James Jenkins - The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories. Volume 1

Dr. Lohrman stuffs his pipe.

‘And your maidenhead?’

‘What about it? I’m not some servant girl who whores around in the rear house.’

‘I really wasn’t suggesting that.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But one’s maidenhead can be damaged even without loose living. By one’s youthful folly and curiosity. Or an accident. Or it can be weak from the beginning.’

Elvira Wallin blushes. Doesn’t answer. Dr. Lohrman lights his pipe. Looks down at the people in the street. He tries to remember what it says in Hoffman’s Forensic Atlas . Sometimes page after page about the womb. Could some defect in the womb trigger cramps? Does it secrete feminine seminal fluid and infect itself? The thought of having to examine Fröken Wallin in that way makes the doctor uneasy. And thank goodness there are more modern methods of treating women’s diseases than going in and cutting their uterus out. Besides, it would be so repugnantly familiar. After all he’s known the Wallins a long time. Remembers when her father offered him a cognac. Young Captain Wallin’s wife had had a daughter. And Captain Wallin toasted with everyone he met. Of course the doctor would have a cognac with him. In the middle of a bright morning. ‘Cheers, damn it. I’m so damned happy, Lohrman.’ Those were the days.

‘We must rule out purely physical causes. If you have a stone in your shoe, it doesn’t help for us to talk about it. That won’t make the stone disappear.’

‘I have more than a stone in my shoe.’

‘Stones don’t give you any such nightmares,’ says Fru Hansson. Elvira Wallin stares at her. As if surprised that she can even speak.

Dr. Lohrman puffs on his pipe. ‘You’ll have laudanum to help you sleep. You’ll sleep soundly and won’t dream. That will make you calmer. But first we’ll try another thing that can help your body to relax. Many women have nervous syndromes connected with the lower parts of the abdomen. The female parts. Knots of tension seem to form there, which nature sometimes needs a little help in loosening up.’

He walks over to the desk. Unlocks the leather-­covered case. Opens it. Elvira Wallin watches. Scared and curious. Fru Hansson watches Elvira Wallin. She smiles. Almost maliciously. Dr. Lohrman puts down his pipe. Takes out the massage machine. Inserts a crank in one end of it and begins to crank it. A faint ticking is heard.

‘These days there are even electric versions of these machines. But they’re not as reliable, and even if I think that as a doctor I should be open to the latest scientific discoveries, well, do we really know how electricity affects our bodies? There are experiments that show that plants die just from getting electric light. What does that mean for us? I’ll stick to this device for the time being.’

Something clicks inside the machine. Dr. Lohrman removes the crank and lays it in the box. Picks up a piece of chamois leather.

‘Now, then, Fröken Wallin. Can you place the leather on your belly, please. Below your navel and down over your thighs. It protects your clothing.’

‘Is it going to hurt?’

‘Oh, no. You may perceive a very strong stinging sensation just before the knot loosens, but that is completely normal.’

Elvira Wallin places the piece of leather over her belly. Stretches out. Takes a deep breath. Looks at the machine. Gleaming brass and wooden handle. The white contraption at the end looks like a ball of white skin. With long calluses on it. Seams. Fru Hansson grabs her hands. And Dr. Lohrman starts the machine. It buzzes like a mechanical toy.

It takes almost twenty minutes. Dr. Lohrman has to tighten his machine several times. Elvira Wallin loses count, sweats and tenses in a strange way. She presses against Fru Hansson’s hands and feels how she too is sweating. She stares up at the ceiling. Closes her eyes. It flits. And flits. Elvira Wallin knows that she’s not dreaming this time, and Dr. Lohrman’s machine buzzes and rubs on the knots in her nerves. It’s like being on a swing. Twirling around when you’re dancing. Or when you lace a corset a little too tightly and you get breathless at the slightest movement. The machine sends thrills far down into her legs. It tickles, she wants to kick her legs and wriggle away. She presses herself against the machine’s head. Twists her hips. Clenches her teeth. Breathes harder. Presses the nape of her neck against Fru Hansson’s arm.

The machine does something that reminds her of her dream. But without clawing and tearing. As if the machine were making something nasty pleasant. And she would so like to take off some of her clothes, for it is so hot. Lie on the sofa in just her corset, underwear and petticoat, bonnet and chemise. Feel the wind blow and not let all that thick fabric in her skirts dampen the vibrations. Dream about the staircase. About Dr. Lohrman’s stern look. The darkness of the cellar. About how the men tearing down the mill in Tegnérslunden stare at her. About Fru Hansson’s strong hands. The smell of seaweed and putrid damp. About the two students who share a room high up in the rear house. Both of them are slender and lean. Light on their feet and quick to laugh. That which waits in the dark. Waits for her. In the smell of seaweed. She sweats. And sweats. The corset itches madly. One of the students has a little blond mustache. He must have tended to it with care. Maybe for her sake. She wants to swing on a swing. Kick. Scream out loud. The spasm makes her blush. Her breasts feel strange. The smell of the staircase. Mother’s perfume. Cooking fumes in the kitchen. Soft, gloved hands. Up her leg. Over her belly. Over all of her.

‘The paroxysm was exceptionally powerful,’ writes Dr. Lohrman, ‘and for a while plunged the young patient into an unreachable condition of the greatest exhaustion. She raves like a drunk and becomes weak in her limbs. She rests on the chaise longue, altogether heavy in that previously so tense body. Only a fit of speaking in tongues clears the released tension out of her body. The patient is given a glass of water to drink and slowly sits up, tired but her mind at ease. I explain to the patient that in all probability she will now be free from the tensions that caused the bad dreams, and that just to be on the safe side she will get a small dose of laudanum to take with her, to be taken at bedtime.’

Fru Hansson led Elvira Wallin to a room with a washbasin. Let her wash her face. Accompanied her back to the doctor, who told her about the laudanum and followed her to the door.

‘Are you sure you can walk on your own? Do your legs feel weak?’

‘I’m fine. And I don’t have far to walk. Mother and Fru Sandell are waiting at Café Petissan.’

‘I can ask Fru Hansson to follow you.’

‘I’ll manage, thanks.’ Elvira Wallin composes herself. The major’s eldest daughter. She thinks about her father while she walks down the two sets of stairs to the street. That it’s getting harder and harder to remember how he really was. He’s becoming more and more the portrait in the living room and the stories mother tells. She misses him. Misses having two parents. A stern and strict mother, and a cheerful and boisterous father. There’s more balance in life if there’s a man to liven up the days a little.

She walks up to Café Petissan. Self-­assured and elegant, a nice catch for a Lieutenant Sparre or an industrialist’s son. Elvira Wallin knows French and German, can dance and dine, and knows her own worth. Boys watch her go by and she laughs inwardly. It’s lovely to be alive. As soon as those stupid dreams are gone she’ll really live. Go to the theater and help mother to manage father’s shares.

Hedda Wallin is curious and inquisitive. She wants to know if she feels better. If the doctor’s new methods really work. Elvira Wallin responds that they talked. Fru Sandell wonders about what. About dreams and why we dream them. She doesn’t mention the machine or the strange spasm. But she assures them she feels more at ease. Less tense.