The Berlin Connection (14 page)

Natasha stood close to me. I put my arms around her.

"What are you doing? Let me go!"

I kissed her. My body strained against hers. I heard her moan and thought I had not been wrong. She squirmed in my arms, tried to push me away. Naturally, I thought, being decent, she had to try.

"Have you gone crazy?"

I held her tight. My lips kissed her cheeks, her neck, her lips.

"in scream! If you don't let go, TU scream!"

She would never scream. Never. Another few seconds and she would dispense with her feigned resistance and sink down on the bed with me, return my kisses, give in to the longing her body craved as much as her memory.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain. She had kicked my shin bone. I jumped. She was able to free one arm and pulled it back sharply, hitting my nose with her elbow. The pain was paralyzing. Since she had not intended to hit me, the force was all the stronger. Blood poured from my nose. I reeled.

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"I'm sorry. It was your own fault. Please lie down. Your head a little lower, please," Natasha Petrovna was calm, completely in control. She pushed her glasses into place.

"Natasha, please—" I blushed with shame. I must be insane. What had I done? But there also was fear. What would she do now?

She went to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel. She placed it on my face. She inserted a piece of cotton wool into my bleeding nostril. Her slanted eyes were large, clear, serious and without anger. A moment ago they had looked very differently at me. I could not understand it.

"You don't understand it, Mr. Jordan." Natasha cleaned off the blood from my face, neck, chest. "Everything seemed simple to you. You make love to me. I will not give you away. You will go ahead with what you intend to do."

"What do I intend to do?"

"You intend to finish your movie with the help of an unscrupulous doctor not afraid to drug and dope you." The cotton wool plug in my nose impeded my breathing. I was lying there with my mouth open. "Downstairs in the foyer I became suspicious. I just came up to be certain. Now I am convinced." Her eyes left my face and I followed her glance by raising myself a little.

I saw what she saw: those two adhesive patches Schau-berg had put over the punctures the syringes had made.

I had not remembered to remove them. What an idiot I was. I sank back on the pillow.

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Natasha said, **The man with whom T lived also found such a doctor. And died the most horrible death. He could not be saved. And neither can you, Mr. Jordan. I realize that now."

I remained silent. I admired her. She was everything I had never been, never would be, and always wished I could have been.

"You thought me to be an uninhibited woman ready to indulge herself. I'll do that by not paying any more notice to you." With that, she went into the drawing room.

I threw the towel into the bathroom and jumped up. Five steps and I had reached her. I grabbed her shoulder. "My movie ... I must finish it ... If you're not going to keep quiet—*'

"I won't say anything."

"Not to anyone? Ever?"

"Ever. I have no interest in you any more. You have chosen another doctor. Listen to him. Make your movie. And perish."

"Doctor, I—"

"Take your hand off me. Right now."

"Please, forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive."

"You must hate me now."

"I don't hate you, Mr. Jordan. I feel sorry for you." She took her bag and walked to the door. Taking her coat from the hanger, she turned once more. "The alcohol has done more damage to you than you realize."

*'That's not true."

"Yes, it is, Mr. Jordan. Your heart cannot feel. Your mind is corrupt. You expect all people to be primitive and

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egotistical which you yourself are. It's a pity. Good night."

The door closed behind her. Only the scent of her perfume lingered.

I looked at Shirley's photograph and felt very much relieved. I had avoided one meanness. Whatever Natasha's opinion of me, I had not relished the thought of committing it. Now the mean deed remained undone and still I had achieved my goal. Silently I said to Shirley: Your God protects us both in strange ways. If He exists.

I went to the bathroom and carefully removed the plug from my nose. The bleeding had stopped. I washed, put on my robe, and from the black bag fixed a strong drink.

I took out the pills Schauberg had given me. I swallowed the ones I was supposed to take every two hours and set an alarm clock for the three-hour pills. I took my drink to the drawing room and sat looking at Shirley's portrait. The radio played softly.

I love you ShirJey; I love you with all my heart.

