Healthy Place to Die (4 page)

My salad was warm, which was an encouraging start. It takes a clever chef to know which ingredients of a salad are fuller flavored when warmed. Shallots and chervil spiked the flavor even further, whereas a lesser chef would have used capers or anchovies, both too strong in a warm salad. Full marks to the chef, I thought, and reflected that it was a shame he could not know how fair I was being. My companions praised their dishes, and compliments could be heard from adjoining tables.

A tiny bowl of consommé served as an entremet, a between-courses palate cleanser, much more sensible than the fruit sorbet that some restaurants serve. For the fish course, several of us went for the
omble chevalier,
the small salmon trout that is unique to Lac Leman, the lake around Geneva. Others had red snapper from the Mediterranean or Röteln, a trout caught around Zug, almost in the center of Switzerland. The
omble chevalier
came in a sorrel sauce that did not overcome the delicate taste of the fish. On the table were two bottles of white wine to accompany this course. One was a French Moselle and the other a Sauvignon from the Cielo vineyard in Italy.

The pattern of the meal was now discernible, with many Swiss dishes supplemented by French, Italian, and German dishes. Touches of Oriental and Caribbean cuisines made it a very enjoyable meal as I chose for the main course sesame seed-encrusted loin of lamb, duck breast with sour cherries, a pork and mushroom ragout, with the member from Aargau having a filet mignon with a Pinot Noir sauce. A Merlot from the Trentino region and a fine French Burgundy, a Pommard, were served with these.

Desserts included
zuger kirschtorte,
a rich saffron-colored cake soaked in cherry schnapps. “I would almost come here just for this,” said the member as he confessed being tempted to order a second helping. We chatted for some time after the meal, then when we left the tables, twos and threes gathered in conversation with those from other tables. I saw Kathleen Evans and the newcomer, Elaine Dunbar, in a close encounter. Axel Vorstahl and Michel Leblanc were debating a culinary issue.

I talked with Oriana Frascati, and she agreed that it was a fine meal and an auspicious start to the week. Tim Reynolds, the golfer, came over. He had found a female companion from Las Vegas, where she supervised the croupiers. Margaret was a busty blonde with too much makeup but jolly and friendly. Kathleen Evans joined us as they were about to leave. “You’ll be writing about this place in your column,” said Reynolds.

“They keep up their standards very well,” Kathleen agreed. She looked very attractive in a linen suit in a muted yellow color. “The salmon was perfect,” she added, and Margaret, Tim’s companion, who had had the same dish, agreed.

“You’ve been here before, I take it,” said Margaret.

“A few times,” Kathleen said, and I recalled that she had told me “once or twice.”

“Well,” said Tim, “we need our constitutional after that meal.”

“Tim thinks twice around the grounds is a constitutional walk,” said Margaret with a shudder.

“We can stop when you get tired,” he said with a wink at me.

When they had left, Kathleen said, “I was thinking of a little recreation myself.”

“A walk?” I offered noncommittally.

“The Seaweed Forest.”

“The brochure has a picture of it. I saw one like it in a spa in Baden-Baden where the idea is said to have originated. It’s a sort of flagellator—you get whipped by long lengths of seaweed as you go through.”

“And did you go through?”

“No,” I admitted. “It sounds medieval.”

“It’s very stimulating.” As she said it, she turned from eavesdropping on a nearby group and gave me a full-faced stare, her eyes locked on mine.

“You must have been in it on your previous visits,” I prompted.

“I’d definitely call it one of the highlights.”

“Being whipped by wet seaweed … I don’t know …”

Her eyes were still on mine. “You can set it to any level you want. It can be caressing, it can be restorative, it can be, as I said …,” she paused, “… stimulating.” She drawled out the last word. “You should try it,” she added slowly.

“I don’t know what it’s like until I’ve tried it?”

She nodded, and her lips pouted just slightly. “I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes.”

