The Cannibal (15 page)

“You see, no one could ever find him among these. No one would ever look for
him here.” My idea for disposing of the body was excellent.

After searching the body once more, we left it and found our way again to
the roadside. We took the machine and its valuable saddlebags silently through the town to
the newspaper office.

“It’s time we had our meeting,” I said, “I’ll be back.” Fegelein began to
work on the engine; Stumpfegle broke the head from a bottle.

The slut slept alone in her own house.

Madame Stella Snow’s son, awakened by the barking of
a dog, lay quiet, holding his breath like a child in the darkness. But it was not the dog
that woke him, it was a theatrical sound, some slight effect, some trick of the playhouse
itself, and he listened. Perhaps he had left the projector switch on, perhaps the lights
were burning, or the spools of film unrolling. Whatever had happened, he did hear, in the
intervals of distant howling, a woman’s voice, an argument in the floors below between the
empty seats. The dampness of the auditorium swept through the building, warehouse of old
scenes, and his own bedroom, once a storeroom and place where the usherettes changed from
frocks to uniforms, was cold and dark. It still smelled faintly of powder, stacks of
mildewed tickets, cans of film and tins of oil. The voice, high and aristocratic, sounded
like his mother’s, changed, then seemed once more familiar. The girls had actually changed
their clothes, changed into pants, in this room. The concrete walls, like a
bunker
,
were damp and cold; light sockets, wire, and a few tools still littered the floor. The
voices were still below, he thought he could hear someone weeping, the woman scolded,
laughed, and talked on. His wife slept, her body shapeless and turned away under the
quilt.

It took all of his effort to get out of the bed.
First,
with one hand, he reached to the side and clutched the pipe that ran, cold to his fingers,
under the mattress. With the other hand, he threw off the covers, and with a quick odd
motion tossed his stump over the other leg, twisted his torso, flung his arm out to add
weight to the stump’s momentum, and precariously threw himself upright. It was even harder
to get into the trousers; he succeeded by rocking forwards and backwards, pulling quickly
with his hands, always with the good leg in the air keeping the balance. He smelled the
perfume and old celluloid. Fixing his hands into the two aluminum canes, like shafts into a
socket, ball bearings in oil, he made his way out into the hall, and since he couldn’t as
yet manage the stairs, hooked the canes to his belt, sat down, and holding the stump out of
the way, made his trip bouncing down the three flights.

He could no longer hear the voices or the dog, only his own thumping on the
cold stairs and the rattle of the thin metal legs dragging behind him. He moved like a duck,
propelled himself forward with his two arms in unison and landed on the next step on the end
of his spine. Something compelled him to move faster and faster until he was numb and
perspiring, dropped with only the edge of the wall against his shoulder to guide him, fell
with his palms becoming red and sore. Using the canes as props and the wall against his back
he rose, laboriously, at the bottom of his flight, and listened for the woman’s voice. But
the voices had heard him coming, thumping, and were still. He waited, sensing them on the
other side of the metal, fireproof door. He hesitated, then with an effort swung open the
door and stepped into the rear of the
auditorium, feeling in the dark
many eyes turned upon his entrance. Slowly he hobbled forward, and seeing the large hat and
magnificent cane, he laughed at himself and recognized the tall man.

“Ah, Herr Duke,” he said, “I thought I heard voices in my theater. But did
not expect this pleasure.”

“You are right,” said the Duke. “I’ve come after my neighbor’s child, this
boy here.”

Then he saw the boy crouching down in an aisle, no longer weeping, but
watching the two men. What a peculiar voice the Duke had, certainly a strange one
considering his size and bearing.

“Boy, you should be home in bed.”

“Yes,” said the Duke in now more normal tones, “I’m taking him home. Forgive
us the disturbance.”

The child made no sound but allowed himself to be caught, in one quick
swoop, about the wrist and pulled to his feet.

“Good night,” said the tall man and left with his prize.

“Ja, ja
, Herr Duke.” The lame man watched the two go out into the
still-wet streets, and turning himself, went back to the heavy door.

At the foot of the door his shoe was caught in a large poster, and looking
down he saw an actress in a shining gown, wrinkled and scuffed about the breasts and
hips.

