Entwined

Chapter 4

The night that Tommy Kellerman died was the night Baroness Maréchal tried to kill herself, it was the night she experienced the horror of a living death, the terrible white weight she was powerless to control or stop. The attack had left her so exhausted she remained sedated the next day.

Vebekka had no memory of Dr. Franks's visit, or of how many people monitored her slow recovery to consciousness.

Dr. Franks asked that Anne Marie be allowed to visit him at his office. He also wanted another interview with the baron and Helen Masters, to find more clues to Vebekka's mental disorder.

It was agreed that Hilda be brought in to sit with the baroness during Anne Marie's absence.

When Hilda reached the suite, the baroness was in a deep sleep. Hilda sat down in a chair by the bed. Soon, all that could be heard in the vast silent bedroom was the clicking of her knitting needles.

Vebekka slept peacefully, her hands folded on the starched white linen sheet. She was wearing a white frilly negligee that couldn't disguise the sharp bones of her neck and shoulders, the thinness of her arms. Her face was drawn. There were deep dark circles beneath her closed eyes.

Saline and glucose drips were still hooked to Vebekka's hands. The tubes and needles had left dark black bruises. A thick bandage covered her left wrist. The room was filled with flowers and baskets of fruit, and their scent was very heavy. Hilda would have liked to open the window, but it was raining.

Finally, Vebekka stirred and turned her head to face the maid. "Would you be so kind as to take the drips out of my hand? It hurts me."

"I don't think I can, Baroness, Anne Marie is not here, and the baron and Dr. Masters are also out."

Vebekka sighed and Hilda returned to her knitting. Suddenly Vebekka ripped off the adhesive, pulled out the needles and tossed them aside.

Vebekka smiled coyly at Hilda, and curled up on her side. Hilda could do nothing but pick up the adhesive from the floor, and hang up the drips, switching them off.

"Hilda, will you call room service? I want some vanilla ice cream, with chocolate sauce and nuts, and those chocolate biscuits."

Hilda obliged, and in due course a trolley was sent up with some chocolate biscuits and the ice cream. She helped Vebekka sit up, and watched in amazement as the baroness slowly began to eat. Like a squirrel she nibbled and sucked at the spoon with such childish delight that Hilda felt even more motherly toward her than before; she tried to hint that perhaps eating so much sweet food was not good for her, but her words were ignored. Slowly, Vebekka demolished the entire tray of sweets.

Vebekka snuggled down in bed, dark chocolate stains around her mouth and on her fingertips. The clicking of Hilda's knitting needles was soothing, and she slept again. When a roll of thunder was heard, her hand slipped from the warmth of the covers to hold Hilda's, and the knitting was quietly put aside.

Anne Marie inched open the door, and crept into the room; she put her fingers to her lips and looked at the dressing table. She began to take all the bottles of medicine and pills and then she rifled the vanity cases. Her arms full of bottles, she came to Hilda's side and whispered. "The doctor said she is to have no more medication, no more sedation, unless from him!"

Anne Marie hurried from the room and returned with a large packet, unwrapped it, and held it out to show Hilda.

"You know what this is?"

Hilda shook her head, and put her fingers to her lips for Anne Marie to lower her voice.

"It's a straitjacket! I don't know about this great doctor, if you ask me he's yet another quack... so I got this just in case."

Anne Marie put the jacket down, was about to leave when she saw that the drips were not attached. "Who took those out?"

Hilda gripped Vebekka's hand and whispered, "I did, they were causing her pain; let her sleep."

Anne Marie pursed her lips. "She needs glucose, she's got to keep up her strength. I'll have to redo them."

Hilda felt the baroness's fingers tighten, her grip was so tight it hurt her. Hilda knew she was awake, but she didn't give her away.

"When she wakes, I'll call you, but she has just eaten, and I think it is better she sleep."

Anne Marie hesitated and then walked to the door. "But I have not seen them, and I will not take any responsibility..."

The grip relaxed, and Hilda gently patted Vebekka's hand. She straightened the bedcovers, and was touched when the sick woman slipped her arms around Hilda's neck and kissed her in gratitude.

"I have a terrible fear of needles — of things in my body — she knows, but she hates me. Thank you."

