Blood Ties (18 page)

The wedding was held in the old Lutheran Church in town. The remaining families hosted a series of dances, followed by dinners and teas
for the ladies at which he was expected to appear, after an appropriate
interval, for further exhibition.

"She is an idiot," he finally confessed to his
sister in letters, filled with a self-pitying longing for the old days. A word
from Karla would have surely dissuaded him. But she continued to encourage him.

"Better get this behind you," she had advised.
"And get immediately into von Kassel production."

He took Emma back to the country place after their
marriage. Despite her physical charms, her big upturned bosom and wonderfully
constructed legs, she was a sexual disaster. The whole process was a matter of
complete indifference to her. He wondered, of course, if the fault was his, but
it was a self-recrimination that he quickly suppressed. He, too, was ignorant
of such matters.

Conversation was limited to the food which their chef
prepared, the decorations she pursued on the house, and the various agonies of her
life in the country, which she detested almost immediately.

"I want to go back to Tallinn, to be near Mama,"
she begged, like a spoiled child.

"Not now," he commanded. He was waiting for her
first pregnancy at which time he would ship her back, gladly.

"Why can't I go now?"

"Because I need you here."

"No you don't." It was absolutely her only real
insight.

He spent as much time as he could away from the house.
Thankfully, the business was excellent. He had by then already made contact
with scattered cousins in other countries: Adolph's father, the father of
Wilhelm and Frederick, and Klaus in Australia, and was beginning to understand
the virtues of family involvement in a worldwide sense. A whole new source of
custom was open in China where feuding warlords vied for supremacy and Adolph's
father was already sending huge orders from Shanghai. He had calculated that China would be his first stop after he had shipped a pregnant Emma to Tallinn.

But after three months nothing happened, although he
performed his duty almost on a nightly basis to which she submitted with her
usual total indifference. She had by then developed a fondness for rich foods
and chocolates, and was beginning to expand rapidly and her breasts, thighs and
belly began to balloon before his eyes.

"You're getting fat," he told her.

"You think so?" She apparently had blocked out
the vision of her fattening, although all her dresses had to be let out and she
continued to order mounds of chocolates from Brussels which she depleted at an
astounding rate. She did little supervision of household chores. Since there
was no family as yet she simply took to spending her time either sleeping,
eating or gossiping with her Estonian maids, most of whom she apparently chose
for a similar obtuseness. As she fattened and grew more slothful and cranky, he
began to ignore her. And without any signs of pregnancy appearing, he grew
increasingly irritated, as if somehow he had been betrayed.

He sent for a doctor from Tallinn, who examined her and
noted a less than perfect rupture of the hymen which he corrected surgically
and pronounced her fertile with no visible inhibiting signs for a natural
pregnancy. He did not submit himself to examination.

"She wasn't completely done," the doctor said,
hesitating to go further. "She should be more likely to conceive
now."

Weeks stretched to months, marked in his mind by the coming
of her period. Seeing the first spots of blood would prod him to deep rages.

"She is not conceiving," he wrote his sister,
pouring out his frustrations in long whining letters. "I am going
mad." When this theme became repititious, Karla, alarmed, paid an
unexpected visit. Charles was overjoyed at seeing her and the two spent long
hours in contemplative conversation.

"I had no idea," Karla had said, not long after
her first glance at her now grossly fleshed out sister-in-law. "She's
gross."

"Her only interest is what she can put in her
mouth."

"My poor brother." She caressed his hand.

He barely spoke to Emma by then and politeness between them
disappeared. Mounting her was like straddling an animal.

"She is a defective, "Charles pointed out.
"It's obvious she isn't normal."

"What about divorce?"

"Without her consent it would be difficult.
Apparently, she is not as stupid as she appears."

"No one can be that stupid."

"I was. I married her."

"I'm sure you'll figure out a way to be rid of her,
Charles," Karla said, her meaning clear. He had, of course, already begun
to chart a course, although the consequences of his projected action frightened
him. In an effort to avoid it, he had even agreed to let her go back to Tallinn.

