The Empire of the Senses (34 page)

Vicki crossed her arms over her chest, vaguely wondering how he started off with an Arab storyteller and then arrived at economics. “
You
produce objects of consumption.”

“Yes,” Lev said, folding his cloth napkin in half and then into thirds. “And the alternative?”

Vicki felt a wave of indignation sweep over her. “There are alternatives, Papa.”

“Would you like to live in a
mietskaserne
with your friend Elsa, sharing a communal bathroom?”

“If everyone cooperated …”

“I can tell you, it would be much worse.”

Her ears burned and her head hurt a little. But her father would keep sparring in this light playful tone until he won the argument. Utterly exhausting. She slumped farther down in her chair.

“Why do you think so many Russians are flooding Berlin every day? Why do you think Herr Levenski has moved in next door, when in Saint Petersburg he had a palatial estate ten times the size of this house? The Reds are killing their own people by the thousands. When I was in Mitau”—he paused for effect—“I saw the work of the Reds. Brutal. They killed without sense. At least you could reason with the czar’s army.”

With the mention of Mitau, she thought of him again.
Geza
. His name tingled through her, a tight buzzing nervousness she’d felt all through dinner. Struck with the sudden urge to ask her father if he’d known Geza from Mitau by any off chance, she scolded herself for such a naive thought. Of course not. Why would her father know him? He barely spoke of the war as it was … and if she did ask, he would tease and cajole, relentlessly questioning her about this Geza, how she knew him, if she fancied him, and Vicki wanted to keep Geza a secret. His lank blue-black hair that kept falling into his eyes, how closely he’d stood next to her, so close she could feel his breath, or the way he’d lightly taken her elbow at various points during their stroll—she didn’t want anyone to know how often she’d retraced these little moments, and each time, a renewed excitement washed over her at the mere thought of him.

Her father continued, “It’s easy for you to support
the cause
, as you say, sitting here in a comfortable dining room with plenty of food on
your plate, your belly full, knowing tomorrow you will wake up in a warm bed, and buy new earrings at Wertheim’s. Not a bad life, eh?”

He waved a finger in the air, his lips curling into a smile. “You and your grandmother prefer to see the world through red-tinted glasses.”

Vicki fiddled with her coffee spoon.

“She asked after you today.” Lev reached over, stroked her cheek. “You look more and more like her.”

After dinner, in the sitting room, she switched on the radio. Upstairs, she heard the muffled voices of her parents arguing. Running water echoed from the kitchen as Marthe rinsed out the last coffee cups. She heard Franz jerk open his window, followed by the creaking of his heavy boots walking across the floor planks. As long as she kept the dial low, she could listen in peace. She pulled a velvet pillow off the couch, and spreading out a blanket on the carpet, she sank down. Pulling her knees into her chest, she closed her eyes to the sound of a lonely saxophone reaching into the darkened room, followed by a low throaty voice full of sorrow and longing, full of all the things she felt.

19

Berlin, Friday, June 10, 1927

On Friday mornings, Josephine went to Dr. Dührkoop, a psychoanalyst with a private practice on the top floor of an imposing stone town house on the southern border of the Tiergarten. She had been seeing him for the last four months at Lev’s insistence. At first, she resisted, arguing there wasn’t anything wrong with her, until Lev started chronicling her migraines, which had grown more severe after the death of her mother last fall, and her night terrors, which had also increased. Now, she looked forward to the sessions, where, for a full fifty minutes, once a week, she lay down on a soft chaise lounge and talked about herself—behavior that, in any other setting, she would deem utterly indulgent.

