Long After Midnight (32 page)

 
          
"It
crossed my mind, long after, if ever an old man could bathe again in that
summer fount, the wild spout of breathing that sprang from his nostrils and
gasped from his mouth, why one might peel off a score of years, one would be
young, how might the flesh resist?

 
          
"But
the laughter is gone and the boy gone into a man lost somewhere in the world,
and here I am two lifetimes later, speaking of it for the first time. For who
was there to tell? From my twelfth birthday week, and the gift of friendship,
to this, who might I tell of that shore and that summer and the two of us
walking all tangled in our arms and lives and life as perfect as the letter o,
a damned great circle of rare weather, lovely talk, and us certain we'd live
forever, never die, and be good friends.

 
          
"And
at the end of the week, he left. "He was wise for his years. He didn't say
good-bye. All of a sudden, the tinker's cart was gone.

 
          
"I
shouted along the shore. A long way off, I saw the caravan go over a hill. But
then his wisdom spoke to me. Don't catch. Let go. Weep now, my own wisdom said.
And I wept.

 
          
"I
wept for three days and on the fourth grew very still. I did not go down to the
shore again for many months. And in all the years that have passed, never have
I known such a thing again. I have had a good life, a fine wife, good children,
and you, boy, Tom, you. But as sure as I sit here, never after that was I so
agonized, mad, and crazy wild. Never did drink make me as drunk. Never did I
cry so hard again. Why, Tom? Why do I say this, and what was it? Back so far in
innocence, back in the time when I had nobody, and knew nothing. How is it I
remember him when all else slips away? When often I cannot remember your dear
grandmother's face, God forgive me, why does his face come back on the shore by
the sea? Why do I see us fall again and the earth reach up to take the wild
young horses driven mad by too much sweet grass in a line of days that never
end?"

 
          
The
old man grew silent. After a moment, he added, "The better part of wisdom,
they say, is what's left unsaid. I'll say no more. I don't even know why I've
said all
this"

 
          
Tom
lay in the dark. "I know."

 
          
"Do
you, lad?" asked the old man. "Well, tell me. Someday."

 
          
"Someday,"
said Tom. "I will."

 
          
They
listened to the rain touch at the windows.

 
          
"Are
you happy, Tom?"

 
          
"You
asked that before, sir."

 
          
"I
ask again. Are you happy?"

 
          
"Yes."

 
          
Silence.

 
          
"Is
it summertime on the shore, Tom? Is it the magic seven days? Are you
drunk?"

 
          
Tom
did not answer for a long while, and then said nothing but, "Grand-
da
," and then moved his head once in a nod.

 
          
The
old man lay in the chair. He might have said, this will pass. He might have
said, it will not last. He might have said many things. Instead he said,
"Tom?"

 
          
"Sir?"

 
          
"Ah
Jesus!" shouted the old man suddenly. "Christ, God Almighty! Damn it
to hell!" Then the old man stopped and his breathing grew quiet.
"There. If s a maniac night. I had to let out one last yell, I just had
to, boy."

 
          
And
at last they slept, with the rain falling fast.

 
          
With
the first light of dawn, the old man dressed with careful quietness, picked up
his valise, and bent to touch the sleeping young man's cheek with the palm of
one hand.

 
          
"Tom,
good-bye," he whispered.

 
          
Moving
down the dim stairwell toward the steadily beating rain, he found Tom's friend
waiting at the foot of the stairs.

 
          
"Frank!
You haven't been down here
all
night?"

 
          
"No,
no, Mr. Kelly," said Frank, quickly. "I stayed at a friend's."

 
          
The
old man turned to look up the dark stairwell as if he could see the room and
Tom in it warm asleep.

 
          
"
Gah
. . . !" Something almost a growl stirred in his
throat and subsided. He shifted uneasily and looked back down at the dawn
kindled on this young man's face, this one who had painted a picture that hung
above the fireplace in the room above.

 
          
"The
damn night is over," said the old man. "So if you'll just stand aside—"

 
          
"Sir."

 
          
The
old man took one step down and burst out:

 
          
"Listen!
If you hurt Tom, in any way ever, why, Jesus, I'll break you across my knee!
You
hear?"

 
          
Frank
held out his hand. "Don't worry."

 
          
The
old man looked at the hand as if he had never seen one before. He
sighed.    •

 
          
"Ah,
damn it to hell, Frank, Tom's friend, so young you're destruction to the eyes.
Get away!"

 
          
They
shook hands.

 
          
"Jesus,
that's a hard grip," said the old man, surprised.

 
          
Then
he was gone, as if the rain had hustled him off in its own multitudinous
running.

