Part 6 (1/2)
The Diary of Abraham Van Helsing 20 NOVEMBER. Between this night and the last, the whole world has gone mad. The people I trusted most have all taken leave of their senses, and I dare not even trust my own.
I know only that my poor brother is lost to me, whether by his own design or someone else's.
After a dreadful night, I woke wanting nothing more than to convince myself that the scandalous tableau I had witnessed had been only a dream. But what I had seen was all too real; the image of it haunted me so that I rose before dawn and left early for the hospital, unable to face Stefan or my wife.
I immersed myself in work for some hours, which brought some relief-after all, the charity cases are so pitiable that my own problems pale. Who am I to compare my suffering to that of an indigent man blinded by excess sugar in the blood and about to lose his leg to the same cause? Or a twelve-year-old orphan dying of consumption? But too soon, the time came to return home for my afternoon appointments. The temptation was great to stay away and later claim some emergency had prevented me. Stefan, after all, shared my practise and would make sure no patient was turned away.
But I am a miserable failure as a liar; and I knew that sooner or later I should have to face my wife and brother again. Unlike my mood, the day was bright and sunny, the chill tolerable, and so I walked home and arrived there at my customary time, just before one o'clock.
I did not go at once to the kitchen, where I could hear from the clatter of dishes and the click of high-heeled slippers against the wooden floor that Gerda was preparing dinner. For some reason, I could not look upon her first. Instead, I went back to the medical offices and found Stefan, who sat in the examination room, surrounded by anatomical charts, apothecary jars, a human skeleton-the accretion of Papa's forty years of medical practise.
He was sitting at our father's desk, his elbows propped upon the s.h.i.+ning polished mahogany, his head lowered, his hands clutching his forehead, his pale long fingers combed into his dark hair. The posture spoke of such abject misery that, strangely, my own eased; I found that I could gaze on him quite steadily-if not with forgiveness, then with pity. All the cold anger that I feared would betray itself in my voice melted away, and I said, quite softly and with honest concern: ”Stefan? Are you well?”
He glanced up, startled by my presence. My brother is far better at dissembling than I, but even he could not hide his guilt; he looked away, unable to meet my eyes.
”You look tired,” I said. In truth, he looked ten years older than the day before. Older, certainly, than the shadowy image of the lover who had- I censored the too-painful thought immediately.
But a flicker of emotion must have crossed my face then, for Stefan managed a sidewise glance at me and replied, very quietly, ”No more than you.”
I caught his eye at last, and we shared a troubled look. In that moment, much pa.s.sed between us without words; I have no doubt that he understood that I knew, but we were each too cowardly to speak directly to the matter. I opened my mouth, determined to end my complicity in this silence.
But before either of us could speak, the office door rang. We both looked up towards the sound; he jumped up as if prodded.
”I'll handle it, Bram. Have your dinner; I've already eaten.””Are you sure?”
In reply, he went to open the door.
I paused for a moment and watched from the corridor as he escorted the caller inside. A woman-I caught no more than a glimpse of her before I turned to leave, but what a spectacle! She was young and quite beautiful, dressed in furs and brocades and diamonds, with a sable m.u.f.f and matching cap perched atop a cascade of long red curls. And strikingly tall-the same height as my brother. I took her for a diva or an actress, for her china blue eyes were lined with kohl, and her lips were stained dark red.
Her voice-deep and sultry, heavily accented- marked her as a foreigner, a Frenchwoman.
A chanteuse, I remember thinking to myself, as it carried down the hall, for it was rich and melodious. A travelling chanteuse who had come to consult a doctor on the care of a much- abused throat, I suspected.
I left her with my brother and made my way to the kitchen, where Gerda and little Jan waited, she setting the plates upon the table, he flailing in his high-chair and crying out happily at the sight of me-holding out his arms, while his mother stood, preoccupied, with her back to me.
Grateful for at least my child's welcome, I went to him at once and scooped him up. He was laughing with exaggerated glee as he pulled at my beard, then released a hearty giggle that came from his belly. His joyful little heart is the one constant in this world, the one truly good thing that has not changed. It was pure balm for my wounded soul, and I indulged in it freely.
”Papa fly!” he crowed. ”Papa fly!”
It is our special game. I stretched my arms up, up, so that I held him high above my head, and asked: ”Are you an angel, Jan? Papa's little angel?”
