Secret Dreams (2 page)

They would have finished putting the children to bed by now, sitting in mismatched chairs, as they always did, heads bowed close as though telling secrets. Maximilian's low voice came down the hall, the words blurred and indistinct…. The man was a lanky thirty-five-year-old bachelor, dainty and fastidious, with the scent of witch hazel and solitary meals about him. He was already an accomplished surgeon at the Leningrad Hermitage Hospital when he came to the clinic two years ago. Giving up the lucrative and respected Leningrad practice must have appeared odd to his peers, for by leaving the Surgery Unit of the Hermitage he gave up not only thousands of rubles in “insurance fees” when servicing elite members of the Party or the army, but also the well-laid path to all the better things in life: a larger apartment, quality food, good liquor, fine tobacco, unprocurable books to read — all the gifts an eminent surgeon might expect in return for removing a commissar's gallstones or a Hero of the Revolution's swollen prostate. His patients were those corrupt old men who refused to die, who would pay anything to keep the slender thread spinning out a little longer. And here a young man gave that up in favor of an obscure clinic that specialized in a peculiar branch of psychotherapy? Which few authorities believed in? It made Frau Direktor wonder. Many months passed at the clinic before Maximilian told anyone the real reason for his departure from the Hermitage Surgery Unit.

As a child of ten, he had suddenly been struck down by a repulsive affliction: a purplish growth the size of a ripe plum rose out of his forehead like a rhinoceros's horn. Instantly he became the unpopular freak, a Quasimodo, who was picked on unmercifully throughout his school life. His otherwise prissy appearance, his long, delicate fingers, the way he minced about from place to place — add to these the rhino growth, and inevitably Max's classmates used him in an endless dance of torture. The pleasurable torture of schoolboys, notoriously the most savage of mankind's primitive tribes.

In Maximilian's teens, a moderately competent surgeon removed the plum from the center of his forehead. After the operation his hair partly covered the incision,- a coin-sized circle remained, like a burn scar — not so unbecoming for a man. But the damage had been done. Young Max had been touched for life. While surgery saved him from endless years of looking repulsive, the lad still had to carve beauty from the beast within. Though only a mediocre student, Maximilian studied like a madman, eventually becoming a surgeon in his own right. Among the best the Hermitage Hospital had ever seen. Delicate. Precise. And flawless.

Even as surgery and the learning of surgery gave him a chance at a life in the world of men, now Max indulged the ache of his old wound, and a sick fascination blossomed within him. For he learned how to pick unmercifully into the bodies and organs of others. His long fingers probing the moist innards of a helpless body, feeling the yielding forms of the organs within. The power of it! The depravity! Arousal in the very guts of life. Stirring him to an erection. And when, as sometimes happened during a long and difficult operation, Maximilian needed to urinate, the inevitable obliging nurse appeared at his side, ready to help him — that is, by taking him out of his trousers and holding a glass beaker as he passed his water. Those unfamiliar with this odd operating room procedure might find this nurse-to-surgeon encounter either shocking or hilarious, but it had its practical side. The doctor eventually has to urinate,- must he leave the patient, hobble down to the lavatory, and stand at a public urinal —-perhaps beside an anxious relative, desperate to know how the operation is going? No: far simpler for a nurse to hold the receptacle and resterilize
her
hands. Much simpler than for a sawbones with his fingers in the soup to wash them off after handling his dirty spoon.

To this sensible surgical practice Max added the touchy problem of a spontaneous erection. And though needing to urinate might partially subdue his arousal, his swollen condition was still evident to the nurse handling him under the table. And even when he did go down, the poor fellow nearly always found it impossible to relieve himself. Pee-shy is the vulgar expression. Making the surgeon (once again) the source of high amusement among the Hermitage operating room staff.