I only intended to finish my drink and then go to bed. I had to be up early. But the music was lovely and I had another drink and, because I had escaped a misdeed, another. I felt very satisfied with this day, with Dr. Schauberg, with me, my whisky, and Natasha Petrovna's promise.

The thought that I had not been wrong about her would not leave me. Her eyes had been inviting and ready to surrender.

Ah, well, I would never see her again. Our relationship had ended before it began.

I was to see her again. Soon. A curious togetherness was awaiting us. And one night in my arms she was to whisper, "You had not been wrong. I had been willing ..."

The Third Tape

Rome, March seventeenth, 1960.

It is so hot; one could well believe it to be the middle of summer. Pink and white roses wind themselves around the trunks of the old palm trees in the park surrounding the hospital. Gardeners with straw hats and green aprons tend the grounds. They talk with the carabinier guarding me. I know them all now and they know me. They smile and wave when they look up to my window and see me. I have requested that there always be Chianti and cigarettes for them in the kitchen. The policemen wear tropical helmets and white uniforms.

Now the guard opens the high wrought-iron gate to admit a small slender lady. I know her. She is the wife of the composer-addict. She always dresses in black, her face hidden by a veil hanging from a black hat. She walks slowly, sedately through the park as if following a hearse. She always brings a basket filled with oranges which, in contrast to so much black, seems even brighter.

She visits him often. The nurses say she is a good influence. Always after she has been to see him, he composes for hours. Suora Superiora Maria Magdalena often listens outside his door. Blushingly she declared, "It is love, Sig-

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nor Jordan. He never plays better than after she has been to see him."

Only two weeks ago I began to entrust the story of my crime to the tape recorder. It will take many more weeks to complete it. "Take your time," says Professor Ponte-vivo. "You have all the time in the world." I share his opinion. I like being here. I am in no hurry to go to jail.

For the present the professor and his staff are working mainly to rebuild my body. Though talking to the tape recorder is a small part of my therapy. I receive many injections and treatment. Since I came here, almost eleven weeks ago, I have not had alcohol in any form. I do not miss it. I am just very weak and cannot sleep without medication. But I am not afraid any more. Not for the last five weeks have I been afraid.

I give the tapes to the hunch-backed Suora Superiora. They are transcribed as soon as possible. Since Professor Pontevivo has not mentioned the steadily growing manuscript I asked him yesterday, "Do you find my confession instructive?"

He is small, olive-complexioned, white-haired, rosy-cheeked, with a gentle voice. He wears gold-trimmed glasses. He had once worked in the United States and his English was fluent. "Every confession is informative, Mr. Jordan."

"Perhaps I ought to be more specific in certain matters?"

"I can understand your impatience," he answered. "You want to help us cure you. That is essential, too. I have noticed three things. One: you are always running yourself down."

"I am bad."

"You fell victim to alcohol. Someone inexperienced would only see the typical symptoms of degeneration of the addict: immorality, antisociality, apathy, egocentricity, inability to communicate."

"There you are!"

"Only someone inexperienced would say that, Mr. Jordan. Though drinkers hold themselves in low esteem and tend to self-accusation, they also find excuses. Not you. It is my impression that you, by continually excusing and humiliating yourself, are trying to relieve yourself of some pressure. It seems to be another way of repentance."

"Second?"

"You seem loath to escape from the past which is still so close to you, one could almost call it present. You very rarely speak of your real past, of ten or twenty years ago. You touch on it, that's all."

"But I talk about everything!"

"Not at all. .You mention that you once loved your wife very much. Fine. But in the one hundred and eighty pages I have read, you had not one good word for her; you only spoke of her with ennui, irritation and aversion."

"I told you I was bad."

"No one is bad. Why did you love your wife? When did you stop loving her? You said your stepdaughter hated you. What changed this hate into love? Why did you fall in love with Shirley?"

"I thought I was quite explicit."

"But I don't believe you. For a complicated man such as you, the physical attraction is not always the most important." He wagged his finger. "Don't think I don't know! You have a lot left to tell me, Mr. Jordan. You, too, have motives and excuses. No one is aU bad. There is good in all of us."

