Dreams of Innocence

by Lisa Appignanesi

  He continued his stroll round the vast room, making small-talk, reaping congratulations, assuring himself that all was as he had ordered it - from the footmen in their braided coats to the discreet waiters, to the crystal glasses, fruit-laden bowls and platters of fanciful miniature pastries on the long marble table. It was a stroll not unlike the tours of inspection he regularly carried out in his factories: like any good general Bruno knew that attention to detail was as important as the grand plan. He saw his reflection in one of the many mirrors, noted the gleam of his white shirt, the smile beneath the heavy moustache.

  ‘You look like a happy man,’ Bettina caught him unawares.

  ‘Not smug, I hope.’

  Bettina smiled. It was not the first time Bruno had startled her with one of his leaps of intuition. ‘No, never that,’ she demurred.

  He laughed. ‘Only a little perhaps. And only for a little while.’

  ‘You leave soon?’

  Bruno glanced at his watch. ‘Half an hour.’

  ‘I envy you Paris.’

  ‘Sometimes I envy myself. All this,’ he made a sweeping gesture. ‘Anna.’ He watched Bettina carefully. Despite the smooth coil of her coiffure, the elegant lines of her lavender dress, she seemed ill at ease, preoccupied.

  ‘Yes,’ she made a little moue in which he read her slight distaste for all this splendour, for the empty civilities of the old Empire. Almost, he wanted to lecture her, to say ‘If I had been born to it, I might share your contempt, but you see, for me, it has a different meaning.’ But he kept his counsel. Instead, he said, ‘Perhaps, on our return, you’ll come and stay a while.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she smiled a little vaguely and then lifted her grey eyes to his. ‘I’ve never said it, you know, but I’m very happy to have you as a brother-in-law.’

  ‘Thank-you,’ Bruno bowed, grateful, feeling blessed. ‘And if I might return the compliment.’

  ‘Bettina,’ Tante Hermine was upon them in a rustle of brocade. ‘You must come and say hello to old Stallenheim. He hasn’t seen you for years. He’s talking to Klaus now. Excuse us, Herr Adler.’ She deigned to turn her powdered jowls in his direction, ‘I will only steal Bettina away for a moment.’

  Bruno bowed. He had over the months grown accustomed to the venerable Hermine von Leinsdorf’s manner towards him: a canny flattery barely masking a prickly disdain. The woman was like an old war horse who had unwillingly had to learn new circus tricks. He rather enjoyed seeing her perform them.

  Bettina turned a rueful face to him. ‘You see, Herr Adler, Vienna for me is a persistent round of duties.’

  ‘And not of the kind you prefer.’

  She had the grace to meet him on it. ‘Not of the kind either of us prefer, I imagine.’

  He laughed, liking her, worrying a little over the trouble behind those eyes. But only a little, for there was Anna, twirling past him on her light feet, stealing his attention. He watched her, as if mesmerized by her movements. Confronted by the glow of her youth, the perfection of that golden skin, the certain knowledge that she was his, he felt something akin to awe. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then remembering himself, the time, the journey, he approached, beckoned, tentatively put his hand on her shoulder. Such a large hand on such a small shoulder, he almost drew away. But she turned laughing eyes on him.

  ‘Is it time?’

  He nodded, not trusting his voice.

  ‘Oh good.’

  The sound of her eagerness disturbed him.

  ‘Haven’t you enjoyed your wedding party?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she was startled by his question. ‘We could get married every year. But…but now. I’ve never been to Paris, you see,’ her words came out all in a rush.

  Bruno smiled. He was never altogether prepared for her exuberance, her sheer love of life, a sensuous exaltation in the changing, the new. It was something the long years of struggle and achieving had almost wiped out in him. He would recapture it now with her. And show her so many things. Teach her. Yes. He folded her arm tightly through his and prepared his face for the barrage of goodbyes.

  The Orient Express nosed its way through tunnels, sped westward across valleys and over bridges. Anna, too excited to sleep, turned the little knob on the bronze lamp and watched the shadows play across the train compartment. Then she wiped the condensation from the window and tried to peer out at the darkened world. It returned only her own image and she sighed wishing for daylight.

