Secret Dreams by Keith Korman Page A

floating through the air, lazy specks drifting aimlessly across a summer field. The wall of glass between herself and the others had become thicker and thicker. But now blurring, glazed over as if with frost. Maximilian’s head tilted gently from side to side,- he looked concerned and puzzled, like a troubled dog who can’t understand laughter or tears. Madame Le Boyau flickered through the cigarette smoke. “I’ll prepare the bed,” she said, and was gone.
    She guessed they were planning to carry her upstairs. Why so soon? There was so much left to do, so much to discuss and decide. Frau Direktor wanted to stop them, saying, “Never mind me, let’s get on with it,” but moving her mouth was such a great effort, her tongue as thick as leather. Her body felt impossibly heavy, arms and thighs like sacks of meal. “Check her pulse,” a voice said. Then, “Loosen her clothes!” A harsh light glared into her eyes; Max was holding up an eyelid. His thumb seemed as large as a brick. Get your damn thumb out of my eye! But her tongue was too thick for it. They lifted her, Max on one side, good thorough Petra on the other.
    â€œCan you walk?” Max asked. “Come along now, try to walk. We’ll go to bed. You’re just tired, that’s all. Too much housekeeping.”
    She tried to smile into Max’s face. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. They stumbled up a long flight of stairs that went on endlessly into darkness, one weary step after the next. But all the while Max’s face stayed right beside her own, the sweat running down his shaven cheek. She felt like telling him what a nice fellow he was to keep her company this way. Just say, You’re a nice fellow, Max —- but she was simply too tired to make the words come out…. Besides, her tongue felt so awfully thick. Lungs all choked. Tubes blocked. Just no extra breath for it.
    They carried Frau Direktor into her tiny room. A small electric lamp stood on a nightstand by the bed. It burned, shedding a pale white light.
    Did she faint? she wondered stupidly….
    Petras voice now: “Look, look at her hand! It’s twitching. Stop it! I can’t stand to see it twitch like that!”
    Twitching, she called it? No, that was wrong. They used to call it by another word. Twitting. Twiggling. No, wrong. Twiddling. Yes,
twiddling!
What a funny word. Try to tell Petra. Try to say it out loud for her: twid-twid-twid. Oh, Petra, listen carefully and you’ll hear it on my breath: twid-twid-twid …
    The ring of faces around the bed had grown blurry. “She’s barely breathing. Is this asthma?” Madame asked. “I’ve never seen it this bad. Will it go away?”
    No answer …
    After a moment Max said, “There now, Frau Direktors sleeping.” But he was wrong. She was looking straight up at the cracked ceiling through half-shut eyes. She tried to focus on his face, but she saw only a round blur like a rising moon…. One by one the faces floating about the bed drew off. Everyone was leaving. Madame, last of all, shuffled stiffly to the door. She tried one last time to call out for her to stop, but she kept on shuffling. Barely picking up her feet, the dry steps fading out the door. Please come back, don’t go. Wait for me! I’m coming! Wait!
    Frau Direktor rose and went to the door. Glancing back at her bed, she was dimly aware of a snuggled lump, hidden under the covers. The faded light from the bedside lamp seemed to be shining on the huddled form as from a great distance. Illuminating it, faintly, and leaving all else in gloom.
    Madame had left the room, closing the door behind her. But that did not matter now, how easy to follow her down the stairs. Frau Direktor could feel the house living all around her. In the handrail she grasped, a family of termites gnawed happily and methodically away. Upon the wall, the wallpaper was becoming more and more