I Confess (14 page)

"Shut up!" he said again. "Let's hope you'll be as good looking one day. When I think of it—I could puke all over again. She jumped into the water. Every time she came up for air, she started to bum again. Then she screamed for me. She'd been sleeping with another guy when the bombing started, but when she was burning, she screamed for me. Not for the other guy, only for me. And I ran to her, down to the river, and I stayed with her all through the second attack next morning. Shut up!" he yelled suddenly.

"I didn't say anything," muttered Judith.

"So all right," he said. "Anyway—^I sat there, Comrade, on the bank of the river. The bastards came back and let us have another load. Only blockbusters this time. And I sat there on my haunches and held her head above the water so she wouldn't tip over and drown. Because she couldn't stand up any more. There were other people all around us, but no doctors. Now and then I fished her out of the water, when I saw she was turning blue. Then she'd start to bum again. And we'd let it bum a bit, as

long as she could stand it, then I'd put her in the water again. By now she was half crazy and didn't know what she was screaming. And she screamed all the time. The craziest things. And then, over and over again, my name. Never his. She never screamed for that pimp." He threw away his measuring tape.

"And what happened then?"

"Around noon, she died. All of a sudden. I let go of her and she shpped into the water. She was very beautiful. She had the loveliest body of any woman I've ever seen. And so young. My God, what fun she could still have had with other men. When I think of it, I could go crazy. Do you want it pure black or with a touch of blue?"

"I don't really care."

"With a touch of blue is American."

"Then make it pure black."

"All right," he said. "No blue. So you can understand, Comrade, that they can kiss my ass, the whole bunch of them, with their new war."

"Yes."

"You can kiss my ass, up, down and sideways," he said. "I saw her fall into the water. Dead. From here on they can't tell me a thing, the bastards. Let them stew in their own shit."

He walked away from me and I got up. "When can I have the wig?"

"You'll have to come for a jBtting."

"When?"

"In three days."

"And when can I have it?"

"In five."

"Good."

"But you'll have to make a down payment," said Judith.

"How much?"

"A hundred."

I gave her a hundred mark bill. "Do you want a receipt?"

^'No thanks.''

"What's your name?"

I hesitated.

"So what do you call yourself now?" she helped me out, smiling in a motherly way, and suddenly she looked like a grown woman with her sweater that was too tight for her and her dirty-skirt.

"Frank," I said. It was the first name that came to my mind. "Walter Frank."

24

Three days later—^Margaret knew nothing about it, of course—I went for a fitting, and six days later I had the wig. It was a great wig and fitted beautifully. On the inside Manierlich had pasted his label. That, he insisted, was a must. "I do quality work," he said. "I have to do a little advertising for myself."

I could see his point.

That night, when I reached home, I stuck the wig in my pocket and put on my beret again. The wig was my secret. I had given it a try-out in the city all day, just to see if anyone recognized it as a wig. Nobody did. It was a good wig. I hid it in the trunk of my car and locked the trunk. Now I could put my plan into operation.

It began on September 28 with an unexpected incident. It had been my intention to spend the afternoon by myself, but Margaret made that impossible. I was lying in the garden when she came over to me, her hands behind her back. "Guess what I have!"

"No idea."

"Theatre tickets!"

"For when?"

"For tonight."

It turned out that the Baxters had got the tickets. They were playing Richard III. Werner Krauss from Vienna was guest starring.

"I don't feel like going," I said.

"But darling, you weren't listening. Werner Krauss is playing Richard."

"So^what!"

"So what? He's only one of the greatest actors alive." She was kneehng in the grass beside me. "You have no idea how difficult it was to get the tickets. It will be a sensational premier. We've got to go. We can't do that to the Baxters after they've gone to all the trouble... •"

"Why not?"

"They'd never forgive us!"

"And of course that would be terrible."

She stood up. "Do you have other plans?"

"Why do you ask?" -

"Because you're so determined not to go."

"I am not determined. . . ."

"Do you have a date with her?^^

"With whom?"