  Bruno had left her over an hour ago. He had placed a moist kiss on her lips, stroked her hair gently and whispered, ‘Tomorrow. We will begin our married life properly tomorrow. In comfort.’ She had looked up into his warm eyes and nodded with a mixture of relief and disappointment. Of what it was exactly that would begin their married life, she had only a hazy notion, though she knew whatever it was would begin with a kiss - as it did in the novels her governesses had given her to read - and end in bed. In her mind, that bed was covered in obscurity. The little girl in Bettina’s nursery knew more than she did, though that knowledge hadn’t served her very well.

  Anna fingered the lace on her new nightgown reflectively. She had been happy to take off her wedding dress, much as she loved it. It was odd wearing a garment which belonged to a mother she could hardly remember. But Tante Hermine had insisted and after all the nips and tucks, it had looked wonderful, as Bruno’s eyes had testified. But still, she was pleased to be rid of its weight, a weight which seemed to have pressed down through the years to envelope her, to disguise her as this different being, a married woman.

  It was too bad that the new Bohemian maid whom Bruno had insisted they take with them spoke so little German. She would have liked someone to talk to. Never mind. When they got back to Vienna, there would be Miss Isabel. Bruno had said she could stay on with her, as a companion, and to improve her English. Anna sighed. Her stay with Bettina and Klaus had left her with a profound sense of her own ignorance. But over dinner, Bruno had complimented her on her French. She was pleased about that. Anna looked at the gold band round her finger, next to the clustered diamonds of her engagement ring, took them both off for a moment to move her fingers round freely and then hastily donned them again. She liked having Bruno’s approval. And tomorrow, tomorrow there would be Paris.

  Paris meant first of all the quiet luxury of the Ritz, then a leisurely stroll around the austere elegance of the Place Vendôme up to the Opera, which with its lushly curving statuary reminded her of nothing so much as Vienna. To one side of the grand staircase, obscured by its mass, a couple stood clasped in embrace, kissing. Bruno hurried her away. Under his vigilant eye, she glanced into jeweller’s boutiques, read titles in a bookshop window. But she was more interested in the people, the quick paced women with their vast hats, the small darting men, all in so much more of a hurry than at home. Except for that twosome by the Opera staircase.

  As they made their way back into the hotel, she noticed a slow-moving couple walking towards them: a striking dark-eyed man in a handsome grey coat with an astrakhan collar, firmly guiding a smaller woman, a hat perched somewhat precariously on her blonde head. Anna laughed.

  ‘Look Bruno, what a funny couple we make.’

  He stiffened.

  ‘There, look’ she pointed towards the mirror. ‘Bettina’s choice of suit does nothing for me.’ She made a comical face, laughed again.

  He relaxed a little, thinking that she was probably right though to him she looked delightful, wondering at her lack of vanity. ‘We’ll set that right tomorrow,’ he said, wanting to ply her with presents. ‘But first there’s a question of dinner.’

  Dinner, in the Ritz’s famous restaurant, was for Anna an event of such marvels that it almost made her forget the next step on the marital agenda. Until these last months, she had led such a sheltered life, with her Aunt and her staid guests, her piano, her governesses. And now the spectacle of the Ritz played itself out before her like some glittering opera. Perfumes, one more exquisite than the next, wafted off women’s
gleaming shoulders. Hair shone, jewels glistened, eyes sparkled in animated faces from which the chatter tumbled to the dramatic motion of hands. And she too was on the stage.

  For a bare moment, she didn’t know whether she was up to the part, but then she threw herself into it, returning men’s lingering glances, as she crossed the room, sipping her wine, experimenting with the French Bruno had admired. Over a dinner of lemon-scented oysters, tender quail and the lightest of crêpes Roxelanes, Bruno outlined their itinerary over the next few days. As he detailed sights and museums, expounded on the history of the city and the current offerings at the Comédie Française, Anna thought to herself that he might prove even more exacting in his tourism than Miss Isabel. For a moment, her concentration lapsed and her eyes roamed around the room.

  ‘Anna,’ Bruno caught her up short. ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘I was just thinking how mournful that grey-haired man over there looks, sitting all alone in the midst of this gaiety.’

  Bruno followed the line of her gaze.

  ‘Perhaps his wife has died, perhaps she’s abandoned him, perhaps…’ Anna embroidered her fantasies.

  Bruno looked at her strangely. ‘You have a very ripe imagination, my dear, but apt, in this case.’ He didn’t have time to continue, for suddenly the man was upon them, shaking Bruno by the hand, bowing to Anna.

