Death in Venice and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

amicably, in a slightly husky voice, and she smiled both with her somewhat tired eyes, which now and then displayed a slight tendency to lose focus and whose interior corners lay in the shadows of her narrow nose, and with her beautiful wide mouth, which seemed to shine despite its pallor, probably onaccount of her lips being so clearly and distinctly outlined. Frequently she would clear her throat. On such occasions she would bring her handkerchief to her mouth, inspecting it immediately thereafter.
    â€œDon’t clear your throat, Gabriele, darling,” Mr. Klöterjahn said. “You know that Dr. Hinzpeter back home expressly forbade it—it’s simply a matter of self-control, my angel. As the doctor said, it’s just the trachea,” he repeated. “When it began, I really thought it was the lungs. That was, God knows, quite a shock. But it’s not the lungs, no, the hell with that, we won’t have any of that, will we, Gabriele? Oh no!”
    â€œOf course not,” said Dr. Leander, his glasses reflecting light in their faces.
    Mr. Klöterjahn then ordered some coffee, coffee with buttered rolls. He had such an animated Northern accent—pronouncing the c in “coffee” all the way back in his throat, and saying “bottered” rolls—that everyone present felt suddenly hungry too.
    He was given what he requested, then also given rooms for himself and his wife, and they settled in.
    Moreover, Dr. Leander personally took over her treatment, not consulting Dr. Müller about the case.
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    The personability of the new patient caused an unusual stir at Einfried, and Mr. Klöterjahn, accustomed to such triumphs, accepted every compliment she was paid with self-satisfaction. The diabetic general momentarily ceased grumbling when he first caught glimpse of her, the gentlemen with the emaciated faces smiled and did their best to control their spastic legs whenever she came near, and Mrs. Spatz, the magistrate’s wife, immediately attached herself as the young woman’s mentor. She certainly made an impression, this woman who had taken Mr. Klöterjahn’s good name! A certain writer who had been staying at Einfried for a couple of weeks now—an unpleasant oddball whose name sounded like a preciousstone—almost blushed when she first passed him in the hallway. He stopped cold and stood as though rooted to the spot long after she had gone.
    Before two full days had passed, the entire clinic community was familiar with her story. She came from Bremen—a fact obvious from certain charmingly pronounced vowels when she spoke—and that was where, twenty-four months ago, she had given the wholesaler Klöterjahn her lifelong “I do.” She had followed him to his hometown, up there on the Baltic coast, and about ten months ago had, after an extraordinarily difficult and dangerous labor, borne him a child, blessing her spouse with a son and heir of astonishing vigor and magnificence. Since those terrible days, however, she had never regained her strength, assuming, that is, that she’d ever had any. She had barely left the maternity bed, when, extremely exhausted, extremely low on vital energy, she had coughed up a little blood. Oh, not much, an insignificant drop. It would have been better, though, if it had never happened, and even more worrisome was the recurrence of this disturbing little incident not long afterward. There were treatments for this sort of thing, of course, and Dr. Hinzpeter, the family physician, availed himself of them. Complete rest was ordered, bits of ice taken internally, morphine prescribed for the cough and the pulse calmed whenever possible. But her recovery just wouldn’t take, and while the child, Anton Klöterjahn, Jr., a jewel of a baby, took possession of and asserted his place in the world with energetic disregard, his young mother seemed to fade, gently and silently, like a dying ember. It was, as they