 
          
The
young man shut the upstairs door and stood for a moment looking at the figure
on the bed and at last went over and as if by instinct put his hand down to the
exact same spot where the old man had printed his hand in farewell not five
minutes before. He touched the summer cheek.

 
          
In
his sleep, Tom smiled the smile of his father's father, and called the old man,
deep in a dream, by name.

 
          
He
called him twice.

 
          
And
then he slept quietly.

 
          
They
were waiting for him to come out. He was sitting inside the little Bavarian
caf6 with a view of the mountains, drinking beer, and he had been in there
since noon and it was now two-thirty, a long lunch, and much beer, and they
could see by the way he held his head and laughed and lifted one more stein
with the suds fluffing in the spring breeze that he was in a grand humor now,
and at the table with him the two other men were doing their best to keep up,
but had fallen long behind.

 
          
On
occasion their voices drifted on the wind, and then the small crowd waiting out
in the parking lot leaned to hear. What was he saying? and now what?

 
          
"He
just said the shooting was going well."

 
          
"What,
where?!"

 
          
"Fool.
The film, the film is shooting well."

 
          
"Is
that the director sitting with him?"

 
          
"Yes.
And the other unhappy one is the producer."

 
          
"He
doesn't look like a producer."

 
          
"No
wonder! He's had his nose changed."

 
          
"And
him, doesn't he look
real?"

 
          
"To
the hair and the teeth."

 
          
And
again everyone leaned to look in at the three men, at the man who didn't look
like a producer, at the sheepish director who kept glancing out at the crowd
and slouching down with his head between his shoulders, shutting his eyes, and
the man between them, the man in the uniform with the swastika on his arm, and
the fine military cap put on the table beside the almost-untouched food, for he
was talking, no, making a speech.

 
          
"That's
the Fuhrer, all right!"

 
          
"God
in heaven, it's as if no time had passed. I don't believe this is 1973.
Suddenly it's 1934 again, when first I saw him."

 
          
"Where?"

 
          
"The
Nuremberg Rally, the stadium, that was the autumn, yes, and I was thirteen and
part of the Youth and one hundred thousand soldiers and young men in that big
place that late afternoon before the torches were lit. So many bands, so many
flags, so much heartbeat, yes, I tell you, I could hear one hundred thousand
hearts banging away, we were all so in love, he had come down out of the
clouds. The gods had sent him, we knew, and the time of waiting was over, from
here on we could
act,
there was
nothing he couldn't
help
us to
do."

 
          
"I
wonder how that actor in there feels, playing him?"

 
          
"
Sh
, he hears you. Look, he waves. Wave back."

 
          
"Shut
up," said someone else. "They're talking again. I want to hear—"

 
          
The
crowd shut up. The men and women leaned into the soft spring wind. The voices
drifted from the caf6 table.

 
          
Beer
was being poured by a maiden waitress with flushed cheeks and eyes as bright as
fire.

 
          
"More
beer!" said the man with the toothbrush mustache and the hair combed
forward on the left side of his brow.

 
          
"No,
thanks," said the director.

 
          
"No,
no," said the producer.

 
          
"More
beer! It's a splendid day," said
Adolf
. "A
toast to the film, to us, to me. Drink!"

 
          
The
other two men put their hands on their glasses of beer.

 
          
"To
the film," said the producer.

 
          
"To
darling
Adolf
." The director's voice was flat.

 
          
The
man in the uniform stiffened.

 
          
"I
do not look upon myself—" he hesitated, "upon
him
as darling."

 
          
"He
was darling, all right, and you're a doll." The director gulped his drink.
"Does anyone mind if I get drunk?"

 
          
"To
be drunk is not permitted," said
Der
Fiihrer
.

 
          
"Where
does it say that in the script?"

 
          
The
producer kicked the director under the table.

 
          
"How
many more weeks' work do you figure we have?" asked the producer, with
great politeness.

 
          
"I
figure we should finish the film," said the director, taking huge swigs,
"around about the death of
Hinden
-burg, or the
Hindenburg
gasbag going down in flames
at
Lakehurst
,
New Jersey
, which ever comes first."

 
          
Adolf
Hitler bent to his plate and began to eat rapidly,
snapping at his meat and potatoes in silence.

 
          
The
producer sighed heavily. The director, nudged by this, calmed the waters.
"Another three weeks should see the masterwork in the can, and us sailing
home on the
Titanic,
there to collide
with the Jewish critics and go down bravely singing
'Deutschland
Uber
Mies
'
"

 
          
Suddenly
all three were voracious and snapping and biting and chewing their food, and
the spring breeze blew softly, and the crowd waited outside.