For many years Maximilian cultivated an appearance of cool indifference. After all, he saved lives, and not just any lives but those of influential Party members and admirals awarded the Order of Lenin. Yet he was also slowly getting even, now, as a surgeon,
he
could laugh, laugh at his patients on the table as his fingers touched their brains. Laugh so wide his head nearly split at the ears, for his erection was a monstrous howl, roaring, See! I'm
in
you! In you all the way! And that he couldn't urinate was simply a direct message from his hidden better self:

All this nonsense must stop, Max. Stop now!

In the end the young man had three choices. Discredit several nurses to keep them from gossiping. Graft himself to some dangerous functionary as that man's personal physician, insuring a terrified silence in the operating room and far beyond. Or the final choice: leave the practice of surgery at the Hermitage forever.

For indeed, if Maximilian kept on much longer, his secret laughter was bound to slip out and his private monstrous howls of revenge would soon be perceived by people even more dangerous than himself. It had to end somewhere,- he heard a rumor about a clinic in Rostov that specialized in the neuroses of children. With considerable difficulty, he resigned his post. He had no clear plan…. First travel south, then offer his services as a doctor, and in return — in return, what? In many ways the Hermitage Hospital had been Max's reason for being. For without the critical surgery of his youth and the skills he learned later, Max certainly would have twisted into something malicious. A worse man would have stayed and contrived to hide his secret laughter as he denounced one talkative nurse after another, while saving worthless old men from death. But the hospital's usefulness had come to a close, nearly destroying him. Frau Direktor thought it a mark of good character that Maximilian
did
in fact leave the operating room,- a mark of his better self that he heeded the hidden message of his inability to urinate. He had read the message in the nick of time. And chose to try something different.

Yet all this thinking had brought her no closer. Perceiving hidden messages was one thing; taking care of crazy children another altogether. Max had youth and strength in his favor: arranging forged papers, negotiating trains and steamships, passing through customs, avoiding the police, all well within his powers. Certainly easier for him to start life again in a strange country, learn a new language, but what of the long haul with
whatever
child? The loneliness and doubts through the endless nights and struggling days? And what of therapy? A mere two years' experience at the clinic was hardly sufficient, and he had never undergone analysis, Max possessed all the raw materials to become the bedrock of a sick child, to help a broken thing build itself from scratch — but had never been refined. And no time was left to do it now.

Frau Direktors other intern could not have been more different, with all the required skill, experience, and insight, but perhaps she'd been refined too much. Madame Le Boyau, of Paris, had been a practicing analyst longer than Frau Direktor herself,- a mangy dowager now, Madame had a ruined face of lines and jowls. A monkey's face, toughened and embattled from years of listening to the ceaseless demands of other people's problems. Troubles she could no longer help them solve.

Too many of her patients had been whiners and shirkers, unfit for analysis: people who expected their problems to be analyzed and enjoyed like the rarest food and wine…. Madame Le Boyau had allowed herself to become the maître d'hôtel in the restaurant of their minds, serving up one dish or another for them to taste or reject. And like the
propriétaire
of a chic restaurant, she tried to make their dishes pleasing and palatable. A light, calm soufflé for the widowed Society Neurotic, her furs and lovers both wearing thin, A bracing cocktail for an insecure Writer of Plays, a scribbler spoiled by too much money and easy acclaim, yet suffering gnawing pangs that his talent was a fraud.

In case after case, Madame Le Boyau served up delicacies to people who were under the impression that because they possessed nearly everything important in life, and a few luxuries besides, they had
arrived
. So why were they miserable? Madame Le Boyau's therapy no longer held any answers. She had merely grown accustomed to their fees,- protecting them from the ugly struggle of life, taking their good money, but giving nothing in return. She even stimulated their doubts when they showed signs of leaving her, with a word here, a gesture there, weakening their will, letting them pay and pay. And as often as required, she promoted the feeling that they were really accomplishing something when they paid Madame the hour-long visit….

