“—stocks pictures, mostly. A few mirrors. What is it you wish to buy?”
At this point we were interrupted, mercifully, by a woman from the next booth. “He wants Fraulein A——. Out of here, and to your left; past the wigmaker’s, then right to the stationer’s, then left again. She sells old lace.”
I found the place at last, and sitting at the very back of her booth Fraulein A——herself, a pretty, slender, timid-looking young woman. Her merchandise was spread on two tables; I pretended to examine it and found that it was not old lace she sold but old clothing, much of it trimmed with lace. After a few moments she rose and came out to talk to me, saying, “If you could tell me what you require? . . .” She was taller than I had anticipated, and her flaxen hair would have been very attractive if it were ever released from the tight braids coiled round her head.
“I am only looking. Many of these are beautiful—are they expensive?”
“Not for what you get. The one you are holding is only fifty marks.”
“That seems like a great deal.”
“They are the fine dresses of long ago—for visiting, or going to the ball. The dresses of wealthy women of aristocratic taste. All are like new; I will not handle anything else. Look at the seams in that one you hold, the tiny stitches all done by hand. Those were the work of dressmakers who created only four or five in a year, and worked twelve and fourteen hours a day, sewing at the first light, and continuing under the lamp, past midnight.”
I said, “I see that you have been crying, fraulein. Their lives were indeed miserable, though no doubt there are people today who suffer equally.”
“No doubt there are,” the young woman said. “I, however, am not one of them.” And she turned away so that I should not see her tears.
“I was informed otherwise.”
She whirled about to face me. “You know him? Oh, tell him I am not a wealthy woman, but I will pay whatever I can. Do you really know him?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I was informed by your own police.”
She stared at me. “But you are an outlander. So is he, I think.” “Ah, we progress. Is there another chair in the rear of your booth? Your police are not above going outside your own country for help, you see, and we should have a little talk.”
“They are not our police,” the young woman said bitterly, “but I will talk to you. The truth is that I would sooner talk to you, though you are French. You will not tell them that?”
I assured her that I would not; we borrowed a chair from the flower stall across the corridor, and she poured forth her story.
“My father died when I was very small. My mother opened this booth to earn our living—old dresses that had belonged to her own mother were the core of her original stock. She died two years ago, and since that time I have taken charge of our business and used it to support myself. Most of my sales are to collectors and theatrical companies. I do not make a great deal of money, but I do not require a great deal, and I have managed to save some. I live alone at Number 877 —— strasse; it is an old house divided into six apartments, and mine is the gable apartment.”
“You are young and charming,” I said, “and you tell me you have a little money saved. I am surprised you are not married.”
“Many others have said the same thing.”
“And what did you tell them, fraulein?”
“To take care of their own affairs. They have called me a man hater—Frau G——, who has the confections in the next corridor but two, called me that because I would not receive her son. The truth is that I do not care for people of either sex, young or old. If I want to live by myself and keep my own things to myself, is it not my right to do so?”
“I am sure it is, but undoubtedly it has occurred to you that this person you fear so much may be a rejected suitor who is taking his revenge on you.”
“But how could he enter and control my dreams?”
“I do not know, fraulein. It is you who say that he does these things.”
“I should remember him, I think, if he had ever called on me. As it is, I am quite certain I have seen him somewhere, but I cannot recall where. Still . . .”
“Perhaps you had better describe your dream to me. You have the same one again and again, as I understand it?”
“Yes. It is like this. I am walking down a dark road. I am both frightened and pleasurably excited, if you know what I mean. Sometimes I walk for a long time, sometimes for what seems to be only a few moments. I think there is moonlight, and once or twice I have noticed stars. Anyway, there is a high, dark hedge, or perhaps a wall, on my right. There are fields to the left, I believe. Eventually I reach a gate of iron bars, standing open—it’s not a large gate for wagons or carriages, but a small one, so narrow I can hardly get through. Have you read the writings of Dr. Freud of Vienna? One of the women here mentioned once that he had written concerning dreams, and so I got them from the library, and if I were a man I am sure he would say that entering that gate meant sexual commerce. Do you think I might have unnatural leanings?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Have you ever felt such desires?”
“Oh, no. Quite the reverse.”
“Then I doubt it very much,” I said. “Go on with your dream. How do you feel as you pass through the gate?”
“As I did when walking down the road, but more so—more frightened, and yet happy and excited. Triumphant, in a way.”
“Go on.”