“Good night, Herr Duke,” he said, and freeing his single shoe from the
woman’s hold, he set out to climb back up the stairs. It was painful to his good leg going
up, but even so he felt an uncommon pleasure in the visit of the Duke and the night’s
events.

I had been gone from the newspaper office only a moment,
when Stumpfegle, who was drinking from the broken bottle, and Fegelein, who was rummaging
through the motorcycle saddlebags, heard my footsteps returning to the door, and became
alert. Both men looked up as I, their leader, stepped back into the office. I was hurried,
disturbed, absorbed in the underworld of the new movement, bearing alone the
responsibilities of the last attempt. I looked at my confederates and was annoyed with the
liquor trickling from one chin, the contents of the bags strewn over the floor from the
other’s hands.

“Somebody saw us take care of the fellow on the motorbike.”

“But, my God, Leader, what can we do?” Fegelein dropped a packet of Leevey’s
letters from him and looked up in fear.

“We’ll have to change things. Bring the machinery, the arms, and everything
else, to Command Two.”

“Command Two?”

“Snow, idiot, behind Snow’s boarding house.”

Fegelein had the memory of a frog, a despicable blind green wart to whom all
pads, all words, were the same.

“Bring the small press, the motor, bring all the materials for the
pamphlets. Oh, yes, bring the whitewash.”

“Leader, the machine will be ready to ride tomorrow…”

“Stumpfegle, you might ride yourself into the canal with ten American
bullets, fired by well-armed Jewish slugs, in your fat belly, you childish fat fool. Don’t
think
, do you understand, don’t
think
of the
machine, think of nothing except what we must do now. The night’s not over, fat Stumpfegle,
I don’t want you shot. There are many
Anglo-Schmutzigs
we’ve got to poison with our
print tonight. So please, just do the work.” I nodded, forgot my temper, and slipped back
into the darkness. Fegelein began to read the letters.

The oil flickered in the lamp, consumed and consuming, and as it burned, a
few hoarded drops in the bottom of the tin, it shrouded the glass and beneath the film the
flame was dimmed. After a considerable swig, the bottle, its neck jagged, filled and
refilled, was put down on the floor, the dead man’s letters were cast aside, unfit for
reading, and the scraps, bundles, clips and type were collected. The patriots, fool and
tinker, got themselves to work for power. It was no drunken lark. A difficult hour they had
of it at that time of night, the worst time of night for odds and ends and order, especially
after killing a man and with sleep so near. The light bright, the shutters drawn, the secret
hard for dull minds to keep, the arms scattered, the work small and heavy, the very hardest
time of night; this was the hour to try the henchmen.

In an alley by the press was a heavy cart, and Fegelein, the quicker of the
two, made hurried trips with spools of thread, staples, needles, small loads of paper, and
old bottles of ink. He thought of the witness and the accusing finger, saw the jurystand and
unpredictable black-robed judge. Each time he dropped his load, so light but necessary, into
the bottom of the cart, he looked up at the sky and feared the exposing dawn. There was no
one to trust. Inside the shop the cobwebs were thick between the presses, the bottles piled
higher near the
rolltop desk, and old broken headlines were scattered,
mere metal words, about the floor.

Stumpfegle, fat and cold, carried the small press out to the cart and
rested. He carried the stitching machine out to the cart and waited, back by the lamp, for
his friend to finish. Stumpfegle, ex-orderly and seeking power, torturer and next in
command, harbored, beneath his ruthless slowness, the memory and the valor of his near
suicide. Months before, he had lost his chance, though a better man than Fegelein.
Stumpfegle, forty-two, aggressive, a private, was captured by a soldier from New York cited
for bravery, when he wandered, dazed, into an American Intelligence Headquarters set up for
propaganda work. Recognizing the
Reichsoldat
, the American immediately took
Stumpfegle into the doctor’s office, a room with a filing cabinet and fluoroscope. Quickly
they put the big man under its watchful, scientific-research eye, and sure enough, imbedded
far below his waist, between the sigmoid flexure and the end, they could see the silver
object, the
Reichgeist
capsule, container of blissful death. An hour later, and
while the soldier and the doctor watched, the purgative which they had given the bewildered
prisoner worked, and Stumpfegle’s last hope was dashed, in a moment of agony, down the
privy-drain. He survived, with a soft pain where it had been, and gained his freedom to
return to the new life.

