Playthings

by Alex Pheby

  ‘Fridoline is so difficult.’

  ‘My girl? I don’t believe it!’

  Sabine almost spat. ‘You doubt me? You prefer to take the child’s side?’

  ‘Not at all…’

  ‘She is disobedient! She is wilful! She gets it from the father, that much I know.’

  Schreber nodded, slowly. ‘I apologise.’

  ‘Why? It has nothing to do with you. That is the great joke, I suppose. That she should suffer on your account. That she should pine for you. She is very upset. About it all. The talk especially. On the street. At her school. She is very sensitive to it.’

  ‘What talk?’

  ‘Nothing. I should say nothing.’

  ‘What talk?’

  ‘Your sisters forbid me…’ She laughed at this, but then her face fell. ‘But then it is talk of you—why shouldn’t you know? She is very sensitive to the things they say.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘They say what they have always said. I, of course, shrug it off. It is nothing to me what these jumped up stuffed shirts have to say about anything. We theatre people are used to it. But Fridoline… I raised her differently, when you would allow it.’

  ‘What precisely do they say?’

  ‘Your illness…’

  ‘What of it? Can’t a man be ill? Please, Sabine. Let us go! Now! You have brought clothes for me, of course. I cannot be seen in public in this nightshirt—its buttons are gone. I have no trousers or shoes. Where are my clothes?’

  ‘Things are difficult enough as they are. At home. Fridoline, the staff, your sisters, the gossip up and down the street, the way they look at us—even the Burgenthalers—the jumped-up little madam and her mouse of a husband!—it is very difficult. Not for me, of course. I am used to it. They talked about my father—you know this—they talked about him too. I am used to it. Water off a duck’s back. It is Fridoline that I am concerned for.’

  ‘She wants me to come home for Christmas.’

  ‘Do you know what they call her?’

  ‘It is nothing. Idle chatter. The Burgenthalers… who are they? A clerk and a wife who had the good fortune to be born to a man whose brother was rich and weak in the heart. Ignore them.’

  ‘I do. I ignore it all. I ignore them when they sniff at me in the street, and when they hold their vulgar garden parties to which Fridoline and I are not invited. I ignored one of them today. It is nothing to me. Water off a duck’s back. I ignore the Brahe boy and his mummery, the Merstenberg niece and her sniggering. I ignore it all. Pompous, straitlaced fools. I can stand the isolation. It is Fridoline for whom I am concerned. This is very hard on her.’

  ‘We will move. Back to Leipzig perhaps. To my mother’s house.’

  ‘I will not set foot in that woman’s house! And I will not be forced out of my home! I will not be driven away! I won’t do it, Paul! I will not.’

  She faced him as if she expected to be disagreed with. As if she expected a fight.

  Schreber’s hand went to his neck.

  ‘Then we will stay.’

  ‘Anna tells me that you have no intention of writing another book. Your doctor is of the same opinion. Are they right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. That would be the last straw.’

  ‘You have brought with you a change of clothes?’

  ‘I cannot look after you.’

  ‘I will look after myself.’

  ‘I am not in a position to look after an invalid. A lunatic. It is hard enough as it is. The headaches. I am weak down one side. Fridoline tells me I have changed. She weeps when I speak to her. She can be truly insufferable! Dannenberg advises three or four hours’ sleep during the day. How can I be expected to run a house that way?’

  ‘I will help. I will spend only afternoons at the courts.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! How could you ever go back there? You were found gibbering in the doorway! Touching yourself! They call Fridoline the madman’s daughter, and that is when they are being polite! They keep away from her. They pull faces at her. No. It is too much.’

  ‘I am a respected man.’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘No. And I am no longer a respectable woman.’

  Sabine stepped away from him. Two steps now. Three.

  ‘Wait! “I remember nothing before today; all my memories are suddenly gone, and I only know that I lost all hope of ever seeing you again, of lifting my eyes to yours.”’

  ‘Tannhäuser. What of it?’

