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

“What?”

“Your husband’s mother. Do you and she get along?”

“No,” Ellen replied bluntly. She was tired of thisinterrogation.

Professor Abegg leaned back slightly in his chair, his left hand still resting on the open file. He seemed a shade reassured, as if he felt he was finally getting somewhere.

“Tension between a wife and her mother-in-law is quite normal,” he said, as if to put her mind at rest.

“Of course,” said Ellen. “And it could get quite bad at times. But there was probably far more tension between my husband and his mother than me and his mother.”

“Really?” Ellen’s words had piqued the psychiatrist’s curiosity. “Why was that?” he asked, and instantly stopped fiddling with the pen.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “They never seemed to have a good relationship. Frank always felt a sense of alienation from his parents. He often used to say that he thought he must have been adopted at a young age, that they couldn’t possibly be his parents as they seemed to walk on different planets.

“His mother told me he’d always been a difficult child. Always saying strange things, talking about imaginary places and people. Having nightmares. One story she recalled in particular was about a zoo where people gawped at enclosures full of Black people. Caged like animals. I think she found it quite hard to take. The day we married, she took me to one side and said: ‘You take care young lady. I do hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew.’”

“Interesting,” Professor Abegg said, finally laying the pen to rest on the desk. “So there has never been any real tension between you? Over the dog, for example? You don’t argue about the dog?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Ellen was mystified by this odd change of direction. “Yes, all right, I hate dogs. And she loved the little beasts. But fortunately she never owned one when I knew her. So it’s not something we ever argued about.”

The professor hesitated. Ellen’s words plainly concerned him in a way he had not expected. But she could see that he was also quite intrigued. Her words had stopped him in his tracks. Ellen wondered whether he was simply not as confident in English as he appeared. Or did he suspect that he might be about to find himself unravelling something more sinister than a difficult psychiatric case?

“You speak in the past, Mrs Goss,” he said at last.

“My mother-in-law is dead.”

Just like that it came out. Right to the point. No beating about the bush. He must think I’m a real bitch, she told herself. But she was past caring what he thought.

“She died three weeks ago,” Ellen added. “A heart attack.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He paused again and fiddled with the papers in the folder, as if considering where to go next.

“Only three weeks ago?” he repeated. “Did you know she had a heart condition?”

The professor was becoming increasingly pensive. His expression of condolence was rather less than half-hearted, and his questions betrayed a vaguely accusing tone. But they seemed to be becoming steadily less confident.

“And you say she never had a dog?” he asked.

“I said she never had one when I knew her. A cat yes, but not a dog.” It was all Ellen could do not to laugh at this line of questioning.

Ellen felt intimidated by the almost accusing tone of his questions and the pondering hesitation. This only reinforced her anger all the more. She felt the heat begin to rise and a sense of panic start to grow, when suddenly he asked: “Do you know someone called Achim?”

Ellen shook her head. “Should I?”

“He seems to play an important part in your husband’s distress,” the professor said. “And it puzzles me. It puzzles me very much. Because the pieces of the puzzle don’t appear to fit with the picture I have of your husband.”

“What do you mean? What picture do you have of Frank?”

“A fragmented picture. Very fragmented. My assistant, Dr Zellweger, was on duty when your husband was admitted. And he picked up the fragments that we have. But this is very little. The picture remains a puzzle full of holes.”

At that moment, with all the talk of a dog, someone called Achim and her husband speaking a local dialect, scepticism and disbelief began edging back into Ellen’s mind. She became convinced that Professor Abegg could not be talking about Frank. That the person admitted to this clinic had probably stolen Frank’s passport or found it somewhere. A warm sense of relief began to grow inside her.

“Your husband wrote this,” the professor said, taking a piece of paper from the folder and laying it on the desk in front of Ellen. “And ever since he wrote it, he has remained silent. He has not said another word. It is as if he has nothing more to say.”

She stared at the messy scrawl. The handwriting looked familiar, but more erratic and untidier than usual. With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, she took it in her hand and read the text to herself. Over and over again.

Pneuma, silent susurrus, whispers

ancient legends of what might have been:

tristan in tintagel, for example,

roc healed by holy water

isolde’s dark enigma

cascading within

inches of a quiet

arrest

Eine nicht ganz tastbare Gegenwart

ist längst vorbei;

es bleibt nur noch ein Hauch der Legende übrig,

während unser Leben zum langsamen Drift

durch die Dardanellen wird.

Es war doch immer so,

nur die Legende war anders.

Nun wollen wir eine eigene Legende schaffen,

einen eigenen Hauch ausatmen,

um den Spiegel anzufeuchten und die Geschichte

mit dem Finger an dem Glas umschreiben.1

But the legend will always speak for itself before it crumbles into the brick dust of Babel.

Und unter den Ruinen

flüstert wortlos der Wind

über die beiden ersten Blätter einer Eiche,

die sich aus den Trümmern schon entfalten.2

Ellen was engrossed and bewildered. The writing was so familiar, and the words so incredibly strange.

“That is your husband’s handwriting?” the professor eventually asked.

“Well, it could be.” She was still uncertain. “It’s very much like his writing. But it seems different.” She paused, silenced by