She tilted her head. “No. He was not.”
Sonnenby inhaled sharply as she touched a swollen knuckle. He argued, “Hamlet was not mad, he was depressed.”
“Certainly he was.” Sonnenby had new raised blisters on his palm from the shovel. “Hamlet contemplated the nature of life and death,” she turned his hand over and smoothed her finger over the back, “but he rejected suicide.”
“At first.” Sonnenby said. He gave her his other hand to examine. “But in the end he did kill himself deliberately, with honor instead of the ignominy and cowardice of an obvious suicide.”
She looked up. “Really? I did not see his death that way. What makes you say that?”
“From what he said near the end. About how forty thousand brothers with all their quantity could not make up his sum of grief.”
“What?” She knew the lines he spoke of. They were part of the grave scene at Ophelia’s funeral.
Sonnenby watched her work on his hand. “Hamlet was moving through his life without direction, first this way, then that way, but when he discovered that Ophelia was dead, it was all over for him. He did not want to live anymore. He did love her, you know. He was only acting for Polonius and Claudius when he was so cruel to her.”
Elsa unwrapped his other hand, slowly, understanding. “What tipped you off to his final despair?”
He raised his chin in a theatrical pose and said, “If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.” He turned his dark eyes on her. “He was finally ready to die.”
Elsa considered this idea then argued, “But he told Horatio he would not lose the duel. He wanted vengeance. He was ready to kill everyone. He had already started to kill methodically. First with Polonius, then Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, then certainly the king--”
Sonnenby shook his head. “No. He wanted honor. Hamlet told Horatio to tell his story, lest he be known as a wild murderous madman instead of an honorable man trying to right the rottenness of Denmark. He wanted honor.” Sonnenby’s voice cracked, “There is nothing else a man takes to his grave.” He leaned closer to her, lifted his hand from her lap and pointed at the fresh mound of dirt beside him. “There is nothing but honor in the end.” His voice then turned savage, “Is there?” His eyes challenged her to deny it.
Elsa swallowed. Her stomach hurt. He was correct.
“Elsa Schluss. Do you love me?” He took his other hand away from her.
She felt the sudden loss of both his hands. To love him was to lose all honor.
“I am forbidden to love you,” she told him honestly. Her voice sounded like another woman’s voice.
“I do not care what is forbidden. I want to know the truth.” He swallowed hard as though he might not really want to know.
Elsa covered her face with her hands. She had not allowed herself to weep for Jean-Philippe, but now she did. She wept for both of them, and for herself. Her shoulders shook and she wept into her hands, sobbing loud enough to make the horses raise their heads from the grass.
“Elsa.” He took her hands away from her face and she let him see her wet and blotchy and miserable. He looked at her eyes and her cheeks and her mouth and nodded to himself. “You do love me. Thank God,” he sighed with relief. “I thought I was crazy.”
She coughed a reluctant laugh that was on the edge of hysterical, and then told him, “I cannot. I cannot love you.”
“You do though.” He kissed her palms. “Ophelia went darkly mad, truly mad, for love, Elsa. Don’t make her mistake.”
“No.” She agreed. “No.”
“I love you. I want you to be my wife.”
“I cannot.”
“You can.” His voice was deep and even. “Just say you will.” He handed her the cloth they were using on the handle of the coffee pot. She wiped her eyes and her nose. “Say it,” he insisted. “Tell me you will be mine forever. You will wake up beside me every morning. You will drink your coffee with me every breakfast, read the newspaper with me, walk with me, go to the theater and the opera with me, talk to me, talk to me, talk to me every evening, and then lie every night in my arms with my kiss on your lips as you fall asleep every single night for the rest of your life.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Tell me.” He kissed her thumb, and then each of her other fingers. “I want to hear your voice talking to me for the rest of my life.”
She tried to keep her face from falling apart. She failed.
He insisted. “Tell me.”
Her voice would not obey him. Her mind was too strongly in control of that part of her body. But her heart took the rest of her and nodded her head even as she was trying to say how sorry she was that she could not accept his gracious proposal on professional grounds.
He released her hand and leaned in to kiss her properly on the mouth. Her arms put themselves around his neck and brought him close to her. She breathed in his warm scent of sweat and dirt and horse and leather and coffee and grass. She kissed him hard because it felt good.
She rubbed her cheek against the stubble on his jaws and dug her fingers into his shoulders and the thick muscles of his upper arms. Inside her she felt the fluttering of happiness and no trace of an ache. Losing one’s honor felt so good all over.
He pushed her over onto the grass on the slow slope and laid her down. He removed the fedora and set it gently on the dirt mound of Descartes’ grave beside them. Elsa felt a shivering flash of anxiety. It had been a kiss. A good kiss. An excellent kiss. She realized she had needed a kiss. A therapeutic kiss, and a salutary embrace. She had been feeling vulnerable and weak from grief and loss and exertion. Human beings craved physical contact in times of great stress. It had been a moment of terrible weakness, but she would pull herself together. She pressed her knees together under the long skirt. It had been a kiss, not an invitation.