"Not m me."

"In you too. Once you mentioned how much your stepdaughter resembled another girl. Who was this girl? What did she mean to you?"

He noticed I paled and a muscle in my face began to twitch. Immediately he said, "We're in no hurry, Mr. Jordan. I just wanted to show you that you only spoke of events. You have never touched on the-roots of your life. I am very sure that, for instance, this girl is one of the

roots of your life. This girl—not your stepdaughter who is so much like her."

I stared at him.

One sentence in one hundred and eighty pages mentioned Wanda. And right away he had recognized the truth.

Wanda.

I've said her name now. For the first time in many years. And I had sworn I would never say her name again. And I never wanted to even think of her—

Wanda.

What is Professor Pontevivo doing? He is right. It all began with Wanda. When she—

I don't want to talk about it.

I must. I must force myself to talk about her. I must confess that I—

I cannot.

Perhaps one day I will. Perhaps one day I will be able to.

Wanda—

No, I cannot. Not yet.

"Third?" I asked Professor Pontevivo and touched my twitching cheek.

"Thirdly, I noticed that more and more of your past comes into your story."

"What do you mean?"

"For instance. You say Dr. Schauberg bore an uncanny resemblance to your father."

"He did."

"Perhaps he did. Perhaps the resemblance was not great. Perhaps the resemblance in reality was very minor. But what is reality? Whatever one experiences, right? Per-

haps, in retrospect, you believed the doctor to have this resemblance so it would be easier to talk about your father. You had a difficult relationship with him."

"Yes."

"You are reluctant to talk about him. He, too, is part of your real past. You also have a need to talk about him. Subconsciously you then built yourself a bridge by insisting on his resemblance with Dr. Schauberg.",

Professor Pontevivo smiled. "There are many such instances, dear friend. It shows we are on the right track. Your brain is not damaged, the first tapes prove that."

"I'm not crazy?"

"If you were, there would not be so many logical connections in your confession." The muscle in my cheek ceased to twitch. "You are fighting a very difficult inner battle. You are attempting to resolve something in a few weeks which you haven't been able to all your life."

"Namely?"

"Your life. When you have exposed the roots of your existence and you realize that your life could not have been any different under such conditions, then you will be cured of your need for alcohol. Now, be patient. Can the damage of twenty years be undone in eleven weeks? Well, you see. So, go on telling your story. What took place after the twenty-seventh of October, Mr. Jordan?"

The next morning. Professor, I awoke at seven and took the pills which were due then. I showered and ate breakfast and took the pills due at eight. Finally I called my producer in his hotel in Dusseldorf. I found out that he would not be in Hamburg until the following afternoon. My examination was for the morning. He had obtained permission to shoot the movie in the locations he

had chosen. Since there was nothing important scheduled for the morning, I requested the afternoon off.

I took a few more pills and went to the polyclinic. I had dressed as inconspicuously as possible. In the waiting room were half a dozen people. My turn came very quickly. A nurse asked: "Name?"

"Hanz Wolfram, Bendesdorf, 4 Schlangenbaumstrasse." I received a number which was called.

They gave me the electrocardiogram in a sealed envelope which Schauberg opened as soon as I arrived. It was a cold, foggy day.

"How does it look?"

"Not too good, dear Mr. Jordan," said Schauberg. He did not look too good either. He was nervous. His smile was as forced as the irony in his voice. He gave me injections and drops and pills and examined my heart repeatedly. He examined my blood and tested my urine. Once I felt very sick but after a large whisky from my black bag I felt much better.

"It's drastic treatment," said Schauberg.

For dinner he opened cans of goulash, heated them on the stove, and served them with bread and beer.

"Would you like another beer? By the way, the Mousetrap has your blood in group."

"Who?"

"Don't you know her? Olga from the Herbertstrasse."

"Ah yes. I remember. When were you there?"

"Last night. I had to arrange for the medicines."