"No," she had said. Her fat had seemed to give
her courage.

"But I thought that was what you wanted," he had
protested, puzzled.

"I like it here."

"How can you like it here," he asked. "You
are alone, except for those idiotic maids. And you're eating yourself into a
puddle of flesh." She shrugged and reached for another chocolate. Her
refusal to leave the country seemed providential. The choices narrowed.

By then she had become so gross that he could not bear to
sleep with her. Intercourse with her was out of the question and he finally
accepted the fact that she could not reproduce. There hardly seemed any
alternative. By any means.

The idea had not arrived in his mind by sheer accident. It
had simmered there for weeks. He brooded over it, searching for the perfect
strategy that would blunt any chance of serious inquiry. In the old days, there
was nothing that could interfere with Baronial justice except the action of the
Committee of Barons. Now there were Estonian authorities who searched for legal
ways to intimidate the Barons. He would have to be extremely clever.

Paramount to any plan was the
question of appearances. He had to change totally his attitude toward her.
Where he was indifferent, he resolved to be attentive. Where he was quick to
anger, he summoned repression. He became outwardly affectionate, the hardest
tack of all. It was, he knew, a charade for the servants. He began to call her
"darling." If his sudden change confused her, she rarely noticed. Her
brain along with her tissues had clogged with fat and beyond her digestion and
the sensual pleasure of eating there was little that interested her.

He took her on long rides in the horse-drawn carriage, one
of the few remaining relics of the old days, although when they were out of
sight of the servants, he slashed the whip across the horse's rump and moved
swiftly and bumpily along the tire rutted path, watching her squirm with
discomfort, tittering in fear. He also took her rowing on the lake each
afternoon. It became, over a period of two months, a ritual when the weather
was good. Actually, it turned out to be an amusement to the servants, who
snickered as the huge hulk of Emma moved clumsily into the boat, sinking it
almost to the rims.

His sudden interest confused her but he had reinforced the
outings by providing huge boxes of chocolates for each trip. He felt no sense
of horror in what he was doing. There was not the slightest hint of gathering
remorse, guilt or regrets. The perpetuation of the direct von Kassel line was
an all-encompassing rationale. Understanding his own obsession, he had no
difficulty in manipulating an obsession in others. She would do anything to get
her mouth around sweets. And he had carefully set about taking possession of
every bite of the supply.

"Please, Charles," she would beg, sometimes
bursting into his sleep in the middle of the night, her breath labored with the
movement of her bulk and the anxieties of her addiction. He would listen
patiently to these entreaties, yielding only after she had reached crescendoes
of irritation.

Yet, he lingered over the action long after he felt the
servants were convinced of his husbandly affection. He was always presenting
himself challenges. Imaginary goals set to near impossible standards to prove
his capacities. How long could he go without sleep, without food? How much time
to tire a horse? Like his grandfather, he took to haunting the cemetery at
night, relishing the image of continuity, of his destiny, as he poked among the
graves of his ancestors. With little effort, he could slip into a state of
fantasy and imagine himself in their company. Time frames shattered. He could
commune as easily with the armored Knight of the Old Order still breathless
from the retreat from Tannenberg as with a von Kassel from the Napoleonic era,
who had sent scavengers to gather arms from the little Emperor's defeated and
dispirited army retreating from Russia.

The plan for Emma's disposal had begun in spring. Late
summer had arrived. The leaves were turning and the outings chilled her. She
seemed to yap at him like a trained seal, offering pleasantries and tricks for
her ration of chocolates. He became fascinated with this ability to manipulate
her, pushing her to monstrous humiliations.

That day, he drove her down to the lake in the carriage. As
usual, he carried a wicker basket filled with chocolates which she eyed with
lust through flesh-pouched eyes. The large rowboat bounced against the little
pier and the boatsman came up to greet them, since it required at least two men
to remove Emma from the carriage and place her in the specially rigged seat
that had been constructed to accommodate her.

