We still cherished that now-faded first Polaroid. Soon, almost twenty-two years later, Tonio would once again, tubed and wired, be photographed in a hospital — this time on his deathbed, and very likely for the last time. Human existence didn’t make any sense at all, but the circles were always neatly complete, and that was exactly what was wrong with it.
That my own life-circle could contain Tonio’s would make a jinxed geometric figure of it for the rest of mathematical eternity.
Miriam and I knew that this goodbye was definite and everlasting. I obstinately want to recall that we stepped backwards until we were behind the yellow curtain and in the hallway. More likely is that we kept turning around, in order to imprint, more sharply and deeply, that last image of him.
6
Shock. There was no other word for it. I had seen the phenomenon in others before. Then it was active shock, which did not only manifest itself via the facial muscles, but it seemed as though the entire body desired to participate, without, however, offering any semblance of solace. Hands grasped the chest, fingers clawed in the mouth, breath imitated a wheezing bellows.
‘No … no.’
My shock was a silent, cold shock. Blood, tears, other bodily fluid — it all seemed to be drawn away from the surface and led into my chilled insides, and to freeze there.
7
Another memory of Tonio in his incubator. His willy (the wrinkled little gumdrop I first checked to determine the sex of my child) was taped downward, toward his feet, apparently to prevent the little fellow peeing all over his not-yet-healed navel. You can’t start too early teaching boys to aim.
What had they done with his genitals during that endless operation? In a documentary about John Lennon’s murder they interviewed a doctor from the hospital where the wounded musician had been brought. ‘There lay the hero of my youth, naked, with his penis taped to his thigh.’
Now that I’d recalled that bit of the documentary I couldn’t get the image out of my head: a naked John Lennon with his member taped down to facilitate the autopsy. Ach, Tonio … that fine instrument of yours: you still had so much to accomplish with it. You had only just started.
8
We ran into our blonde nurse in the hallway, who, even after an entire day’s work in this transit station, had not lost any of her freshness. Was she waiting for us, or did our paths just coincidentally cross? She walked with us, a small stack of manila folders pressed against her bosom.
‘Are you doing okay?’ she asked. And right away: ‘Of course you’re not. What am I saying.’ The upbeat expression vanished from her face for the first time all day. ‘Oh, sorry, sorry.’
Her apology sounded sincere, even a bit desperate, which did not suit her. Maybe she was still an intern.
‘Don’t apologise.’ I heard the woodenness in my own voice. ‘You’ve been a terrific help today.’
At the corner near our waiting room she said goodbye, her face plaintive. Her shift was over.
‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss.’
She had one of those slender hands where you could feel the bones glide supplely over one another.
A female doctor sat on the two-seater, with a clipboard of papers that needed signing. Not a single word of her explanation got through to me. While the Rotenstreich sisters tearfully consoled each other, I put my signature next to the ‘X’ the required number of times. I could only think of the joint autograph sessions with Tonio in a variety of bookshops in the mid-nineties. He so wanted to sign his own name under my autograph on the half-title page, but had agreed to the condition that the customer specifically request Tonio’s contribution. Tickled pink, he would give a shy smile when the buyer asked: ‘May I also have your son’s autograph?’
Now I was signing papers on his behalf.
9
Scheltema Books, Koningsplein, Saturday 22 June 1996. For more than two-and-a-half hours, Tonio perseveres in signing his name under mine, after which he claps the book shut and hands it to the customer. He is enjoying himself, but his smile has something ironic to it, as though he knows he’s taking them for a ride, which he enjoys in equal measure.
‘Did Master Tonio also contribute to the book?’ an older man asks.
‘No,’ replies Tonio, his voice cracking into a high-pitched laugh. ‘I don’t even know what it’s about.’
There is a lady from the radio. She holds a microphone in the air to register the ambient noise, and briefly questions a few people in the queue. Suddenly I’ve lost track of Tonio. As I sit there signing, I see him out of the corner of my eye standing next to the radio presenter. If I concentrate, I can hear him cheerfully and uninhibitedly answering her questions, at length and in more or less complete sentences.
‘Of course I’m allowed to autograph, too. He’s my father, and he sat upstairs for sooooo long, and I had to wait sooooo long for him to finish … Here it is —’ (he takes a book from the stack, opens it) ‘look: “For Minchen and Totò and their infinite patience” … that’s mama and me. Because we never complained … only sometimes, just a little.’
And so on and so forth. When he returns to the table and unscrews the cap of his fountain pen, he sighs: ‘Heh, finally, my first interview.’
‘So, Tonio, schmoozing about me again, eh?’
‘Oh, it was nothing, just Yes and No questions.’
When, three weeks later, I am to repeat the exercise at Athenaeum Booksellers, Tonio passes. ‘Two autograph sessions a year — kind of boring.’
10
The doctor collected the signed forms, refastened them under the clip, and got up. I couldn’t just let her go.
‘What happens to my son’s body now?’ I asked. ‘I’ve been told … the injury, it’s to be documented any time now by a police photographer … a forensic photographer … but after that?’
‘Then he’ll be brought by lift to the mortuary.’ Something in her tone of voice told me that she had already, maybe a few minutes ago, explained all this. ‘Down in the basement. He’ll remain there until whichever undertaker you choose comes to collect the body.’
What stuck with me most of all was that she used he and the body in the same sentence.
11
Before we got into the lift, Miriam accosted an ICU nurse. ‘Have you got any tranquilisers for us? We won’t make it through the night otherwise.’
The woman was not aware of our case, so we explained our need for some Valium. She grudgingly pressed a few measly strips into Miriam’s hand.
‘Can’t I have more than this?’ she said. ‘I’m really not planning to go peddle them on a street corner.’
Shortly thereafter I got into the lift with a fistful of Valium. The sharp corners of the foil strips jabbed into my flesh. In my other hand I held Tonio’s wallet. Miriam carried the plastic bag with his mobile phone.
Down in the main hall, Hinde requested a taxi at the reception desk. I looked at Miriam. She was pale, but did not cry. She just kept gently shaking her head. Yes, here we were. Recovering from a gruesome experience. Legs trembling. But soon we would leave the horror behind us. The colour would return to our faces, and everything would get back to normal.
That’s how it felt.
‘Twenty minutes,’ said the concierge. ‘It’s busy.’