Today, having arrived early, she stood in the waiting room, staring at the framed photographs arranged in a line along the far wall. She had glanced at them in the past, but never before had she actually taken the time to study them, and as she did this, she felt somewhat disturbed. The first photograph, in faded sepia, featured two little boys dressed as court jesters in wide ruffled collars, black ballet slippers, and knit bodysuits patterned with interlocking diamonds in a diagonal arrangement. One boy faced the camera, his hands on his hips, while the other boy hid behind him, one naughty eye peering out, the rest of his face obscured. The boy facing the camera wore a leather belt with a small knife attached to it, covered by a leather sheath. The other boy held a knife, without its sheath, behind his back, as if to stab his more confident brother. Underneath the photograph, a caption in cursive
script read:
The Children of the Suppancics Family
. The next photograph pictured the back of a woman’s head, her bare neck, her wide back clothed in some kind of woolen jacket. She glanced slightly to the side, the beginnings of a double chin detectable. The bare blatant neck instantly reminded Josephine of Vicki’s short hair and how upset she’d felt when Vicki had strode into the sitting room yesterday, ready to challenge her when all Josephine felt was sadness, remembering Vicki’s fine dark curls, the way she used to run her fingers unencumbered through Vicki’s hair when she was a child. Dark curls with hints of copper and gold, a mercurial color that changed with the light. In the morning sun, a reddish brown, and by nightfall, a blackberry hue. Lev had tried to console her, saying it was only hair and it would grow back, while at the same time he took Vicki’s side, playing the diplomat, tap dancing between them, or at least this was the image Josephine evoked when she thought about it.

The next photograph: a close-up of an eye—the pupil, the cornea, the white eyelashes, the delicate eyebrow arched over the upper eyelid. Underneath, the same cursive script stated:
The Right Eye of My Daughter Sigrid
. She wondered if Sigrid was Dr. Dührkoop’s niece, or the photographer’s daughter, whoever he was. She could hear the muted murmur from behind the office door, where Dr. Dührkoop was in deep discussion with another patient. The walls, padded with green damask, had been purposefully designed to soften distinct sounds. Even as Josephine strained to listen, she could only pick out a few discernible words: cat, Arthur, Vienna. Mainly, a woman spoke, and Dr. Dührkoop probably nodded and jotted down notes in his notebook. Josephine moved on to the next photograph, strangely comforted by the sound of the woman’s voice droning on in the next room, as if she too had irresolvable troubles. In another photograph, titled
Riki Raab
, a tall woman twined a long flowing piece of tapestry around her body, suggesting nakedness underneath. She wore a strange pointed hat, almost papal in character, and through half-closed lids, she glanced at the viewer with a mixture of arrogance and embarrassment.

The doorknob turned. A boy, about sixteen, walked out of the office.
His face reddened when he saw her, and he brushed past. As the doctor ushered Josephine into his office, she could hear the boy’s hurried steps echoing down the long hallway that led to the stairs.

On the chaise lounge, she made herself comfortable. The doctor sat in the opposite chair, his legs crossed, his leather-bound notebook resting on his lap, a pen stuck between the pages. A low coffee table positioned in the middle of the room featured an array of African figurines carved from onyx. On the windowsill, orchids, a deep magenta, sprouted new buds. Through the window, Josephine stared at the tops of the linden trees swaying in the wind. Dr. Dührkoop always began each session in the same way, with a bout of silence that felt uncomfortably palpable. He studied her from behind his wire-rim glasses, his hands laced over his kneecap. His square garnet ring, set in gold, always caught her attention, the deep red color alluring. Josephine thought he kept his fingernails a tad too long, accentuating his slender tapered fingers. She swallowed, and it seemed as if he heard. “Would you like some tea before we start?”

“No, thank you, Doctor. It’s much too hot out for tea.”

“Hmm, yes, it is rather warm.”

He adjusted the pillow behind his back and then refocused his gaze on her. Josephine had a fleeting image of the doctor licking her neck, the texture of his tongue rough like a cat’s, the licks quick and precise as if he were lapping up milk. She tried to redirect her thoughts, but the image perversely stuck.

He opened his notebook, smoothing down a blank page. “How are you feeling this week?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Doctor.” In the beginning of each session, she felt awkward lying on the couch, her feet dangling off the edge. He preferred her to lie on her back so she wouldn’t have to face him, especially during the moments when she described more intimate details, but it seemed rude, staring up at the ceiling. And most of the time, she liked to look at his face. He reminded her of Mahler, a less handsome version, but with the same imposing forehead and Roman nose, the same style of spectacles and swept-back hair. But not facing him, he had explained, would allow her to speak more freely. Over the weeks, she had grown
accustomed to the sound of his voice, low and calm, and the movement of his pen scratching against the paper whenever she said something noteworthy. But today, she felt the urge to see his reaction to her words, to gaze into his gray quiet eyes.

