“Get out of this house,” my father shouted. “I don’t care where you go, but get out of my house!”
“Martin,” my mother said helplessly, “are you all right?”
“Get out,” my father bawled. His eyes looked like small red bulbs.
My mother glanced at me timidly.
“Get out!” my father screamed. “Get out of here this minute!”
My mother rushed out of the room, hiding her face in her hands. A few moments later I heard her close the front door.
My father bent over the table and raked his bald head with his hand.
I sat frozen in my chair. I had never in my life seen such passion. He raised his head and seemed to gather himself together slowly.
“I will not endure such insults,” he said threateningly. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“I will not endure it.”
I nodded fearfully.
He began to weep softly. He lowered his head to the table again, cradling it in one elbow and gently hitting the surface of the table with his hands. They were soft, muffled blows and each seemed to me like a moan.
I stood up and thrust out my chest. “I will not endure it either,” I said loudly.
My father did not look up.
“Father? I will not endure it either.”
My father drew his head up slowly.
I assumed the strong, firm-jawed look of the soldiers in the war posters. “I will not endure it,” I repeated.
My father stared at me coldly. “You are nothing to me,” he said.
I felt my chest cave in.
“Nothing, Peter,” my father said evenly, “nothing to me at all.”
“Father … I …”
“Sugar cookies,” my father said bitterly. “Strudel. Cinema.”
I could not bear the intense reproach in his eyes. I turned away and watched the wind rustle through the ivy that clung to the sides of the window.
“There is nothing now,” I heard my father say grimly. “Nothing.”
His chair grated across the floor as he pushed himself away. I wanted to fall at his feet, to beg his forgiveness for whatever crimes I had committed against him. But for some reason I was immobile, and I think now that it was shame that held me in place, that clawed at my ankles, holding my feet against the floor.
For a moment he did not move. Without turning from the window, I knew that he was staring at me, and I wanted to turn to him if for no other reason than to offer my face for his blows. But his agony was like a wall between us.
Finally I heard him turn and leave the room. Sitting in place, I could hear his feet scraping up the carpeted steps to his little law office on the second floor. Then, a few moments later, I heard the pistol shot. It sounded like the cracking of a twig, nothing more. I ran upstairs. He was seated in a dark red wing chair, one leg crossed primly over the other, his head tilted slightly to the side, as if he were simply a tired middle-aged shopkeeper who had fallen asleep by the fire.
I RISE from my chair and walk through the door to my office. In the Camp I had only a monkish cell in which to sleep. But here I have a spacious compound of several buildings and enjoy the luxury of a private office. The office is filled with mementos from my past. Some are on display: a lovely crystal vase, a stethoscope, a commendation from El Presidente, and the little riding crop I used to crack against my boot. Some things are hidden in my desk drawer: a battered tin box and a machine pistol. The aging Casanova of Schnitzler’s beautiful invention whiles away the hours remembering the inanity of his conquests and regretting that never in his life had he been loved, or even taken seriously, by a woman of intelligence. As I review my mementos I have but one regret: that there is not a single one among them for which I have any genuine affection.
Dr. Ludtz knocks softly and politely at the door of the office. He has said that he does not think it healthy for me to spend so much time alone. But that is a lie. He fears that I am composing my memoirs and that his own name might find a place within them. Each time he enters my study he casts his eyes about suspiciously, hoping to discover the protruding edge of some unfinished manuscript, even though he cannot imagine a man actually writing the words I would have to write in order to detail my life.
“Come in, Dr. Ludtz.”
Dr. Ludtz smiles as he enters. “Ah, you’re here then. Why so much time spent in this office, my dear friend?”
“The ventilation is pleasant.”
Dr. Ludtz nods, pretending satisfaction with my answer. “The ventilation, yes.” He glances at the empty chair in front of my desk. “May I?”
“By all means.”
He sits down and looks at the ceiling fan slowly turning above his head. “Excellent for ventilation.”
“Yes.”
He turns back toward me, his eyes carefully searching over the cluttered bookshelf behind me. “Have you read anything of note recently?”
“It is getting more difficult for me to read now,” I tell him. “I think my eyes are dimming slightly.”
Dr. Ludtz looks at me sadly. “Perhaps you’re overtired. Working so much in this office, that must be quite taxing, don’t you think?”
I do not reply.
“And the arthritis?” Dr. Ludtz asks gently. “Is that any better?”
“Arthritis does not cure itself, Dr. Ludtz.”
Dr. Ludtz shakes his head. “No. That is true. But it is bearable, I hope.”
“Bearable. Yes.” I have often wondered what Dr. Ludtz’s bedside manner was like before he became a doctor for the Special Section. I expect that it was gentle, kindly, utterly proper. Those large, beefy hands must have stroked the small pink cheeks of thousands of children before they became familiar with electroshock devices. We all have ironic histories, I suppose, but history has made some a good deal more ironic than others.
Dr. Ludtz watches me sadly. “Ah, the natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”
I smile indulgently. “You must learn to speak outside quotation from time to time, Dr. Ludtz.”
Dr. Ludtz looks slightly scolded. “But with learning one discovers that everything one might say has been said better by someone else, don’t you agree?” He turns away and rests his eyes on the river. “It’s very calm today. Perhaps we could get Alberto and Tomás to take us rowing on the river. That would be relaxing, don’t you think, Dr. Langhof?”
In the Camp he relaxed by lounging on his bunk blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. It became one of his obsessions to blow ten of them in a series, one after the other, like boxcars.
“I’m afraid I cannot join you,” I tell him.
“May I ask why, my dear friend?”
“I am in the middle of preparations.”
Dr. Ludtz blinks and stares at me worriedly. “Preparations for what?”
“For El Presidente’s visit.”
Dr. Ludtz looks relieved. “Ah, yes. I see.” He smiles contentedly. “I suppose it will be a lavish affair, as usual.”
“El Presidente prefers it lavish.”
Dr. Ludtz leans forward. “He must be treated with the greatest deference.”
“Yes.”
Dr. Ludtz smirks. “An esteemed visitor.”
“Indeed.”
He chuckles gently. “Tell me, Dr. Langhof, have you heard of the visit Hölderlin made to Goethe?”
“In Weimar?”
“Yes, Weimar. But have you heard the story of what passed between them?”
“Tell it, if you like.”
“Well, Hölderlin was only a young poet at the time,” Dr. Ludtz begins, “and of course Goethe was the old master. As you might imagine, Hölderlin had dreamed of this visit for quite some time. He expected an exalted conversation to pass between them. Such was not the case, however. In fact, the interview was very disappointing. For you see, Hölderlin found that all he could talk about in Goethe’s presence was the superiority of the plums he had eaten on the train between Jena and Weimar.” He laughs loudly. “The absurdity! Can you imagine?”