The Berlin Connection (40 page)

"Peter... Peter, I..."

"Tell me!"

She spoke haltingly. "After that night, when you so surreptitiously waved to each other, the doctor and you .. . after that night I began to ask a few questions around the hotel ... the maid . . . the doorman . . ."

You too? You too, then?

"You know how people are. A tip here, a tip there ... then I'd found the busboy who had brought you the whisky, and who had put you back in bed—"

"Which morning are you talking about?"

"You know ... it must have been dreadful . , ."

"What do you mean?"

"Your attack ... the fainting spell . . . when you fell out of bed..."

"The busboy told you that?"

"Yes. And I asked him about the doctor who had attended you. He said it had been a Dr. Natasha Petrovna who had been substituting for the regular doctor."

"Why didn't you talk to me about this then?"

"Talk with you? You said you didn't know this woman! And still you met her secretly."

"No!"

"Yes, you did!"

"When?"

"Peter, please." She suddenly blushed. "On a Saturday afternoon near the harbor. lier httle boy was there too. You rented a boat."

"You spied on me?"

"Yes."

Outside the snow was falling very thickly now.

The girl and boy were whispering. He rose, threw a few coins into the jukebox and music played again.

"Yes, I did spy on you. I also discovered the box."

"What box?"

"The green one in your car. Please! I told you I knew everything. I saw how you injected yourself ..."

"When? Where?"

"I was in the old dilapidated barn ... I listened outside your dressing room when Schauberg examined you. I knew everything about you. I knew the movie was your last chance and how difficult everything was for you . . . could I talk to you then? Would you have told me the truth?"

I was silent.

"You would have become very upset. Perhaps you would have had another attack . . ."

"Attack?"

"After Schauberg had operated on me he talked about you to his student . . . they thought I was still unconscious ... I was only half awake then . . . Schauberg was concerned about you ... if only you would not have another attack he said . . . Oh, God, dear God, and that is exactly what I wanted to avoid!"

"What?"

"To discuss all this before the movie is completed. It must upset you."

"No. It doesn't."

"I'm sure it does."

"No! It upset me much more to think that you were deceiving me with another man."

"Did you really believe that?"

I nodded.

"Then you can't believe that I love you."

"Lately I haven't believed it."

Now I knew that this was not a bad dream. It was reality. It was happening.

"And now you beheve me again?"

"Yes, Shirley."

"You beheve that I love you ... that I could never deceive you?"

"I beheve it. Go on. How did you come to this ... how did you get here?"

"I felt so alone ... so desperate ... I couldn't talk to Joan ... I didn't want to talk to Joan ... To me she was what she always was: a stranger . . . and one day Werner asked me—"

"Werner?"

"—Hennessy, the young cutter, why was I always so sad."

"And?"

"I told him I had some problems. And he—^please don't be upset!—he said that his brother was a priest ... a very young, modern priest .. . would I perhaps like to talk to him sometime ... At first I didn't . . . these days I was always going to churches ,.. many different churches and prayed for you ... I begged God to let you complete your film . .. but I was alone .. . and I couldn't talk to anybody . .. and when Werner, when Hennessy said that I ought to come and see his brother I came."

I glanced at the little old house hardly visible through the densely falling snow.

"I ... I trusted Father Thomas immediately. He knew intuitively that something was troubling me. He took me for walks. We talked ... for hours ... he wanted to help me..."

"He wanted you to confess!"

"He never said that! Not once! And I never would have confessed ... I couldn't have because of the chUd . . . Naturally he would have said the child had to live. That would have been the very first thing he would have said!"

She had begun to cry softly. She wiped her tears away, sipped her drink—intense love gripped me.

"If you could not confess—why then did you keep coming back here to him?"

"I ... I always felt better after talking to him ... at least for a while . . . and calmer ... he speaks fluent English, you know. And I liked the things he said."

"Such as?"

"For instance that when we are in love most of us are egotistical at first. We want our partner all to ourselves. It is the wrong kind of love if one wants only what is best for one's self."

"What is the right kind of love?"

