“Would you mind if I opened the curtains? In order to examine you, I need as much light as possible.”
She didn’t care for that very much. Why was she so averse to light? she asked herself. She wasn’t one of those women who were in the habit of kidding themselves and she told herself that the medical student was much younger than she, by eight or ten years at the very least. Light knew no mercy, she thought, and would lay bare all her wrinkles, even the least pronounced ones, and the ones she hid under her clothes, the worst ones. But there was nothing else to be done. She stood, touched the curtain, and watched the smooth movement of the rings on the curtain rod as the day was revealed.
The young man also got up and brusquely opened the other half of the curtain. The day burst violently into the room. He was surprised for a moment by the view of the Vltava River and the Smíchov Mountains on its far side. He stretched his arms lazily in the golden light of the afternoon. Like a leopard, like one of the Orientals, she thought.
“Show me your tongue, please.”
He studied it carefully and jotted something down in a notebook.
“Don’t blink.”
She looked up at the ceiling. The doctor’s breath smelled of coffee.
“Make a fist. Stay still.”
The woman heard blood pulse. Whose was it? Hers or his? It was banging away like a fire bell. Does a doctor really need whole minutes, which feel like hours, to find her heart rate? He stared at her with penetrating eyes.
“Kindly take off your blouse,” he said.
As if on purpose, the buttons refused to leave their button-holes. He looked at her with imperturbable calm. Only one left to go, at waist level. Her vest, too? Remember he’s a doctor!
She had never felt as demure as when the young man listened to her lungs. He’s a doctor, she told herself time and again. His mustache tickled. In that instant the whole world was in that mustache. She lost interest in everything but the movement of that gentle paintbrush against her body. He’s a doctor! Nonetheless, the mixture of modesty and sweet pain didn’t go away.
While she buttoned herself up, he never so much as looked at her.
The doctor left. But during the day she felt the gentle touch of his mustache against the different parts of her body. In the evening, when she sat under the yellow lampshade with a cup of tea in one hand and a book open on her knees, she had the feeling that a Bengal light burned in the room, and that something moved in the corner.
“This is the dossier on Betty Niemetz, an Austro-Hungarian subject who uses the pseudonym Božena Němcová. In your report, you have written the following: ‘It is quite impossible to talk to her husband about the political activities in which Mrs. Němcová is involved.’ Do you wish to add anything? At this point I would like to remind you, Fräulein Zaleski, that you entered the secret service voluntarily, and that if we pay you, we do not do so in exchange for nothing.”
“Once I managed to get her talking about women who’d become famous during revolutions. Because I have made myself out to be a revolutionary, Božena felt comfortable confessing all of her most secret thoughts. She told me the following. I shall read it to you: ‘As far as politics are concerned, women will achieve more than men, and I mean women from all social classes, from the proletarian to the most culturally refined. Because who could be more sensitive to the misery around her, be it material or intellectual, than a woman? She is the one who bears children, and so she is the one who foresees the future.’ She then added, ‘Who would dare to persecute or punish a woman? Especially a brilliant, cultured woman who has influenced so many people?’”
“Mrs. Němcová is making a big mistake by considering us to be so benevolent. What else does she say with regards to the state of affairs for women today?”
“I managed to look at her notes. I know where she keeps them hidden and was even able to take them home to make copies. At one point, she says, ‘We women have a heart of wax; any image which interests us is easily impressed upon it. Nonetheless, everything strikes me as being cold and pale and barren, and now having written this, I feel as if I had ice water running through my veins. When I look at myself, I feel an urge to cry, yet I know that within me burn the most violent passions. Sometimes I want to open my arms and hug the whole world to my breast, but I know it’s far too late for such idealism—’”
“Such useless moaning, so typical of women, is of no interest to me, Fräulein Zaleski. Concentrate on the information that I ask of you. We will only pay you for your work if it turns out to be useful to us.”
“Pardon me, I thought—”
“What relationship does this emancipated woman have with her husband, and with men in general?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Němec have completely different characters. He is tough, soldierly—”
“What I require is proofs in writing if possible.”
“Of course. Here, for example, she writes to her husband:
‘It often happens that when I go out for a stroll on my own, I feel very lonely and wish you were with me, but I have learned to do without many things and this, too, is one of them. On the other hand, I think that if you were here, everything would be as before, we wouldn’t get on, and then I would relish being my own woman again.’ Would you like me to go on?”
“Go ahead.”
“Very well. ‘Few women have had so much respect for the institution of marriage as I had, but I soon lost my faith in it. How could I have done otherwise? All I see around me are lies, adultery, gilded servitude, obligations, that is to say, vulgarity. I had very much longed to be loved. I needed love as a flower needs the morning dew, but I have only found overbearing men who wanted to become my masters. This cooled my passion, and bitterness and rancour took its place. They took my body, but my desires flew off far away. I don’t know where.’”
“Fräulein Zaleski, isn’t this all rather farcical? Němcová is a writer and she knows how to deceive people with words.”
“As I told you, I have delved into her heart. With me she is sincere, which is why I know her well. In these notes she has given voice to her soul. Shall I go on?”