But like pulling a trigger, that one kiss set in motion events that would end in injury or death. Not the death of her body, but of her career. If she were lucky it might only be a flesh wound. But it did not look that way.
He moved slowly, as though he was fully aware that she might bolt and head off downhill to the river like one of the horses freed from its picket line. He was tentative, like he could not believe she had agreed to be his lover. She had not, though. Or had she?
He spread his left hand and placed it carefully over her ribs beneath her breast and leaned over her to kiss her again. He was caressing her now, not touching her breast, but moving down her waist and over her hip and then along the length of her thigh. His kisses were alternatingly soft and then harder when his hand touched a part of her that excited him. Touching her was therapeutic for him as well. She winced. This was not the kind of therapy she wanted to provide. Not what she intended. Not good.
His left hand pulled her blouse from the waist of her skirt, then slid up her ribs under the cloth. He spread his fingers to engulf her breast and squeezed softly, exploring its roundness and softness. This movement was accompanied by another kiss and a soft sound of approval in his throat.
“Henry,” she whispered. His touch warmed her all over and when his fingers brushed past her nipple she felt an electric tingle that told her that her body was betraying her. She did not want to feel good this way. This was wrong.
His hand left her breast and then her skirt began to move up her thigh. She wiggled to break contact with his mouth so she could tell him that she thought he was being wickedly forward with her affections. Her voice rebelled and refused to complain that he was taking liberties. He kissed her again and now he was making soft humming sounds in his throat as he kissed her. Low sounds, not exactly moans, but more like what accompanies arousal and intent. His hand then disappeared from her thigh and she could feel him over her hips and belly fumbling with his belt.
“Gott im Himmel,” Elsa murmured. It was really going to happen. Here in the grass. Beside the grave of their dear friend. Somewhere northwest of Baghdad in the wilderness of Anatolia. If she permitted it. The loss of everything.
/> He stopped fumbling with his trousers. He looked at her with eyes dark in the night, but glittering with the reflection of the fire beside them, seeking permission to proceed by moving himself slowly against the inside of her thigh. His readiness was evident.
Of course he should not proceed. But her knees relaxed and her hips moved to accommodate him. She took a deep breath and wanted him. She wanted to feel his warmth, breathe in the scents of grass and fire and man and leather. She wanted to connect and not feel so alone anymore.
“I love you, Elsa,” he said, and his hand moved to position her properly and get her skirt clear of his intent. He arched his back with slow deliberation and pressed carefully.
It hurt. She tried not to let him see that in her face. She tried to welcome him with her arms around his shoulders and her mouth on his. His breath was warm into her ear as he moved.
She closed her eyes and tried not be clinical about this new experience, but she could not help but analyze. She should be excited, she should be basking in the glory of his embrace, but she kept thinking how strange it felt to have a man inside her body. How perfectly the parts fit, one to the other, in this act of love. He was growing harder and larger inside her and his slow strokes would eventually lead him irresistibly to a finish. She took small breaths in rhythm with his movements, waiting with curiosity to feel the tingling she expected once the shock of entry was gone.
Other nurses had told her what this felt like, they had recounted their loves in the dormitory and in the boarding houses. They grieved over their lost lovers, the sad letters limp in their hands. They were joyful over short notes from the front and the absence of names in the newspaper. But Elsa had been excluded from that club. She had never had time for a young man.
Sonnenby bent to kiss her every few strokes, and mumbled his love for her in unintelligible syllables. He moved back and forth very slowly. Her body began to feel warm and pleasant like a gentle rocking on a porch swing on a summer evening; her mind took a break from analysis and focused on that warmth. A tiny spark of tingling goodness began to spread from the middle of her body to her knees. Her friends had been correct. It could be pleasant. It was very nice. She smiled in the midst of his next kiss. “Gott im Himmel,” she breathed.
He arched his back and kissed her harder.
The warmth was growing, no longer merely pleasant but insistent as if expecting her to do something with it. Or if there was a such a thing as a proper way to do this. She reasoned that if it felt good, she would move her hips in that direction. If it was uncomfortable she would move them in another. Lovemaking was supposed to be easy. Anyone could do it, and nearly everyone did. She was doing it now. Sort of.
He was breathing harder and there was no more kissing or smiling as he moved faster. His eyes had a lost look, internalized on his own body as he neared the end. She did not want to close her eyes. She wanted to watch him in the final act of this drama. She had never seen a man orgasm with a woman. It would be interesting.
She had seen bedridden soldiers pleasure themselves in the darkness of the wee hours, she would rush to their sides thinking they were in pain as she heard their small cries and labored breathing. She was fascinated at the similarities between the sounds a man made for pleasure and for pain. These men in the hospital did not need medication. They would grimace and spasm, then relax and sigh, exactly like a man in agony who had been given an injection of morphine. Elsa had wanted to study this interesting correlation, but Doctor Engel had told her, amused, that it would be too shocking for the other students to listen to her read her papers out loud, and he questioned the direction her research might take.
