Dagstuhl

Detail from Mary Cassatt, Maternal Caress, (1890-91). The Art Institute of Chicago.

The mother and the child came along to the conference at Dagstuhl Castle; it was meant to be a vacation for them. The husband assured her it would be fine. The chef would cook special meals for the child, and there would be a forest, a flower garden, and German bread. “Our boy will love it there.”

The mother didn’t love anything anymore.

While the husband attended talks and panels, the mother and the boy explored marble hallways, a music room with a silent piano, and a game room, where figures stood on a chessboard as if they had grown from the wood. The boy could not walk yet. He crawled so fast he fell on his belly and slid forward.

“Slow down,” the mother called, “Stop!” But the boy didn’t stop.

When it was time for the boy to eat his fruit, the mother took him to the deserted coffee lounge. While the boy, seated in the lone baby chair, was eating a banana, scientists filed in and filled their cup at a large silver coffee urn. The boy observed them. The mother observed them, too. There was something here she needed to know, but she didn’t know what it was yet.

At night, an owl was calling. The scent of mountain streams and freshly cut trees came in through the window. Graduate students played billiards downstairs, and a Polish male professor and two beautiful female students played the piano in the music room.

“Try to sleep,” the husband said out of habit, and the mother pretended she did.

The husband opened his laptop and showed off his code. Personnel offered trays with cheese and drinks. A fat Brit pushed up his shirtsleeves and