When she was ensconced, he took the oars and waited for the
boat to drift sufficiently away from the shore before dipping them. The boat
moved swiftly outward. Usually, he would hand her a box of chocolates
immediately, but now he withheld the prize while she fumed and fretted with
greedy anticipation.

"Now, Charles?" she asked imitating a begging
child, offering a grotesque smile in a dimpled puddle of flesh. The day was
overcast, the wind whipped across the lake, churning up little whitecaps and
rocking the boat.

"Please, Charles," she begged, the smile becoming
a contortion. "You promised." Like Pavlov's dog, a well-rutted path
was cut into in her mind. But he ignored her, continuing to row with the wind,
watching the shore fade in the distance.

"I'll be a good girl," she pleaded.

He continued to row, the sweat boiling on his back, rolling
down from his forehead.

"I'll do anything, Charles." She was quickly
reaching a point of desperation. "I want my chocolates," she
screamed. "I want my chocolates."

His hands hurt and his back began to ache. Near the center
of the lake, the wind made screeching sounds, partially drowning out her shrill
entreaties. Finally, when he could no longer see the shore, he drew in the
oars, letting them lean against either side of his seat. Then he edged himself
to the prow where he had put the wicker basket. It was, he knew, a charade for
the benefit of any prying eyes. The sight of him moving to the wicker basket
had quieted her and she watched greedily, as he showed her the contents, then
put the basket on the seat he had just vacated. She watched the basket, her
eyes flitting nervously to search his face. She was confused. Then she smiled.

"Give me the chocolates, Charles."

"Take them," he said gently. "They're all
yours."

Her smile faded slowly. From somewhere deep inside of her,
he could see the briefest flicker of understanding. The boat was rocking badly.
To traverse the distance to the chocolates meant she would have to climb over
another seat, a task of almost insurmountable challenge to one of her bulk.

"Come on Emma," he taunted. "Come get your
delicious chocolates. Nice, juicy, tasty chocolates."

Nerves began to twitch in her face and her fat fingers
played nervously with each other.

"I can't," she cried. The fear had begun to play
in her eyes. He pointed, palm upward in an offering position, to the wicker
basket.

"Come get your chocolates," he called, mimicking
in childish sing-song.

He watched her weigh the possibilities, her tongue
flickering against her lips.

"You can do it, Emma," he called. He saw her
hands tighten around the rims and she made the first movement to rise, the
sweat of effort quickly filming her face.

"Sure, my darling, come get the chocolates," he
taunted.

Finally, she managed to move her vast bulk upward while he
shouted encouragement. Then she was actually standing.

"I knew you could do it," he cried. She reached
forward with her chubby hands, tipping the delicate balance as the rocking boat
forced her sideways, throwing her bulk over the edge. Without a sound, she
slipped into the water and sank immediately, like a giant stone.

He waited for a long moment, then dived in, following the
path of her descent in the remarkably clear water. The depth was nearly ninety
feet at the lake's center, but he could see her body drifting on the bottom,
the face distorted even beyond the original bloat, the blonde hair stringy and
floating upward. There had been, after all, little choice. It was simply a
distasteful duty to perform. A test of his resolve.

He stared at her until his lungs reached the bursting
point. Then he let his body shoot upward to the surface. Climbing back in the
boat, he rowed swiftly to shore where he told the boatsman his story and
collapsed with feigned exhaustion.

Except for a few brief recollections at the funeral, mostly
of her bloated face as he first glimpsed it on the lake's bottom, he had not
thought of it, not this clearly, for nearly fifty years. Nor had there been the
slightest remorse. Not the slightest. He was not even sure he was feeling it
now, although there had been this sudden cold shiver as the image burst into
the surface of his consciousness.

"What is it, Charles?" It was Karla hovering near
him. He was sweating and she wiped away the moisture with a tissue.