Blue Damask Page 2

  He snapped the file shut and looked up at Marshall. “Nowhere does it say he has committed a violent act against a woman. None of the nurses have been harmed. Even the ones administering hypodermic medication.”

  Marshall frowned. “What do you imply, doctor?”

  “I say that Fraulein Schluss is the perfect therapist for your patient. She graduated at the top of her class and has spent three years during the war as a surgical nurse in a field hospital, deeply involved in the treatment of the war wounded. In the three years since she has focused on the treatment of mental trauma in veterans. Her dissertation will be presented at the College of Psychology at the University of Vienna. I have worked closely with her for two years and can say with extreme confidence that due to the patient’s obvious conflicts with male authority, he must absolutely have a female therapist if he is to regain his stability to support British interests in the Levant.” Doctor Engel stood up and handed the file back to Marshall. “That is my medical opinion. If you do not agree, then I will wish you a good day, sir.” He nodded to the orderlies then looked pointedly at Lord Sonnenby’s body stretched out on the carpet.

  Marshall’s moustache twitched. He looked long and hard at Sonnenby, then Doctor Engel, then finally Elsa. She stared back at him. He represented everything she detested in a man: arrogance, entitlement, bigotry, and lack of imagination. Doctor Engel had not discussed taking on this case with her before offering her services to this stranger which was very unlike him. She looked at him and tried to catch his eye but he was also staring intently at Marshall.

  Marshall said slowly, “I must get Lord Sonnenby to Damascus as soon as possible. His treatment must be done en route.” He said these words to Engel as though he both hoped this would exclude Elsa and impress the doctor with the urgent nature of his mission. “He must be able to control himself. He must be able to communicate.”

  Doctor Engel looked at Elsa. “She is available through June,” he said, though Elsa was not available at all. She frowned a little at him, trying to figure out what he meant. He dipped his head slowly, and repeated, “She is available from now through June, Mr. Marshall.” Elsa would never argue with him in front of a guest. She tried to form her expression into one of professional interest.

  Marshall looked at her now, too, though his expression was not masked at all. He clearly had serious doubts. Elsa deduced that he had already taken Lord Sonnenby to several psychologists both in Britain and on the Continent. All must have rejected him. Time was running out. He was desperate. He could not delay the trip. He would not tell the Foreign Office he had failed. He was caught.

  He did not answer, but he turned to the two orderlies. “Place Lord Sonnenby in the car.” To Doctor Engel he said, “Have her at the train station Monday morning with travel kit for two months.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Dress for warm weather.” Under his breath she heard him murmur, “God help me.”

  Elsa waited silently until the guests had departed. When she heard Magda close the front door she turned to Doctor Engel.

  “Doctor. You know very well I am currently preparing for the conference this summer. I cannot take on a patient, let along travel. How could you make promises for me?”

  Doctor Engel sat down on the sofa where the patient had been. He tapped the thick file on his knee. “There are conferences every quarter. An opportunity like this one does not arrive at my front door every season. This is better.” He pressed a finger into the file. “This opportunity will make your career, Elsa.”

  Her face must have betrayed her doubt, for he made himself comfortable as if the discussion would continue long into the afternoon. She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “I have every credential necessary already, doctor. I have prepared an intricate report on our work with the veterans. I have discovered aspects of their care that are more effective than mere talk therapy. I have made a career with this paper.” She made a vague gesture toward her office in the next room.

  Doctor Engel gave her a pained expression. “I have always admired your confidence, Elsa. I have not told you everything I know about the meetings I have been attending. You are aware of the impediments to your doctorate. I am sure your dissertation is excellent, but sometimes excellence is not enough.” He pressed his lips together. “The rhetoric I must endure at these meetings makes me reach for the stomach powders when I return to the peace in this house.”

  Elsa relaxed her arms. The doctor did often return late after these meetings dragging his feet. She would hear him go to the infirmary and open the cabinet doors where the medicines were locked up. She inhaled deeply, ready for a retort about sexism and psychology but he raised a hand to stop her.

  “I have skimmed the notes here in Sonnenby’s file. This is an extraordinary opportunity. I would not hesitate to take on Henry Sinclair and his problems except that as an older man I represent everything that troubles him. Also, I cannot travel without breaking engagements I am professionally bound to honor.”

  Elsa felt her throat tighten. “Are you saying that there is talk that I might be refused?”

  Doctor Engel gave her only a quick nod but his eyes were kind. “They think you are too young to understand the complexities of the human mind, no matter your research.”

  Elsa snapped. “Too young? They think I am too female.”

  The doctor smiled. “Yes. If you were a homely hausfrau you might quickly find yourself with a doctorate and pushed firmly into treating hysteria among the menopausal.”

  She nodded absently, thinking. She had already overcome much polite derision. She was used to it. But her paper this fall would deliver stunning insights into the minds of the wounded veterans and bring some light into areas of the psyche that cannot be examined in times of peace.

  Doctor Shultz interrupted her thoughts, “Elsa.”

  She looked at him. “You are saying my work will not be accepted at the conference.”

  “I am not saying that.” He didn’t have to. His face said it for him.

