he?”

  “You’ll do well to have someone with whom to share the experience.”

  “Creatures such as yourself — ”

  “By which he means human beings.”

  “ — tend to forget.”

  “They forget what they’ve forgotten.”

  “And then that is forgotten as well.”

  WERE I FLUENT in all the tongues of mankind, still I doubt I could accurately describe what happened next. Two pops sounded, each with an electric flash. Fräulein Eckstein twice jerked up and then lay still, stiller than I’d seen her since I’d entered the room. A great wind whooshed by me; the gaslights flickered before failing. The bedsheet I’d hung across the wire billowed out with a boisterous flapping before falling perfectly silent and still. Behind it, as though projected upon it from the rear, was a small, round point of light that grew steadily in size and brightness — I was reminded of the headlamp of an approaching locomotive — until it illuminated the entire sheet. Outlined in an even brighter light were the figures of two broad-shouldered men, one lithe and graceful, the other hulking with a dog-like snout.

  The hair on the back of my hands, on my scalp, on my neck, tingled.

  “You called me?” Dr. Freud said, entering the room, although of course I hadn’t. Or had I? Perhaps I’d shouted out his name in alarm, though I wasn’t aware of having done so. “What’s this?” he said, closing the door behind him and taking in the curious scrim.

  “Shlomo ben Ya’akov, welcome.” Together, the spirits addressed Dr. Freud formally by what I assumed was his Hebrew name.

  “I’ve never seen this before in a case of hysteria,” he whispered to me. “You must admit: the disease has a stupefying sense of imagination.”

  snickered and scratched his crotch.

  “Who are you, if I may be so bold?” Dr. Freud stuck out his chest, assuming his most martial stance. “Before you answer, I ask only one thing: that you not terrify us, so that we may keep our wits and not act out of fear.”

  “Who are we?” thundered. “Who are we?”

  Dr. Freud nodded. I swallowed nervously.

  “We are we: he shouted.

  “And Who did you imagine we were?”

  I could feel my knees shaking; Dr. Freud swayed a bit.

  “Oh, let’s stop this nonsense,” suddenly said to his brother. To us, he said, “Gentlemen, forgive the theatricals. Such an easy joke is difficult to resist. However, allow us to come directly to the point. Why, in fact, are we here? We’re here because we’re in need of your assistance.”

  Dr. Freud and I turned towards each other: neither of us knew what to say.

  “How can you help us, you’re wondering?” said. “As you may have assumed, we are from the angelic orders.”

  “It’s my job,” explained, “to pursue and torment the accused, along with my pack of thugs, for as long
as she insists on running from us. , on the other hand, meets with her between each life to offer counsel, assistance, and guidance, as it were.”

  “Which she has rarely, if ever, taken.”

  “Never, as a matter of public record.”

  I once again saw the afterworld as Ita had described it: a desolate place of howling winds and raw elements, but connected to our world somehow, so that an errant soul might slip through.

  “You are correct, Dr. Sammelsohn,” said. “There are points of connection where Heaven and Earth meet.”

  Dr. Freud narrowed his eyes. “And you claim that Ita eluded you through one of these … cracks?”

  sighed miserably. “Let us simply say: We see more often than we wish. Every few years, as a matter of fact, each life darker than the one preceding it.”

  “Time before this time,” confided to us, “she murdered two babies.”

  “Before that, she poisoned her husband and his business partner.”

  “With whom she was maintaining amorous relations.”

  “Then there were the epidemics.”

  “The choleras.”

  “The plagues.”

  “When she worked in that kitchen that time, you remember,” reminded his brother.

  “Her lives, as a rule, tend towards the unhappy and the brief.”

  “And the painful.”

  “Oh, yes, the painful. For all concerned.”

  “Ourselves not in the least.”

  At this, Dr. Freud uttered a guttural sound, though so quietly I imagined I was the only one who’d heard him. Having rejected fantasies of divine justice and retribution as nothing more than a system through which a priestly elite might control and exploit the credulous masses, he was having none of it now.

  “And what exactly is it that you want from us?” he demanded.

  Behind the bedsheet, the two figures, outlined in white light, looked at each other. If I had to translate that look — the hunch of their powerful shoulders, the swivel of their muscular necks — I would say that something in Dr. Freud’s truculence displeased them.

  “Well, to be blunt,” said formally, “the first thing you must do is call a rabbi.”

  “Someone,” said, “who understands and reveres the power of Heaven.”

  “No, I forbid it,” Dr. Freud said.

  “Oh?”

  “I won’t have a religious functionary, some pious clerk, interfering with my case.”

  “Your case?” said. “What a queer phraseology!”

  “Though you and your brother may claim to be here on behalf of Frau Ita Sammelsohn, late of this world, I, Dr. Sigmund Freud, have been called in to assist Fräulein Emma Eckstein and am employed by her family to do so.”

  “Shlomo ben Ya’akov!” cried.

  “You may address me as Herr Doktor, my good sir!”

  “Very well then, Herr Doktor, if you insist on remaining in charge of this ‘case,’ as you call it, you shall need candles.”

  “Black tapers,” supplied the commentary.

  “A ram’s horn.”

  “Make it two. They break easily. Oh, and white robes for the quorum.”

  “And what exactly are you proposing?” I asked.

  turned to “It seems you’ll have to explain it to them from the beginning.”

  must be persuaded to leave,” said. “That is what is being proposed. Now, very generally, this is an impossible task with a dybbuk. And knowing I can assure you it’s unlikely she will choose to depart on her own.”

  “And if she leaves?” I said.

