by Lee Goldberg
“It was a reflex,” Monk said. “Cover me.”
I stood in front of him. “Why are you hopping?”
“There’s no place to put my feet.”
“How about on the ground?”
“Have you seen it?” he said. “There are no two stones that are the same size and shape. There’s no pattern whatsoever. It’s impossible to stand still. It’s treacherous.”
“I’m standing still,” I said. “So is everyone who is staring at you.”
Monk look past me and blanched. “Oh God, here come the police.”
I turned to see a big man in a green uniform and a brown leather jacket approaching us warily. He said something to us in German.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the officer, “but we don’t speak German.”
“What is all the screaming about?” he asked. “Have you been robbed?”
“Only of my dignity,” Monk said. “Are you going to arrest me for indecent exposure?”
He shook his head. “This is Germany.”
“You’ll have to excuse my friend. He doesn’t adjust well to new environments or shorts,” I said. “I could use some help carrying him back to the car.”
“Is he injured?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “He can’t walk on uneven, irregular cobblestones.”
“It’s chaos,” Monk said, hopping from stone to stone. “You can’t stand on chaos.”
The officer glanced at me. “I’ll take him. You hold open the car door for me.”
Before Monk could protest, the officer effortlessly lifted him off his feet, lugged him to the car, and dropped him on the passenger seat.
Monk sighed with relief. “Thank you, Officer.”
“We really appreciate your help,” I said. “And your understanding.”
The officer looked back at me and whispered, “This man needs psychiatric care.”
“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “His psychiatrist is staying at the Franziskushohe.”
He nodded. “Would you like a police escort?”
“I think we can make it on our own,” I said. “But thank you for offering.”
I got into the car and started the engine. The officer knocked on my window and I rolled it down.
“Don’t stop until you get there,” he said.
CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Monk and the Appointment
I got a little lost finding my way out of the center of town but that wasn’t such a bad thing. It gave me a chance to do some sightseeing.
We went down a narrow cobblestone street lined with adorable half-timbered houses that seemed to lean against one another for support. Each house had planter boxes full of blooming flowers under every window. The front doors were so small that it was easy to imagine that hobbits or dwarfs lived inside. I couldn’t see how anyone of average height could get in and out of the doors without smacking his head.
I bet the locals could tell who lived in town by their bruised or calloused foreheads.
The road took us through a gateway in what remained of the wall that had encircled the settlement back in the Middle Ages. It was one of the historical facts about Lohr that I’d gleaned from browsing the Germany guidebooks.
Here’s another fact: In its heyday, five or six hundred years ago, Lohr was renowned for its glassworks, producing mirrors so clear that they saw the truth, no doubt inspiring the talking mirror in Snow White.
The foothills leading to the hotel were dotted with cottagesand duplexes. Many of them appeared to have been cheaply built in recent years and lacked the charm and character of the town below.
“This is a godforsaken place,” Monk said as we ventured into the hills.
“I think it’s utterly charming.”
“It’s a rest stop on the road to hell,” Monk said. “Have you seen the buildings? The streets? Nothing is straight.”
“It’s like stepping into a fairy tale,” I responded. “This is where the story of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs actually took place.”
“Of course it is,” he said.
“You mean because the fable matches the true story of Sophie Margaret von Erthal, the beautiful baroness who lived in the castle?”
Shortly after Sophie’s mother died, her father remarried. The evil stepmother owned one of the famous Lohr “speaking mirrors” and was so envious of Sophie’s beauty that she ordered the forest warden to kill the young woman. Sophie fled into the woods and took refuge with miners, who had to be very short to work in the cramped tunnels.
“No, that’s not it,” Monk said.
“Then why do you think the story came from here?”
“Look around, woman. Only a place as hellacious as this could produce a horrific tale like Snow White and the Eight Dwarfs.”
“It was a magical fable,” I said. “And there were seven dwarfs, not eight.”
“There’s nothing magical about infectious diseases. Sneezy infected everyone. That’s why Dopey was Dopey, Grumpy was Grumpy, and Sleepy was Sleepy. They were all desperately ill,” Monk said. “Happy was deluding himself about the threat. Doc should have had his license to practice medicine revoked for sheer incompetence. And if Bashful had had any backbone at all, he would have run screaming from that cabin.”
