The Heart Specialist

by Claire Holden Rothman

  I didn’t know what to say. This was clearly painful but it was equally clear he wished to talk. All I could do was listen.

  “When I was born my father had counted on a son like himself, someone to follow in his footsteps, to take over the business when he grew old. I was a timid child and a dreamer. My father and I were very different in temperament. He and Craina tried to have more children but for some reason they couldn’t. When I was seven or eight my father turned his attentions fully on me.

  “I suppose I ought to treat it as a compliment. He refused to give up hope that I could become what he envisioned. But the hope had very little to do with who I was. My father was a businessman, Agnes, and if his work had taught him anything it was that obstinacy paid off. He made me work summers at the factory, trying to inculcate some sort of practical sense in me. He paid for boxing lessons. Boxing lessons, Agnes! Can you imagine me in a ring? I must have looked like a character from the funny papers with those gloves hanging from my wrists. When all of this failed, as was inevitable, he pushed me to study science. Medicine was a field in which a Jew might get ahead, just as my father had in business.”

  As it turned out medicine was a profession Jakob Hertzlich could handle. Despite the quotas for Jews at McGill he was accepted into the faculty. He worked hard, winning prizes and the respect of all his teachers. He fulfilled his father’s expectations to the letter, but no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many plaques or specially bound books he accumulated, Otto Hertzlich was not satisfied.

  “One morning I woke up,” said Jakob. “It was as if a blind inside me suddenly snapped open. My father would never be pleased.” He took another sip of champagne. “That day I slept in, and the day after. A doctor came and prescribed sedatives and told my parents how the strain of study might be too much for a boy as delicate as I. My mother believed it was a breakdown. My father, obstinacy. But I,” said Jakob with a measure of pride, “know it as the day I finally woke up. The day my life began.”

  I could not imagine giving up medicine, especially when one had been accepted at McGill. “You would have made a brilliant doctor. You were almost through.”

  Jakob Hertzlich laughed, draining the drops from his cup. “It wasn’t the path I was supposed to be on,” he said quietly. “I rather think it’s for the best, even if others don’t see it that way. I wouldn’t have ended up where I am today.” He was staring at me with intensity, his face suddenly serious. “And you, Dr. White? What stories do you hide under that cloak of efficiency? You owe me one.”

  “I’m a terrible storyteller.”

  Jakob’s mouth pulled down in neat folds and I had to laugh. The champagne was making us both silly. I placed the teacup on the table, moving with exaggerated care as I no longer quite trusted my hands.

  “There’s no story of a father or a mother?” he persisted.

  I shook my head. “I am an orphan.”

  “There’s drama in that, surely!” Jakob exclaimed. “Tell me the story of a parentless child.” He was leaning forward, eyes gleaming.

  Before I knew it I was spilling secrets. Not spilling, exactly, but releasing them one by one as champagne releases its bubbles. I found myself talking about my father, how he had been a doctor, brilliant by all accounts. I did not say where he had worked, nor did I give away his name. I described his departure when I was very small. I told Jakob about my mother, who had died of grief and pulmonary tuberculosis soon after the abandonment; and about my sister, who was physically beautiful but frail. Jakob’s face was so close that I could smell his breath — sweet and at the same time sour from the wine. A bead of champagne clung to a bristle on his lip and I had an impulse to stick out my tongue and lick it clean. The thought vaguely horrified me. I realized I was drunk.

  In my mind’s eye was another face with bristles on its upper lip — my father’s face, with his mouth pulled down by sadness. It was so close, so real, that I reached out and pulled it toward me. Part of me knew that it was not my father. Part of me knew this could not be but still I pulled the scruffy head toward me.

  Jakob was unsurprised. That was what woke me up. His eyes remained cool, watching mine until finally I stopped his scrutiny by kissing him on the mouth. His lips were as sweet and sour as his breath had been, but also comforting in a way I would not have suspected from looking at him. Our lips remained together. My eyes stayed closed and there was a sudden surge, like electricity.