Hilda smiled, returned to her chair. She picked up her knitting, and Vebekka laughed softly. "Not knitting needles, though!"

Dr. Franks swiveled in his chair. "Your nurse, Anne Marie, says your wife has some kind of, well, not exactly an obsession, but boxes, vanity boxes... she always travels with three, sometimes four, yes?"

The baron looked puzzled. "Yes, they are part of her luggage, one is for her jewelry, one for makeup, one for medical and... I suppose it seems excessive, but not out of the ordinary. I can't understand why on earth the girl would even discuss my wife's traveling accessories with you!"

Franks leaned on his elbows. "Because I asked. You and your wife travel extensively? And these boxes always accompany her?"

"Yes, so do our cases, and trunks. Perhaps you will find some ulterior motive in the fact I always have more..."

Franks interrupted. "I am interested only in your wife at the moment, Baron, and the fact she always travels with an extensive wardrobe, but rarely if ever wears three quarters of the contents. According to Anne Marie many items your wife insists on traveling with have never been worn, yes? What I am trying to determine is, does your wife appear, in your personal opinion, to have items of clothing in very different styles? Does she, perhaps, appear to you as different characters, or seem different to you at times?"

"That is the entire reason I am here. My wife has periods of sanity and insanity."

Franks wandered around the room. "Has anyone ever suggested to you that your wife may have a personality disorder? Could she possibly be a multiple personality?"

The baron shook his head and glared at Helen Masters.

Franks turned his attention to her. "What do you think?"

"No, I don't think she is, or I didn't, but she said something that'll interest you. I wrote it down actually."

Helen opened her bag and took out a small notebook. "When I found her last night, she said, 'We have done something terrible.' Not I, but we."

The telephone rang. Franks snatched it up, but spoke only a second before he handed it to the baron.

"It's for you, long distance. If you need privacy, I am sure Dr. Masters and I can..."

The baron gestured with his hand for them to stay, as he listened to the caller. He then covered the mouthpiece. "It's all right, it's Franchise, my secretary, from Paris."

The call went on for some time, the baron saying little but making notes. Helen whispered to Franks. "She is very particular about her clothes, but I have never noticed a marked difference in styles — say, little girl to tart. I would simply say that the baroness has a wardrobe any woman would be envious of. However, she does seem to be very obsessive about the vanity cases."

Helen was interrupted as the baron dropped the phone back on the hook and sighed. "Gerard, my man in New York, has been having great difficulty tracing my wife's family. He started at her old modeling agency. They had no record of Vebekka ever having signed with them. They then passed him on to someone who had run the agency before them. He said that he never had anyone by the name of Vebekka, but later that evening he called back to say he had made a mistake, that in fact he had represented a girl called Rebecca Lynsey; he recalled she later changed her name to Vebekka, using just her Christian name for work. He had no records on hand but would see if he could find his ex-wife, who ran the business with him. But one thing he was sure about, or as sure as he could be."

The baron seemed very disturbed as he continued: "He said that my wife's maiden name, Lynsey, was not her real name, but one used for modeling. He could not recall ever having heard her real last name. Why would she have lied to me? I don't understand it!"

Franks rubbed his head. "But when her father died, didn't you see a name, something to indicate Lynsey wasn't her family name?"

The baron shook his head. "Gerard'll call again as soon as he has anything else. He's going to Philadelphia tonight. I don't understand. Lynsey was the name on her passport, I'm sure of it. I've asked him to fax any new information to the hotel."

Franks raised an eyebrow to Helen. "She has never referred to herself as Rebecca?"

The baron shook his head. "No, never. I have always known her as Vebekka Lynsey."

"When she was in New York, did she meet anyone there, have friends there?"

"No, we have mutual friends, or family friends, but I have never seen anyone walk up to her and call her Rebecca, if that is what you mean. I have never seen her birth certificate. There never seemed to be a reason before now, that is, if there is a valid reason now!"

Franks's eyes turned flinty as he said, "I am simply trying to find clues to your wife's mental problems because I want to begin my treatment as soon as she is physically capable of walking into this place unaided."

The baron's antagonism irritated Franks, but he didn't show it. Pleasantly he asked:

"Yesterday — Baron? are you listening to me? — you recalled the first time you witnessed your wife's mental instability, yes?"

