the outer circle of her breasts. Then, briefly, he put pressure on the breasts themselves. Half dead from the shock, she couldn’t so much as ask herself if this formed part of the treatment.
But the upper part of her body was already wrapped in a blanket, and the doctor’s fingers were now playing with her belly. They prodded its muscles, and, in a way that revealed they were experienced, put pressure there where the belly ends. At that moment she felt a wave of desire that spread rapidly to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair, and showed no sign of going away. The patient lay there with her eyes firmly closed, half maddened. The doctor’s soothing voice simply intensified her feeling of pleasure.
“I’ll be giving you this treatment every day for a week. What I’m doing is touching certain nerve endings in order to give your body energy, strength so that it will be able to cure itself.”
Then he picked up several folded paper envelopes, tied with different colored ribbons. He gave her instructions regarding the medicines she had to prepare for herself using the herbs in the envelopes which she had to drink in the form of infusions, and place on her body as poultices, especially on her chest, stomach, and kidneys.
“After this week,” he added, “I will let you rest for ten days. We will then go ahead with a further week of intensive treatment. At that point we’ll take stock of the situation. Perhaps you will already be feeling better and will not require any further care from me.”
As he spoke, he put his objects back into his case. Only now and again did he run his eyes over the face, neck, and shoulders of his patient, as if involuntarily, like a shy child. She suddenly felt that he wasn’t a doctor at all, but rather a little boy who in his innocence had caused some irreparable harm but was unaware of it and continued to go on happily.
“You may get dressed. See you tomorrow!”
These words, spoken from the half-shadow of the hall, cut through her dreaminess like a sword through a bridal veil. She wanted to run after him to make him stay, but she was half-naked. The sound of the front door as it banged shut went through her like an icy gust of wind.
That good-looking young man, with his broad shoulders and butterfly waist, has been visiting the Němecs’ apartment since Božena came back to Prague, in order to cure her. They say he is a real doctor. If he isn’t one, who cares, he’s so attractive. The kind of man I would describe as Oriental, at least that’s how I imagine Oriental people to look from the descriptions of František Skuhravý. Yesterday I dreamed of that young doctor. I was Božena and he came to cure me. But what was I thinking of just now? Oh, yes: if he’s a doctor, maybe he could show me some kind of exercise for my back, which I just can’t keep as straight as I should. I have the feeling that everybody laughs at it. Yes, people, even when they’re being serious, are forever staring at me, their mouths like open drawers.
My woman friends make fun of me too. When they told me that František had left me, they laughed. I will always remember their wide-open mouths, so happy were they that František got engaged to another woman. Never again will František share with me his enthusiasm for the ideas, colors, and perfumes of the Orient, never again will he tell me I look like an Indian girl. Later I saw them together at the theater. The golden hair of his fiancée had so stunned me that I preferred to look at her fan. I do believe it was painted by Hellich himself. At that very moment the brilliance of her engagement ring stung my eyes. When they went to take their seats, my woman friends laughed their heads off.
But now it’s me who’s laughing. I’m the one who’s got this woman writer—the one everyone’s talking about—whom everyone reads—by the scruff of the neck. All by myself, I can liquidate her, invalidate her, neutralize her, how and when I wish. Afterward, I will show everybody who the real writer is and what writing is really about. I wouldn’t bore my readers with legends and folktales the way Božena does, nor would I write stories about workers and peasants. I’m going to