“All right. But please do spare me expressions such as ‘delved into her heart’ and ‘given voice to her soul.’
“I beg your pardon, sir. She writes: ‘My children are my only joy yet their instinctive love does not satisfy me.’”
“Look, skip these sentimental outpourings and read only those passages that could be significant to our investigation.”
“Very well. What about this excerpt: ‘I have become a fervent adherent to the national cause, believing that it would satisfy my yearning. But no. It is true that over time this cause has become a firm conviction and the achievement to which I have dedicated great efforts, but . . . I have known the world, I have learned that there is no such thing as perfection in the world. The longings of my own heart have often disappointed me. What I thought to be gold turned out, in the end, to be nothing but mud.”
“Gut, Fräulein. But in these notes of hers is there anything that might be of interest to the police? Our next visitor is now in the waiting room.”
“This strikes me as of interest: ‘What I long for is love, a true love, not for one single person, but rather for everybody, for all humanity, a love that asks for nothing in return, a love that would improve me, that would bring me closer to truth. This is my objective. This gives me strength. What would I be without this love? Yet the world will not flatter me for this; the world would see me damned for that which I consider to be my finest and most beautiful quality; that which is natural is held to be sinful. Those who do not run with the herd to the feeding trough are crucified; sooner or later they become martyrs. But it is better to be a martyr than a good-for-nothing who doesn’t even know why she’s alive.’”
“Before we finish, Fräulein Zaleski, is there anything this dangerous, emancipated woman has written that represents a threat to our Austrian fatherland?”
“I believe so . .
. just a moment . . . yes, here. She writes the following to her husband: ‘What I really desire for both you and me is to do with pleasure everything that has to be done with pleasure, and not simply because we are obliged to do it. Goethe says, Wat ist Pflicht? What is an obligation? An obligation is that which one imposes on oneself as a duty. But one can’t do everything to order! Men ought to forget their conviction that they are the masters and to treat the women they respect as if they were their lovers. They should show their feelings more and behave with less vulgarity.’ Do you not think these are most dangerous opinions, sir?”
“You will have to carry out a far more detailed investigation into this woman. Write me a report on Němcová’s entire life. We need to know who has been such a bad influence on her, which other people we need to go after. I want a thoroughly detailed biography of Mrs. Němcová. Is that clear, Fräulein Zaleski? Keep in touch with her. Don’t let her out of your sight for a second. Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein.”
Unnerved, she slept fitfully that night. Her dreams were flooded with the purple of a Bengal light, snake charmers, rat catchers, and legendary paladins with the heads of dragons under their arms, appeared then vanished. She woke up feeling hot, until she got undressed so as to feel the pleasure of the sheets against her naked body.
The following day she would begin the medical treatment. She got up early in the morning to write. The words didn’t flow from her pen; she was distracted and allowed herself to be carried away by the confusion of images that each disappeared as soon as it appeared before her eyes. Then she decided she’d do some shopping. What a strange shape the bread has today, like a river stone, as if you have only to wet it for it to shine. And while the druggist filled a paper cone with a pound of sugar, she watched the fine sand and felt like sinking deep into that sweet white dune.
“No, don’t send in the next one, not yet. I’ll tell you when, Fritz. Inform this visitor that the prefect is busy carrying out some unexpected, important tasks.”
I had realized that to get Němcová, we needed a female informer. I told this to my superior, Kempen, but at the time he couldn’t make his mind up whether to do so. But he changed his attitude when I explained the matter to him in detail.
To the attention of the head of the Vienna Prefecture, Johann Kempen, from the head of the Prague Prefecture, Anton von Päumann.
Subject: Vítězka Paul, informer
December 31, 1954
Your Excellency,
As women since time immemorial have had a considerable influence in political matters, I consider it a serious failure on the part of the Secret Service of the Prague Prefecture not to have an informer reporting on the circles of Czech woman intellectuals, especially those of Amerling, Staňková, Zapová, etc. When you, Excellency, ordered me to keep an eye on the writer Božena Němcová, it seemed to me clearer than ever that an informer was needed. I have managed to find a person I consider suitable. Vítězka Paul is the daughter of the chemist František Paul, who works as an informer for our service under the code name of Fidel. Vítězka Paul studied at Mrs. Amerling’s school and now works as a teacher; she has made a few less-than-impressive stabs at writing, has connections with the aforementioned ladies, and could make the necessary contacts. In the years 1848 and 1849, she herself was a militant Czech nationalist, but a series of misfortunes—the death of her mother, her father’s long years in prison, her concerns for the welfare of her numerous siblings—have acted as a considerable brake on her enthusiasm, to the extent that she has now agreed to serve the Austro-Hungarian government.
