The World as I Found It (79 page)

The grown man knew his stars well enough to know that Franz was sincere when he turned to him one night before heading down the path to his house and said he wished that he, Herr Wittgenstein, were his father. Letting down the warm formality with which he disguised his love, Wittgenstein said he wished the same.

That was the origin of the idea. Afterward, it seemed to Wittgenstein that the whole scheme had been rash and ill conceived, but that was because it had all gone so impossibly wrong. Yet the truth was, there was nothing sudden about his decision. Wittgenstein had examined every phase of his adoption plan — and every possible stumbling block — in meticulous detail, to the point that, for months, he could think of little else. And certainly, he never would have dreamed of suggesting adoption if Franz had not first broached the idea. Franz was a very pure and serious boy, but Wittgenstein had nevertheless been careful to give him plenty of time to weigh his decision. In the meantime, Wittgenstein brought Franz and the rest of his children by train to Vienna, where they stayed with Mining and Gretl while touring buildings and museums and going to concerts, cafés and the Prater. Later, Franz even succeeded in getting his father's no doubt insensible permission to go once more to Vienna, this time alone, to spend a week with Mining and Gretl as a trial to see how he liked it. And when Franz did like it, Wittgenstein made still more plans for a whole new life. Everything was set forth. He and the boy would live with Mining in Vienna. He would get his doctorate and teach, and during the summers he and his son, Franz — Franz Wittgenstein — would travel, touring England and Russia and Palestine, maybe even America, on and on.

Then came the day that Wittgenstein went with his mediator Max to talk to the boy's father. They found Herr Kluck stooped in the muddy pigyard below the decaying house, grimy, bristled and pitifully small compared to the monster the boy had described. That he was a brute and an ignoramus was beside the point; he was still a father, and that, no matter what Wittgenstein told himself to the contrary, made him immeasurably more than he, an oddball with no wife. Even as he began talking to Herr Kluck, Wittgenstein realized that the whole scheme was ridiculous. Had Max not been there to steady him, he easily would have turned around in disgust and walked away. Afterward, Wittgenstein thought he must have been out of his mind. Did he really think that Herr Kluck, this father of nine, for whom children were basically cattle, would simply give his son up for adoption just because some crazy man from the city wanted to raise the boy as his own and educate him? If nothing else, Herr Kluck had his pride. What did he care that Wittgenstein was willing to send Franz home to visit whenever he wished? Herr Kluck said the boy was no good anyhow. He would just run back home.

Max wasn't fooled. Max knew the story. He knew what was running through Kluck's sodden brain, between those crusted wads of hair stuffed in his ears. He knew Herr Kluck couldn't allow himself to be indebted to this reputedly wealthy man. To give the boy outright, even as a gift, to imply that this rich man could give the boy things that he couldn't, much less to imply that these things had any worth — for Herr Kluck, as Max knew, this was unthinkable.
Selling
the boy, on the other hand, driving a hard bargain as if the boy were a bull or a pig, this would have brought Herr Kluck recognition as a clever operator, ridding himself of a mouth to feed, and for cash money, to boot.

Max pulled Wittgenstein aside when Herr Kluck, with a shrug and grunt, walked away — a typical bargaining ploy. Max was extremely fond of the boy. The orphan in Max had a large emotional stake in this adoption. Max had already throttled Franz's oldest brother, Klaus, behind the tavern, showing him, in the most graphic terms, what he would do if he or anybody else laid another hand on the boy. Franz, then, was a kind of second chance for Max, who badly wanted to make right for Franz what had eluded him in his own life. Standing in Herr Kluck's pigyard, faced with his friend's sudden lack of resolve, Max was on the verge of tears.

What's wrong with you? he asked, staring into Wittgenstein's shamed face. You said you want him —
do
you? The old bastard won't
give
him to you, I'll tell you that right now. But he'll
sell
him to you. Just show him the color of some money. Just a little money — he'll take it. Get him drunk and he'll trade you the boy for a bottle. Hell, I'll do it, if it's so distasteful to you! Hey! Come back here!