The baron nodded. Franks asked if he could recall any other instances. The baron sighed, crossing his legs, staring at his highly polished shoes.

"I mentioned the circus. To be quite honest there have been so many, over so many years and..."

He paused, and Franks knew the baron had just remembered something; he could see it in the way the baron frowned, then hesitated, as if recalling the moment and then dismissing it. Franks leaned forward. "Yes? What is it?"

The baron shrugged. "It was in the late seventies; this episode had no connection to any of the children. We were in New York. We were at my apartment, reading The New York Times. She was reading the real estate section, while I had the rest of it. Suddenly she snatched the paper from my hands; as she did, it fell onto the table and the coffee pot tipped over me. I don't think she intended to spill the coffee, though I believed she had taken my paper for some perverse reason — perhaps because I wasn't paying enough attention to her. I don't know. Sometimes she is incredibly childish. I suppose I was silly too, because I insisted she give me back the paper. She refused. We had an argument, not a very pleasant one, and..."

The baron shrugged his shoulders, as if he suddenly felt the episode not worth pursuing. Franks pressed him. "Go on... she took the rest of the paper, and then what?"

"Well, as I recall, I went into my bathroom, showered, and was dressing when the maid said there seemed to be some fracas in the foyer. Next door to the building is a small newsstand. My wife, still in her dressing gown, was, so I was told, in the foyer, her arms full of newspapers. When I went down I found her sitting on the foyer floor, ripping the newspapers apart, throwing pages aside. She was on her hands and knees, scouring each page, but to this day, I have no idea what she was looking for. All I know is it was very embarrassing, and it took a great deal of cajoling to get her to return to the apartment."

Franks waited, expecting more, but the baron gestured with his hands. "That's it, really."

"Did you ever ask her why she wanted the papers?"

"Of course."

"Did she give you an explanation?"

"No, she actually didn't speak for over a week. She seemed very elated, slightly hysterical at that time, but I couldn't get a word out of her as to why she was behaving in such a way, or what on earth had sparked the breakdown."

"Breakdown?"

"Well, that is what the therapist called it. Vebekka calmed down eventually, and even seemed to forget the entire incident."

"Did you ever check through the papers, find anything that provided a reason for her behavior?"

The baron shook his head. "I took it to be just another of her — problems."

Franks remained silent for a moment before asking if the baron could get his contact in the United States to obtain copies of the newspapers from that day. The baron looked to Helen Masters with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, but he agreed to try.

Franks fell silent, closing his eyes in concentration, and then asked, softly, when the baron said his wife behaved childishly, whether this meant she also spoke like a child.

"I meant it in a manner of speaking. Her act was childish. She didn't, as far as I recall, speak in a childlike voice."

Franks noted again a fleeting look of guilt, or recall, passing over the baron's face. "Yes?... You've remembered something else?"

The baron stared at the wall. "Last night I was wakened by her crying. I was confused because it sounded — dear God I've never thought of it before — like a child... so much so that for a moment, in my half-sleep, I thought it was one of the children, before I remembered they were in Paris."

Franks waited. After a long pause the baron continued.

"I went into her room and she was sitting up in bed. There was a shadow on the wall from the drapes. She was sobbing, pointing to the wall. She said, oh yes, she said the drapes were a... no, they were a 'Black Angel.' Then she said over and over, 'It wasn't true! It wasn't true.' I have no idea what she meant, but when I closed the drapes tightly and there was no more shadow she went back to sleep. But her voice..."

The baron looked to Helen, helpless.

"It was like a little girl, the way she shook her shoulders, and... that hiccup, you know, the way children do? It was as if she were a child having a nightmare."

Franks clapped his hands. "Now we are getting somewhere, and I think some tea would go down well. For you Baron? And you, Helen?"

Before either had time to reply Franks had scuttled out, but he did not close the door. He returned in a moment, after barking to some unseen assistant that he wanted tea, and produced a children's picture book. He held it like a piece of evidence, as if in a court of law.

"Your wife slipped into her handbag a similar book yesterday while she was waiting in reception. Interesting?"

"When did she do that?" asked Helen Masters.

"When she was here, sitting with Maja. Maja saw her. Odd, don't you think? Especially since it's in German. Do you know whether this book exists also in French, or in English?"