H
YDROTHERAPY IS ONE OF
medicine’s oldest curative techniques. The Greeks and the Romans believed in it firmly. The Romans found natural springs and a source of highly mineralized water in the south of England and established it as a recuperation center for the injured and war-weary soldiers of their legions. It prospered as a city, became known as Bath, and in the eighteenth century was one of the most important spas in Europe. Other European cities became known through their healing waters—Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, Vichy, and Karlsbad, and in the United States, Colorado Springs and Battle Creek were among many spas that opened.

Despite the strong early belief in the curative powers of water, there came an inevitable backlash. How could water on the skin heal the body? skeptics asked. The attraction of the spas declined, although people still drank their water. If no other benefits were apparent, none could deny the laxative effects and this was very important in an era of overindulgence and unbalanced diets.

As the rich began to travel, they demanded more and more luxurious accommodation and a high degree of pampering. The notion of spending a portion of such travel repairing the damages done in the rest of the year sounded attractive, and the spas blossomed into temples of hedonism. “Taking the waters” became the thing to do, and eventually the medical associations of various countries undertook the study of medicinal waters. Their findings exceeded the hopes of even their most enthusiastic sponsors.

Water was found to relax and fill the blood vessels of the body, improve circulation, relieve muscle aches and spasms. Spa water, with its high content of salts, lime, magnesia, and fluorine, is many times more potent than pure water and today the spas are more popular than ever before. Spa waters are unequaled in their ability to relieve the mental and physical exhaustion resulting from the tensions of modern life.

Outside the restaurant building, I looked out across the lawn, shining softly in the rays of the sun, which was now nearing the horizon at the far end of the valley. Beyond were the buildings that housed the hydrotherapy complex. The various units were in separate edifices, large expanses of lawn between them. Most were in differing styles. Some were of wooden chalet construction, typical of Switzerland. Others were stone, some with the appearance of current design, clean, clear-cut, and in geometric shapes and some in irregular slabs with a look of the past. Others were brick with skeletons of black girders. What I was looking for was probably that mass of trees that was the nearest approximation to a forest.

“All of them help the digestion,” said a voice, and one of the blond, beautiful staff members appeared.

“I’m tempted,” I said. “Still trying to decide which one.”

This young woman was in the identical mode as the others, smiling, friendly, and undoubtedly just as efficient. Her name tag said “Rhoda.”

“The mud baths are very popular,” she suggested. “But then so are the hot spring pools.”

Where an Alp started its climb into the sky, I noticed a large black hole. “What’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s the entrance to the Glacier Caverns. They are enormous chambers inside the solid ice of the glacier, and one of the natural wonders of Switzerland. They are closed to the public at the moment. The glacier is moving at the rate of several inches a year, and technicians are checking the instruments that measure it.”

“So which activity do you recommend? The mud baths or the pools?”

“The mud baths are probably more popular,” she said.

“I heard someone recommend the high-pressure sauna too.”

She frowned. “It may be a little too vigorous so soon after eating.” Then she brightened. “The Seaweed Forest might be better.”

We spent several minutes discussing the various options. She knew them all well. As I had not yet tried any, the discussion was more prolonged than I would have wished. I didn’t want Kathleen to become impatient and assume I wasn’t coming. At last, I waved my bathing trunks and towel. “I think I’ll head over there and make a decision. Thanks for your advice, er—”

From the color reproduction in the spa’s brochure, it was easy to pick it out on the far side of the lawn. I set off in that direction. The air was still warm even though evening was well advanced. Only the gentlest breeze occasionally ruffled the grass, which swayed not more than a couple of millimeters in response.

It looked like a small forest as I drew near or maybe a very large thicket. Beeches, pines, and fir trees squeezed close together to form a long rectangle, probably sixty yards long and twenty yards wide, higher than a two-story house. A six-foot-high gate was the only entrance, and from it a hedge of the same height ran all around. The gate was not bolted, but after I went in I saw a sign inviting me to bolt it “if privacy is desired.” I decided it was, and I did. Several cubicles were just inside the gate, and I went into the nearest and changed. Another sign stated “Wear no clothing of any kind inside the Seaweed Forest.” I left my bathing trunks with my clothes and approached the “forest.” Nudity is a powerful inhibitor, and I recalled that torture techniques were most effective when the victim was stripped. Why was I associating the Seaweed Flagellator with torture, I wondered? It was therapy.

