strange city. No map, no itinerary, no landmarks. I was a guy with
a camera around his neck strolling around in bad shorts.”
She looked at me affectionately from the heights, like a teacher amused by an improbable excuse. “And I’m your map?” she asked.
“You’ll fold me in your pocket?”
“No,” I said. “You’re my reason.”
“Well we wouldn’t want you to go
mad
,” she said before I stopped her short with a kiss, my lips coming away wet. I held her there against the crude and malapropic
slogans of eternal love and asked my question. Could she feel them, the shape of the names, the curved humps of a heart, digging
into her back? I wanted my words to be as tactile as those inscriptions. Water dripped from the leaves or her eyes.
“And if I say yes you’ll let me down,” she said.
“Probably.” I laughed.
She descended, her lips brushing my ear as she whispered, and when I heard the sound I’d dreamed her saying, the one syllable
with its sibilant end, I collapsed in bliss, landing in the mud beneath my shrieking fiancée. The happiest moment of my life
took place in a puddle. I hadn’t even brought a ring, but in Molly’s presence I felt forgiven. She could make me forget myself
and where I was; she brought me my only feelings of ecstasy. Looking at her, I was no more aware of my murky bed than the
background through the canopy: the distant facades, the pavilion, and the vacant stage.
7
T HE T RAUMHAUS WAS HIGHLY SELECTIVE . A CCORDING TO A
Trumpet
survey, one out of three Trudians felt that they could benefit from a stay there, but the ratio of admission was much lower
than that—a far cry from the somewhat sluttish admissions policy at Trude U. The whole process was shrouded in secrecy. There
was no clear science to it. Sociopaths, schizophrenics, the baroquely mad, were not admitted. Adolescents were not admitted.
Illiterates were not admitted. Religious fanatics were not admitted, unless they had personalized their delusions in some
compelling way. The average old were not admitted. Contented people were generally not admitted, though there were some exceptions.
Typically depressed middle-aged males were not admitted. My own application to the Traumhaus, honed in the wake of Molly’s
disappearance, had been classified in this last category. It still stung. I consoled myself by using my visiting privileges
three times a week. The Traumhaus seemed to be the only place where I could find peace. In the autumn its birches turned yellow
andburnt orange, complementing the dark green of the pines almost too well.
To the charge that it was an “elitist institution,” the Traumhaus responded with tranquil silence. As the reflection of the
building in its pond suggested a castle, an element of gentility clung to the place. Though I might feel privileged each time
I passed through the double doors, there was a sense in which I remained excluded, unselected. Some who had been living at
the Traumhaus for years continued to feel this way. My mother felt this way at times. This largely had to do with the presence
of the so-called Pinkies, a select caste within Traumhaus culture. They were special beneficiaries of Bernhard’s will. It
was easy to recognize them by their distinctive shuffling step, their looks of devastation, and the pink bathrobes they wore
at all times—markers of a twenty-four-hour suicide watch. These pampered disconsolates wore clear plastic slippers and received
their breakfasts on silver trays. They occupied the best rooms, overlooking the pond: the Robert Walser Room, the Klaus Mann
Chamber, and the Schreber Suite, where Bernhard had spent the last months of his life. Pinkies were a rare sighting in the
Wittgenstein Lounge or any of the other public areas. When they passed, slippers squeaking on the linoleum, the other residents
went silent and gawked at these suffering virtuosos—increasing, one can only imagine, the
a camera around his neck strolling around in bad shorts.”
She looked at me affectionately from the heights, like a teacher amused by an improbable excuse. “And I’m your map?” she asked.
“You’ll fold me in your pocket?”
“No,” I said. “You’re my reason.”
“Well we wouldn’t want you to go
mad
,” she said before I stopped her short with a kiss, my lips coming away wet. I held her there against the crude and malapropic
slogans of eternal love and asked my question. Could she feel them, the shape of the names, the curved humps of a heart, digging
into her back? I wanted my words to be as tactile as those inscriptions. Water dripped from the leaves or her eyes.
“And if I say yes you’ll let me down,” she said.
“Probably.” I laughed.
She descended, her lips brushing my ear as she whispered, and when I heard the sound I’d dreamed her saying, the one syllable
with its sibilant end, I collapsed in bliss, landing in the mud beneath my shrieking fiancée. The happiest moment of my life
took place in a puddle. I hadn’t even brought a ring, but in Molly’s presence I felt forgiven. She could make me forget myself
and where I was; she brought me my only feelings of ecstasy. Looking at her, I was no more aware of my murky bed than the
background through the canopy: the distant facades, the pavilion, and the vacant stage.
7
T HE T RAUMHAUS WAS HIGHLY SELECTIVE . A CCORDING TO A
Trumpet
survey, one out of three Trudians felt that they could benefit from a stay there, but the ratio of admission was much lower
than that—a far cry from the somewhat sluttish admissions policy at Trude U. The whole process was shrouded in secrecy. There
was no clear science to it. Sociopaths, schizophrenics, the baroquely mad, were not admitted. Adolescents were not admitted.
Illiterates were not admitted. Religious fanatics were not admitted, unless they had personalized their delusions in some
compelling way. The average old were not admitted. Contented people were generally not admitted, though there were some exceptions.
Typically depressed middle-aged males were not admitted. My own application to the Traumhaus, honed in the wake of Molly’s
disappearance, had been classified in this last category. It still stung. I consoled myself by using my visiting privileges
three times a week. The Traumhaus seemed to be the only place where I could find peace. In the autumn its birches turned yellow
andburnt orange, complementing the dark green of the pines almost too well.
To the charge that it was an “elitist institution,” the Traumhaus responded with tranquil silence. As the reflection of the
building in its pond suggested a castle, an element of gentility clung to the place. Though I might feel privileged each time
I passed through the double doors, there was a sense in which I remained excluded, unselected. Some who had been living at
the Traumhaus for years continued to feel this way. My mother felt this way at times. This largely had to do with the presence
of the so-called Pinkies, a select caste within Traumhaus culture. They were special beneficiaries of Bernhard’s will. It
was easy to recognize them by their distinctive shuffling step, their looks of devastation, and the pink bathrobes they wore
at all times—markers of a twenty-four-hour suicide watch. These pampered disconsolates wore clear plastic slippers and received
their breakfasts on silver trays. They occupied the best rooms, overlooking the pond: the Robert Walser Room, the Klaus Mann
Chamber, and the Schreber Suite, where Bernhard had spent the last months of his life. Pinkies were a rare sighting in the
Wittgenstein Lounge or any of the other public areas. When they passed, slippers squeaking on the linoleum, the other residents
went silent and gawked at these suffering virtuosos—increasing, one can only imagine, the
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