The baron was standing with his back to the room, staring out the window, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "How would I know?"

"Has your wife ever been involved in shoplifting?"

"No, never, my wife is not a thief!" the baron snapped.

Helen took the tea tray from Maja at the door and carried it to the desk. Franks joked that kleptomania was about the only thing the baroness had not been diagnosed for! His attempt at humor failed, and Helen quickly passed the teacups around, then sat on a hard-backed chair.

Franks seemed unaware of the atmosphere in the small room. He munched one biscuit after another until the plate was cleared.

"Would you say your wife suffered from agoraphobia?"

The baron replied curtly that his wife was not agoraphobic, or claustrophobic, turning to Helen as if for confirmation. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

Franks brushed the biscuit crumbs from his cardigan. "But she is obsessive, tell me more about her obsessions."

"What woman isn't!" the baron retorted, and then he apologized. "I'm sorry — that was a stupid reply, under the circumstances. Forgive me, but I find this constant barrage of questions disturbing, perhaps because I am searching for the correct answers, and I am afraid that everything I say, when placed under the microscope as it were, makes me appear as if I have not been caring enough, when, I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth."

The room was silent. The baron had cupped his chin in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Helen Masters focused on a small flower-shaped stain on the wall directly in front of her. Franks looked from one to the other.

"Maybe we should take a break now!"

Helen picked up the files, as Franks gave her a tiny wink. She went ahead to the waiting car, and was about to step inside when Louis announced he had to return to the doctor's office. "I won't be a moment, wait for me here!"

Dr. Franks looked up in surprise as the baron knocked on his open door and entered, but he did not ask if the baron had forgotten something. He knew the baron wished to speak to him alone. He cleared his throat. "You know if you would prefer to have these sessions with me alone, Helen is a very understanding woman, perhaps more than you realize. She is, after all, a very good doctor herself."

"Yes I know, of course I know. I have tremendous respect for her. I wanted to talk to you privately, though."

The baron could not meet Franks's eyes.

"I'd like to tell you something concerning my wife." He smiled, and Franks was struck anew by the man's handsomeness.

The baron moved to the office window, stood with his back to the room. "I have had many women, I suppose you might call me a promiscuous man, but I did love my wife — I say did, because over the years her illness had gradually made me hate her. I have, may God forgive me, wished her dead more often than I care to admit, and yet, when she attempts to kill herself my remorse, my dread of her dying and leaving me is very genuine, and my relief when she recovers, very real."

The baron rested his head against the glass.

"She was, Doctor, the most beautiful creature, I wanted to possess her the moment I laid eyes on her. She simply took my breath away. She was sweetness itself, she was naive, she was nervous, like an exquisite exotic bird. Her fragility made me almost afraid of her, as though if I held her too tightly, kissed her too deeply, she would be crushed. The more I got to know her, the more delightful she became, but in those days my fear of..."

He hesitated as if searching for the right word, then he turned to face Franks. "I had a fear of breaking her. She soon assured me I could not, and during our courtship she became more vibrant, even more outgoing. She was very amusing, with a wicked sense of humor. She was a great tease. She was, Doctor, everything I had ever dreamed of. I married her against tremendous opposition from my family, especially my mother. Perhaps Mama had some insight into Vebekka, but I would hear none of it. The first few months of marriage, I don't think I have ever known such happiness, such total commitment. I had never loved like that, or felt so loved, or been so satisfied."

The baron took two steps from the window, then turned back. His voice was hardly audible. "I had my first sexual encounter when I was fourteen. I had countless women, from society women to prostitutes. I was a normal, healthy man, obviously eligible, and known to be wealthy. I very rarely, if ever, had to court a woman. Perhaps that was why I wanted Vebekka so much, because she was, to begin with, unobtainable and completely disinterested in me. We did not sleep together until after we were married. I know it may sound laughable but I presumed she was a virgin."

Franks leaned back in his chair, waiting, but eventually he had to ask as the baron's silence continued.

"Was she? A virgin?"

The baron drew out a chair and sat down. "No she was not, she was very experienced. I was a little — no, more than a little — I was shocked. My bride was sexually aggressive, demanding, explicit, and insatiable. As I have said, the first few months with her — I have never known anything so totally consuming, I never experienced such peaks of emotion, such sexual gratification, and then, then she became pregnant."

