The Berlin Connection (13 page)

"First we have your edema, which is retention of fluid in the tissues. Drink does that. You have it mostly in your legs. Thank God we have some excellent diuretics which will get rid of the fluid. Take two tablets now and another two every three hours until the examination. Drink it down with whisky."

"You think the edema will be gone in two days?"

"At any rate it will be much less noticeable. Now, every six hours, you'll also take two nitroglycerine tablets." He raised his hands. "I'm a poor man, I was not prepared for your treatment. I do not have all the medication I need." "Yes?"

"I'll have them tomorrow, don't worry. Diphenylamine derivatives and other wonderful, expensive things. Before the examination, 111 give you a large dose of strophantin. In a week or two, your heart will be much better. Unfortunately, there is not much one can do in a day. It is very difficult to substitute an EKG. But we have to risk it.

Your heart is not bad. The insurance won't reject you for that. Your liver is in worse shape.'*

"Can you do anything about that?"

"Nothing at aU."

"Then, what?"

"So the doctor will order tests. Which means they will take blood the way I just did."

"And?"

"Mostly, this is done by a nurse. Til explain how; possibly it can be substituted. I'm going to give you healthy blood when you go for your examination. As soon as I know your blood group, I'll look for a suitable donor."

"Where?"

"At Madam Misere's in the Herbertstrasse. The girls there are all healthy. I will give you suitable urine too."

"If the blood groups match, no one can prove anything?"

"No one." His red face now paled. He drank. Now he was red again. "I'll have to calm you down and speed you up at the same time for the examination. I'll give you those pills for the moment."

"What are they?"

He smiled. "You'll find out. Two every three hours. Take two now." I swallowed them. "Don't ever take more. Don't be surprised if suddenly you should feel the tirge to set the world on fire.'*

"I felt like that after your injection."

"Go ahead and go to the Herbertstrasse. But don't

think it is going to last six weeks. There will be other

periods. Now. Your blood pressure. It is much too high.

* I'll have to get some more medicines to bring it down.

Where, by the way, is the money?"

I counted out thirty hundred-mark bills and placed them on the table. The last two slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. He bent down to pick them up and his beret fell off. From his forehead to the back of his head,

through the gray short dair, ran a deep red shiny scar. It was so deep I could see the blood pulsating.

Schauberg picked up his beret and the bills. He looked strange now: up to the hairline he was a ladies' man and playboy; above the hairline, a devastated, horrible victim of the war. "Russia," said the charming monster. "Doesn't hurt any more, but at first it brought me to morphine." He put away the bills and put on his beret. Now I could see my father in him again, darling of the ladies, the man without worries or troubles. "To each his own," said Dr. Schauberg.

16

Jets again roared above the barracks. The glasses on the table tinkled. Schauberg raised his glass and looked up to the ceihng. "To a third time, then, gentlemen!"

"Listen, will your treatment be very harmful to me?"

"Did you expect to become healthier?"

"And if I die?"

"You can still stand a lot."

"AU right. Okay. And if I do die?"

"Then we both lost." He pulled at his mustache. "Dear Mr. Jordan, you know I'm not a quahfied doctor now. I'll tell you exactly what's wrong. I'm not concerned with ethics or morals. I hope you appreciate that."

"Naturally."

"So. You came to me; I did not come to you. Don't be dramatic. I'm not Satan tempting you. I'm merely an experienced mechanic—excuse the comparison—who is fixing up a car, a very damaged car, so no one detects the fraud when it is sold. Of course, in six weeks you will feel worse than today. Naturally, then you'll have to go to a hospital."

"And you really believe I will regain my health then?"

"Organically, you will be healthy." "Does that mean—"

"I don't think you can be cured of your alcoholism. In ninety percent of those cases, it is hopeless. I, myself, have eone through several cures." "Then, I will die of my illness?" -

"Not necessarily. Morphine is not going to kill me either." . „

"Most people die as a result of their addiction.'

"Because most people are stupid.'^ he said. "Because most people have no structure. Take my poor wife."