In truth, Madame had only really cared for her last and final patient, À pretty, polished young man of twenty-two in a terribly desperate state. She called him
her fleur du mal
. He was the worthless son of a well-to-do manufacturer, who had shown little interest in the family business and little aptitude for anything else. At last he found a position with an elderly and respected art dealer. The situation seemed perfect for a boy of genteel temperament, bred to the better things in life, with exquisite taste and an eye for objets d'art. His father was satisfied,- at least the boy had a future.
Bonne chance!

When the young man appeared in Madame Le Boyau's office he had been employed by the art dealer for about a year. He claimed to be suffering from insomnia and opium addiction. He wrung his ivory hands and hung his head. “Save me!” he begged her. “It'll kill me! For the love of God, please save me!”

What would kill him? Employment? A wealthy art dealer?

At once a curious change came over him. He no longer groveled but became superior, patronizing. “Did you ever wonder,” he asked coyly, “what young men are good for? Or how a dilettante with no prospects secures a position? Oh yes, I have some talent, a good eye, but
he
doesn't need that. An old man needs a young man to do what he no longer wishes to do for himself. A personal secretary, A court jester. I provide his distractions, his entertainment, I'm his procurer,”

What in heaven's name did the boy mean? And so he indulged her, spinning out his tale a little longer. “In the beginning he had me do simple tasks for him. Run errands, catalog shipments — the busy work of the gallery. Then he drew me in. First we stayed out all night, eating and drinking. Then we tried opium together….We went to a brothel. Soon we became habitués,- the proprietress knew us well. She arranged for specialty tastes, boys or girls or both. First in the brothel, then other days bringing them to a private apartment he kept….” The young
fleur
paused for what seemed a long time, then flushed sheepishly and shrugged.

“After a month of this, I knew what he wanted without even having to ask. And it became clear why he hired me…. ‘A pretty poppet/ he might murmur when I arrived at the gallery in the morning. But soon it wasn't necessary to say anything. He kept a small icon of baby Jesus on his desk, the same way people keep pictures of their wives. When he wanted his distraction, the icon always faced me as I came in the gallery door…. And Î knew what to do.” Yes, the lad knew his task. To steal out in the black of night into the crumbling corners of the city, where people lived like rats in hovels a few feet above the storm drains. And once there, the young man found a child to purchase. The poor were always willing enough to part with an extra mouth. And so the procurer left the hovels with his pretty poppet, meeting his employer by arrangement in the apartment across town.

“Sometimes after a night of his pleasure, he let the child run home to its parents with an extra wad of francs.” The young man's voice darkened. “But sometimes not. And I waited through the long hours of the night until he had done with his possession. Until it was no longer a thing to possess.”

“And what happened to the child?” Madame demanded.

“That was my last duty. I took the body down to the Seine. And spent the rest of the week in a friendly brothel I knew, drinking and smoking opium. Trying to forget…. He's a charming man, really, if you meet him. This wasn't the first time he's trained a procurer. He's mastered the art of going inch by inch. It seemed like you were hardly moving at all, until you looked over your shoulder and saw how far you'd really come.” The young
fleur
fell silent. Madame's eyes had taken on a look of doubt. “I daresay you don't believe me. Well, I suppose I could scrounge up a body for you if you want. I hid one in a rotting boathouse on the river.”

Madame was dumbfounded. She hadn't even the presence of mind to ask, How many times? She didn't want to know. This pink-faced boy revolted her.

But would she hand him over to the Prefecture of Police? Madame said nothing. Where was the proof? A body in a boathouse? Perhaps he'd seen it there and woven a fantasy for her….

At once she brought all her old powers to bear on this young
fleur
, helping him to dissect himself. The young man did, in fact, shortly leave the art dealer and soon thereafter cease his opium smoking. But as to his sick story — true or false? Had he invented it for reasons she could not fathom? Should she turn him over to the police or let him delve a little further? She hesitated, letting him explore…. One day she felt sure the tale was true — the next, equally sure it was false. And so she let him disassemble himself, allowing his fragments to fall where they would. She led him to the dark, weedy pool where the
fleurs du mal
cluster, and there she bid the boy stare into its still water and drink….