  But then it changed. My eyes sprang open as I felt the thrust of his tongue in my mouth. I stepped back but he stepped with me, his mouth still on mine. His eyes were closed now as if he were asleep, yet his tongue probed, and suddenly I was afraid. Is this what people did? He was like a fish trying to swim inside me. I clamped down and pushed him off.

  I stood there, weaving my fingers in embarrassment, unable to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He reached for me and this time I didn’t resist. I hadn’t been touched, I realized, not ever. I’d been starving and never known it until that day. The champagne I had bought for Howlett sang in my veins. Jakob’s hand moved up beneath my dress, beneath the bodice, fumbling with the complex, interlocking system of buttons and hooks.

  To my astonishment I felt no shame. I had spent a lifetime regretting my stubby body, hiding it away beneath dissimulating layers, but I no longer cared. I helped him release the hooks. His fingers closed around a nipple and it was as if he had opened a switch. Swept away was my awareness of the hand, of the face bending over me, and of any regrets I might have in the future.

  19

  NOVEMBER 1905, OXFORD

  Despite the title given him by the British king Sir William Howlett was not a real Englishman. His house in Oxford attested to the fact. He had installed central heating, a luxury unheard of in even the wealthiest neighbourhoods of London, let alone a university town. Since the afternoon three days back when I had descended the ship’s gangplank and touched solid land I had not been warm. Not once in three days. A permanent frigid cloud seemed to have settled over England. Sir William said it would not budge for at least four months so he and Lady Kitty might as well accommodate themselves.

  I had been staying at an inn because the day my ship docked Sir William’s house had been full. Lady Kitty’s brother and his family were visiting from Boston. Sir William had shown his customary grace about the inconvenience, choosing a hotel for me, picking up the tab and even sending a maid to inquire whether the rooms were adequate. I really hadn’t anything to complain about. But the inn was damp, my sheets as slippery and as cold as ice. The coal fire lit every evening by a servant gave off much smoke but little warmth.

  This was winter in England. I caught a head cold. I had felt it coming on right after my first night in the slippery sheets. At Sir William’s home, however, it was warm. I dropped my valise in the hallway and a manservant carried it away to an upper storey. I hugged my arms and shivered with pleasure.

  “Welcome to Open Arms,” Sir William said with a smile, flinging his own arms out.

  I had noticed the sign on his lawn cut in the shape of a shield with those two words, “Open Arms,” painted ornately. Clever mockery. Every second home in Oxford had the word “arms” appended to it. Pickwick Arms, Fenwood Arms. The town seemed overrun with them. In his not-quite British way Sir William Howlett had joined the trend.

  The great man hung my coat in the closet himself then led me to the room that had been allotted to me. Open Arms was even bigger than his house in Baltimore. The ceilings were higher and the rooms more spacious. I glimpsed Lady Kitty in the dining room as we passed it, giving orders to a servant.

  “She’s preparing,” said Sir William. “Otherwise she would come and greet you. You know how women get with their parties.” Howlett sometimes addressed me like this, as if I was not quite one of the female race and it confused me. On the one hand I appreciated the implicit inclusion in the masculine circle but on the other I felt a slight sting of insult. I was a woman after all. Wa
s it so difficult to see?

  The staircase wound upwards in a graceful spiral with a polished oak banister. Up its middle was a carpet with a delicate rosebud motif. On the first landing, gathered on a wide, low window seat, were the dolls. I recognized the one with the fan, though she was now dressed differently and her face was greyer than I remembered. Sir William passed the display without a word. He didn’t seem embarrassed or shy. These were his wife’s dolls. Judge Lady Kitty if I must, but leave him out of it.

  My room was one of the smaller ones. It had a bed, a chair, a small table; but it was lined with bookcases. The name Open Arms was appropriate; the house welcomed many visitors. Lady Kitty’s brother had left but Sir William’s publisher from London had just arrived, as well as a former colleague from Johns Hopkins. They too were staying at the house, likely in rooms more lavish than the one offered to me. Not that I minded. My little corner was welcoming and warm. My bones had finally begun to thaw. I told Sir William I couldn’t have been happier.

