The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

he now seemed to Ellen incapable of seeing the absurdity of the scene or appreciating the smile that she sensed spread over her face as she picked out the two pairs of socks and the quaintly worn-out underpants. He took them from her as if they were crucial evidence by which the case for the prosecution would stand or fall. But he wanted more. He wanted to build a picture of Frank, he said. In fact it emerged that he was playing with the same idea Marthe had thrown up at Ellen, that maybe Frank was involved in drug-trafficking – a notion so ludicrous that her interest in it paled away to nothing in the shadow of her impending appointment at the clinic.

After withstanding this first trial of the day, Ellen hoped the lunch with Marthe would help distract her preoccupied mind. But it was not to be – despite Marthe’s company and the delightful setting of the restaurant, where they sat overlooking the Rhine, watching the water flow beneath the bridge. Occasionally, a barge would pass low down in the water, struggling to compete with the downstream current. It was a scene that only nurtured the apprehension in Ellen’s curiosity all the more, since across the water – almost directly opposite where they were sitting – she could not help but notice the throng of people, mostly young men and women, shabby and stooped with all the homemade sorrows of the world heaped upon their shoulders. They gathered in groups, obviously dealing or just hanging out on the railings of the promenade that ran alongside the river. Marthe saw where her train of thought was running whenever Ellen glanced across the water in their direction.

“It’s terrible what they are doing to themselves,” she said.

Her observation served only to darken the shadows of fear that lurked in Ellen’s curiosity, and she staunchly refused to be drawn into any discussion that touched even remotely on Frank. She knew that Dr Zellweger was already waiting in the wings for this opportunity.

It was the first time Ellen had returned to the clinic since the day she arrived so full of expectation from London. It seemed far sadder that afternoon than she remembered it – perhaps because the grounds now lay completely washed out with the winter and the building had been dampened to a dark grey by the rain. Marthe accompanied Ellen and led her down the long dingy corridor to her husband’s office.

“Ah, Mrs Goss,” he said, getting up from his desk as they entered. He gave Ellen his hand with a ritual posture as if in some kind of pretence that they did not see each other almost every day in the privacy of his own home.

“I see my wife has brought you. Very good.”

From the way he moved, the way he touched his bow tie and adjusted the waistcoat under his white clinician’s coat, before self-consciously buttoning it up, gave Ellen the feeling he was nervous.

“Schatz,” he said, turning to Marthe, “I was talking with Lorenz this morning – he is an old colleague in Zurich,” he added for Ellen’s benefit, “and he has offered us to use his chalet in St Moritz at the end of the month. He says it will be free for a few weeks. Unfortunately, I will be much too busy preparing for a symposium, but it would be a nice opportunity for Mrs Goss to see another side of Switzerland than psychiatric clinics. Do you ski, Mrs Goss?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ellen replied. She could not help wondering as he spoke these words whether he knew that Marthe and she had slept together. Was this the explanation for the appointment in his office, an attempt to formalise his wife’s relationship with her in some way and give it the air of respectability? She recalled what Marthe had said about how ridiculous she found her own husband’s body, and tried to picture him with no clothes on, without even his bow tie. Would this be the last layer to fall? Ellen wondered. It was hard for her to imagine this pillar of correctness making love to Marthe with any passion, let alone satisfying her. Ellen’s wayward thoughts were broken by a knock at the door.

“Ah, Professor Abegg. Please come. You remember Mrs Goss.”

Ellen too recalled him, the tall but frail-looking figure from her first visit to the clinic, not so old, but prematurely aged by all the cares of his profession. He had grown a wispy beard since they last met. Perhaps for strength, Ellen told herself. He gave her his hand, while Dr Zellweger drew the earlier conversation with his wife to a close.

“I suggest you phone Lorenz when you get back home and arrange a little holiday in the mountains for you and Mrs Goss.”

This was Marthe’s cue to leave. Did he really not know what Marthe and I had been getting up to? Ellen asked herself. Or was he actively encouraging it with this invitation? The speculation was tantalising. But futile. And it died a sudden death as she watched Marthe close the door behind her, leaving Ellen to face the inquisition alone. Only Marthe’s promise to wait for Ellen outside kept her from falling into a panic when Dr Zellweger returned to his desk, fixed her with his eyes and addressed her so solemnly that she was convinced he had some terrible news to impart.

“Although I now have responsibility for your husband’s case, Professor Abegg is with us today in his function as the head of department,” he explained.

Dr Zellweger smiled nervously at the professor with this introduction. Ellen had the impression that he was not enjoying the experience, that he had been thoroughly ticked off for letting the patient discharge himself and just walk out of the clinic. Dr Zellweger rested his elbows on the desk and leaned on them awkwardly as he shifted his gaze from Ellen to the books in front of him.

“I must confess,” he continued, “that we