they were either too much, or she was not enough. Having Manfred home was no help because, especially recently, he was more needy than his sons. It seemed his office at the central railroad distribution station was going through some kind of reorganization, and the tension made him irritable. It wasn’t likely he would lose his job, but the uncertainty caused his ulcers to act up, which caused him to be more impatient with his co-workers than usual, which, in turn, made him more worried and his ulcers bleed, and so on.
They had been married for nearly thirteen years, and Emma couldn’t exactly remember why she had agreed to his proposel or how it happened. She remembered he made her feel she was loved, that she was important, and he said that, with her, he’d be a better man.
He was a teaching assistant at the university where she was a first-year student, and he played the cello. That was one thing she loved about him. She had convinced herself that a man who could play an instrument with so much feeling had to be a good man. Other than that, she hadn’t liked him very much. In retrospect, all she could say for sure was that she had fallen in love with his love for her.
One day, early on, they had a fight. The reason had long since disappeared; possibly it was because of one of his frequent flirtations. All she truly remembered was being very angry with him and feeling wronged. She’d been at his flat, and, as so often happened, they’d gone to bed. She had hated him intensely and visualized the sum of her hatred and anger as a bright flame inside her chest while he labored above her. She concentrated on his wide, flat feet, his spatulate hands, and his hairless chest with breasts many women would envy. She sent her hatred out to all the parts of her body, lying unmoving on her back, burning him with hatred and disgust. She was sure he’d pull back scorched, but all he did was pump away at her and increase his speed until finally he gasped and rolled off her. He hadn’t noticed.
She never forgot the dismay that hit her like a physical punch. She could recall the feeling of utter invisibility and loneliness, as if she had just been violated by a total stranger, as if the man who now lay sweating and spent next to her might as well have been an alien. She had never told him about it, and when he had asked to marry her, she had agreed, listlessly.
Primarily she agreed because she had the suspicion she was pregnant, which turned out to be the case, and they were married in a civil service two months later. Now, here they were after all these years. Manfred kept having flings, and, while she frequently knew about them, she didn’t mind because it meant he left her to herself. It seemed to make him happier, which made homelife easier.
She often wondered who she would have become had she listened to her parents. They hadn’t wanted her to marry him. What if she’d refused him, tossed his ring back at him after his first infidelity, and gone on to have a life? Her father would not have disinherited her. Her parents might have remained part of her life and possibly given her money to emigrate. She liked to imagine herself in America, but her visualization of a life there was always a bit hazy. Would she teach? Would she be married? If so, would there be an English-speaking Manfred?
Today, she went further. She didn’t have to be a mother. She could have become a sheriff on a motorcycle. Motorcycles were a California thing. They were for riding the lonely highways and for breaking free. They were everything Switzerland wasn’t. She would change her name and become someone called Stacey.
She saw herself riding alone on the freeway in her immaculately-ironed tan uniform, dark wraparound shades, and black motorcycle boots. She would catch the bad guys, give tickets for speeding, and protect the women whose husbands beat them up. She would be a crack shot, too, she was sure.
The phone rang, and she let the machine pick it up.
“Hello, Mrs. Willener. This is Dr. Menckell. I had you down for an appointment this afternoon at two, and it is now fifteen minutes past. Do I have a wrong date, or are you indisposed? Would you give me a call at your leisure? Thank you.”
“Damn!” It was her psychiatrist. She had completely forgotten.
Okay, the man was forgettable. She imagined him now to take her mind off her lapse. He was gray and shaped like a fireplug with hardly any indentation for either waist or neck. His thin hair was plastered tightly against his scalp in a comb-over so slick it almost looked painted on. His nose was thin and pointed but small. His lips were thin. His hands, thin and shapeless, had fingers that looked soft and boneless like those of a Renaissance painter’s model. He spoke with very little inflection and never moved from behind his desk … not even to shake her hand.
She had never seen him standing. Even the first time she had gone to see him, he sat behind his square desk with its low front that allowed only a peek at the toes of his shoes. He had waved her to a seat and started speaking.
“You have been referred to me by your personal physician,” he intoned. “She tells me you are having trouble sleeping, and I might be able to help. My fees are the standard one hundred francs. If you need to cancel an appointment, I need a twenty-four-hour advance notice, or you will be charged. I do not deal with insurance directly. However, you will most likely have the cost reimbursed when you send in the paperwork. I will sign the forms, and it should not cause any problems. I suggest we meet twice a week to begin with, and, after an interval of six weeks, we will revisit this arrangement as needed.”
It was true that her primary physician had sent her to see him. She hadn’t been prepared for his coldness. He wasn’t interested in her. He made her feel shallow and ungrateful. He didn’t allow for the possibility that she was uncomfortable with him or that, simply, they were not a good match. Yet, she had meekly submitted to him precisely because of this coldness. After all, he was the doctor. She needed help, and, obviously, she was not a very good judge of people—just look at Manfred …
She now envisioned his office which was on the ground floor of an old Victorian building on a quiet tree-lined street. As in a bygone era, the building was divided: part living quarters, part medical suite. His house filled her with the same dread her apartment block did. It was dead. Although the garden was meticulously maintained, the grossly-oversized philodendron were carefully staked and spaced so precisely they might as well have been plastic. Nothing moved. Nothing smelled. Nothing exuded joy. At least, that was how she explained her dread to herself.
She wondered about a wife. Every so often she could hear something bang behind the wall. Was the wife beating a carpet or running a vacuum cleaner into a piece of furniture? He never seemed to hear, or at least he did not flinch, did not admit to any exterior life. Since he was so gray and forgettable, she could not imagine him expressing any passion, not even anger. She didn’t think he ever took his clothes off or had sex, and, for sure, he would be constipated, sitting all day as he did.
So, she had forgotten her appointment. Most likely they would have to deal with it for the next three or four sessions: aggressive passivity, undermining of authority. Didn’t she want to get better? Ever since she stopped taking the pills he had prescribed, their sessions had become even more unpleasant. All she wanted to say was, “I don’t like you. You’re not helping. I don’t want to come back.” However, Manfred made her promise to stick it out for six months; her physician had strongly urged her, and she knew she had to do something. Her life was falling apart, and she couldn’t seem to get off the ride.
Instead of dealing with the message, she slipped it into her coat, wrapped one of the colorful scarves around her neck, and, grabbing her keys and wallet, left the apartment. Her shoes felt cold and wet, but she didn’t want to change into another pair. Her other cold-weather shoes would have to be checked for spiders or other small bugs that might have made a home there. She hadn’t worn any other pair for weeks.
She walked the three blocks to the supermarket where the lights were bright, and people purposefully moved down the aisles. It was mostly women at this time of day. There were a few old men, retirees looking for the companionship of busy citizens. She grabbed a basket and headed left. Chocolates in bars, in powders, in cookies: It seemed there was no end of chocolate-related food items. She put a box of truffles into her bag, then bread, milk. She remembered the instant mashed potatoes, some wine, and cheese.
By the time she reached the fresh fruit and vegetable aisle, she was flagging.