She laughed, but there was something desperate about her laughter. "Oh come on. I suppose you haven't seen her in a long time."

"Goddammit! Who are you talkmg about?" I yelled at her. I really didn't know.

"Yolanda."

"Oh God!" I said and laughed.

"Funny, isn't it?"

"Yes. Very funny."

She started to cry.

"Oh, come on. ..." I said.

"After all I've gone through," she sobbed, "you have to do this to me. All I did was express one little wish "

'^'Oh Lord!"

"Yes. Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord!" Suddenly she was

screaming wildly. "Go ahead. Feel sorry for yourself. You're suffering. Especially with me. What does it feel like to be Jesus Christ?"

"For God's sake, Margaret, stop it. Don't make an ass of yourself. I'll go. Where are we supposed to meet?"

"You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Goddammit, I want to!"

"You don't have to scream at me."

"I'm not screaming!" I screamed.

She got up and walked across the lawn, back to the villa, past the greenhouse. The glass sparkled in the sun. I jumped to my feet and hurried after her and caught up with her just as she reached the greenhouse. "Forgive me," I said.

To my astonishment she suddenly threw her arms around me and clung to me passionately and covered my face with kisses. She was breathing fast and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"What's the matter, Margaret, for heaven's sake?"

"Nothing," she said, clinging to me. "Nothing, Roy. Nothing at all. Oh, I'm so stupid, so abysmally stupid!"

She kissed me wildly, then let me go. I gave her my handkerchief and she wiped her face.

"You had something else you wanted to do."

"I did not," I Ued.

"You did."

"No, I didn't."

Her face was controlled again, cool and beautiful. "I have to go to the hairdresser," she said slowly and looked at me strangely. "I guess we'd better meet in town."

"But how are you going to get into town?"

"Joe will take me in his car."

"And where do we meet?"

"At seven-thirty, in the Film Casino."

"All right," I said and for a moment had the feeling that everything was all right. But I was fooling myself. I was not to meet Margaret at the FUm Casino that evening.

After she had driven off with Joe, around three o'clock, I waited for half an hour, then I put on my tux, and in front of the mirror, I put on my wig. I wore a hat over it and a light coat over my tux. Then I got my car out of the garage and drove to the Munich PolycUnic. I parked my car in a large, fenced in ruined area and went to the gatehouse of the huge hospital complex.

"What can I do for you?" asked the man at the gate.

"I'm a film writer," I said, "and I'm working on a script that plays in a medical center and would like some information."

"Oh," he said, sounding interested. "You work for the movies?"

"Yes."

"And what sort of information do you need?'*

"Anything concerned with brain surgery," I explained. "The picture is about a man who has a tumor. Whom do you think I should see?"

"Somebody in neurology," he said, coming out of his little gate house and pointing the way. "Up that short rise, then left. Three houses later, left again, then a sharp right. It's a yellow building."

"Thank you," I said.

The psychiatric-neurological clinic lay in a garden. A few benches stood outside, in front of the entrance, and patients with their visitors were seated on them in the autumn sunshine. Nobody paid any attention to me as I entered the building. I tried to find a doctor or a nurse, but the corridors were empty and my steps echoed loudly in

124

the stillness. On a door I saw the sign: Doctor on duty. I knocked and walked in.

In a little white room sat a young woman in a white coat, a typewriter in front of her. "What can I do for you?"

"I don't know if I've come to the right place, but I want..."

"How did you get in anyway?" "The man at the gate directed me." "And what do you want?" She was looking at me suspiciously.

"I'm writing a film script that's to play in a medical center and would like some information...." "About what?"

"Brain surgery." I smiled. I held my hat in my hand and hoped my wig was on straight. "The hero is a man who has a tumor." "Why?"

"What do you mean—^why?" "Why does he have a tumor?"

"Because ... well, that's part of the plot," I said lamely. "It's the story of a man who has a tumor." "Is it a German film?"

"Not entirely," I said. "I'm American. We're making the picture for America and Germany." "Aha." "Yes," I said.

