Chapter 20: Sanctuary in the Attic

I have not been up here for ages. Right after my auntie's death I had superficially rummaged through the whole house but although I had inherited everything I still felt reluctant to go through the boxes with faded black and white photos, yellowish letters written by hand and with old type writers. It still felt like sneaking through the privacy of another person. So I more or less had forgotten about the attic. Only when wind or rain or some animal I could not identify made a creaking sound somewhere far above or deep below me I wondered if there was not some ghost or spirit who now inhabited the house together with me.

But now my curiosity had been triggered by Dr. Rosenstock. What kind of secrets did my aunt have that he did not want to reveal? And had he learned about them as her Doctor? Or in what other function? I tried to imagine diseases someone might keep secret even after one's death. Venereal diseases? She had never been shy about body functions so I ruled that out. She had apparently been married happily with my uncle who had died young, and she had never been married again. She hardly spoke about him, and I rarely asked because of the visible pain it gave her. She reminded me of Queen Victoria who mourned about his beloved Albert even decades after his death.

Funny to think of her in this Victorian house, I thought as I climbed up the steep wooden ladder up to the attic. The key screeched in the hole, and then I pushed the trap door up and let it fall onto the attic floor. Clouds of dust rose and danced in the sunbeams falling through the crevices in the roof. The broken tiles made me think about the repairs I urgently needed to get done as soon I'd find the money. But I discarded the thought and approached the old large wardrobe which looked as if it had been standing against the chimney wall since the days of Methusalem.

The key looked like forged by an old fashioned locksmith. Involuntarily I touched my necklace and realized that I had hardly thought of it in the last days. Curious. As if it had already become a part of me. The wardrobe doors opened with resistance, reluctantly. An odor of dusty fabric enwrapped me. There was cotton, denim, silk, and, no doubt about it, a definite element of old leather. It made me think of the comfortable red armchair in the Doctor's cabinet or of the old convertible Mercedes which still stood in the garage unused when I had first visited my aunt. I had no idea what had become of it but remember hiding and crouching in the narrow spot behind the driver's seat for hours when I had first learned about the accident of my parents. Slowly, gradually, the scent of the old leather had soothed me.

The long clothes rail was packed, the robes sorted by color. On the far left was a wedding dress. I carefully took it out. A complicated structure of laces and veils, long to the floor, with a crinoline but, strange enough, no sleeves. A sleeveless dress back in the 30ies or 40ies? But the dress had no arm openings either! I was intrigued. I examined it more carefully and looked into the back opening. The dress had a high collar, was plain on the front and criss-cross-laced at the back down from the small of the waist up to the neck. Impossible to get into it alone, I realized. But then those were probably times where people had still maids. I felt dizzy.

Gently but firmly the maid leads my left arm into an inner sleeve which is sewn to the inside of the dress. I have to twist my arm and realize that the sheath will bend it slightly backward in a way that my palm will rest on my buttock once the laces are closed. The elbows will make my waist look much wider than I really am. I frown but the maid who seems to read my mind hushes me with a smile.

"We will tie you really tight, Miss, and you will look nearly as slim as you always do!"

I allow her to lead my right arm into the matching sleeve. My arms now touch the white corset reinforced with thin steel rods every two inches that is wrapped all around my torso. Only my breasts are covered by a stretchy material which feels nice but which I have never before seen or felt.

"Your future father in law brought it back from a business trip to Malaysia, Miss. He is convicted that it will make its way. It is the same material they use for car tires, just thinner. Juice from the caoutchouc tree, if I understood right, Miss."

It is thinner than paper and white, nearly transparent. Somehow it makes me feel more naked than if by breasts are bare. But now the upper part of the dress covers it all, the corset, the wrapped breasts, my arms. The maid holds her word and ties me in. Tight. I watch her and my own silhouette in the mirror as the dress gains shape. I can only breathe now in short, shallow gasps. Once she is done the maid turns me round to allow me a look on my back. The gap is closed! I feel proud. My husband will have the prettiest bride of the decade. The maid hooks fake arms into the shoulders of my dress, with opera gloves which reach far up over the elbow. Nobody will realize my confinement as brides don't shake hands on wedding days. The fake arms are slightly bent and sewn with a few invisible stitches to my crinoline. A tiny lace handbag hangs around my right wrist.