“I’m finished except for the paint. We should hurry.”

Stumpfegle slowly carried the can of whitewash to the cart, strapped himself
between the heavy shafts, and with Fegelein wheeling the motorbike, they started down the
dark street.

The Mayor fell asleep while vague white animals pranced
and chattered through his dreams. Miller wished pain upon him, and kicked up his sharp heels
and flew away, only to return with the Colonel on his back and a rifle under his belly to
plague the poor mare, hot and sore with age. The white handkerchief was over his eyes, his
legs were tied, and all those animals of youth and death, the historical beasts, danced
about to watch. It was cold and the kitchen was empty.

The Duke and the boy were halfway down the hill towards the institution
where a sack was hidden behind the town girls’ bush. The dance music ceased in the
storehouse below, the only lights were out. The cane once more was raised and the child,
spattered with mud, tried without success to break away. A sleeper cocked his legs behind
the storehouse.

“We’re almost there. But let’s try to hurry, will you?” The faster Fegelein
tried to go, the more trouble he had with the machine. Yet he urged and he slipped. The
shadow of the spy crossed their path.

The ghosts by the canal all watched, their heads together in the turret of
the tank, the spirit of Leevey crawling to meet them from the dark water. A gaunt bird
settled on the throat of the headless horse statue in the center of the town and mist fell
on the grey sideless spire near the
Autobahn
.

The new watch on my wrist showed three o’clock. It was almost over. Tomorrow
the loyal would know and be thankful, the disloyal would be taken care of. By tomorrow this
first murder of the invaders would be public news; it would be, rather than a resistance, a
show of strength. My footsteps
echoed behind me in the darkness,
somewhere the traitor was about, and then with a new energy swept upon me, I reached the
boarding house. This town had no particular significance, as I entered the hall, because all
towns were towns of the land, villages where idleness breeds faith, and the invaders hatred.
Yet I knew this town, and in the days of power would always return, for I knew each
disappointment, each girl, each silent doorway. I began to climb the stairs and on the next
landing, knew the second floor boarder was still out.

My order, the new campaign, was planned and begun. It was spreading,
conception and detail, to the borders of the land, aimed at success. The initial blow was
struck, the enemy unseated, and there remained only the message to be dealt with and the
traitor in our midsts to be undone. I opened the door and saw her warm and girlish arms.

It seemed she had been sleeping for only a moment and the bed was still warm
where I had been.

The Census-Taker mumbled in his sleep two floors below, his shirt out of his
trousers, wringing wet. They danced on his toes, it was so warm.

Gently pushing the covers back, she rolled slowly over, thinking of my warm
brown chest.

Softly she spoke, “Come back to bed, Zizendorf.” She wanted to fall asleep
again.

She seemed to have forgotten, this flush Jutta, where I had been, love
without sense. I sat in the chair facing the bed.

Then, curling her hair in her fingertips, stretching her knees, she
remembered.

“It’s done?”

“Of course. He fell as easy as a duck, that area-commander.
He’s out in the swamp with his comrades now.”

“But how did you stop him?”

“The log.” I bent over and loosened my shoes. “The log stopped him. You’d
think that when he hit it he’d fly, perhaps swoop over it in a pleasant arc or at least in a
graceful curve. But that’s not true. He and the whole machine simply toppled over it, spokes
and light and helmet flying every which way. Nothing grand about the commander’s end at
all!”

“You’re safe? And now you can come and get warm.”

Jutta feared cold as once she had feared the Superior’s sun.

“The rest of the plan is still to be done.”

Stintz pushed the child ahead with loving hands and silently she crept up
the stairs. “You mustn’t tell anyone what you saw, the moon will be angry,” and she was gone
into the darkness.

“I’d like to stroke your lovely heart and your hair. But there’s still
work.”

“And I suppose there’ll be even more when you reach success?” She
yawned.

“Night should be mine, always.”

The child stole into the room, back with Mother, shivering in her thin gown
for all the long tiring adventure. I, the Leader, smiled, and Jutta held out her hand across
the hard pillows and cold top-cover.

“My darling child, where have you been?” Absently she touched the thin arm
and it felt hard, frail.