After that neither of us spoke for a while. We stared at each other silently. Perhaps my wig wasn't on straight, I thought, and nearly panicked. Why hadn't I gone to the men's room before coming in here and looked in a mirror?

The young woman behind the typewriter looked at me as if she knew all about me. I couldn't stand it any longer. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"Have you worked in Hollywood?"

"Of course."

"Do you know Alan Ladd?"

"Sure.''

She beamed. "I adore him," she said.

"Is that so," I said and for the first time in my life said something nice about Alan Ladd. I said I considered him to be a great actor. That melted her heart. A minute later she had made a connection with the resident doctor. Two minutes later I had a pass. Three minutes later I was walking, a nurse at my side, through wards and along corridors to the olBBce of the resident physician. I had been announced as a writer of film scripts seeking information. The resident physician's name was Kletterhohn. The name of the young woman behind the typewriter was Riittgenstein. Dr. Riittgenstein had said Dr. Kletterhohn would give me all the information I needed. I should just ask. It was that simple. All I had done was tell Frau Dr. Riittgenstein that Alan Ladd was playing the lead in my picture.

26

"Now Mr. Chandler, what can I do for you?**

Dr. Kletterhohn leaned back in his chair and rubbed his fleshy white hands. I was seated opposite him. His office was pleasantly furnished, the view from the window was on the park. Over his desk hung a picture of a herd of wild horses that were charging right out of the frame, straight at the viewer. It was a powerful oil painting.

"I am a film v^iter," I began for the thkd time, "and I'm writing a script whose hero . . ."

".. . has a tumor. I know."

He was a tall man, lean, and had a huge beak of a nose above an unkempt moustache that drooped across the

comers of his mouth. His eyes were young, but he himself must have been at least sixty.

"Since I am an absolute novice in all medical matters," I said, "I would like to find out from you what methods of examination determine a brain tumor, what operations can be undertaken, and in what ways such a tumor may cause changes in the patient."

"Well," he said and again pressed the palms of his hands together—it seemed to be a habit—"that's quite a lot of ground to cover."

"All I need is a few basic facts so that I can avoid any blatant mistakes."

He thought for a moment, then he gave me a very clever and comprehensive summary of the early symptoms (which I knew only too well) the first collapse (with which I was also familiar) through the various examinations (which I recalled only too well.) I listened attentively, made notes, and noted with satisfaction that we were coming ever closer to the part that interested me most. Dr. Kletterhohn never hesitated for a moment to reveal to me any examples of medical finesse or psychological tricks as practiced on the patient. I was an author, writing a film. My splendid wig nipped any trace of suspicion in the bud. It was all very, very simple. About half an hour later he had come to the item: ventriculography, and I sat up.

"Of course we have to get the patient's signed permission for this procedure."

"Why?"

"Because if in the course of this examination we find that the growth is mahgnant, we operate at once."

"You mean without letting the patient come out of the anesthetic?"

He nodded. "Yes. And any brain operation like this is of course serious. Something could go wrong. We need the safeguard of the patient's permission."

My lips were dry; I licked them before asking the next question. "So after the ventriculography there are only

two possibilities: either the growth is harmless, and you don't operate, or it is malignant, and you operate. And here again there are two possibilities: either the patient survives or he does not. That's it, isn't it?"

"Nq," said the doctor.

''Nor

"There is a third possibility," he said, becoming quite animated. 'Tn the course of the examination we may find that the tumor is of a type where an operation would have to result in the death of the patient."

"Is there such a thing?" I asked. My voice was hoarse and sounded far away. I cleared my throat. "A tumor that can't be removed?"

He rubbed the palms of his hands together. "But of course, Mr. Chandler," he cried, to me it seemed radiantly. "You can't imagine how often that occurs. The worst tumor we know is the so-called glioblastoma."

"What's so bad about it?" (I wrote down glioblastoma, and put a cross beside it.)

"Its contours are not sharply defined. Therefore it cannot be excised. Because there is no way of telling where it starts and where it ends."