But Wittgenstein's pride got in the way. Not even for the boy's sake would he buy him — it was disgusting and out of the question. Wittgenstein walked away. He actually walked away, abandoning Max just as surely as he did Franz.

Of course the story got out, Herr Kluck saw to that. Soon it was even said that Wittgenstein offered him a fortune for the disappointed boy, whom afterward people eyed with wonder, as if he were a walking sack of money. Wittgenstein even received several half-decipherable notes offering children for sale — good Gentile stock children, the notes said, girls and boys, and pretty,
Herr Lehrer
, all ages.

The incident with the broken-down locomotive, then, had only been the start of Wittgenstein's misfortunes in Trattenbach. Miracles aren't necessarily good or fortuitous occurrences, much less happy ones. There are miracles of belief, and there are miracles of disbelief in the face of the dazzlements of belief — miracles of overcoming the lies and evasions of one's life and time. Thus, on the one hand, there is the spectacle of a powerful man being unhorsed by a gust of light, while, on the other, there is the powerless man living with the seemingly incredible belief that one day the light will strike him, turning him, for one dazzling moment, into light itself. For Wittgenstein, in any case, the worst and most unbelievable miracle was that, after this failed adoption, in the absence of belief and in spite of all reason, he remained in Trattenbach, with the hardest revelations yet to come.

D
INNER
was not a success.

Maybe it was Dora's reserve, the way she politely rebuffed Dorothy's first shy attempts at friendliness. Or maybe it was the uncertainty about just who this Higgins was, sitting protectively at Dora's arm. Higgins didn't exactly seem to be a mutual friend — not to judge by Russell's snide remarks and Higgins's cold silence.

Also, there were the constant interruptions. The children were taking a bus trip down the coast the next day to tour some Bronze and Iron Age sites and do a bit of bathing — and there were last-minute problems with lunches and the bus and who among the staff would be going, since it was a Saturday. The other problem was what to do with Rabe. Taking him on the trip was hardly an appetizing idea, but then, as Dora argued, it made better sense to bring him to a ruin than to risk his turning the school into one.

Then it was 8:30. Distant thumps and caterwauling. Time to say good night to the children. We always make a point of it, said Russell, ceremoniously helping his heavy wife up from the table while the proletarian Higgins slouched over his plate. When Russell and Dora returned, they seemed silent, strained. Had there been words, perhaps? Once more the telephone was ringing. Once more, Miss Marmer peeked in with profuse apologies, this time to say it was the solicitor, long distance.

Russell looked distraught when he returned. Uncapping the decanter of sherry, he said, The solicitor thinks we ought to hire another detective to find the boy's mother! I told him the expense of one is ruining me as it is. Then leaning toward Higgins, Russell said archly, Two more weeks in America. That's what it will cost me, Higgins.
Hoof, hoof
.

It was probably in retaliation for this crack that Higgins leaned over to Dora then and said, I know one very good detective — several, in fact.

Do you now?
asked Russell, bristling with fears that the plotters had been making inquiries about him. (They wouldn't trickle poison down his ear!)

In their unhappiness, Russell and Dora were almost oblivious to how they were coming across to their guests, for whom their life was like an open bureau filled with things the visitors politely tried not to see. Dora hardly seemed to care at that point, sick of the whole pretense of it. She had barely eaten half her dinner when she excused herself, taking her sick headache back to bed. Higgins was no more discreet, excusing himself five minutes later. Russell wanted to brain him. The fellow didn't even have the decency to leave by the other door.

It was easy to feel sorry for Russell then, left to fend alone with his guests and the constantly ringing telephone. Wittgenstein had been noticeably quiet. So, for that matter, had Max, who was looking bored. Suddenly, he rose from the table, without excusing himself.

Oh, said Russell hopefully. The lavatory, should you want it, Max, is down the hall — to your left.

Max nodded in acknowledgment, then went out. Ten, fifteen minutes passed. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Russell excused himself, saying, Oh, dear, I forgot to tell Miss Marmer something. I'll be back presently.