  ‘Do you remember the performance in Leipzig? Just after we were married?’

  ‘Of course I remember it, Paul.’

  ‘Please, Sabchen, my dear. My love. Won’t you stay? Won’t you take me home?’

  ‘No, Paul.’

  ‘But Rössler!’

  ‘Rössler tells me that he cannot cure you. I have asked that your care be put into the hands of another doctor—Kribben. He is much more sensible.’

  Four steps. Five. Now she was in the doorway, silhouetted again. Beautiful again.

  ‘Sabine!’

  She turned, but she did not leave.

  ‘Do you remember the other Tannhäuser, Paul? The last? When our boy was born… after the burial? Your mother bought the tickets and you demanded that I go? So that she would not be offended? The Dresden Tannhäuser? Do you remember that?’

  ‘Please! I must go home!’

  ‘In the scene from Elisabeth’s aria?’

  ‘I am almost well! I beg you!’

  ‘You stood on the balcony of the box, in the middle of it all, and you bellowed out like an animal? So much that you were heard above the singers? And we were taken out? Everyone watching us? Do you remember that, too? Before they took you away, and left me alone?’

  ‘Please, Sabine!’

  ‘You left me, Paul. What was I to do? What if you never returned? They blame me, you know? For everything. For the end of the great Schreber line! Even Fridoline! That is the great joke. I was not to blame, Paul. It was never me. It was you. It was always you.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘All you have to do is look at Fridoline, if you want proof.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘Perhaps you wish she had been born a boy. Let me tell you something, Paul, when the midwife handed her to me and I saw she was a girl, I laughed! That’ll do it, I said, let the whole sorry business end here!’

  ‘Please, Sabine. I will rot here… I will die.’

  ‘But Paul, I am not a doctor.’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘I am not a doctor.’

  For a long time there was nothing, and then the door closed, and the key turned in the lock.

  ‘Let me put my jacket down for you. Can’t have you getting your knees dirty, now can we. Paul?’

  ‘Is he in there?’

  ‘Herr Schreber?’

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘He sometimes takes a little while to rouse, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t he hear me? Papa, it’s me, Fridoline.’

  ‘Come to the window, Paul!’

  ‘Why isn’t he coming?’

  ‘Might I ask you to move over a little. I can sometimes… if I put my eye to the hole… yes! There he is! Paul! I can see you there! In the corner. Look toward the window please. It’s Alexander Zilberschlag. The mysterious Jew. Your daughter wishes to see you—there isn’t much time.’

  ‘Papa, quickly! She’ll find me, and she has said that I may not come again…’

  ‘Keep away from me!’

  ‘There! I told you he was there.’

  ‘Papa, please, come to the window! Don’t you want to see me?’

  He turned his head, just a little, and looked up from the corner of his eye.

  �
��Of course I want to see you.’

  ‘Well, I am right here! Papa, you must come home!’

  ‘I will keep a watch from the gate. If I see your mother I will clap my hands twice. Understood?’

  ‘Papa, you must come home with me now! I am very firm on this matter. I will not leave without you.’

  There was a glint of light at the window. It glistened in the water at the corners of his eyes. He wiped the tears away with his shirt.

  ‘Papa!’

  ‘Fridoline. Did I ever tell you how happy you have made me?’

  ‘There is no time for that!’

  ‘Your mother, too. Before you came it was very terrible. Do you understand?’

  ‘Papa, please come home with me. Your friend says we can easily pull out this window. It seems it is loosened in the frame. The driver will attach a rope, and the horses will pull it.’

  ‘Do not blame her, Fridoline. To have everything fall down. All her expectations turned to nothing. Like dust. That little girl and boy. Dead in her arms. She wouldn’t believe it! She rocked them. Even when the nurse insisted. When the little girl was taken away… You must not imagine your mother does not love you. She had them entered on the family tree—our daughter and then our son. And those others that we never saw. Too young. Too small. Inside… terrible things go on inside, Frida. The way the world is… it is terrible.’