  He went over the day’s itinerary with me. The prize-giving ceremony would take place that afternoon at two, after which we would return to the house for a tea prepared in our honour by Lady Kitty. I thanked him and then began examining the bookshelves. Most of his library was medical. My room, Sir William explained, was a storage space for the overflow from his office. He gestured to the shelves. “Help yourself, Agnes. Take whatever suits you. But if I were you I’d save some time for resting. The day ahead will be quite long.”

  As it turned out “long” was an understatement. I’d had my rest in the upstairs room at Open Arms; Sir William and I had attended the prize-giving; and now I was standing beside Lady Kitty’s mahogany table, the very same one at which I had sat in Baltimore while Revere hid underneath and filched my heart.

  The prize-giving ceremony had been like a dream. Sir William and I mounted the stage arm in arm in one of Oxford’s churches, and everyone stood and clapped. He took the envelope with the cheque, but this was as it should be. I knew he wouldn’t deny me my proper share. Some of the funds would eventually wend their way to me. After the ceremony I was surrounded by crowds. The press had been alerted along with a host of British physicians and academics. Everyone, it appeared, was intrigued that I was not a man. The newspapers took my photograph. Half a dozen reporters requested interviews. By the time we left for Open Arms I was trembling with exhaustion. A combination of travel fatigue, nerves and a nasty British microbe were threatening to topple me.

  The table was covered with doilies. Atop these were three-tiered plates with pastries in pastel shades: ballerina pink, lime green, sunshine yellow. There were also party sandwiches — neat triangles stuffed with creamed cheese or egg. I was drinking tea, holding the cup near my chin so as not to spill. My throat was hot, but not from the tea. My cheeks glowed with a low-grade fever.

  “Who is the mystery man hiding away in your museum?” The man who had published our textbook peered at me through spectacles so thick they gave his eyes a bulging, fishy look.

  I took a sip of tea. He was referring to Jakob Hertzlich, the last person I wanted to talk about at that moment.

  “His work is terrific. You must bring him with you the next time you cross.”

  I continued to sip resolutely.

  “He’s too gifted to be working as a technician, if you don’t mind my saying so. If he were in London I’d steal him away.”

  I produced a tight smile. Perhaps that was the solution. Back in Montreal things had reached a point of almost unbearable tension. The publisher, whose name I couldn’t recall, had no idea what a sensitive spot he’d just touched. For seven months now, ever since the aborted tea party in April, there had been tension between Jakob and me. I had committed a huge blunder in becoming intimate with Jakob and there seemed no way to fix it. Of course he was doing nothing himself to help the situation.

  The morning after our encounter we hardly spoke. But then, as he’d realized there would be no further intimacies, Jakob dropped all pretence of politeness. He’d been surly all autumn, to me and to everyone else at the faculty. My strategy at the moment was avoidance, which wasn’t easy in our cramped working quarters. We had divided the specimens for cataloguing and were currently working in opposite corners of the room. Neither of us addressed the other unless it was absolutely necessary. We were like monks toiling on parallel tasks, scrupulously observing vows of silence.

  My strategy worked for a while, but just before my trip overseas he’d turned vicious, declaring me to be the blindest woman he’d ever met and implying I was nothing more than Howlett’s lackey. There had been no time for reprimands, but I’d left the museum and the country with my mind made up. When I returned I would inform Dean Clarke that Mr. Hertzlich had to go.

  “Sweet?” The publisher was pointing at the pastries.

  If I refused I risked more of his talk so I took one. The icing was as hard and smooth as plaster. Sugar pearls dotted its surface. I had never seen anything quite like it.

  A persistent tinkle became audible and the doctors, publishers, journalists and Oxford professors all turned to its source, the noise of their conversation declining. Sir William was tapping an empty champagne glass with a spoon. As soon as the room settled he put the glass down on the table and filled it.

