by Linda Stift
*
My szeretett angyalom tried everything to maintain her figure. All her life my angel was on the hunt for the ideal slimming regime. She tried seawater, chalybeate baths, hay baths, sweating and fasting treatments, massages, sun waves, sand and steam baths. Not to mention the various diets: oranges, grapes, milk, meat juice and many more. She had two bathing cabins built at the Villa Hermes, one for her and one for Katharina Schratt, the emperor’s lady friend, in which the two of them would be ‘roasted or burned’, as the horrified emperor feared. All this just to expedite the definitive fat removal. He found it all utter nonsense and he was pleased that the ‘medical experiments’, as he called these treatments, did not cause either woman particular harm. He acted as the messenger between her and Katharina Schratt, for my petal was absorbed by every kilo and gram that the emperor’s lady friend lost, while he fretted that she would become too slim and that the empress would drag her into a disastrous routine of starvation. His lady friend never lasted very long, however; she could not keep up with my slim dove. All her life she remained a buxom woman whose corsets burst at the seams.
*
A few days ago Ida had to teach me how to give Frau Hohenembs her injection. Frau Hohenembs doesn’t want Ida to inject her any more as she says she’s got the shakes, which I haven’t noticed. Ida defended herself, insisting she could give the injections in her sleep, no matter how much she trembled. But it was useless. She had to show me and I had to try. My first attempt caused chaos. I aimed for the vein in Frau Hohenembs’s arm that Ida had strapped, but I was too cautious: the needle slipped and blood flowed from the crook of her arm. The shock made me squeeze all the cocaine out of the needle; it squirted onto the floor and the dog licked up every drop. Gritting her teeth, Frau Hohenembs ordered Ida to refill the syringe. Ida strapped the other arm. This time I succeeded in getting the needle into the vein, but I forgot to squeeze out the liquid. Come on! Frau Hohenembs cried. She’ll never get it! Ida growled. Come on! the parrots chorused. I pressed down the plunger and Frau Hohenembs got her cocaine. I took out the needle too brutally, tearing off a bit of pale skin. Are you mad? Frau Hohenembs screamed. I hadn’t put any cotton wool on the spot where the needle had gone in, which meant that a blue bruise soon formed, even though Ida had been waiting with a whole bag of sterilized cotton wool. It’s what you wanted, Ida grumbled at Frau Hohenembs as she undid the elastic band from the thin arm and put a plaster on both punctures. She’ll soon learn, Frau Hohenembs said. You weren’t any better first time round. She pushed down her sleeves and held her arms out to Ida so they could be buttoned up. I was still holding the syringe. It seemed far too chunky for a human being. Ida told me to clean the needle and put the syringe back into its case. Frau Hohenembs noticed that there was a spot of blood on my T-shirt and she suggested that in the daytime I wear a housecoat like Ida; it would be more practical. I declined, saying it wasn’t necessary. Who’s paying for the washing powder? Frau Hohenembs spat out. Me, of course, me, me, me! The fine lady gets filthy and I’m left paying for the washing powder because the fine lady’s far too grand for a housecoat! I was nonplussed. This was the first time she’d shouted at me. She’d said nothing about the spilled cocaine, but now this outburst about a bit of washing powder. Housecoat, housecoat, came the squawks from the corner of the parrots’ cage and the dog started barking and racing like crazy around the table; the cocaine was taking effect. I’ll pay for the washing powder myself, then, I replied. I’m not wearing a housecoat. Ida whistled through her teeth. Her round face looked relaxed and peaceful; she was probably happy to remain the only one in a housecoat. Go and buy some now, then, Frau Hohenembs said, before turning around and retiring to her bedroom. The dog followed her, his hair on end. I bought the largest box of washing powder I could find, making use of the opportunity to get some food for my secret eating sessions. When I returned Ida opened the door. What lovely things have you bought? she asked nosily. Handing her the box of washing powder, I asked when I was finally going to get my own keys. The locksmith’s on holiday, she said cheekily. It had been the summer holidays only two weeks ago. There must be other locksmiths, I argued. I’m not going all the way across town just for you, she exclaimed. Give me the keys, I don’t mind going across town. Well I never, she groaned. That’s all I need! Me sitting here without any keys! She stuffed the bunch of keys, which usually sat in the lock, into her housecoat and went off with the washing powder. I unpacked the food in my room and stacked it in the chest. I moved the packets about like building blocks, rearranging them over and over again, so that everything was in the right place, as if I wasn’t going to eat things in a random way next time.