  ‘Papa, there isn’t much time!’

  Through the gap in the window there came a worm—no, a finger—then another, slowly edging in, making no progress and then, suddenly, slipping forward an inch, perhaps less, until the whole hand was in, and then wriggling, seeking for something.

  Schreber got to his feet and edged foot by foot to the window. He jumped up and looped his arm around the bars. The hand. It was warm and soft. He squeezed it. So solid! So firm!

  ‘Fridoline! Listen to me! My papa—he knew how terrible the world was. The things inside: inside his head, inside the belly, everywhere. You must remain strong, Fridoline. Take your mother’s example! You must take the world and write on it—make it obey your will. Do not obey its. Do you understand me? It is very important that you listen to what I have to say. I am a silly old man, just as your mother says. I am ill, just as she says, but I know some things better than either of you. The world cannot be allowed to dominate you. Other people cannot be allowed to dominate you. You must dominate them! Do you understand me, Frida? This is what my father knew, and he was punished for it. So too Gustav, in his way. But there is no choice. The world is chaos, there is no justice, you must enforce yourself on it. There is no other way.’

  ‘She is coming!’ said Zilberschlag. ‘I’ve been clapping! I cannot stay here! Paul, I did my best.’

  ‘Papa, please, let go of my hand! There isn’t much time!’

  ‘I am tired, Fridoline. The things I hear and see—they exhaust a man. Hope—it exhausts a man. I must make such effort just to remain alive. All I long to do is touch you and feel warmth.’

  ‘Papa! You’re hurting me! Let go!’

  Schreber dropped the hand, and when she pulled it away she cut herself on the glass, very deeply, just above the wrist.

  She squeaked like a little mouse and the hand hovered in the air, shaking and bleeding. He tried to stop the blood, but it came out regardless, dripping onto his shirt sleeves, splashing the wall. To find his hand again, she pulled away and cut the other side, just as bad.

  There was screaming.

  ‘Frida!’

  ‘Hold still, you stupid child!’

  Sabine!

  ‘Papa!’

  ‘Hold still! You’ll cut off your hand, you silly girl! And you wonder why I tell you not to come!’

  ‘I cannot leave him!’

  The hand came in too far. It was smeared red and it grasped around desperately. The fingers opened and closed like a claw, until they reached him, gripping his face, but finding no purchase. Schreber pushed them away, but they found his hair and pulled it. He let himself drop from the window, leaving strands of his hair in her fist.

  ‘Get away,’ he muttered, too quietly for anyone to hear him. ‘Go. Forget me. You are not mine.’

  He went to the corner and curled.

  ‘You are not mine, Fridoline. You are not mine.’

  This he said to himself, over and over, and though for a while the room was filled with noise, soon Schreber forgot it.

  Then there was a new doctor—not Rössler, but the same kind of man, with the same bearing. The same voice. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

  ‘There will be a new regime, Herr Schreber. New medicines. A much more aggressive approach. I will demand your full co-operation.’

  This new doctor wiped a damp cloth over the slate on the back of Schreber’s door and scratched at it with a piece of chalk. When the prescription was finished he underlined it with a flourish and turned and moved on.

  Behind him was Müller. He stood and watched, but he said nothing. He did not move or gesture, he merely stared.

  ‘Müller!’

  Before he left, the orderly smiled, sweetly. He let the tip of his tongue poke from between his lips.

  Memories of a time before. Thoughts such as those that might fill the mind of a man who has lost everything, and who has withdrawn inside himself and found nothing of his own to cling to.

  XXVII

  In those final weeks he seemed to recover. They were happy, the family, first in that cautious excitement one feels on the regression of an illness, and then after, when one dares to take that regression for granted, a less acute but deeper happiness, redolent of all those days before, when there was nothing of import to be concerned over, but sweeter, knowing that something terrible has been overcome.

