by Sylvia True
They both watched the fire, and after some time, she slipped off her shoes and curled into the corner of the couch. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do many of your patients have such a dislike for themselves?”
“It’s an interesting question.” He faced her. “Generally speaking, the people who should feel shame or dislike, feel nothing of the sort. And vice versa.”
“I asked Inga once if she ever disliked herself, and she was surprised. She said she had never really considered it.” Rigmor tucked her head. “I probably seemed self-indulgent to her.”
“You’re an enigma.” He watched the reflection of the flames dance in her eyes.
They drank and luxuriated in the warmth of the room. The notion of having sex had floated to the back of his thoughts. They talked about how the wrong things, money and status, were often the measures of success, how kindness and generosity were the most overlooked qualities. He moved closer to her as she explained that living with her mother and sister often made her feel inadequate. She didn’t have their willpower or determination.
“But you have so much more,” he said. “You are the one who is pleasurable to be with, who makes others feel good about themselves.”
She smiled, and Arnold thought that they really were good for each other.
“Would you like more wine?” he asked.
“No thank you. Two is my limit.”
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
As she stood, she swayed a bit. He jumped up and held her arm.
“Even two glasses is a bit much.” She giggled. It was a happy, pleasant sound, like a robin calling his mate on a spring morning.
“Shall we sit again?” Arnold asked.
“No, I think….” She blushed and moved closer, leaning a little on him. “I would like to see the rest of the house.”
“The tour will take a total of two minutes.” Taking her hand, he showed her the dining room, the kitchen, and his office. Finally, he led her to his bedroom. She stood in the doorway. “It is just as I had imagined.”
“Which was?” he asked.
“Neat and tidy, and like a room a doctor would have.”
She looked at the one print he had on the wall, Four Doctors, by John Singer Sargent. He had bought it soon after medical school. At the time, he was working in a hospital in Kiel and renting an apartment above a bakery.
He glanced at her lips, her unblemished skin, and wondered how a normal man would feel. Would he be anxious? Would he be dreading what lay ahead? Afraid of failure?
She turned her back to him. “Can you unzip me, please?” She was so much the braver soul.
His hands shook as he found the zipper. In an hour, maybe even in twenty minutes, this ordeal would be over, and if it was successful, he could say good night to his fears. Although as he unzipped her gown, he realized that thinking of this as an ordeal might be a sign that something was intrinsically wrong.
Rigmor stepped out of her gown. She wore stockings with a garter and a black-lace brassiere. Arnold glanced at his crotch, willing his penis to do something. To come to life with the joy of a perfect woman in front of him. But nothing.
She faced him. Her gray eyes showed a tint of blue.
Here she was, the most vulnerable, tender being, wanting to make love to him, and he wanted to race out of his home and find their empty seats at the symphony.
“Perhaps I should turn the light off,” he said.
“If you like,” she replied. “Shall I get under the covers?”
“That might be a good idea.” He wished he could think of something witty or romantic to say. He switched off the light, but left the door open, so it wasn’t pitch black. He disrobed quickly, leaving his clothes in a heap next to her dress.
Her breath smelled like honey, and as he brushed a finger along her cheek, his heart stirred. The problem was that his lower regions remained inert.
Eventually he ran a hand down her neck, as she waited, silently.
When he touched her breasts, she drew in her breath, and he wanted nothing more than to please her. But still his body was not reacting the way it should. He told her he would just be a moment, that he needed to use the bathroom.
In the mirror, he saw the weakness in his brown eyes. It might be best to stop things now, but he couldn’t give up, for her sake, and his. Not yet.
He turned from the mirror and caressed himself, managing to get a small result. But it was not enough. He kept working at it, and allowed himself to think of a faceless man. A man who would push Arnold onto the bed and take him until they both shuddered with joy.
Soon he was ready.
“Are you all right?” she asked when he got under the covers again.
“Yes, very good.”
“Is there something I should do?” she asked.
His erection began to shrink. He needed to act quickly if there was any chance of this working. He got under the covers and lay on top of her. She opened her legs, but by the time he got himself arranged, he was soft again.
She held her breath.
He moved off of her. “I’m so sorry.”
“What is it?” Her voice was tender and concerned, but he also heard the fraying underneath, the crumbling of hope.
“I seem to be having trouble.” He rested the back of his hand on his forehead. “Perhaps we are too good of friends.”
“I should never have suggested this,” she whispered. “I have put you in an untenable position.”
“No. It was a good idea.” He wanted to get dressed, and at the same time, he desperately wanted to try. “I’m a doctor. I mean, of course you know that. What I meant to say is that I have read about all of this, and if you want, we could try another position. Sometimes that can make a difference.”
“Yes,” she said. “I would like to try.”
He got out of bed and closed the door. They needed complete darkness. He needed it. “I have read that it actually is more pleasurable for the woman if she gets on her hands and knees.”
She moved under the covers, and he saw the outline of her body.