Franks made a steeple with his fingers, waiting. After a moment the baron continued, but was obviously very uncomfortable, running his index finger around the collar of his shirt, as if it constricted him in some way.

"A few months after she became pregnant, she changed. She would not allow me to touch her, allow me anywhere near her, she was terrified she would lose the baby if we had sex. And then, this illness, whatever we want to call it, began. She broke my heart, Doctor. It was as if I had never known her. She behaved as if she hated me, and even when I was told that it was because she was ill, all I felt was her rejection."

Franks placed his hands flat on the desk.

"But after the birth, she was herself again? Did you resume your old sexual relationship?"

"No, she continued to reject me as a husband for a long time, at least ten months. Then all of a sudden it was as if it had never happened. I returned home one evening and she was my Vebekka again. But I could not be turned on and off like a faucet."

"So you rejected her?"

The baron laughed, a gentle, self-mocking laugh. "My wife was a very persuasive woman. For two months it was like a second honeymoon, and then as quickly as it had begun, it was over — she was pregnant again."

The baron explained that after his second son was born he attempted to persuade his wife to use birth control, but she adamantly refused. So the pattern had repeated itself yet again, but after that third time, when she had been ill for six months, he had no desire to be reunited with her.

"So you stopped loving her, after your third child?"

"I realized she was sick, knew by then that she did not really know what she was doing during these periods. So I simply arranged my life around her."

The baron's face flushed with guilt. He blamed himself. He had not been at home as often as he should have been. Then the guilty expression in the baron's eyes was replaced by an icy coldness. When he spoke, his voice grew quieter, almost vicious.

"My wife had taken to leaving the house late in the evening. She never took the car, always hired a taxi, and on many occasions did not return home until the following morning. I began to have her followed, for her own good, you understand."

"Were you considering a divorce?"

The baron dismissed the question with a shake of his head. He spoke quickly, not disguising his disgust. "She was picking up men, truck drivers, cab drivers, wandering around the red light district. As soon as I discovered this, I confronted her with it. She denied she had ever left the house, but she continued her midnight crawls, even when I was threatened with blackmail, she denied she was — virtually soliciting."

"You mean she was paying for sex?"

"Occasionally, or she was paid. It was a terrible time, and I was at my wits' end. I have never considered a divorce. She is my wife and the mother of my children, we are a Catholic family. It was out of the question."

"Was? Have you changed your mind?"

The baron picked up his coat, gave a distant smile. "Just a slip of the tongue."

His arrogance returned. He was again distant, icy cold.

"If you can't help her, then I am — and I assure you I have never considered this before — but I am prepared to have my wife certified."

The control slipped again. The baron leaned over Franks's desk. "I don't understand myself, you see, I just don't understand, after everything I have been through!"

Franks slowly stubbed out his cigar. "Understand what, exactly?"

"That I can... last night, I felt attracted to my wife. I did not believe myself capable of wanting her again. I must not allow her to manipulate me. I am tired, worn out by her. You are my last chance, perhaps hers. I ask you not just to help my wife, but me. Help me!"

Franks nodded. It was time for dinner, his stomach rumbled. He hoped the baron would leave. At that moment, Maja knocked on the door and popped her head in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but Miss Masters said to tell you the car's still waiting, but not to worry; she has taken a taxi back to the hotel."

Franks gave a pleading look to Maja.

"And you have another appointment in half an hour, Doctor!" Maja closed the door.

Franks rose to his feet, and the baron was already by the door, his hand on the handle.

"Thank you for your time, I appreciate it."

Franks clasped the baron's hand in a firm handshake. "I thank you for your honesty, and let us hope we will achieve some results."

At last Franks was alone and he slumped into his chair, buzzing the intercom for Maja. She appeared almost immediately, and smiled. "My, that was a long return visit! I hope it was fruitful!"

Franks laughed, and rubbed his belly. "I need food; I am starving to death!"

Maja brought in a tray of sandwiches and coffee, and the evening paper. He settled back, making himself comfortable, his eyes skimming the headlines, and then he flipped the paper open to the second page, glancing over the ads for the circus, paying no attention to the late afternoon news bulletins. One small five-line article stated that the Polizei had discovered a body in a small East Berlin hotel that evening.