  Elsa backed up slowly until she felt the seat of the upholstered chair behind her knees. She sat carefully and folded her hands on her lap. She felt her face grow very warm and made an effort to breathe regularly and evenly. She slid her hand into the breast pocket of her suit and took out her handkerchief and hoped the slight catch in her throat was inaudible.

  It was not. Doctor Engel leaned forward. “Elsa. What I see here in this file would create a sensation in Vienna. This file contains the genesis of a career that could not be put down by even the most misogynist of professors. There is an opportunity here that exists because you are female, not in spite of it.”

  She turned her head slowly and touched the handkerchief to her nose. “If I am successful in treating Mr. Sinclair.”

  The doctor raised both eyebrows. “Of course you will be successful. He is not insane.”

  Elsa sniffed. “You are so certain, Herr Doctor. Perhaps you humor me.” It occurred to her for the first time that Doctor Engel might be just like the other men.

  Engel leaned back against the sofa cushions. “I can see you are upset. Disappointed. Disillusioned. But the truth is necessary. I do not humor you, as you say. I have no time for that.”

  Elsa tried not to think about the conference, but there it was, always at the front of her mind. It had dominated her focus for nine months. She had attended last year as a member of the audience and a student. She had imagined herself at the podium. The applause for the speakers became applause for her. The hand-shaking and pats on the backs of the new graduates became her accolades. She had imagined it all.

  She imagined her own practice, by necessity first in the stark halls of the hospitals, but then later a comfortable clinic, and finally a warm office attached to her own house. If she accepted this patient it would push her plans back an entire year. But on the other hand, if her paper were rejected this fall, she would be finished. There would be no plans. She might be able to write another paper, but in the m
inds of the professors she would not be a brilliant new doctor emerging on the scene with acclaim but a struggling female interloper, trying again and again to get into the club.

  The doctor could read those thoughts on her face. “Elsa. This is the time when you leave the comfort of academia and my fine parlor and grasp the difficulty of wrestling a human mind away from despair in the real world. It is time. Can you do it?” He asked her softly. “What an extraordinary paper that would be.”

  Elsa clenched her hands into fists. She must not squeeze into her profession. She must make a name for herself at the very start. “I can do it, Herr Doctor. I can do anything.”

  He smiled. “One of the benefits of travel is the amount of time spent waiting for trains and cars and boats. You will have plenty of opportunities to write. Talk to Mr. Sinclair. Heal him if you can. He is not insane,” he repeated, “but he is deeply troubled. Even if you cannot help him understand himself, the study will be valuable. Talk and then write.”

  “And Mr. Marshall?”

  “He is your facilitator. How convenient. He will handle the travel details and necessary living arrangements. You will be able to devote all your time to the patient and to your notes.”

  “I think he will be more difficult than the patient.”

  The doctor chuckled. “You should be packing.” He leaned forward, the thick file in his hand. “Start with this.”

  Chapter Two

  Mr. Marshall met her at the station. He was easy to find among the milling travelers who hurried like ants across the walkways and between the trains. He was one of the few people standing still. His little bowler hat and thin mustache set him apart from the feathered fedoras and thick beards of the Austrians. She merged with the crowd until she reached him. Her bags were heavy and she had refused the doctor’s offer to help her carry them from his car to the train. One of Marshall’s orderlies took both her bags with one arm, but when he stretched a hand for her briefcase she moved it out of reach. “I will carry this one myself. Thank you.”

  He said, “Lord Sonnenby is already aboard, fraulein. Jones and Davies will take him in shifts. We have a private car and you will have your own compartment to sleep and dress.” He bowed from the waist and extended an arm toward the door. He made as if to hand her up to the waiting conductor, but she leapt the short distance without letting him touch her. The conductor tapped his cap and she stepped past him.

  Jones or Davies was ahead of her and she followed him to the small compartment that would be her home for four days. He set her bags on the lower bunk and adjusted the blinds that covered the large window behind the dressing table.

  “Thank you.” She ended the last word with a questioning lilt and he smiled.

  “Jones, ma’m.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jones. Please tell me, where is Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Lord Sonnenby is in the center of the car, where the seating is.”

  “Very well. Then I will join him.”

  “Yes ma’m.”

  She stepped back against the wall so he could squeeze into the narrow corridor. The train blew its whistle. She wanted to be seated before the train began moving as there was no graceful way to stay upright as the cars jerked to follow the engine. One would have to brace against a wall or some other kind of support until the movements became smooth and regular. She disliked looking unbalanced to passers-by.

  Elsa closed the door to the tiny room and passed through the corridor to the center of the private car. Glass windows with heavy drapes separated the seating area from the walkway. A sliding door bisected the windows. Elsa was not sure if the proper etiquette was to knock, or if such a courtesy was not necessary. She had ridden in trains many times, but never in a private car.

  Better to be assertive. She tried the handle. The door was locked. She tapped at the window and the curtains were parted by sausage-sized fingers. Mr. Davies blinked at her then let the curtains fall back. The door made a clicking sound and the lock was released. Elsa entered and sat on the empty bench seat facing Davies and Lord Sonnenby.