He pulled at himself, thinking of his friend Otto from boarding school. They would sneak into bed together, and rub each other’s penises until one of them had an orgasm.
The thought of Otto allowed Arnold to push inside Rigmor. He gripped one arm around Rigmor’s tiny waist as he imagined Otto’s firm buttocks and broad shoulders. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel an intense pleasure he had never known. To be so intimate with another human, to be melded as one, to feel the edges of his own ego dissolve, was something he had never imagined. He was about to pull out so that he could put on a condom, but the explosion came suddenly—and so blissfully. He managed to extract himself just in time.
“Oh dear God!” he exclaimed, and felt a combination of relief, exhilaration, and immense gratitude.
“Is something the matter?” Rigmor asked, her voice oddly distant.
“No, no. Nothing is the matter. Quite the opposite.” He fell onto the bed. “No, it was wonderful.” He touched her hairline. “Wonderful,” he said again.
She pulled the blanket up. “You had an—”
She didn’t finish. “I did.” He breathed heavily. “You?”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered.
“I can put my fingers inside of you. Perhaps we can make it work that way.”
“No. I think it’s enough for tonight.”
He turned to her and caressed her hair. “I would like to make you happy,” he said.
She met his fingers with hers. “You are a good man. It could be that more happened than I realized. I mean, the calm that Inga talks of, maybe it will just take a bit longer for me to feel that.”
“Perhaps,” he said, hoping she was correct. Their fingers entwined, and although he’d never been a smoker, he felt as if he understood now why people had a cigarette after sex. It would be such a perfect, languid w
ay to top off such a perfect, exhilarating act. He had to admit that Inga had been right. There was a calm that came after intercourse.
He sighed deeply. “I could lay here forever.”
She shifted so that her head rested on his shoulder. “Can you imagine what my mother would do if I didn’t come home?”
He laughed. “She might call the Gestapo.”
“Perhaps, except that no one hates the Nazis more than she.”
“Possibly. Although they are not a particularly popular bunch.”
“Inga has said that Fred fears they might sway more people into their camp.”
He turned and kissed her forehead. “Germans are good people. In the end, they won’t tolerate a culture of hatred.” He sighed again. “Shall we go to dinner? There is a good restaurant around the corner.”
He felt her head nod on his shoulder and reached for the lamp on the nightstand, but hesitated. He didn’t want her to feel awkward in the light. In truth he also felt a bit strange being naked, and wondered how others handled these moments. After a few more sighs, he suggested that he grab his clothes and give her privacy.
At dinner as they both ate the seafood stew, he noticed men glancing at Rigmor with seemingly lustful intentions. He didn’t feel jealously, at least not the kind that sometimes overcame him when a colleague published in a prestigious journal. It was more of a pleasant sensation—of pride that she was with him.
They talked of small matters and when she placed down her spoon and smiled, he noticed a slight quiver in her mouth. As if she was trying to smile, but couldn’t quite get there. He reached his hand across the table and held hers. Perhaps it was the two men with swastikas on their armbands that made her uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was the fact that she had to return home to her domineering mother. He wanted to protect her, and for a second he even thought he should just ask her to marry him.
“Do you like the stew?” he asked instead.
When the car pulled to the front of her home, he debated whether to kiss her. And if he did, should he kiss her on the lips or the cheek? He leaned toward her, placed his hand on hers, and decided the cheek was the wiser choice. But she had already opened the door. Was she trying to get away from him? On the drive back to his home, he convinced himself that all was fine. She was shy and reserved, and he was overly sensitive.
That night, Arnold woke at three in the morning with an erection, and a fuzzy dream of Otto. He replayed the night’s events, and realized that although he had been able to make his penis work inside of a woman, he would still have to battle his perversions. He reminded himself that the night of lovemaking had been for Rigmor, not him. Hopefully she was sleeping peacefully, and would wake with a tranquil mind.
Chapter Nine
Trying to Help
Belmont, Massachusetts 1984
Inga sat on a hard Windsor chair in Dr. Lincoln’s office. She was here to get information, perhaps to impart information, if that would help. Most important, she wanted to learn about Sabine, and what needed to be done to ensure she was well taken care of, not just here at McLean but afterwards as well. From her handbag, she retrieved her notebook.
Dr. Lincoln, an extraordinarily tall man with earnest brown eyes, sat perfectly still and remained quiet.
Sabine fidgeted. “So …”
Lincoln nodded in slow motion. Inga waited. After a few more moments of silence, she decided to speak. “What do you believe Sabine’s diagnosis is?”
He turned to Sabine. No words were spoken.
Inga understood the theory of a doctor behaving like a blank wall so as not to sway the patient. But Lincoln seemed to take it to an extreme.
Sabine glanced at the carpet. “Depression,” she said.
“I see,” Inga began. “What about delusions or psychosis?”
“Why would you ask that?” Sabine bit back.
Inga placed a hand on her chest. “I meant nothing hurtful. I was only trying to get a sense of what you are suffering from.” She turned to Lincoln. “And do you agree with the diagnosis—that it is simply depression?”