Discreet notices explained the function and operation. Essentially a tunnel through the “forest,” mechanical arms swung lengths of seaweed through which walked the seeker after health. They were scientifically arranged so that every part of the body except the face was chastised. A spray of warm mineral water came from above to moisten the skin. This reduced the impact of the seaweed strips and increased the excitation of the skin. At the far end, a U-turn led to a parallel return tunnel with cooler water of a different mineral content to soothe and relax the body.

A notice, which like all the others was written in English, French, and German, went on to maintain that the resultant effect was not one of flagellation but rather massage of the muscles, which was highly beneficial. It went on to describe just how beneficial, and if the notice had been written by anyone except a Swiss, it would have added “erotic.” At least, I interpreted it that way, although I wondered if I was being influenced by Kathleen’s invitation.

The entrance to the tunnel through the trees was a gaping hole. Subdued and hidden lights made visibility just possible but no more. I assumed that was because there was not much to see. Moisture dripped insistently from the trees, but there was no other sound. I presumed that despite my being delayed by the delightful blonde, Kathleen was not here yet.

A control panel was mounted by the tunnel entrance. Several settings were available so that one could presumably be excited to any chosen level. I was considering turning it on when I heard a sound inside, a loud rustling. Kathleen was here, after all. I plunged into the tunnel.

It was more like a jungle than a forest, warm and humid. The air had a distinct odor, obviously from the high mineral content of the water. It was a metallic sort of odor and so pervasive that I could taste it on my tongue. I had to push the seaweed strands aside to get through. When the power was on it would be easier to progress, but now the seaweed hung flaccid, almost blocking the path completely.

I called Kathleen’s name, but there was no reply. I pushed on through the wet, dripping weeds, then I heard the rustling sound ahead again. She was being coy. I thrust seaweed away with both hands and went on, and suddenly she was there before me.

She was naked and leaning with her back against the seaweed flagellators. Her arms were stretched out toward me. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open invitingly—she did not move.

I took hold of her forearm. It was warm, but she did not respond. Her face was flushed, and I saw that the skin all over her body was livid. I lifted one eyelid gently. Her eye was cloudy, and the eyelid slid back into place.

The same sound came again, and this time it was much closer.

T
HE SOUND CAME FROM
deeper in the tunnel. It had been slightly mysterious before. Now it was threatening. I looked again at Kathleen and was reaching for her pulse when I heard what sounded like a voice. It came from the same direction as the rustling. If it was a voice, I could not distinguish any words. I was not even sure if it was male or female or what language it spoke.

No matter. I turned to Kathleen and reached for her pulse again. Just as I did so, I heard the rustling again, only this time it was immediately behind me. I started to turn, but a wave of sweetish-smelling vapor hit me in the face even as I swung around. The stuff was extraordinarily fast acting because I passed out before I could see who was behind me. Fast as it was, though, I was aware of a slight eucalyptus undertone to the odor, evidently the professional receptors working even as they lapsed into inactivity.

When I came around, it seemed like only a minute or two later. Whatever the anesthetic was, it left no aftereffects, and I was able to recall instantaneously my thoughts as I went under. My first thought now, though, was the registration of the fact that Kathleen was gone. I was sprawled against one bank of flagellators, and as I struggled upright I wondered if I had been moved and was perhaps out for longer than I had supposed. If so, maybe Kathleen was still here.

I listened carefully. All was silent. I looked for a weapon of some kind but there was nothing. I went on down the tunnel, examining every inch, but there was no sign of Kathleen. From the distance I had gone once I reached the end, I was sure I had not been moved—and if I had not, Kathleen had. There was no one here, neither her nor anyone else.

Out of the tunnel, it was already twilight. The open air was a wonderful relief after the dim, dank confines of the forest. I breathed easier, but I didn’t think it safe to hang around. I grabbed my clothes and headed back to the main buildings.