Mortal Fear

MAXWELL› When I’m finished, you will understand. I’m under a great deal of pressure just now. I am working on a great enterprise. Certain people would like to stop me. They don’t understand my work.

ERIN› But you believe I will?

MAXWELL› You might. I’m not sure.

ERIN› I’ve got to tell you, I’m under a lot of strain myself. Almost breakdown level, to be honest. Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to, but getting it out might do you some good. I know what it means to keep a secret bottled up for too long.

MAXWELL› If I go on, you must remember something. Knowledge is a burden. It has a price. Remember the Garden of Eden.

ERIN› Don’t worry. I’d make a very good Eve. I’d blame Adam or Satan for picking the apple while I made apple wine for God. This is the kind of conversation I subscribed to EROS for in the first place.

MAXWELL› You actually made me laugh. I shall continue then.

After losing his fortune, Rudolf practically imprisoned his family in their brownstone in the city. He practiced only enough medicine to keep food on the table. The staple of home life was continuing Richard’s studies, particularly in anatomy and physiology. My grandmother taught Catherine piano on their Bosendorfer. After five long years of depression, both small and capital D, Rudolf locked himself in his study and put a bullet through his brain.

Richard discovered the body. Though but twelve, he became the psychological head of the family. He wrote to Germany for help, and Uncle Karl obliged with money, stating that Richard should use it to return the family to Berlin. But Richard knew that if he did, his uncle would quickly take his father’s place. He convinced his mother they should try to hold on in America. Doling out Karl’s money like a man rationing water to lifeboat passengers, Richard continued his studies alone, using his father’s magnificent library. He became driven, his solitary goal to regain the status and fortune his father had lost.

Imagine the scene. A shadowy mansion, empty but for three people. A beautiful boy seated at an oil lamp reading Gray’s Anatomy and Aeschylus until his eyes blurred. A senile mother rapping her daughter’s fingers with a ruler when she made mistakes at her Beethoven, speaking only German, the boy keeping up his sister’s English while the mother slept. Their survival was a miracle. The only food was that which Richard could buy cheaply or steal on the streets, while a city and nation starved outside. Rudolf had taught his son how to manage his hemophilia, how to go to hospitals and clandestinely purchase whole blood, how to give himself transfusions. And the boy did it! He survived! It was within this dark and insular realm that Richard came into his sexual awakening.

Virtually cut off from outside contact, he turned to his younger sister for comfort. Bereaved by the death of her father and by the emotional withdrawal of her mother, Catherine accepted Richard’s advances, even welcomed them. All the studies tell us incest skyrockets in situations of overcrowding, isolation, or poverty, but I make no excuses. This relationship was a great gift for Richard. His immense powers of concentration were never diverted by petty romances, nor did he risk genetic union with an inferior partner. My grandmother must have known and understood, because the children lived as lovers under that enormous roof, sleeping in the same bed, exploring the limits of physical and spiritual experience.

Have I shocked you, Erin?

ERIN› I’d be lying if I said no. But I’m fascinated too. I’ve never heard anything like this before.

MAXWELL› It’s like reading about young gods, isn’t it?

ERIN› In a way. But I know what’s coming. Richard left Catherine, didn’t he?

MAXWELL› Did he? When still quite young, Richard passed the examinations required to enter university. Desperately short of money, he wrote again to Uncle Karl. He blamed Jewish thieves and anti-German persecution for the family’s failure to appear in Berlin. War was looming again, and Karl immediately forwarded funds sufficient for a sea passage. Of course Richard used the money to enter university. He became an academic star, his tuition paid by scholarship. And since his hemophilia exempted him from the draft, he was able to accept a scholarship to medical school three years later.

During this time, Catherine had begun meeting men outside the family, but no relationships developed. My grandmother discouraged her, saying that this or that suitor could never “measure up to the family standard,” which of course meant Richard. For his part, Richard had several outside relationships, with both women and men. But none supplanted Catherine in his heart.

ERIN› I feel sorry for Catherine. She never had a chance to find out what she really wanted.

MAXWELL› She was marked by destiny, Erin. Does that idea make you uncomfortable?

ERIN› Why don’t you tell me her destiny first?

MAXWELL› While in medical school, Richard decided for Machiavellian reasons that the time had come to marry, and to marry well. His opportunity arrived in the form of the disgraced daughter of a wealthy professor. I always called her the Gorgon. Pregnant before her first marriage, this woman lost the baby immediately after it, then went through a nasty and public divorce. No longer suitable for men of her own class, she was convinced by her father to give a brilliant medical student a chance. Richard wasted no time. Realizing that his plan would be a shock to his sister, he broke the news gently, stressing his mercenary motives, but to no avail. Catherine was devastated. Over the next two weeks she pleaded madly with him and twice seduced him, telling him that no other woman could ever love or understand him as she did. When he refused to yield, she blurted out that no other woman could ever give him the child she could. Richard ignored her and pushed ahead with his plans.

The day before the wedding, Catherine left the city with all the money Richard had in the world. Worried near to collapse, he told everyone she had gone west to seek relief for fragile lungs. If he had known the truth, he would undoubtedly have followed her. Like a homing bird, Catherine had gone in search of their one blood relative, Uncle Karl. This was during the war, remember. She traveled first to neutral Spain and befriended members of the German emigre community there. With their reluctant assistance, she managed finally to reach Berlin. There, during an air raid, cowering with strangers in the basement of a hospital, she delivered the child she had conceived in America, the child of her brother. It was a son.

That child was me.

In the silence that follows these words, my composure begins to fray. During the last few minutes Brahma has told me more about himself than he told Lenz in a dozen conversations. The fantastic character of his story fills me with wonder, and also dread, but I cannot stop to analyze any of it. Time is draining away like water through my hands.

ERIN› I don’t know what to say.

MAXWELL› Now you understand my special knowledge of incest. I have gone as far as I will for now. I believe I have earned the right to your story. Or at least part of it.

ERIN› I’m embarrassed. I don’t have a dramatic family saga like yours.

MAXWELL› All family histories are dramatic. Freud showed us that. In some families the struggle merely occurs beneath the surface, like battles under primeval seas.

Brahma has an answer for everything.

He wants a story. And for days I’ve planned to tell him one. Only now that the moment is at hand, I am paralyzed. How much truth do I tell? How much fiction? Earlier this week, it seemed to me that deception was mostly a matter of facts, with continuity the key to success. Now I see how foolish I was. Successful lies are not based on fact, but instinct. Emotion. If I tell a story that I believe, Brahma must believe too.

Closing my eyes, I fill my mind with images of Erin: a child laughing in the bathtub with Drewe in grainy home movies; a girl smoking cigarettes behind bushes in a Girl Scout uniform; a teenager riding pillion behind a Harley- crazed pothead, her long hair flying in the wind; a high school junior standing naked on a pier; a young woman, glossy-faced in the magazines, moving urgently beneath me in Chicago; a bride draped in white and kissing Patrick at her wedding, eyes open and looking down the row of groomsmen, to where I stand. This is like performing a classic song. You don’t just sing and play the notes; you open yourself to the subliminal power of the whole, the