  ‘Monsieur Adler, quelle surprise. How astonishing to find you here. And this is?’

  ‘My wife,’ Bruno confirmed.’Of almost 48 hours.’

  ‘Ah, what a beautiful woman. Mes félicitations. May I join you for a short while?’ He pulled out a chair, gestured to the waiter, ‘Frederic, Frederic, une bouteille de votre meilleure champagne pour mes amis.’

  Anna let the champagne tickle her throat, smiled at Monsieur Landry’s compliments, his chatter, at once comic and heart-rending.

  ‘Yes, yes, love, marriage, how wonderful it is, for I can see you love each other. You must enjoy it, enjoy it while you can. I was in love, too, once. But then… Perhaps you have heard, Monsieur Adler, my wife left me.’ His face took on an air of utter incomprehension. ‘Yes, left me. For a circus performer.’ A sound halfway between a laugh and a cry escaped him. ‘Can you imagine?’ He gazed into the middle distance for a moment. ‘But I musn’t bore you with my little tragedy. No, no. You have everything in front of you.’ He smiled winsomely at Anna.

  ‘You will excuse us, Monsieur Landry,’ Bruno rose. ‘The journey, you know. We’re a little tired.’

  ‘Tired, after only forty-eight hours? Ah non,’ he winked playfully at Bruno. ‘Mes felicitations, mes felicitations.’

  ‘Poor man,’ Anna murmured, as they made their way towards the lift.

  ‘Yes, yes. But no dignity.’ He shook his head, ‘These French, with their display of emotions…’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He owns a steel mill in Alsace. Used to be a fine upstanding man.’

  Bruno’s face registered distaste.

  ‘And his wife?’ Anna prodded him.

  He shrugged. ‘She was a… He should never have married beneath him. But no more of that.’ He turned the key in the door of their suite, looked at her with warm eyes. ‘Now we must concentrate only on us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna murmured. But as she followed Bruno through the thick-carpeted salon with its richly tapestried sofa and chairs, its highly polished secretaire, the story of Monsieur Landry haunted her. ‘Poor man,’ she breathed again, as Bruno held the door of her bedroom open for her.

  ‘Soft-hearted Anna.’ He raised her hand to his lips, and then whispered, ‘I shall join you soon’.

  She flinched and then remembered herself. ‘Yes, soon,’ she said nervously.

  Lucy, her new Bohemian maid, was waiting for her. Anna let her uncoil her hair, pull the white nightgown over her shoulders and then dismissed her. She realised, as she stretched out on the cool sheets and closed her eyes for a moment, that she had had far too much to drink. A hundred images swam before her eyes, strange images of the massed dancing women in front of the opera encircling the embracing couple with their stony laughter, of a garishly painted circus troupe carting away the dark obelisk in the Place Vendôme, of Monsieur Landry, white-faced, like a clown, a single tear moistening his cheek. Images to fill the mysterious obscurity that followed the kiss.

  ‘Asleep already?’ Bruno stood above her, a vast figure in a burgundy dressing gown. He sat on the bedside, stroked the fan of her hair spread golden on the white pillow. ‘You look like a Bernini angel,’ he murmured, his chocolate eyes glimmering in the lamplight. She watched his lips move toward her, plant a moist kiss on her forehead.

  ‘I hope I don’t hurt you too much, my dear,’ his breath was warm in her ear.

  She felt the reassuring tickle of his moustache and smiled, as he moved to turn the light out. Almost, she stayed his hand, wanting the comfort of his eyes, but she felt awkward, unsure.

  He stretched out beside her. ‘Dear, sweet Anna,’ he whispered, and she echoed him, ‘Dear Bruno.’

  She thought she heard him say, ‘no, no, don’t speak,’ though she couldn’t be certain. His breathing had grown so noisy in the dark, punctuating the movement of his fingers as he slipped her nightie up her legs, touched her bare skin. His hand felt big on her breast, warm. She would have liked to keep it there, but he moved it away and then he was on top of her, a great weight, bearing down on her, something nosing between her legs, like that train they had been in, chugging through the tunnel, whistling, hooting in her ear. But the train was derailed now, tearing, heaving against a wall, pushing, pushing. She screamed.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, so sorry.’

  He was still for a moment. She tried not to move, to ease the searing inside her. But he was pushing against her again. And again, his breath sharp in her ear, rasping.