  “Upon her bodily eviction, she will be taken into the sling and tossed from one corner of the universe to the other until she comes to understand something of the unmarrable perfection of Heaven. In its mercy, Heaven cast her into a body in which it was assumed she could do no further harm. But mischief and quarrelsomeness are the lot of women, I’m afraid.”

  “She only wanted to be loved,” I said in her defense.

  “Loved?”

  “Justifications! Excuses!”

  “Those who blacken the name of Heaven always have a perfectly good reason for doing so.”

  “Make no mistake,” told us. “She’ll be driven out by the usual means: incense, prayer, psalms, supplications, and the recitation of the holy names. The holy light is ultimately impossible to resist.”

  “Alas, we cannot undertake this exorcism ourselves,” explained, “and in an age of true piety, we would never have appeared to the likes of you, but what can we do? If you can’t perform this ritual, I implore you: Call for Rabbi Chajes!”

  “I think not,” Dr. Freud barked.

  “Then go to the Ger Rebbe. I believe he isn’t far from here.”

  “That charlatan?” Dr. Freud said with real disgust.

  “Patience,” counseled , who had begun growling like a wild dog. “Control your wrath, my brother.”

  “Listen to me, you two,” Dr. Freud said, a little too brusquely, I thought. “I have already negotiated the terms of her surrender with the patient.”

  “By raping her?” cried.

  “How, sir, can you pretend this disgusting sexual obsession of yours is a medical therapy is what I’d like to know!”

  “Otherwise,” Dr. Freud said, keeping hold of his temper, “all I can propose is a long course of psychoanalysis. That is your only hope of a permanent cure. But I warn you, the therapeutic procedure moves by slow advances, by means of many false starts, and by as many retreats. If you’re going to hang in there for the entirety, you’re going to need the patience of Job, and it’s expensive besides.”

  “Is there no way …” I started to say.

  “Proceed, Dr. Sammelsohn,” encouraged me.

  “Well, I was just wondering, if there is no way to simply talk her into surrendering to your authority. Perhaps you’ll let me try. If I can do that, will you promise me she’ll go straight to the highest Heaven, to the very Garden of Eden, suffering no further torment at the hands of your brother and his band of thugs?”

  The angels laughed and, almost against our will, Dr. Freud and I laughed with them. The sound of their laughter was so glorious, so marvelous and appealing, that my shoulders relaxed completely. I stopped glowering and squinting into the too-bright sunburst beamed at us through their curtain. Dr. Freud actually leaned his shoulder against mine, having lost his footing, and the sensation of his arm touching mine was so pleasant, I made no attempt to move out from beneath his weight, and he no move to correct his stance.

  “Ah, a noble heart,” said .

  “If completely misguided,” said.

  “I’m afraid what you propose is impossible. Though you married her, believe me, you do not know this girl.”

  “But if I’m able to convince her?” I said.

  “Ah,” sighed.

  “If you can induce her to leave on her own volition, then, yes, I will personally see to it that she is returned to the highest spheres without physical suffering. However, she must leave on her own volition. Which is to say: without any sexual coercion from you.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “And as for you, Herr Doktor,” said.

  “Yes? As for me?” Dr. Freud said.

  “May a worm grow in your jaw, you godless Jew!”

  “I wanted only to help,” he said cravenly.

  “Our time here is short,” said. “We shall be waiting.” He clapped his hands. “If psychotherapy is your approach, do with it what you can.”

  “No, wait!” Dr. Freud cried, appearing to suffer a terrible moment of regret. “I’ll summon the Ger Rebbe! I’ll produce the white robes and the black tapers!”

  “Too late, too late,” and both cried out together, as the light behind the scrim began to fade. As it disappeared, I realized it was morning. Dr. Freud and I stared at each other in the rough, raw light of dawn, our eyes red, our faces creased like clothes that have lain too long in their traveling cases.

  Before we could say a word to each
other, Fräulein Eckstein sat up in her bed and screamed: “Help me! For God’s sake, somebody please!” For the first time in my dealings with her, I couldn’t tell who was pleading for my aid. Was it Fräulein Eckstein or Ita?

  And for the first time, it no longer seemed to matter.

  CHAPTER 19

  Dr. Freud’s initial attempts to perform psychoanalysis upon Ita failed utterly. The cards were stacked against him. She had disliked him from the first, seeing in his desire to banish her (as any doctor would a painful symptom) a shadow of her grandfather’s aggression towards her. Dr. Freud’s need to prove to her that she was nothing but a figment of Fräulein Eckstein’s diseased imagination — combined with his eagerness to rid the world of the pious fairy tales we’d all had stuffed down our throats — bought him little of her sympathy and nothing of her trust. Also, she considered psychoanalysis a pale substitute for the cure he had originally promised her: that I would lie with her as my wife. On most days, she wouldn’t speak to him at all, and she refused to permit Fräulein Eckstein to emerge in his presence. Dr. Freud sat behind her bed where Ita couldn’t see him, hoping she might forget exactly who was there with her. When she did speak, she cursed at him, flying into rages, sometimes even spitting at him or slapping at his face. She threw Fräulein Eckstein’s hairbrush and mirror at him, and accused him of a litany of crimes, secret sins he had perhaps actually committed, choosing to do so, after hours and hours of silence, when her nurses were in the room.

  The consultants Dr. Freud called in — Drs. Breuer, Gersuny, Rosanes — were helpless to assist him. In their presence, Ita was a model patient. Unfamiliar with her voice, these physicians couldn’t tell it apart from Fräulein Eckstein’s. In response to their medical inquiries, the patient complained of nothing except that her doctor seemed to rely too excessively upon physical examinations, rectal and vaginal, which he performed, absent the proper equipment, with his tongue.