“What does any of that have to do with an eighth dwarf?”
“Follow the evidence. The eighth dwarf was obviously killed by whatever disease he contracted from Sneezy. That’s why he was written out of the story as time went on.”
“There is nothing in the story to suggest the existence of an eighth dwarf.”
“Read it again. The clues are all there. Besides, nobody would write a story, much less publish one, about seven dwarfs. They might tell a story about six dwarfs, or possibly eight, but never seven. In fact, they say there might have been as many as four other dwarfs in the story.”
“ ‘They’ say? Who are ‘they’? You keep talking about these people but I’ve never seen them.”
Monk ignored my question and just plowed on.
“The names of the dwarfs were reportedly Burpy, Puffy, Dizzy, and Cranky. They must have been awfully sick, since, like the others, they are only remembered today for the most noticeable symptoms of their infections.”
“Walt Disney gave the dwarfs those silly names for the cartoon, ” I said. “They didn’t have names in the original fable by the Brothers Grimm.”
“The brothers were grim because they were telling a story about a group of deformed men infected with a highly contagious, terrible disease,” Monk said. “Ironically, that poisoned apple probably saved Snow White’s life.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It got her out of that house before she was infected and into the safety of a hermetically sealed glass coffin,” Monk said. “Snow White should have thanked her wicked stepmother instead of killing her. Someone should rewrite that story so it’s socially and medically responsible before it’s told to any more impressionable children.”
The discussion we were having was ridiculous but it served a useful purpose—it distracted Monk from his anxieties for a few moments. While he was busy lecturing me about the seven—excuse me, eight—dwarfs, he’d forgotten about his lederhosen, missed the stain on his shirt, and hadn’t discovered the dirty tissue in his pocket.
We reached a narrow stone bridge over a trickle of a creek. A sign beside the bridge indicated that we’d arrived at the grounds of the Franziskushohe. We drove over the bridge and followed the road, which wound gently up the steep, manicured hillside to the hotel.
We crossed several hiking trails and passed a system of steps composed of large stones set into the dirt. There were several benches scattered about so people could rest and take in the spectacular view of the town and the meandering river below.
The road ended in a parking lot in front of the hotel, which faced the rising, thickly wooded hillside. The back of the hotel faced the wide-open view.
It was a sunny spring day, but
there was something about the sturdy old building that made me think of snowy winters, cable-knit sweaters, hot cider, heavy comforters, and roaring fires. It was a place that seemed to promise warmth and security.
There were rows of wooden lounge chairs behind the hotel and more of them on the hillside above, spread over a long patio covered with a shingled roof. I saw hammocks strung between the tall trees and a stone fireplace ringed by log benches.
I could already picture myself curled up in one of those hammocks, swaying gently in the breeze and reading a good book. Or crouching beside the crackling fire, roasting marshmallows speared on the ends of branches scavenged from the forest.
As I searched the parking lot for a space, I noticed several trails branching off into the woods. Each trailhead was marked with a sign that featured a map, some writing in German, and black-and-white historical photographs.
A hike into the woods sounded good to me, too.
I parked in front of one of the trail signs and we got out of the car. Monk opened his door slowly and sighed with relief when he saw asphalt instead of cobblestones. This was ground he could stand on.
I took a deep breath. The air was like wine. I could almost taste traces of cedar and berry. I was so glad to be there.
The trail sign was in German, so I couldn’t read what it said, but it seemed to offer historical footnotes about the Franziskushohe. The grainy picture on the sign was dated 1901 and showed patients relaxing outside on lounge chairs, sheets over their laps, and being tended by nurses.
I turned so that I blocked the sign from Monk. I didn’t need him freaking out right now.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” I said.
Monk grimaced. “There’s too much nature.”
“What’s wrong with nature?”
“It isn’t very clean,” he said, and headed off towards the entrance to the hotel. I quickly followed after him.
There was a massive stone fireplace, just like what I had imagined, a staircase that looked like it had been carved out of one enormous piece of wood, and a set of French doors opening out onto the garden and the view.