Russell knew what he would find, and sure enough, he found it. They were standing by the banister. For a moment, Russell didn't know what to do. Leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, she was simple and easy — easier, certainly, than she had ever been with him. Did he detect a trace of sauciness, of rising anger in her eyes? He expected the girl to blanch and shrink with shame, but instead she faced him, querulous, but standing her ground. Max stood near her, saying with his hostile little eyes,
Move me, you old goat, just try
.

Russell felt his gorge rise. He would not be a hypocrite, would not enforce a code of morality he found basically false and hateful. So be it, he told himself. The girl was free, if she had no better sense, or taste, in companions. Russell felt almost fatherly, if flimsy, in his concern, which even he knew to be suspect. I was looking for Miss Marmer, he offered as if he needed an excuse. There was galling sweetness in her voice as she said, I am sorry. I have not seen her. And then she waited as for a poison to take effect, knowing that they, as two, were stronger than he.

Russell made a point of finding Miss Marmer then, but not to talk school business. They ducked into his office and shut the door. Miss Marmer could see his need and seemed pleased.

Well, she said drolly, you'll have to be doubly quiet with your
guests
beside us.

There'll be no problem, Russell replied. I saw Moore nodding. They'll be going up to bed soon.

I'll be waiting, Miss Marmer said, and then a duskiness crept into her voice. She was a moaner, she was, and she was slowly curling into herself like a cat drunk on catnip. Moving her shoulders slightly, she looked as if she would loop across the rug and start rolling on her back. Do you know how I'll be waiting? she asked, and then she gave another slight squirm to get his juice up, to show him what he would be having upstairs later. A familiar dish: throat of pearls and lipstick, the clop of her black mules and the silk kimono that he liked to spread over her perfumed buttocks like a peacock's fan as she bent over and slowly touched her toes, flowering for his breathless adoration like the sucking purplish anemone. Opera would be playing — Puccini, probably — and he knew he would find her usual lubricity as through her rather small teeth she panted,
Don't stop — don't, dear — don't
. This was harrowing. In sex she was another person. In fact, he sometimes felt squelched and squeamish at this woman's rasping
meeoooww
. After all, there was what the libertine doctor prescribed for civilization's ills, and then there was the other truth, that there should be pleasure, certainly, even abandon, but only so much as was seemly. Why, a fellow of his years was liable to rupture himself, straddling the grunting goddess of the Golden Mean.

After this interlude, Russell returned to the dinner table. To his surprise and relief, Max himself returned a few minutes later. The horse wasn't out of the stable.

Russell had been right in gauging the Moores: Moore was suppressing yawns, and Dorothy was getting restless. Even Wittgenstein was tired. They all were tired, but there was still a certain tension, a scratchiness in the conversation, which was being passed round the table like dry bread. Here, just before they all went up to bed, were the opening shots of Wittgenstein's
Viva
the next day. It must have been the story about Wittgenstein resuscitating the train that started it. The talk turned to miracles — what they were and whether, in this age, there were any. Wittgenstein and Max were both disgusted when Russell again provocatively suggested that the incident with the train might be rightly termed a miracle.

Call it intuition — mechanics, said Wittgenstein. It was no miracle.

Then Max spoke up, saying, in effect, that miracles were an extinct phenomenon, the last having been performed by Christ and the Apostles. The rest — the saints and their acts, the holy relics — were all lies and blasphemy. Max continued:

Christ started his life as Lord at Cana, to turn the water to the wine. And at the last dinner, he turns the wine to blood. Looking vehemently round the table, Max concluded, In this there is
much
to know. But no one, even Russell, wanted to ask just what.

Taking a sip of sherry, Russell then turned mischievous. Invoking the shade of Voltaire, he said to Max, God, you would admit, set the world in order. God knows all things. How, then, do you explain, Max, why he who knew and made all things would violate his own order by letting his son work miracles in order to make ignorant men believe?

This is mere enlightenment cleverness, interjected Wittgenstein, trying to preempt Max's fury. Voltaire assumes God must always be reasonable. A venerable old clock maker. This accounts for nothing. You might as easily say that Christ performed a sort of miracle by having the fortitude
not
to perform one. Here I refer to when the devil tempted Christ in the desert, daring him to throw himself down from the mountain since it was written that angels would catch him.