No, I most definitely had not made a mistake. We urgently needed a female informer, and this one was no fool. It is true that she has allowed herself to be swayed by the woman who we have her investigating. Clearly, she envies her subject. That suits us just fine. Vítězka Paul, which is to say Fraülein Zaleski, cultivates certain literary ambitions, but has no talent for them herself. She is one of those ladies who scribble verses along the lines of “Aus meinen grossen Schmerzen mach’ ich die kleine Lieder.” She lacks any defined personality, not only because “out of her little pain she makes little songs,” but also because she is too unsure of herself and doesn’t know what it is she wants. She has eccentric friends, and above all that crank František Skuhravý who fills her head with his Oriental nonsense. But let us allow the girl to dream, because dreams are all she will ever have. She must be twenty-something, but seems older; seems, indeed, prematurely old, worn out, gaunt, curve backed, with bags under her eyes. She is not at all attractive, poor creature. I would bet anything that she also has tuberculosis. Better for us that she does! She will need money for her treatment and so she will work with greater zeal. Mr. Sacher-Masoch, who was prefect of Prague before me, complained more than once of the difficulty of obtaining an informer who could penetrate right to the heart of the conspiracies against the state. That was, until he found the father of this Vítězka, František Paul, who had been sentenced to years and years in prison for speaking out passionately as a Czech nationalist during the 1848 revolution. When he came home, he found that his wife had been buried, his house was in ruins, and he had five children to feed. It didn’t take him long to get in touch with us. When he did, Sacher-Masoch licked his lips and said, “His close ties with the Czech Nationalist Party—which, by the way, regards him as a great martyr for their cause—will make him invaluable as an informer.” Soon his eldest daughter was here too, asking for a job with our secret service. We’ll get that Czech nationalism out of their heads, even if we have to beat it out of them! This is how Vítězka Paul has become Antonia Zaleski the spy.
In his last letter, sent by special courier to Vienna, Herr Kempen tells me to search Němcová’s house as soon as possible in order to investigate her writing and correspondence in particular. Very well, that is what we shall do. Němcová is a dangerous nationalist, as well as a feminist and . . . Is she really so dangerous? Is it possible that her writings could be a threat to our empire? “The world will not flatter you for this; the world will see you damned for that which you consider to be your finest and most beautiful quality; that which is natural is held to be sinful. He who does not run with the herd to the feeding trough, is crucified. Sooner or later he becomes a martyr. But it is better to be a martyr than a good-for-nothing who doesn’t even know why he’s alive.” Or that quote from Goethe, which I didn’t know. “Wat ist Pflicht?” What is an obligation? An obligation is that which one imposes on oneself as a duty.” Exactly. I have made this quote my own. My obligation is that which I impose on myself. Němcová says that one cannot be ordered to do absolutely anything. I, on the contrary, am convinced that absolutely any order may be filled, as long as one is convinced one is serving a just cause. And I am certainly convinced of the importance of my cause.
The enemies of Austria-Hungary never rest and one must be forever on the alert. Society is full of conspirators. The other day at a reception, the former ambassador of France told me that the Austro-Hungarian government makes the same mistake as similar regimes by thinking that revolutions are prepared by groups of secret conspirators. He said, “Revolutions emerge from unbearable social conditions, but you, my friend, like the rest of the Austro-Hungarian police, have shut your eyes to this obvious fact!” It is rather the French who have shut their eyes to the network of conspiracy that is being woven across our empire! As a police representative, I am the best defense against the conspirators: with a good nexus of informers, control over the mail, and other such tactics, I will create a state of permanent fear within society. I will be unpredictable, mysterious. Taken to extremes, this strategy will make the people tremble. Yes, I wish to keep the Czechs in a state of terror. May they tremble before making any decisions on their own. In Austria-Hungary we have no need of a few geniuses, but rather of a mass of happy subjects.
In other words, there can be no compromise. I shall write a letter to Herr Kempen about this woman writer.
Božena Němcová belongs to certain ci
rcles of so-called ‘emancipated’ women. She is an educated, well-informed person. At all events, she is an outstanding personality, capable of exercising considerable influence.
A rather special woman, this Němcová. Why is she complicating things for herself? She has now started to publish her novel, The Grandmother, in monthly installments. I forgot to ask Fraülein Zaleski about the book and above all, about the coded political programs and revolutionary messages that might be found within. I’ll have her brought here at once.
The student of medicine came in with a heavy suitcase and headed for the patient’s room with eyes fixed to the floor. From the suitcase, he took out various glass cups, cylinders, small bottles, needles and scissors . . . A thousand years’ worth of knowledge transformed into objects, she thought. As if he’d overheard her thoughts, he glanced at her, a slight smile on his lips, and asked her to undress and lie down on the sofa that they now used as an examining table. Meanwhile, he went on blowing into his flasks in order to clean them, before placing them on the chair next to the bed.
“Please lie face down.”
He undid her corset, leaving her back exposed. He rubbed the palms of his hands together; ssssssh . . . and the fragrance of a beech forest filled the room. He started to massage her back with his palms, fingers, fists, the backs of his hands, and his forearms. The touch of his hands was firm and tender at the same time, and produced tickles, then caresses that stretched out over her skin and penetrated beneath the epidermis, deep into her body. He then proceeded to take the glass cups, one by one, and she felt the circular objects cover her back, sticking to it like suckers.
He took the cups off her body. A new smell of wood filled the air, probably pine, this time, and his palms spread that perfume over her skin, up to her shoulders, then down, until he was putting pressure on her waist, then he continued on to her buttocks and thighs.
He laced up her corset.
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