“These are never simple things,” he said.
She would have much preferred a confident yes. She needed to find out if he believed Sabine’s case was actually more complicated.
“How sure are you about the diagnosis?” she asked.
“I’m afraid that is confidential. If Sabine wants to speak about it, she certainly can.”
“There isn’t anything else to say about it,” Sabine replied.
More silence.
Inga pursed her lips, unsure of how to proceed. At the moment, Sabine looked young, more like an adolescent, the way she wrapped her arms around her stomach. Inga wished she could do something to make it easier.
“We can use this time as an opportunity for Sabine,” Lincoln said. “Is there anything you’d like to talk about with your grandmother?”
Sabine scuffed her boot on the carpet. “I guess I want to know why you thought I was wretched.”
Inga tapped her pencil slowly and considered the question. She wanted to be accurate and honest in her answer.
“I thought that there were times you seemed very unhappy. As a child you wanted to stay to yourself, and you didn’t smile much at all. I can picture you gazing out of my sitting room window. I wondered if you had a touch of melancholy.”
“But you said wretched. As in vile. Worthless.”
“Ah,” Inga said. “I did say, to your mother as well, that you seemed, unglucklich. I thought the translation for that was unhappy or wretched. In fact, I remember consulting the dictionary.”
“I don’t know what the translation is,” Sabine said. “But I remember the way you said it, and it felt like wretched.”
Fred used to remark that Inga had a directness in her speech that some people might interpret as aloof or haughty, even if her intentions were not in any way derogatory.
“Can you remember when I called you this?” Inga asked.
“When I was seven. After you said the disabled children should be killed.”
Inga felt her mouth open. For a moment she was speechless. “I am sure I never said killed.” That was not a simple translation issue. “I am surprised you think I said such a thing.”
“You called the children idiots.”
They seemed to be going in circles. “That is the word. In German. That is what we say for feebleminded. Could it be that I just don’t know the correct word?”
“You said they should be put out of their misery.”
It seemed very strange that the conversation was headed in this direction. Yet if this was what Sabine wanted answered, Inga would do her best.
“I might have implied that I did not want the worst of them to suffer.” She paused and looked at Lincoln. “It is a dilemma of all time, is it not? When to allow humans freedom from their misery. At what point do we allow release? I am sure that is all I meant.” She felt her cheeks get warm. To sit in this office and be accused of wanting to murder children was the last thing she expected.
Lincoln nodded and then glanced at Sabine, who didn’t respond.
Inga decided it might be best to change the topic. After all, they were not here to talk about euthanasia, but to help Sabine. “Sabine’s husband,” Inga began, “told me last night that she has suffered from these fits before.”
“They’re not fits,” Sabine snapped.
“Again, I fear it is my English.”
“Well, now people aren’t kept in chains if they have fits,” Sabine said.
“But my dear girl,” Inga began. “People were not kept in chains. There were fine institutions, better than this. With very good treatments. In my younger days, I knew quite a lot about these things.”
“Like what?” Sabine asked.
The question was forceful, as if Inga were being interrogated. She held herself very straight. “I knew people.”
“Who?” Sabine asked.
Inga brushed a hand along her skirt. If she was
n’t already on such precarious ground, she might have told Sabine that her tone was impertinent. “For one,” Inga said, “I knew Rudin quite well.” She looked at Lincoln. “He was well known for his two gene theory of schizophrenia.”
“I have not heard of that,” Lincoln said.
“But you have heard of Rudin?” Inga asked.
“I’m afraid not.” He appeared ready to stand. The session had only just begun, and Inga wondered if Sabine was being shortchanged. “If Sabine needs more time, I am happy to pay for it.”
“The sessions are fifty minutes,” Lincoln replied. “At least half the time needs to be devoted to just Sabine. It was nice to meet you, Miss Sommer.”
“I do know quite a bit about mania and melancholy,” she added quickly. She needed more information—more time. A better sense of what her granddaughter had and how she could help. She couldn’t leave yet.
“I don’t have those things,” Sabine said.
Lincoln stood. “Thank you for coming, Miss Sommer.”
“Frau Sommer,” Inga corrected, and closed her notebook that had one word from the meeting. Wretched.
At the door, she turned to Lincoln. “May I set up a private session with you?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be ethical,” he replied. “Sabine is my client.”
She smiled. “I only want to ensure she has what she needs for now and the future.”
“I’m afraid that would be impossible.” He lowered his head. “Thank you again for coming,” he said, closing the door.
Inga felt wholly misunderstood and booted out like a stray cat.
The last time she was in a psychiatrist’s office it had been Bohm’s, a man she wished she could completely erase from her memory. But there he was, suddenly so clear in her thoughts, with his bald head, erratic gestures and sickly plants. She shivered. Perhaps this Lincoln fellow wasn’t the best psychiatrist in the world but his focus on helping Sabine felt genuine, and he seemed to be grounded by his own beliefs, not those of some despicable government party.
