Koko (76 page)

She said:
We didn’t know what would happen to us.

And:
Imagination has to be stopped. You have to put an end to that.

He had ignored or misinterpreted all these things. At the bar, the man called Cob
was smiling slackly upwards, his eyes unfocused and his skin some color between light
purple and the grey of iron filings.
After what they said.
If a man could float up into the air and hang there for thirty minutes, that was
what he would look like. Levitation took a toll. You had to pay a price. Not to mention
what fire-breathing took out of you.

He made things up. Isn’t that part of the original trouble?

It was the levitation that really did it to old Cob, Poole thought. One of the young
men touched Cob’s shoulders and revolved him so that he could see a number of shot
glasses—Poole could not see how many, six, eight, ten—lined up on the bar in his honor.
Cob began pouring the contents of the shot glasses into his mouth in a way that reminded
Poole of a wild animal eating something it had killed.

“I guess that’s news to you, isn’t it?” Simroe said. “Manny Dengler stayed out of
school for a year, and when he came back he had to repeat his freshman year. Of course
he was treated even worse than before.”

And Poole remembered:
Calm down, Vic. Whatever it was …

“It was a long time ago,” he said, finishing the phrase.

“Yep,” said Simroe, “but I’ll tell you what gets me. He was
adopted
by those people. Anybody could see Karl Dengler was crazy, but they still let them
take him. And even after everything came out and Karl got sent to Waupun where some
kid damn near took off his head with a homemade knife, Manny still lived in that house
on Muffin Street. With that old lady.”

“He started going back to school …” Poole said, his eyes still on Cob.

“Yep.”

“And he went home every night.”

“He closed the door behind him,” Simroe said, “but who knows what went on behind that
door? What did she talk about with him? I think he must have been damn happy when
the army finally drafted him.”

All this Tim Underhill had discovered in two hours at the library, going over microfilm
of the two Milwaukee newspapers—he had read about Karl Dengler’s trial and conviction,
and about his murder in the state prison. “Sex Crime Minister,” read the captions
beneath photographs of wild-eyed Karl Dengler. “Sex Crime Minister and Wife Arrive
for Tenth Day of Trial” beneath a photograph of Karl Dengler, grey felt hat on his
head and staring straight into the middle distance while a younger, slimmer Helga
Dengler, thick blond braids twisted around her head, blew the camera apart with one
flat glare of her pale eyes. There had been a photograph of the house on Muffin Street,
its porch empty and the shades down. Beside it Dengler’s Lamb of God Butcher Shop
already looked dispossessed. In the next few days, children would throw bricks through
the shop’s window. By the next day, as a
Sentinel
photograph showed, the city had boarded up the window.

SOCIAL WORKER PLEADS FOR FOSTER HOME
, ran a subhead from the last day of the trial—forty-four-year-old Miss Phyllis Green,
the woman who had discovered the child in the meat locker, severely bruised, half-conscious,
and clutching his favorite book, had requested that the court find a new home for
Manuel Orosco Dengler. A “spokesman” for Mrs. Dengler “vigorously opposed” the request,
claiming that the Dengler family had already experienced enough pain,
FOSTER CARE PLEA DENIED
, announced the
Journal
a week after the verdict: in a separate hearing, a judge decided that the boy should
be “returned to normal life as quickly as possible.” The child was to be returned
to his classes on the first day of the new term. The second judge advised that “this
unfortunate history be put behind us,” and that Helga and Manuel Dengler “get on with
the business of living.” It was “a time for healing.” And the two of them left the
courthouse, rode the bus to the South Side and Muffin Street, and closed the door
behind them.

Everybody lied about us.

Timothy Underhill learned all this, and one thing more: Manuel Orosco Dengler’s father
was Manuel Orosco Dengler’s father.

“Karl Dengler was his real father?” Poole asked.

He and Underhill were driving back to the Pforzheimer at seven-thirty that evening.
On Wisconsin Avenue the lighted display windows of department stores slipped past
like dioramas in a museum—lovers on a porch swing, men in loose, garish Perry Como
sweaters and caps stiffly gathered on a golf course green.