“You seem”—he leaned forward in his chair—“to be carrying tension. Especially in your upper spine.”

She breathed, feeling her ribs rise and fall beneath her folded hands.

“Try to relax your shoulders, your jaw, your mouth, your eyes, your hands.” When he said these things, she felt as if he were touching her in all of those places. Her head grew heavy, despite the morning sun filtering into the room. Her eyelids involuntarily started to close. She sighed. “My daughter.”

“Vicki.” His chair creaked as he shifted positions.

“Yes, Vicki.” She paused, opening her eyes. “Yesterday, she cut off all her hair.”

“And this has greatly upset you.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Why do you think it was so upsetting?”

She touched her forehead. “Well, I suppose if I really think about it …”

The doctor laughed lightly. “Yes, that is what we do here.”

She turned her head to look at him. He smiled encouragingly.

“I suppose Vicki reminded me of that American ambassador’s daughter who’s always in the press, running around with foreign correspondents. She’s only twenty, but they say she’s had five lovers plus a broken-off engagement to some financier from Chicago. I don’t want Vicki to become like that, but when she cut off her hair, I thought, Now this is the first step toward provocative behavior.”

“Hmmm.” He scribbled something down in his notebook.

“Young women these days are”—she searched for the right words—“sexually vivacious.”

“ ‘Sexually vivacious,’ ” he repeated, smiling again.

“Yes,” Josephine replied, shifting onto her side so that she faced him squarely. Again, without meaning to, she thought of Titian’s painting
Venus and the Lute Player
. Venus, positioned on her side, squarely
faces the viewer, her white body exposed save for a light handkerchief draped across her lap. The lute player stops with his music to gaze at her lovely figure. Should seeing or hearing be the primary means of perceiving beauty? This was apparently the painting’s question, and she had debated it with Lev when they first met. Because he used to paint, of course he vowed that sight was the primary function for perceiving beauty, whereas she remained convinced that sound conveyed beauty in its purest, most objective form. For a moment, she imagined herself as Venus and the doctor as the lute player, stopping to admire her. She blushed at this vain fantasy.

“What were you thinking just now?”

“That when I look at you, I feel as if you’re listening to me more intently, as opposed to when I am staring up at the ceiling. Then I can’t see your expression and I wonder what you’re thinking.”

“But that’s not important.”

“What isn’t?”

“What I think.”

“But it is.”

He shook his head, taking off his glasses. “Josephine.” When he said her name, her heart beat faster. He slid the stainless steel ashtray closer to him and then lit a cigarette. “Do you think the reason why you were so bothered by Vicki’s haircut and by the amorous activities of the American ambassador’s daughter is that you yourself had once been sexually vivacious, only to be punished for it by Herr K’s sexual advances? This quality attracted him, and you don’t want Vicki to suffer the same fate, or to carry on the tradition, so to speak?”

“I did feel it was my fault, with Herr K.”

“Because you were young and very pretty. You told me your mother had said if you weren’t so precocious, none of that business would have happened.”

Josephine felt her cheeks burn. “Yes, she did say that.”

“And you felt guilty about your attractiveness, and you thought, perhaps, if you were less appealing, he would have left you alone.”

Herr K’s pomaded moustache, the peppery scent of it, suddenly flooded her senses. Her throat tightened. “He probably would have.”

Dr. Dührkoop leaned forward, his face growing more animated.

“Your sexuality was a liability, robbing you of your girlhood—and now you feel threatened by Vicki’s burgeoning womanhood because it brings back the trauma.”

Josephine clutched a pillow to her chest. “Yes, the trauma.” The way he kept using the past tense—when she
was
pretty,
was
sexual,
was
appealing—made her wonder if he would still describe her in this way. Had she aged that much? Under her eyes, slight hollows had appeared, making her face, at certain times of day, more shadowy. The creases around her mouth were more pronounced. But beyond these minor signs of age, she still felt young and sprightly. Her carriage had remained erect, her neck long, her skin soft and pale, and her hair, heavy with golden strands, crowned the top of her head. She touched the end of her thick braid.