  They went to the lakeside, to the place Pauline’s family kept in Mecklenburg, and they blew the dust off the wooden chairs, and stamped back the weeds, and pulled up those boards on the jetty which had rotted and become heavy. Brittle and peppered with fungi, they added these to the pile of firewood, but at the far end, so that they might have time to dry out and not fill the little house with smoke and spluttering and that thick mushroomed earthiness that found its way into the lungs and could be tasted for days, even when they returned to the city.

  When they walked the jetty, they hopscotched the gaps down to where the boat—overturned and slick with green—rested on its oars. They tipped it back into the water, their father laughing no less than the children when the cold water splashed Sidonie and made her shriek, and the ducks were set to flight.

  The girls sat on the side and poked at the bottom of the boat with their feet, too nervous to put weight in it, while their father stripped off his shirt and trousers and, in only his underwear, dived into the cold water. The waves rippled back under where the children sat. When he came to the surface, impossibly far away, he shook like a dog shakes itself, and he roared. The peace of that lake had heard nothing like it for years, and neither had the children, and they roared too, and Paul and Gustav stripped naked and jumped in after their father.

  Their mother smiled.

  She went inside to the sound of laughter and water and flat oars inexpertly slapped down, and she pulled back the curtains. Dust filled the room. She opened the windows, stiff, so that she had to put her back into it, and, when they came in the end, the paint cracked away from the frames. The air was cold and fresh, and to breathe it in she felt she might never have breathed such purifying air, coming clean down the mountainside to rest in the valley.

  She found she had to blink back tears. Silly!

  Relief? It must have been: the relief of a heavy burden lifted, of locked doors opened, of unhappiness suppressed finding that suppression is no longer required. Of resentment finding no object. Of love returned.

  She was grateful for the flimsy integrity of those buckling wooden walls. The rising emotion was too
much for her to disguise, and she felt that to account for it would cause it to vanish—‘Why are you crying, Mother?’—and so she hid herself in her work, in the search for pots for the evening meal, and in the scrubbing of potatoes: a ritual she had been taught by her mother’s cook on sneaked visits to the kitchens, and which she secretly enjoyed, though she made the proper noises of annoyance and dismay when, in extremis, she was called upon to perform the tasks as a lady.

  She slit a cut of the meat to remove a line of gristle. She pounded it with a mallet. She sifted flour. These things rendered her invisible to the world for long enough for the happiness to find its hold in her feelings—just a few minutes of peace—drawing strength from the misery that had gone before it.

  All the while she could hear them—her husband and his boys, both now men—playing at fighting, and the girls—almost women—shrieking like children, bringing to mind the days before, collapsing the years of his illness suddenly, until she could almost believe that it had been nothing. She shut her eyes and listened, and made the milk mix with the flour smooth between her fingers. She took slow breaths, and when she pictured them the children were hip height, and her husband smoothed his wet hair straight and flat back behind his ears.

  When the illusion was gone—as she cracked an egg—the return was not so disheartening because wasn’t that the sound of her husband bellowing like a bull, and of Paul returning the call? Was a man laid low by an injury capable of such play? Was all hope gone, for a man like this? For all of them? No! There was hope. There was pleasure. She wiped her hands on her apron, slipped it from her shoulders and left the batter to thicken.

  Outside, she took off her shoes and sat on the jetty so that her feet were in the water and she kicked and splashed, gently, like a gosling. She watched them out on the water, the girls shrieking in the boat, fending off the boys who made as if to capsize them, and Moritz supervising it all, a partisan for one side and then the other.

  The sun passed from afternoon toward evening.

  The dinner would be late, but the strict regimen of the clock had no place here: no place for the man her husband was today. If it was six, or six-fifteen, or seven o’clock, it made no difference at all. It was only when she tired of sitting that she decided to return to the kitchen, hot now with an oven that had burned through most of its wood, and she took more logs from the pile, and fed the fire, and put in the meat. The yellow-fleshed potatoes she left whole, and put some into the oven, and set others to boil, and soon the place was filled with the smells of her mother’s kitchen and of her own childhood.