Free Blue Damask by Annmarie Banks Page A

searching for an expression of anger, hate, resentment, shame.  She could see some remorse around the mouth, and loneliness, desperate loneliness.  Years of it.
         He answered her slowly, “It is not generally discussed in polite society, but my father’s cuckolding is common knowledge among those to whom such a thing is of vital importance.  Mainly the mothers of marriageable young women of exalted parentage.  You never met my father, but he was a small man, and had orange hair.  My mother was blonde.  You can see that I am very dark, and I am not a small man.  I am a walking announcement of infidelity.”
         “Yes.  I see.” Elsa bent her head and pretended to write that down.  She tried to compose her face back into professional blankness.  It would not move.  She turned her shoulders so she faced the bunk but she could still see his eyes in her mind. Elsa pretended to rub her cheek.  That did not work either.  She turned her body away from him and wipe her eyes with the back of one hand.  She knew he was watching her.
         He heard his voice.  “Do not weep for me.”
         But she did.  First small sobs and then an unpleasant gulp.  Oh, she was angry.  This is what Doctor Engel had known about her that she would not admit.  This inability to maintain her composure no matter the circumstances. Her face grew hot and she turned completely around so her back was to Sonnenby.  She did not have a handkerchief in her pocket this time.  One appeared silently over her shoulder.  She took it and blew her nose ungraciously.  “ Gott im Himmel ,” she breathed.
         “It is compassion,” he whispered.  “Do not be ashamed of it.”
         “I am not ashamed,” she said with a sharp edge.  “I am angry that I cannot put it where it goes and keep it there.  It is not for you to see.”
         “Who is to see it, then?” he asked.  He had moved closer when he handed her the handkerchief.  Now he spoke to the back of her neck.  She could feel his breath.
         “No one,” she said.
         “That would be a great loss to the world of psychology.”  She heard him move back to his chair by the window.  “I have been treated, as you like to say, by many psychologists in the last year.”  She heard the chair creak as he sat in it.  “None have made me feel any better.  None have stopped the nightmares or the waves of anxiety that paralyze me from time to time.  All have lacked this one thing.  Compassion.  I see their clinical interest.  I see their curiosity.  I see their boredom.  What I never saw was a man who seemed to care whether I improved or not.  Sometimes I thought they hoped I would become more violent so they could try a new savage treatment on me.”
         “The orderlies you put in the hospital,” she whispered, “was that before or after this savage treatment?”
         He was so quiet she turned around again to look at him.  She used the handkerchief on her nose and sniffed.  He was sitting comfortably in the chair and looking at her calmly.  “After.  When they had come to get me for the second treatment.”
         “I have heard of many experiments with injections and restraints and electric shocks.  Doctor Engel thinks it is an abomination.”
         He leaned forward.  “I can tell you truthfully, Fraulein Schluss. It is.”
         She nodded to him.   “There will be no more of that, Mr. Sinclair.”
         He stood from his chair and opened the blinds.  The countryside appeared to slide by from left to right.  His broad back blocked out most of the light. “You are supposed to be cold and clinical.  Analytical.  You are supposed to see through my neurosis and discover the deep rooted tragedy that eats away at my mind.  After doing that you are supposed to say a few words that make it all better.”  He turned around to look at her.  “Am I not correct?”
         She stood