Monk was stepping up to the registration desk when something outside caught his attention.
I followed his gaze. It was Dr. Kroger, dozing on a chaise longue, a notepad and pen on his lap.
Monk glanced at his watch and smiled. “Perfect timing.”
He opened the French doors and marched outside.
I didn’t move at first.
To be honest, I was afraid to go outside. I wanted something between me and the explosion that was about to come, even if it was only a pane of glass.
There was an empty chair to the left of Dr. Kroger. Monk turned it at a slight angle, approximating the position of the patient chair in Dr. Kroger’s office.
He sat down, laid his arms straight on the armrests, and smiled contentedly. He looked truly relaxed and at peace and, for a moment, I was genuinely happy for him.
I took a deep breath and walked outside, but I stayed close to the door in case I needed to make a quick escape.
Monk glanced at Dr. Kroger, who was still dozing. He rolled his shoulders and glanced at the doctor again and then kicked the chaise longue.
Dr. Kroger jerked awake and looked to his left to see the cause of the rude intrusion into his slumber.
I don’t think his brain registered exactly what he was seeing at first. Dr. Kroger saw a man in lederhosen, but something wasn’t computing. It took a second before he recognized that the man was Adrian Monk.
The doctor did a horrified double take. It took another second for his mind to reconcile the incongruity of Adrian Monk in Germany wearing lederhosen before he could accept what his eyes were telling him.
All of this played out quite clearly in the exaggerated expressions on Dr. Kroger’s face.
I wish I’d taken a picture.
Dr. Kroger sat up straight in slack-jawed astonishment. “Adrian?”
Monk shook his head. “You would not believe what I’ve been through over the last few days.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We have an appointment and, boy, do I need it. I think my current troubles can be traced back to the fateful day when my mother passed on to me the responsibility of keeping track of my blinks.” Monk motioned to the notepad on Dr. Kroger’s lap. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
“This is totally inappropriate,” Dr. Kroger said tightly. “You can’t just follow me to Germany and expect me to treat you.”
“That’s why I’m so lucky to have Natalie,” Monk said, tipping his head towards me. “I couldn’t have done it without her.”
“Really?” Dr. Kroger turned to look at me and I felt my bowels seize up. I waved meekly.
“It’s nice to see you,” I said. “You’re looking very rested.”
Dr. Kroger stood up, grabbed me firmly by the arm, and led me into the lobby.
Monk stayed in his seat.
“I am shocked, Natalie,” he said.
“I bet you are,” I said.
“What Adrian has done today is a serious breach of the doctor-patient relationship and you enabled him to do it,” he said, thrusting his finger at me like a weapon.
“No more than you enabled him to follow me to Hawaii,” I said.
“I thought you were an intelligent and responsible woman, that you were a positive influence on Adrian’s emotional and psychological well-being. Obviously I was wrong. You are a deeply disturbed woman.”
“My job is to look out for Mr. Monk’s best interests and that’s exactly what I am doing.”
“By helping him to stalk me and invade my private life?” Dr. Kroger declared. “What he has done is a crime and you were his accomplice.”
“I don’t begrudge you a private life or a vacation. God knows, I’d like to have them, too,” I said. “But don’t play dumb. You had to know Mr. Monk was going to completely fall apart without you and that there was no way he would ever see a one-armed psychiatrist. But you didn’t care. You dumped the problem in my lap and went on your way, leaving me to deal with it.”
“And this is your idea of a solution?”
“Take a look at him. Adrian Monk is here, in Germany, a world apart from his own. Imagine the crippling fears he had to overcome just so he could be here in that chair right now. That’s how much he needs you. All he asks in return is one hour of your time. One hour of patience, understanding, and advice. Is that so damn hard for you to give?”
Dr. Kroger looked back at Monk, who was sitting peacefully in his chair, then back at me.
“I should call the police and have him removed,” Dr. Kroger said.
“And create an embarrassing scene in front of your colleagues from around the world?” I said. “I don’t think so.”
Dr. Kroger grimaced with frustration. He was in a no-win situation and we both knew it.