“Who was his mother?” Poole asked, momentarily disoriented.

“Rosita Orosco, just the way Helga Dengler said. Rosita named him Manuel, and abandoned
him in the hospital. But when she filled out the admission forms, she listed Karl
Dengler as the baby’s father. And he never challenged that, because his name is on
Dengler’s birth certificate.”

“Are birth certificates on file in the library?” Poole asked.

“I went a couple of blocks to the Hall of Records. Something finally struck me—that
the Denglers seemed to adopt this abandoned baby without going through any red tape.
This Nicaraguan woman, a prostitute, comes into the labor ward off the street, has
a child and disappears, and fifteen days later the Denglers have adopted the child.
I think it was all arranged beforehand.”

Underhill rubbed his hands together, his knees propped up before him in the little
car. “I bet Rosita told Karl she was pregnant, and he reassured her that he would
adopt the child, everything would be legal and above-board. Maybe he told her he’d
marry her! We’ll never know. Maybe Rosita wasn’t even a prostitute. On the hospital
form, she called herself a dressmaker. I’ve been thinking that maybe Rosita wandered
into the Lamb of God church or temple or whatever Karl called it when it wasn’t a
butcher shop, and maybe Dengler came up to her as soon as he saw her and talked her
into coming to private services. Because he didn’t want his wife to see her.”

Horns blared behind Poole, and he realized that the light had changed. He shot through
the intersection before the arrow could fade and pulled up alongside the entrance
of the hotel.

Poole and Underhill walked through the thick artificial light beneath the marquee
toward the glass doors, which whooshed open before them. Out of the swarm of questions
going through his mind, he asked only the most immediate. “Did Helga know that Karl
was her son’s father?”

“It was on the birth certificate.” They moved into the lobby, and the desk clerk nodded
at them. The lobby was almost opulently warm, and the big drooping ferns seemed to
bulge with health, as if they could slide out of their pots and eat small animals.

“I think she didn’t want to know,” Underhill said. “And that made her even crazier.
Dengler was the proof that her husband had been unfaithful to her, and with a woman
who belonged to what she considered an inferior race.”

They got into the elevator. “Where did they find Rosita’s body?” Poole asked, pushing
the button for the fifth floor.

“Beside the Milwaukee River, a block or two south of Wisconsin Avenue. It was the
middle of winter—about now, in fact. She was naked, and her neck was broken. The police
assumed that a customer had killed her.”

“Two weeks after the birth of a baby?”

“I think they assumed she was desperate,” Underhill said.
The elevator stopped, and the doors clanked open. “I don’t think they gave a damn
about what happened to some Mexican hooker.”

“Nicaraguan,” Poole said.

Then they had to tell it all to Maggie, who said, “How do the Babar books come in?”

“It looks like Karl Dengler just took them from the rummage box, or whatever they
called it, inside his shop and gave them to Rosita. She must have asked him for something
to give the child, and he just picked up the first thing he saw.”

The painted dogs stood guard over the bloody game, and the self-satisfied fat men
looked out at them as if immensely pleased to be frozen in time.

“And he kept them until he was drafted.”

“Babar
is about a peaceful world,” Poole said. “I suppose that was what he loved in it.”

“Not that peaceful,” Maggie said. “In the first pages of
Babar
, Babar’s mother is shot and killed by a hunter. It’s no wonder your friend Dengler
kept the books.”

“Is that right?” Underhill sat upright in surprise.

“Of course,” Maggie said. “And here’s something else. At the end of
Babar the King
, flying elephants labeled Courage, Patience, Learning, I don’t know what else—Joy
and Intelligence—drive away bad evil creatures labeled Stupidity and Anger and Fear,
and a lot of other wicked things. Don’t you suppose that meant a lot to him? Because
from what I heard about Dengler, he was able to do that in his own life—to banish
all the terrible things that had happened to him. And there’s something else too,
but I don’t know what you’ll think about this. When I was a child I loved a page in
that book that depicted some of the citizens of the elephants’ city. Dr. Capoulosse,
and Tapitor the shoemaker, and a sculptor named Podular, Poutifour the farmer, Hatchimbombitar,
a big strong street-sweeper … and a clown named Coco.”