”Papa_/?y!” he demanded.
”And so you shall,” I said, and tossed him up into the air. He shrieked with delight, waving chubby, dimpled arms and legs as I called, ”Fly, little angel! Fly!” and caught him.
Gerda always scolded us fondly, saying, You 'II hurt him, Abraham! Be careful! But to-day she only watched with a pale smile and, when I turned to look at her, glanced swiftly away and went back to the stove.
”Where is Mama?” I asked, over Jan's repeated demands for more.
She frowned down at the steaming cauldron and, without looking at me, replied shortly, ”Resting. She will be down later.”
I gave up all attempts at conversation then, knowing they would be in vain. Gerda has always been given to periods of darkness and is sometimes silent and brooding, especially since Papa's recent death; I have learnt not to be overly concerned by it, but that day it gnawed at me, for I felt I finally knew its cause.
She brought me my dinner, but I could not eat it. Instead, I picked at it and watched as she sat beside me and fed the child; he has become our s.h.i.+eld from each other. In fact, I was grateful for her concentration upon him, for I was oddly close to tears at the sight of her.
She is so beautiful, so young, with her waving brown hair pulled back with ribbon, like a girl's, and ending just above her tiny waist in one long, loose curl. I know her heart: it is as simple and sweet as little Jan's. There is no guile in her, and no shame, only unremitting sorrow. I knew she sensed my pain and felt it as her own. I wanted to reach out, to rest my fingers upon the hand that fed my son, and ask her for the truth: Did she love my brother more than she loved me? Did she long for freedom?
It cannot happen, of course; Gerda herself would never permit it. She is a devout Catholic, and at best we would only separate, but never divorce.
As we sat in that uneasy silence, laughter came from the medical office: a woman's laughter, in a throaty, flirtatious contralto.
Gerda looked up sharply at the sound and, for the first time that day, spoke to me. ”Do you think she is beautiful?”
Her question took me quite by surprise. ”The patient with Stefan?”
She nodded. ”I saw her from the window.”
I hesitated. ”She is pretty, yes.” I turned towards my wife and fastened my gaze full upon her so that there was no way for her to avoid it, short of closing her eyes. ”But it is a-vulgar sort of prettiness. Not true beauty.”
And I took her hand. For one brief dazzling moment, she smiled shyly up at me; then the pain crossed her features again, and I thought she would burst into tears.
Just as suddenly, her expression s.h.i.+fted to one of alarm. She jerked her head in the direction of the office and looked up, frowning. ”Did you hear that?”
I considered the question, and decided in retrospect that I had heard a thump of sorts, elsewhere in the house.
Gerda pushed to her feet. ”Someone fell.”
Her fearful conviction was so utter that I dashed to the edge of the stairs and called up to Mama.
She stepped from her room and came to the landing, looking so troubled, so haggard, so suddenly aged that the very sight of her disturbed me more than the mysterious thump.
”Yes, Bram? What is it?”
”Gerda thinks she heard someone fall.” And at her look of confusion, I added, ”Perhaps Stefan's patient fainted. I should go see if he needs help.”
The sound of sudden heavy footsteps, a panicked shout, the slam of a distant door- I whirled. As I did, Mama came down the steps so quickly, she nearly lost her balance and fell. I looked back at her to find her expression one of utter panic, her hand upon her heart.
I clasped her arm to steady her, and together we ran back through the kitchen, towards the doctors' offices in the back of the house. Gerda scooped up little Jan, who began to wail, and followed.
I ran to the outer waiting room, where the door stood flung wide, letting in the chill winter air and revealing the busy street. On the other side, I espied my brother; he hurried away, his back to me, carrying the unconscious diva, her red curls spilling down over his arm.
A critical emergency, I a.s.sumed, as I watched him head for a waiting cab, and was surprised that he had not called for a.s.sistance. I dashed to the doorway and shouted out:”Stefan! Shall I meet you at the hospital?”
He did not turn, did not slow his pace; if anything, my voice seemed to galvanise him to move more swiftly. Quickly, he deposited his swooning patient inside the cab.
”Stefan-” I called again.
At that instant, Mama came to a stop beside me and let go a cry so shrill, so piercing, so anguished that I shall hear it ring in my memory to my dying day.