  It hurt him too, she suddenly thought. She put her arms around him, wanting to assuage the sounds of his pain, the indignity of it. He let out a groan, a gasp, muffled in her shoulder. Then he lay very still, so still that she was afraid something had happened to him.

  ‘Bruno, Bruno are you alright?’ her voice felt so strange, too high.

  He stirred, eased himself off her. ‘Fine, little Anna. Sweet Anna,’ he kissed her forehead gently. ‘Good night, my dear. You must rest now.’ She heard the soft padding of his feet, the sound of the door.

  She lay there in astonishment. He was gone. Why was he gone? She wanted to call after him. There was a sticky wetness between her legs. Her body felt as if it had been pummelled and the pummelling had left an odd scent in the air. She turned on the bedside lamp, saw the rumpled sheets, the trickle of blood. Was it his? Hers? She leapt up, touched herself. What had happened to her? What had he done?

  In a wave of anger, she threw her pillow on the floor. Oh, if only someone had told her, had spoken to her. Bettina, Miss Isabel. Her mother. Her mother would have told her, had she been alive. Explained what it all meant.

  Suddenly, she thought of Johannes - he could have explained, she was certain of that, but he had refused. Ever and always this silence, this ignorance. And even now, she didn’t understand what she knew.

  With a sense of desperation, she ripped off her crumpled nightie and examined her body in the mirror. Like a Bernini angel, he had said. She had never really looked at herself naked before: the pale body, the full round breasts, the taut belly, the golden triangle above the shapely legs. She ran her hands over her skin and shivered. ‘Frau Bruno Adler’, she said out loud to her image. A wild laugh, burst from her. Was this what it meant to be Frau Bruno Adler?

  The tears streaming down her cheeks, Anna bent to wash.

  Bruno, in his room, contentedly puffed at a rare cigar. It was done. He had had a moment’s doubt that he would manage it when he had seen her lying there so still, so pure. Like an angel. And so achingly beautiful. His wife. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, sully her. But it was done now. And if he kept the light off and thought o
f other things… He grimaced inadvertently. Yes, he could do it again. And again. There would be children. Children who lived. She was strong his little Anna, not like his first wife, poor Elizabeth, too frail for the weight of a man, the weight of a child. He shivered, sat very still for a moment, then puffed deeply again of his cigar. Yes, it would be alright. Alright.

  Thinking of other things, that was the key. Other things. Red lips. A tongue flickering over red lips. A wrist covered in bracelets.

  Bruno felt a tingling at the base of his spine, felt his penis growing erect. He scowled, waited helplessly for it to pass.

  And then with a grunt of something like despair, he rapidly pulled on his suit, his coat, and left the hotel.

  Outside Rosa Mayreder’s Vienna house, Bettina hailed a fiacre. It had been a good morning. The older woman had been in top form and had talked passionately about her work in the Austrian Women’s Union. A thoroughly admirable person, Bettina thought, and a fine writer as well. And one who had greatly influenced her. She could still remember the impact of her book on femininity, that crystalline sentence - ‘One will only know what women are, when what they should be is no longer prescribed to them’. Rosa had refused the prescriptions, as Bettina hoped she had as well - the prescriptions which ordered that woman was and therefore must be made to be weak-willed, second rate, ignorant. Rosa had succinctly shown how all this was only part and parcel of the game of sexual power, the man’s sexual ideal foisted on women. Yes. And Bettina had refused the ideal as she had refused the sex.

  Bettina avoided this corrosive train of thought, looked instead at the familiar cobbled streets, the fiaker’s rounded hard hat and ample whiskers. It was strangely pleasant to be in Vienna again, to pause at the crowded thoroughfares where the cars whizzed noisily by ahead of the clattering trams. To recognize the familiar.

  What had struck her as less familiar after her long absence from her native city was the extraordinary diversity of Vienna’s population - Magyars, Slovenes, Croats, Czechs, Ruthenians, Italians, Poles, and more, alongside the Germans. To walk along a Vienna street was to travel thousands of miles and cross countless linguistic and cultural borders. The notion pleased her as did the magnificent curl of the Ringstrasse, its imposing public buildings, the stretches of park, the pervasive sounds of military bands rehearsing or playing in their pavilions. Perhaps, now that her family had less hold on her, she and Klaus ought to consider moving here.