“Koko?” Underhill asked.

“Spelled differently. C-o-c-o.”

Some realization almost moved into view between them.

Poole threw up his hands. “The only really important thing we learned here is that
Spitalny knew Dengler back in high school. We’re not any closer to finding him. I
think we ought to go back
to New York. It’s about time we stopped humoring Harry Beevers and told that detective,
Murphy, everything we know. The police can stop him. We can’t.”

He looked directly at Maggie. “It’s time to do other things.”

She nodded.

“Then let’s go back to New York,” he heard Underhill say. He either could not or did
not want to take his eyes off Maggie Lah. “I miss Vinh. I miss working in the mornings
and having him poke his head into that little room to ask me if I want another cup
of tea.”

Poole turned to smile at Tim, who was looking at him slyly, tapping his pencil against
his front teeth. “Well,
somebody
has to take care of Vinh,” he said. “The poor boy never stops working.”

“So you’re going to settle down and raise a family,” Maggie said.

“Something like that.”

“Lead a regular, moderate life.”

“I have a book to write. I’ve been thinking of giving old Fenwick Throng a call, just
to tell him I’m back from the dead. I hear Geoffrey Penmaiden isn’t at Gladstone House
anymore, so maybe I can even go back to my old publishers.”

“Did you really mail him a turd in a box?” Poole asked. “Tina told me—”

“If you knew him, you’d understand. He was a lot like Harry Beevers.”

“My hero,” Poole said. He picked up the telephone and made reservations on the next
flight to New York, which left at ten-thirty the following morning. Then he put down
the telephone and looked at Maggie again.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked him.

“If I should call Harry now.”

“Sure,” she said.

He got Beevers’ answering machine. “Harry, this is Michael,” he said. “We’re coming
back tomorrow, arriving at La-Guardia around two o’clock on the Republic flight. No
leads, but we found out a few things. I think it’s time we went to the police with
everything we know, Harry. I’ll talk to you before I do anything, but Tim and I are
going to see Murphy.”

After that he called Conor at Ellen Woyzak’s house and told him what time they would
be arriving at the airport. Ellen came on the line and said that she and Conor would
meet them at the airport.

They had a subdued meal in the hotel dining room. Maggie
and Poole split a bottle of wine, and Underhill drank club soda. In the middle of
the meal he announced that he had realized that it was a kind of anniversary—he had
been sober for a little more than two years. They toasted him, but apart from that
the meal was so subdued Michael feared that he had infected the others with his mood.
Underhill spoke a little about the book he had begun in Bangkok after he had cleaned
out his system and written “Blue Rose” and “The Juniper Tree”—something about a child
made to live in a wooden hut at the back of his house, and the same child twenty years
later—but Poole felt empty and alone, as cut off from life as an astronaut floating
in deep space. He envied Tim Underhill his occupation. Underhill was itching to write:
he had continued his work on the plane, in the mornings, and at night in their room.
Poole had always imagined that writers needed isolation, but it seemed that all Underhill
needed were legal pads and a supply of Blackwing pencils—and those, it turned out,
had been Tina Pumo’s. Tina had always been obsessive about his tools, and there was
still nearly a gross of the Blackwings at the restaurant. Maggie had given four boxes
to Underhill, who had promised to finish his book with them. They were
fast
, he said. With those pencils, you could
glide.
Underhill was already gliding, far away inside himself, soaring on a carpet of words
he was impatient to set down.

When they went back upstairs in the elevator, Poole decided that as soon as he got
back inside the room, he would let Underhill sail away on his imagination and his
Blackwing pencils, and he would get into bed with
The Ambassadors.
Strether had just taken a short trip out of Paris for a day or two, and in the French
countryside was enjoying what Henry James called “the general amiability of the day.”
At the moment he was eating lunch on a terrace overlooking a river. Everything seemed
beautifully, luxuriantly suspended. Riding up five floors in a walnut-paneled elevator
with Maggie Lah was about as close as Poole thought he would get to luxurious suspension—that,
and reading his book.