  “A toast, ladies and gentlemen,” he said solemnly, holding up the frothing drink. The “ladies” was a bit much. Apart from Kitty, several maids and me the party was entirely male. Sir William walked over to me and to the astonishment of everyone in the room, myself included, handed me the glass. I blushed. I never wanted to taste that drink again, least of all in a crowd.

  “You deserve it!” he cried, even though I was shaking my head in confusion. Women didn’t drink. If I took the glass it might be the end of my already rather tenuous reputation.

  “When your work is as good as a man’s, Dr. White, you must accept the privileges that accrue to us.”

  There was a burst of laughter followed by applause. The men in the crowd had been drinking since the party began and probably would have cheered at anything he had said. Sir William raised my hand in the air so the glass was visible to everyone present. “To our partnership,” he said. Turning my way and looking me straight in the eye he lowered the glass and took a sip. Then he offered it to me.

  I had no choice. His dark eyes willed it. It was his party. His champagne. His toast. As I raised the glass the room went silent. And then there was a cheer. The taste was exactly as I remembered: sweet and sour, with bubbles that seemed to grab hold of my nasal hairs. Jakob Hertzlich’s face floated into my mind, sneering and melancholy, and for a fraction of a second, before I could shut off the thoughts, his hands were on me, moving beneath my clothes.

  Sir William took my glass back and drained it in one swallow. The spell was broken and I was back in the real world, in a place called Open Arms with all these people wishing me well. I gazed gratefully at my benefactor, stepped closer to thank him for the toast and promptly collapsed into his arms.

  When I opened my eyes I was in bed in an unfamiliar room. There was little light but it was surprisingly warm. The sheets and bedding were thick.

  “‘The maid is not dead, but sleepeth …’”

  I turned my head to the left. Sir William was sitting in an armchair, hands folded, watching me. I tried to sit up but my head began to pound.

  “You’d best remain horizontal,” Sir William said, getting up and placing a cool, dry hand on my forehead.

  I covered it with both of my own hands and lay back, shutting my eyes.

  “There, there,” he said. “You’ll be all right.”

  My last moments of consciousness were returning. The toast and the champagne. “I fainted,” I said, horrified.

  “It seems to be a regular occurrence with you.” His tone was strictly professional.

  I shook my head, which made me feel more dizzy and sick.

  “If I were you,” Sir William cautioned, “I’d limit movement. Y
ou’ve a fever of a hundred and two.” He dipped a cloth in water and placed it on my burning skin. “Is it only around me that you swoon, Dr. White?”

  “I am so sorry,” I said sniffling. The cloth felt good.

  “There, there,” he said again. His hand was on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, Agnes. You’re in good hands.”

  I smiled and nodded. Even nodding hurt. I was such a hopeless case. Fainting at a party in my own honour. And this wasn’t the first time Sir William had been forced to tend to me. I wondered fleetingly what Freud would have said. Hysteria. Unacknowledged yearning for love. Not entirely unacknowledged I thought wryly. I looked up at him from under heavy lids. Sir William was still bending over me. I liked the warmth of his hand, but then I realized that my dress was gone. All I had on was a shift. Had Sir William undressed me? I half hoped so. I felt strangely unalarmed, probably because I was so drowsy. My eyes closed and I drifted to sleep.

  When I awoke again it was still dark and the house was silent except for the occasional metal bang of a radiator. My head was clear and free of pain now and my feet were blissfully warm. I reached beneath the flannel sheets and touched them. Such comfort this place called Open Arms could bring. My pocket watch glinted on the little table beside the bed. Sir William had electric lighting, which was a good thing because I had no matches. I flicked on the lamp and the room illuminated, bringing all of his bookshelves into relief.

  It was four thirty a.m. Too late to sleep any more, but too early to get up and start the day. I rose unsteadily and padded to the shelves at the foot of my bed. There were books on anatomy and physiology and pathology. Half a shelf was occupied alone by copies of the textbook we had written. My eye snagged on a title one shelf higher. The Sexual Life of Our Time. I had to stand on my toes to reach it. It was a thick book bound in a black cloth cover published in the 1880s, translated from the German. The author was a Viennese physician, Iwan Bloch.