 
          
At
last,
Der
Fuhrer stopped, had another sip of beer,
and lay back in his chair, touching his mustache with his little finger.

 
          
"Nothing
can provoke me on a day like this. The rushes last night were so beautiful. The
casting for this film, ah! I find Goring to be incredible.
Goebbels
?
Perfection!" Sunlight dazzled out of
Der
Fuhrer's face. "So. So, I was thinking just last night, here I am in
Bavaria
, me, a pure Aryan—"

 
          
Both
men flinched slightly, and waited.

 
          
"—making
a film," Hitler went on, laughing softly, "with a Jew from
New York
and a Jew from
Hollywood
. So amusing."

 
          
"I
am not amused," said the director, lightly.

 
          
The
producer shot him a glance which said: the film is not finished yet. Careful.

 
          
"And
I was thinking, wouldn't it be fun . . ." Here
Der
Fuhrer stopped to take a big drink, ". . . to have another ... ah ...
Nuremberg Rally?"

 
          
"You
mean for the
film,
of course?"

 
          
The
director stared at Hitler. Hitler examined the texture of the suds in his beer.

 
          
"My
God," said the producer, "do you know how much it would cost to
reproduce the Nuremberg Rally? How much did it cost Hitler for the original,
Marc?"

 
          
He
blinked at his director, who said, "A bundle. But he had a lot of free
extras, of course."

 
          
"Of
course! The Army, the Hitler Youth."

 
          
"Yes,
yes," said Hitler. "But think of the publicity, all over the world?
Let us go to
Nuremberg
, eh, and film my plane, eh, and me coming down out of the clouds? I
heard those people out there, just now:
Nuremberg
and plane and torches.
They
remember. I remember. I held a torch in that stadium. My God,
it was beautiful. And now, now I am exactly the age Hitler was when he was at
his prime."

 
          
"He
was never at his prime," said the director. "Unless you mean
hung-meat."

 
          
Hitler
put down his glass. His cheeks grew very red. Then he forced a smile to widen
his lips and change the color of his face. "That is a joke, of
course."

 
          
"A
joke," said the producer, playing ventriloquist to his friend.

 
          
"I
was thinking," Hitler went on, his eyes on the clouds again, seeing it
all, back in another year. "If we shot it next month, with the weather
good. Think of all the tourists who would come to watch the filming!"

 
          
"Yeah.
Bormann
might even come back from
Argentina
."

 
          
The
producer shot his director another glare.

 
          
Hitler
cleared his throat and forced the words out: "As for expense, if you took
one small ad,
one
mind you! in the
Nuremberg
papers one week before, why, you would have
an army of people there as extras at fifty cents a day, no, a quarter, no,
free!

 
          
Der
Fuhrer emptied his stein, ordered another. The waitress
dashed off to refill. Hitler studied his two friends.

 
          
"You
know," said the director, sitting up, his own eyes taking a kind of
vicious fire, his teeth showing as he leaned forward, "there is a kind of
idiot grace to you, a kind of murderous wit, a sort of half-ass style. Every
once in a while you come dripping up with some sensational slime that gleams
and stinks in the sun, buster. Archie,
listen
to him.
Der
Fuhrer just had a great bowel
movement. Drag in the astrologers! Slit the pigeons and filch their guts. Read
me the casting sheets."

 
          
The
director leaped to his feet and began to pace.

 
          
"That
one
ad in the paper, and all the
trunks in
Nuremberg
get flung wide! Old uniforms come out to
cover fat bellies! Old armbands come out to fit flabby arms! Old military caps
with skull-eagles on them fly out to fit on fat-heads!"

 
          
"I
will not sit here—" cried Hitler.

 
          
He
started to get up but the producer was tugging his arm and the director had a
knife at his heart: his forefinger, stabbing hard.

 
          
"Sit."

 
          
The
director's face hovered two inches from Hitler's nose. Hitler slowly sank back,
his cheeks perspiring.

 
          
"God,
you
are
a genius," said the
director. "Jesus, your people
would
show
up. Not the young, no, but the old. All the Hitler youth, your age now, those
senile bags of tripe yelling
'
Sieg
Heil
,'
saluting,
lighting torches at sunset, marching around the stadium crying themselves
blind."

 
          
The
director swerved to his producer.

 
          
"I
tell you, Arch, this Hitler here has bilge brains but this time he's on target!
If we don't shove the Nuremberg Rally
up
this
film, I quit. I mean it. I will simply walk out and let
Adolf
here take over and direct the damned thing himself! Speech over."