  Davies locked the door again by reaching a huge arm across the aisle. He was a hulking presence in the small compartment. His broad shoulders took of half the seat and his thick nose took up half his face. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and wore his hair very short. He stared politely out the window; grinding his jaws every so often as if he wished he were eating.

  Lord Sonnenby was watching her. He had been cleaned up and shaved since the last time she had seen him. His dark hair was cut shorter over his ears, but a long forelock was combed up and over his forehead. He smelled like soap, though the straightjacket had a wet canvas odor that could not be masked by washing. His brown eyes blinked at her, but showed no emotion whatsoever. There was no glimmer of appreciation of her appearance, no curiosity, no interest.

  Elsa gave him a slight professional smile, not too eager nor over-friendly. She knew that the upper class British were not as affable as the Austrians.

  The straight jacket remained firmly buckled. He appeared used to it, if not completely comfortable. He did not fidget or strain at the straps but sat very still.

  The whistle blew again and was followed shortly after by the expected lurch and a metallic slide as the cars began to move along the tracks. Sonnenby planted his feet as wide as the hobbles on his ankles would let him to keep from rolling from the seat, and Davies placed a practiced hand on his shoulder to keep him upright until the car’s movement smoothed. The rumbling puff of the engine made introductions unseemly so she waited until the lurching was over and the steady clack of the wheels implied that the journey had begun in earnest.

  “My name is Elsa Schluss, Mr. Sinclair. Do you prefer to be addressed as Lord Sonnenby?” she asked.

  Sonnenby stared at her for a moment, then turned his head to look out the window. She looked at Davies.

  “He don’t speak much, ma’m,” he said.

  “I see.” Elsa set her briefcase down beside her and opened it. She took out her writing pad and a sharp pencil and wrote that down.

  “No one calls him Sinclair,” Davies continued in a helpful voice.

  She wrote that down, too. The sliding door shook and Davies leaned forward to unlock it. Mr. Marshall entered, looking first to Sonnenby then to her. He took off his bowler and hung it on the hook by the window before sitting beside her.

  “Fraulein,” he said by way of greeting. He adjusted his collar and then his sleeves, pinching at the cuff links.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she nodded. She tucked her pencil behind her ear and closed her notebook on her knees.

  Marshall said, “Can you tell me about your plan to cure Lord Sonnenby?”

  “Cure, Mr. Marshall?” Elsa’s English was excellent but it was not her first language. She tried not to frown as she struggled to understand exactly what he might mean. Mental illness was not cured like an infection. Surely he knew that.

  “Treat him for his condition,” he offered.

  “Ah.” Elsa shifted on the seat to turn her body to face him for conversation, but used the opportunity to put a few more inches between them. “It is customary to talk to the patient and explore the areas of his experience that may have caused the trauma that broke his mind to begin with.”

  “Talking therapy. I have heard of it. It is what they are calling ‘analysis’. Are you going to analyze Lord Sonnenby?”

  “I am.”

  “You are aware that such therapy requires the patient to speak to you.” His tone was derogatory.

  She bristled. “I am aware, Mr. Marshall.”

  He sniffed and she saw him set his jaw. His hand began to tap his knee in time with the swaying of the car. He looked across the compartment at the opposite wall between Davies and Sonnenby. Elsa tapped her own knee in time with his to mirror the behavior and create a physical dialogue she would use to engage Marshall. Sonnenby turned his head from the window and glanced at both of them. His brow wrinkled when his eyes touched both sets of tappin
g fingers, and he glanced up at Elsa with the first sign of interest.

  She suppressed a smile. Lord Sonnenby was alert and intelligent. “Perhaps if we removed the restraints he would be more inclined to converse,” she suggested.

  “Davies will be the judge of that. Certainly both men must be in the compartment if he is to be unbound.” The tempo of his tapping increased. Obviously this idea agitated him.

  Elsa slowed her tapping to calm him and after a few seconds Marshall’s tapping slowed to match hers. “That would defeat the purpose of therapy, Mr. Marshall. I will need privacy with the patient or he may never speak of his troubles.”

  “You may have time with him alone, but he must be restrained.”

  “He is quite immobile now. Perhaps we could begin.” She stopped tapping and Marshall’s fingers paused over his own knee.

  Davies agreed with a nod.

  Marshall stood and reached for his hat. “Very well. As I said, good luck.” To Davies he said, “Stand outside the compartment while she is in here with him.”

  The train swayed as the tracks curved. The two men who could walk departed the small chamber. The bound man watched them go. When the door slid shut he turned his eyes on her.

  As soon as the door clicked shut Elsa put down her notebook and pushed herself over to the other seat. “Mr. Sinclair…Lord Sonnenby. Let me help you feel more comfortable.” She motioned for him to turn so she could reach the buckles on his back. He twisted in his seat, turning his back to her, but craned his neck with his chin over his shoulder so he could watch her fingers.

  “They will be angry if you make a commotion. You know that,” she warned as she worked the first buckle at the back of his neck. “They will come in and truss you tight like a goose.” She met his eye before flipping the leather on the next buckle. “And then we will not be allowed to talk alone.”