"If one does what is best for one's partner. That's when I first had the idea."

"What idea?"

"Wait. Father Thomas once said that it was not the most important thing that one confess. One can repent without confessing and not even repentance was the most important.'*

"What then?"

"Making amends. And if one has done wrong it is not enough to do good which takes no effort. The good one does must be difficult to do, must be a sacrifice. The sacrifice must be in relation to the amount of forgiveness and understanding one asks of God."

"Said Father Thomas."

"Yes."

"And what else did Father Thomas say?"

"A great deal more . . . much more .. . and also that I could always come to him whenever I felt very desperate. I did ... a few times ..."

"I know."

"No, you know nothing. You don't know how much I love you. I did everythine you asked of me. I have been silent. I have never asked. I eave up the child. Because I love you. I have never confessed. Not even after the oper-

ation . . ." She was crying again. Tears from those beloved eyes. "And you ... you became increasingly more nervous ... you had this rash ... the make-up people were talking about it... I saw them put up prompt cards because you could not remember your hues ... my fear grew and grew . ; . do you remember the day when I asked you to give me the Uttle golden cross?"

I nodded. ^

"I immersed it in holy water. And on that day at the altar in Father Thomas's church I made a vow."

"Avow?"

"Now please, be calm. Please, Peter. I didn't want to tell you until the movie was finished. But now you force me to."

"Yes, I do."

"The cross was to protect you. The greater the plea for forgiveness the greater the sacrifice has to be, Father Thomas said. And if one truly loves, one does what is best for the other."

"Yes?"

"Since I asked God to protect you and for forgiveness for both of us I had to sacrifice what meant most to me."

"What did you promise Him?" I asked but I already knew. With hatred I thought that there was no escaping the One whose existence I had always doubted.

"I vowed that I would leave you if He would help you to complete your film. I promised God that I would never again kiss you ... never again embrace you ... not even in my thoughts ... I promised God never to see you again if He would protect you."

She had been stirring her chocolate milk while she had been talking softly. She did not raise her head. She looked at the brown sticky drink and cried while from the jukebox came the sound of Harry James' trumpet.

"Shirley, my sweet... my darUng .. that's pure, utter insanity!"

"You are becoming upset. I knew you would. I was

f

afraid of that. Why didn't you let me have a little more time?"

"I'm calm. I'm perfectly calm. So you promised God. And now what are you going to do?"

"I'll do what Joan suggested before we came to Europe. I'll leave Los Anseles. I'll eo to another city. I'll go East. Maybe New York. Television. I don't know. All I know is that I must go away, away from you—forever."

"Never!'*

"I must. I swore. I cannot cheat Him a second time!" ^ "A second time?"

"You know what I mean. Joan will never know. Never. She will never find out."

"But I don't want to live with Joan any more! I'll leave her as soon as the movie is completed!"

"Maybe, Peter. Perhaps you'll become reconciled once I have left. No one knows what will happen—not even during the next second. Onlv He knows. And He has protected you. You will finish the movie, Peter, and you will regain your health. You'll make the comeback you want so very much."

"Stop it." ^

"It's ... it is unfortunate that you know now . . . now I cannot stay with you any longer ... I must leave now ... today . .. tomorrow ..."

She tried to stem her tears but even more came. "And yet it is best for you and for me."

"It is not! It is a philosophy of madness! Your thinking is all wrong!"

"No," she said seriously. "It's right. Do you honestly believe we could be happy together—truly happy—after all the things that have happened? After . . . after the child? With Joan who will grow old alone somewhere—or who will possibly do herself some harm? No! Never, This is the right thing to do, Peter. And I have promised." She averted her head and looked out. Across the street the

small door within the larger one opened and, spectral in the snow storm, Hennessy and his brother came out.

Shirley rose.

"Whatisitr

"I ... I must go now ... I cannot stay here with you any longer ... I can't bear it. We have to pull ourselves together before Joan."

"Where are you going?"

"Werner will take me back to the hotel. I'll see you later." She kissed me and her tear-stained cheek met mine. "I love you. All my life I will only love you."