Sonnenby began to pant and this brought her back to what was happening right now between her own thighs. She wobbled in the grass with the force of his thrusts, and though it was no longer painful, there was little pleasure now. He was moving too fast and too hard. Finally Sonnenby grimaced with this private frenzy of sensation. He froze still and moaned long and deep. His whole body thrummed with his voice. She held on tightly to his arms, her eyes on his face. When he opened his eyes again and looked at her with a smile, she relaxed.
It was good. She smiled tentatively in response to his. It was short, but it was good. It was not the long slow lovemaking of a comfortable couple, but a rite of passage. An act of possession. A marriage of sorts. A commitment. It had been interesting. She would analyze the details later.
He said, “By God, Elsa. You are a virgin.”
“I was until a few minutes ago.”
“Bloody hell,” he said, though he was smiling. “I watched your face as you analyzed my lovemaking like this was a procedure and you were on a dissecting table.”
“It is good,” she said. “Good.” She would keep insisting until it was true.
He bent to kiss her again. “I will teach you to enjoy it next time. It is better with champagne. Next time I promise we will have champagne.”
He lowered himself to his elbows and covered her whole body with his. “I am yours, now. Do you see? And I shall never be another’s.” He smoothed a lock of hair that was hanging in her eyes back over her forehead. He said, “But I want to hear your voice, Schatze. Nodding your head is not enough. I want to hear it from you, that you love me.”
She nodded anyway. The words were hard to say. She had never said them before. Not to anyone. He tilted his head and gave her a look that said he would not get up or pull out of her until he heard it.
How could speaking the truth be as painful as telling a lie? She made her mouth move. She made her voice say the words, “Ich liebe dich, Heinrich.” She could close her eyes now. It was over. “I love you,” she said softly in his language, hoping the words were true, because she had just paid for them with her life.
It hurt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
In the morning they packed the animals, saddled them, tied Descartes’ horse to Sonnenby’s and set out to the north and west, hoping to intersect the tracks. She looked behind her as long as she cold, until the dark mound that was Descartes’ grave was a blot among the waving green grass. Then the trail curved and Jean-Philippe was gone forever. She touched his watch in her décolleté. She would carry this. Marshall’s watch was with her too. She hoped Sonnenby’s watch would always be in his pocket.
They did not talk about last night, but Sonnenby’s grief over Descartes has lost its sharp edge and his face was that of a man with a task set before him that he was confident to achieve. His eyes held something else in them. Hope. She saw it in the way they softened whenever he looked at her. And he looked at her as often as he could.
He had the compass and the map spread out on the saddle in front of him. Elsa followed behind on her horse, leading the pack animal. The country evened out to a wide plain as they came out of the hills around the river that would eventually make its way to the Euphrates. In the distance they could see the tracks, and further north they would find the station. Sonnenby folded the map and tucked the compass into his chest pocket.
“Tomorrow we will be on the train.”
She let her breath out with relief, thinking of the soft padded seats and the rumble of the engine and the regular clacking of the wheels. No more guns and horses and camels and sand and death. Into Istanbul, then to Vienna with its wide paved streets, electric lighting and concert halls. Restaurants and shops. Parks and museums. She sighed again with pleasure.
He said, “You will come to England with me.”
Oh, no. She would not. She cued her horse to come up alongside him. “You will come to Vienna with me.”
The fedora tilted as he bent his head to look at her. “London.”
“Vienna.”
“If I go to Vienna I will be your patient again.”
“If you go to London you will be insane again.”
They stared at each other, letting the horses pick their way across the plains toward the tracks.
“I won’t be your patient again,” he said. “Ever.”
“Come to Vienna, then, as my lover. I am permitted to have one, you know.” His face told her he remained unconvinced. She tried to make him smile. “I will need practice, and I have read in textbooks about a great many things I am eager to try.”
He did smile, but only briefly. He said, “I have to go back to London. I can’t just give everything up. I can’t let them think they have killed me.”
“You are a wanted man. You will have no civil rights as a mental patient.”
He shook his head. “If I am a mental patient they cannot prosecute me for treason.”
He was right. She thought about that as the horses moved closer to the tracks and began to follow them north. “But they could find you guilty but insane. You would be locked up just the same. Better to avoid England altogether. Let them think they have killed you.”
“What good does being dead do me in Vienna?” He turned around in the saddle. “Without using my passport, what shall I do? How shall I work? How will we live without my income?”
“I will take care of you.” Elsa would always be able to find employment. If she had to give up psychology she would. Surgical nurses with experience like hers made a very good living. But Sonnenby’s history as her patient would have to be a secret or she would be discredited in any field.
He did not like that answer and cued his horse to trot. She kicked at her mare’s ribs and came up alongside him with the pack animals bouncing behind.
“I will. I will care for us both.”
He shook his head. “I will not permit it.”
“You are a stubborn man. You say you love me, you want me to be your wife, but then you plan to put yourself in the worst sort of danger that is guaranteed to separate us forever.” She could feel herself getting angry now. She had a very undignified urge to knock him down from the saddle and sit on his chest.
He reined in his horse and turned its head to come around and face her. She pulled on her reins and all the animals stopped.
“Elsa. I meant what I said. I will make this happen. I will go back. I will clear myself of the treason charge. I will have myself declared fit.”
Blue Damask Page 33
