The baron's antagonism irritated Franks, but he didn't show it. Pleasantly he asked:
"Yesterday — Baron? are you listening to me? — you recalled the first time you witnessed your wife's mental instability, yes?"
The baron nodded. Franks asked if he could recall any other instances. The baron sighed, crossing his legs, staring at his highly polished shoes.
"I mentioned the circus. To be quite honest there have been so many, over so many years and..."
He paused, and Franks knew the baron had just remembered something; he could see it in the way the baron frowned, then hesitated, as if recalling the moment and then dismissing it. Franks leaned forward. "Yes? What is it?"
The baron shrugged. "It was in the late seventies; this episode had no connection to any of the children. We were in New York. We were at my apartment, reading The New York Times. She was reading the real estate section, while I had the rest of it. Suddenly she snatched the paper from my hands; as she did, it fell onto the table and the coffee pot tipped over me. I don't think she intended to spill the coffee, though I believed she had taken my paper for some perverse reason — perhaps because I wasn't paying enough attention to her. I don't know. Sometimes she is incredibly childish. I suppose I was silly too, because I insisted she give me back the paper. She refused. We had an argument, not a very pleasant one, and..."
The baron shrugged his shoulders, as if he suddenly felt the episode not worth pursuing. Franks pressed him. "Go on... she took the rest of the paper, and then what?"
"Well, as I recall, I went into my bathroom, showered, and was dressing when the maid said there seemed to be some fracas in the foyer. Next door to the building is a small newsstand. My wife, still in her dressing gown, was, so I was told, in the foyer, her arms full of newspapers. When I went down I found her sitting on the foyer floor, ripping the newspapers apart, throwing pages aside. She was on her hands and knees, scouring each page, but to this day, I have no idea what she was looking for. All I know is it was very embarrassing, and it took a great deal of cajoling to get her to return to the apartment."
Franks waited, expecting more, but the baron gestured with his hands. "That's it, really."
"Did you ever ask her why she wanted the papers?"
"Of course."
"Did she give you an explanation?"
"No, she actually didn't speak for over a week. She seemed very elated, slightly hysterical at that time, but I couldn't get a word out of her as to why she was behaving in such a way, or what on earth had sparked the breakdown."
"Breakdown?"
"Well, that is what the therapist called it. Vebekka calmed down eventually, and even seemed to forget the entire incident."
"Did you ever check through the papers, find anything that provided a reason for her behavior?"
The baron shook his head. "I took it to be just another of her — problems."
Franks remained silent for a moment before asking if the baron could get his contact in the United States to obtain copies of the newspapers from that day. The baron looked to Helen Masters with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, but he agreed to try.
Franks fell silent, closing his eyes in concentration, and then asked, softly, when the baron said his wife behaved childishly, whether this meant she also spoke like a child.
"I meant it in a manner of speaking. Her act was childish. She didn't, as far as I recall, speak in a childlike voice."
Franks noted again a fleeting look of guilt, or recall, passing over the baron's face. "Yes?... You've remembered something else?"
The baron stared at the wall. "Last night I was wakened by her crying. I was confused because it sounded — dear God I've never thought of it before — like a child... so much so that for a moment, in my half-sleep, I thought it was one of the children, before I remembered they were in Paris."
Franks waited. After a long pause the baron continued.
"I went into her room and she was sitting up in bed. There was a shadow on the wall from the drapes. She was sobbing, pointing to the wall. She said, oh yes, she said the drapes were a... no, they were a 'Black Angel.' Then she said over and over, 'It wasn't true! It wasn't true.' I have no idea what she meant, but when I closed the drapes tightly and there was no more shadow she went back to sleep. But her voice..."
The baron looked to Helen, helpless.
"It was like a little girl, the way she shook her shoulders, and... that hiccup, you know, the way children do? It was as if she were a child having a nightmare."
Franks clapped his hands. "Now we are getting somewhere, and I think some tea would go down well. For you Baron? And you, Helen?"
Before either had time to reply Franks had scuttled out, but he did not close the door. He returned in a moment, after barking to some unseen assistant that he wanted tea, and produced a children's picture book. He held it like a piece of evidence, as if in a court of law.
"Your wife slipped into her handbag a similar book yesterday while she was waiting in reception. Interesting?"
"When did she do that?" asked Helen Masters.
"When she was here, sitting with Maja. Maja saw her. Odd, don't you think? Especially since it's in German. Do you know whether this book exists also in French, or in English?"
The baron was standing with his back to the room, staring out the window, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "How would I know?"
"Has your wife ever been involved in shoplifting?"
"No, never, my wife is not a thief!" the baron snapped.
Helen took the tea tray from Maja at the door and carried it to the desk. Franks joked that kleptomania was about the only thing the baroness had not been diagnosed for! His attempt at humor failed, and Helen quickly passed the teacups around, then sat on a hard-backed chair.
Franks seemed unaware of the atmosphere in the small room. He munched one biscuit after another until the plate was cleared.
"Would you say your wife suffered from agoraphobia?"
The baron replied curtly that his wife was not agoraphobic, or claustrophobic, turning to Helen as if for confirmation. She wouldn't meet his eyes.
Franks brushed the biscuit crumbs from his cardigan. "But she is obsessive, tell me more about her obsessions."
"What woman isn't!" the baron retorted, and then he apologized. "I'm sorry — that was a stupid reply, under the circumstances. Forgive me, but I find this constant barrage of questions disturbing, perhaps because I am searching for the correct answers, and I am afraid that everything I say, when placed under the microscope as it were, makes me appear as if I have not been caring enough, when, I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth."
The room was silent. The baron had cupped his chin in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. Helen Masters focused on a small flower-shaped stain on the wall directly in front of her. Franks looked from one to the other.
"Maybe we should take a break now!"
Helen picked up the files, as Franks gave her a tiny wink. She went ahead to the waiting car, and was about to step inside when Louis announced he had to return to the doctor's office. "I won't be a moment, wait for me here!"
Dr. Franks looked up in surprise as the baron knocked on his open door and entered, but he did not ask if the baron had forgotten something. He knew the baron wished to speak to him alone. He cleared his throat. "You know if you would prefer to have these sessions with me alone, Helen is a very understanding woman, perhaps more than you realize. She is, after all, a very good doctor herself."
"Yes I know, of course I know. I have tremendous respect for her. I wanted to talk to you privately, though."