Quickly she reached for her coat and hurried to the door. I was pinned in by the table. Now I jumped up.

"Shirley!"

I sensed the waitress, the young couple staring at me. It did not matter.

This was no dream, no delusion, no hallucination. This was reality.

IyeUed,"Wait!"

She was already outside.

I ran after her.

Snow hit my face, blinded me for a moment. Then, indistinct in the driving snow, I saw Shirley's auburn hair, her white coat, the black stockings.

"Shirley!"

I shouldn't have yelled. As if she meant to escape me she ran out onto the road. Suddenly, through the thick swirling snow, a huge bus loomed up. Brakes screeched, tires squealed, the bus went into a skid. In a second of calm I clearly saw the driver desperately grappling with the wheel. Too late.

The bus collided with an oncoming car. Frantic sounds of glass splintering, metal in friction. A tire exploded People converged on the scene through the whirling snow as though avenging furies, the Erinyes. Horns blared, streetcar bells clanged, women screamed hysterically.

I fought my way through the crowd. My flailing arms hit other arms, umbrellas, bodies.

"Shirley! Shirley! Shirley!"

I had reached the bus.

I was still yelling. People shrank from me. The driver had left his cab. Desperately he repeated, "I couldn't help it! She ran directly into the bus! I couldn't help it!" Then I saw young Hennessy. He was kneeling next to his brother on the dirty ground. Shirley, her face looking up, was lying underneath the bus. Her eyes were open. Her beloved face had not been injured. Not a scratch, not a spatter of dirt was on it. She was lying there, her green, staring eyes looking up to the sky. Her ponytail had come undone, her auburn hair encircled her.

Then I saw her crushed body. I saw a torment of clothes, flesh, bones and blood, blood, Shirley's lifeblood flowing from the torn body, flooding the street, mixing with the dirt, the dirty snow. She must have run directly in front of the ponderous machine before the heavy double wheels had crushed her.

Her face was clear and clean, beautiful and pure. It had never been more beautiful.

Hennessy noticed me and rose, staggering. From his lips came unintelligible sounds.

I kneeled alongside the priest.

He looked at me. Then he closed Shirley's eyes. His suit was wet and dirty. He said, "She must have died instantaneously."

The Eighth Tape

The large r(X)m was dark except for a pale yellow spot that glowed dimly yet without giving light to the surroundings. Inside a hollow globule no larger than a fingernail burned an electric lightbulb. The globule was suspended almost above me by a wire. I was lying on a cool leather-upholstered couch. It was raining in Rome on this May seventeenth, 1960. The drops beat monotonously against the windows covered with thick drawn drapes.

"Lx)ok into the globe," said Pontevivo close by. "Directly into the globe!"

To look at the mirror I had to stretch and raise my already raised head since the globe was hanging a little behind me. To see it took a distinct physical effort.

I thought: Was this the way I was to fall into a hypnotic sleep? Tired? I was not tired. I was very much awake. I just can't be hypnotized. I knew it. The professor is out of luck—and so am I. As much as I'd like to. Professor, it won't work!

"Even though it it difficult, Mr. Jordan, you must keep your eyes open."

"It is not difficult at all."

He spoke softly, in a monotone. "Yes, it is. It is difficult for you. You would like to close your eyes and not

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look at the light. The globe is in an awkward place. You must strain your neck. It is unpleasant, I know. But it is necessary. You must not become sleepy. You must not close your eyes."

Those words aroused my resentment. What did he mean: I must not become sleepy? I must not close my eyes? As far as I knew hypnosis always began by the patient being told to close his eyes and go to sleep!

I felt Pontevivo's hands now. One hand applied slight pressure on the back of my neck while the other touched my forehead. The fingers began to massage my head. The feehng was pleasant.

"Relax your shoulders. Breathe deeply."

I did.

"It feels good, doesn't it?"

Yes, it does.

"It would also feel good to relax and to go to sleep, wouldn't it?" inquired the monotonous voice while gentle fingers massaged my temples.