"My poor wife." Just like my father! "She had no structure at all. Unfortunately." His face changed color again; every word seemed to be an effort. "But you have structure. Why? You are intelligent. You are strong enoueh to be realistic. You will understand that there is no cure. And you will learn what I've learned."

"Which is?"

"To live with the addiction. To control it, to limit it, to be as strong as it. It's a kind of marriage."

With a feeling of relief, I was suddenly aware that this man was crazy. As long as I could not detect any signs of anomaly, I had felt ill at ease. How reassuring that Dr. Schauberg w^as no superman. Though probably his theory of humans with structure was only one step removed from a religion of drug-addicted supermen.

I thought: The last war has destroyed more brains than buildings.

He was leaning against the beam, brilliant in his diseased intellectuality. Solicitously he said, "So, for God's sake, don't try to stop drinking while I'm treating you."

"I'm supposed to carry on drinking?"

"You must, dear friend. Within limits, if you can. You would just waste your energy—^which you'll need for other things."

I finished my drink.

"During the next few weeks, we'll talk more. That will be the most important part of the treatment."

"What will?"

"My—I don't want to sound cynical, but I can't think of a more suitable word—my care of your soul, dear Mr. Jordan." He placed one hand on my shoulder and smiled. "You must not have any secrets from me. We're in the same boat. You'll have to trust me as one brother another. Or better: as a son, his father?"

As a son, his father?

17

Music came from the car radio when, at ten-twenty, I passed the dilapidated cemetery again. I heard Louis Armstrong's trumpet, his hoarse voice. I whistled the song which had now been on the American Hit Parade for three years. Schauberg's injections were working. I drove too fast, I could tell by the potholes.

So what. Who cared?

"I feel like a million." That had been the title of one of my movies. I felt like a milhon. Like a million which had been saved, thanks to Dr. Schauberg. I had left him in his barrack working with his instruments and equipment. A clever man. An anomalous man. I did not need a normal man now. As long as he was clever. And that he was.

I did not know Hamburg. Still I found the right roads through the dark suburbs which, fifteen years later, were still destroyed and in ruins. The incessant jets of a new German Luftwaffe roared above them.

By the time I arrived at the hotel the storm had calmed down. I found a parking space right away. Humming, I got out of the car, the black bag in my hand. The reflection of thousands of lights glittered on the Alster.

Humming, I crossed the street and entered the hotel.

A bellboy took my bag.

The foyer was crowded with people from all nations. "Ladies and gentlemen, the bus to the airport is about to leave." I stood, humming, and let them pass.

"Mr. Jordan."

I turned and saw Dr. Natasha Petrovna.

I had completely forgotten her.

"I have been waiting for you since eight o'clock." Natasha wore a dark red, easy-fitting dress. A beige flannel coat was thrown across her chair. She looked pale and angry. "It is almost eleven now. I would have notified the hotel manager at eleven that you were dangerously ill and missing."

Everything had gone so well. And now—

"You are very ill. You promised you would stay in bed." Her blue-black hair glistened in the light of the chandelier above her.

"Yes, but I had to—"

"You broke your promise." Why was she so incensed? Why was she so excited? She was capable of going to the manager. Or to Kostasch. In two days she was leaving Germany. But even in only two days she could destroy everything. I remembered Schauberg: "The moment I become suspicious, I'U discontinue treatment."

Then what?

Smiling, I said, "I*m fine again. Doctor."

"I don't believe that."

"Really."

"I would like to examine you once more," she said, looking steadily at me with half-closed shining black eyes.

I don't want to appear better than I am, but truthfully, it gave me a jolt seeing those veiled prompting eyes. I thought: So I really have to continue my path from one meanness to another?

I had seen eyes like that. I knew the meaning of such looks.

At sixteen I fell in love with an older married woman. Her husband, once a director, hoped to find new work through me. He encouraged me to enjoy his hospitality, though, without a doubt, he knew I admired his wife. I had arranged to drive him to the studios. When I reached his house, his wife came to the door in a dressing gown. Her husband had left unexpectedly; he would be away for a few days. I felt hot and cold when her black eyes, veiled and half-closed, looked at me. I had kissed girls before, petted in parked cars, but I had never possessed a woman up to then.

Her long silk robe partly revealed her breasts. She did not smile. She merely looked at me. I took one step forward. She was still warm with sleep. I kissed her awkwardly. She took my hand and silently led me to the bedroom. Her moist, half-closed eyes said: Come.

A few more times, woman's eyes met mine in that manner—at parties, once in a club in Las Vegas, once on board ship. The look was always identical. And now, on this night of the twenty-seventh of October, Natasha Pet-rovna looked at me the same way.

We only met this morning. Natasha had seemed cool and reserved. She ought to have been revolted by me. ^nd still. She had waited almost three hours for me. Could a doctor have that much professional interest in a new patient? Was not this more the deep interest of a woman attracted to a man? It did not make sense; it was improbable. But what was—or is—^probable, what absurd, between a woman and a man?

Natasha had the same look as that first woman had had. And I was certain; certain and shocked, as far gone

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as I was. I thought: Then must I continue on my path from one meanness to another?

19

I am not a writer. I am not the hero in a novel. Free of ambition and fear, I can report the truth. The truth you demand of me, Professor Pontevivo. The truth shows me to be repugnant and without conscience.

Yet, what does that mean; without conscience? ~ I loved Shirley. I was determined to do anything to be able to marry her. There was nothing I would not have done. Natasha Petrovna was a threat to our love. I had to remove that threat. I thought to avert the danger when I saw her eyes. Whatever medication Schauberg had given me, now it gave me strength and arrogance, courage and cynical desperation. I did not hke doing what I was about to do—^but I did it.

Natasha meant nothing to me, a strange, beautiful woman. Shirley meant everything to me. I did it for her—^for our love. Not only the purest and noblest deeds are done in the name of love, but also the basest and most infamous.

20

I switched the lights on in my apartment. I took Natasha's coat. Intentionally, I brushed against her arm and she started as if she had received an electric shock. I was so sure, so completely certain ...

My glance caught sight of my stepdaughter's portrait and silently I said: You know that I love only you. Since we found each other I do not look at another woman. I

am not deceiving you. What I'm about to do, I do to safeguard us.

Shirley's eyes seemed to say: Yes, I know. ' It was warm in the apartment. After the dirty house near the Fischmarkt, the brothel, the weird camp, this luxurious apartment reinforced my self-confidence.

While I hung Natasha's coat on a velvet-covered coathanger, she took instruments from her black bag. Her back was turned when she began to speak. "I'm sure you are surprised that I waited three hours for you and that I became so upset over your irresponsible behavior." She turned and again I saw the eyes of that first woman in my life. "For years I lived with a man who was very much like you, Mr. Jordan." She was a decent woman. First she had to explain. This first woman had given her explanation afterward. "I've never done anything like this before, darling. But my husband neglects me ..."

I asked Natasha, "ShaU I get undressed?"

"Just take off the shirt, please. Shall we go into the bedroom?"

Yes, let's go to the bedroom.

"This man was a painter, Mr. Jordan. An artist like you ..."

An artist like me, I thought, opening my shirt. What incredible luck I had! Probably I did remind Natasha of this man.

"... and he was an alcoholic like you."

An alcohohc like me. I switched on the radio on the bedside table. Melancholy, sentimental jazz.

"I tried everything to rid him of his need for alcohol." It was probably true. She did not seem like a woman who did something Uke this frequently. I could see she was upset and troubled. This beautiful, self-controlled Russian woman was troubled by her memories, her love. That is why she had waited. That is why she was here now.

I took off my shirt.

"I was not able to save him. He died of delirium tremens. He was thirty-nine years old."

"You must have loved him very much."

She merely nodded. And continued to look at me with damp veiled eyes. From the radio came music, played only by violins.

I had to do it. She was leaving Saturday. Two nights and two days with her. She would think of the dead man; I, of Shirley. No matter who would be in our thoughts. She would not give me away. She would leave for Africa. Perhaps there she would sometimes remember our affair. Nonsense. She would remember the man I resembled.