Tours of the Black Clock (20 page)

“You don’t want to hurt me,” I explain to them, “your boy here wouldn’t like it.” I gesture at the corner where he’s been so many nights now, and it’s empty.

Sometimes I have this clarity, sometimes I see it all rather lucidly. On the way to the hotel people are pounding on top of the car; the Germans in the car accelerate and people in the street leap out of their way. It remains to be seen to what extent the Austrians will share the fruits of victory. We get to the Hotel Imperial where I’m taken through the side entrance I was taken four years ago. We go up the lift and get off at a floor near the top of the building. The soldiers lead me into a suite.

I have this clarity, this lucidity. Right now the only thing I remember that seems real is a Christmas Day I tended to the horses in my father’s stable. Now I’m at the far end of this suite and a huge window with a small footrest at the other end opens over Old Vienna, St. Stephen’s lodged in the night like a dagger. The window’s open, the August heat’s overwhelming. There’s another door in the other wall, several sofas and chairs, and a desk. Seated in the sofas and chairs are three or four military officers of an unusual rank, given affairs in England tonight, and behind the desk is a small dark man at least seven years older than the pictures of him in the papers. Once he was a client of mine. Once he worked for me. He limps around to my side of the desk.

He stops half the room away from me; he doesn’t want to get so close because standing next to me will only emphasize how little he is. He raises one finger and, his black eyes tiny and still like dead insects, says only, “It’s not jealousy.” He keeps holding up the one finger to make the point. It’s several moments before he lowers his hand and paces staggeringly to and fro, thinking. He stops and says, “Permit me to introduce you,” and then names off the generals, and adds, “Of course you know Colonel Holtz.” He indicates behind me and I turn to see Holtz sitting in a chair. For a moment Holtz looks a bit odd, and then, transfixed, I see his blue fingers, and his eyes that never move or blink, and his mouth that’s open for the flies. Less than an inch over his right eye is a black hole; the ink of his brains cries down his forehead to his nose. There’s a tittering behind me from the other generals, although not from X, who regards Holtz almost squeamishly.

“It’s not jealousy,” X says again, emphatically. “I admit she had great appeal to me. But,” he says, on the other side of the desk, leaning into it, “what I felt for her can never match the way I love him. If she made him happy, no one would have been happier than I. Even having her myself could not have made me happier.” He pauses. “Do you understand?” I don’t answer and he doesn’t care. He goes to the window and stares out over the city. “Look,” he exclaims with some enthusiasm, “isn’t that the big wheel,” pointing toward the Praterstern. He’s talking to the generals now. “I took my children on the wheel … last year, I believe. Last year or the year before. Some were too small but the ones who were a little older found delight in it.” Limping back toward me, he smiles, “Children. My wife and I just had our sixth.” He stops; he’s become braver about being closer, almost as though he now taunts the way I’m so much larger and more helpless. “Daughters,” he smiles.

The city raves up from beneath us; I can’t sit or quite stand. I feel sick.

“I learned long ago,” he’s saying, through the hiss of blood in my head, “that his will is an inviolate thing. One doesn’t toy with it.” The generals are making an effort not to let their attention wander; they move in their chairs. There’s a sound behind me, and the others look; I think Holtz has slipped where he’s propped. I can’t bring myself to check. X doesn’t notice at all. “I’m ashamed to say,” he goes on, “that I learned this the hard way, almost twenty years ago, when as a very intemperate young man I made an effort to oppose him in the party on a particular issue. It says something about the magnitude of the man that he embraced me in his victory and my defeat. Do you know what the issue was, Herr Jainlight?”

“No,” I finally say. I barely have the voice for it, but I’ll answer anything he asks now.

“Russia, Herr Jainlight,” he says. I’m too confused to know exactly what it means, but I nod. He shrugs. “What to do with her,” he’s saying, “which is to say, what to do with you.” He moves around to his seat and sits; his head doesn’t even rise above the back of the chair. He rubs his face with his hands. I’m looking at the window, the generals, the soldiers at the door.

“I’ll go away,” I whisper. Tentatively, afraid to even say their name, I add, “My family and I.”

“No no no no, Herr Jainlight,” he answers, with great annoyance that such a foolish thing could even be proposed. “That’s no solution at all. How would I explain it to him? ‘We let them go’? And where will you go, where is left? Do you really want to go to Russia? He’d have you sent back here. America?” He shakes his head. “Nor, frankly, can I shoot you.” He shakes his finger at me, “You should appreciate that someone else probably would. But you know, Germany rules half the world today for one reason more than any other. And that is that we seized control of people’s myths. The myths they believed meant one thing, we persuaded them they meant something different. And the problem with shooting a myth is that it freezes its meaning in death.”

“I’ll change the myth.”

He’s utterly annoyed with my lack of sophistication; he literally throws up his hands. “Mein Herr, don’t you suppose we’ve thought of that?” He says furiously, “Do you suppose the idea here is to
trick
him? Do you suppose I’m another one of these traitors who conspire against him? I can show you motion pictures of the traitors we’ve hanged from butcher’s hooks with the wire from pianos, I’d wrap the cord around my own forsaken throat before I betrayed him! Do you suppose,” he demands, struggling for control, “that this is
your
myth? It’s not
your
myth, Herr Jainlight,
you
didn’t create it. It’s
his
myth. It’s slept somewhere in his dreams every night of the eleven years since she died, it’s slept in the dreams of our history, our time.” He falls back into the chair. “You tripped into it while you were stumbling in the dark like the overgrown American oaf you are, you woke it. You keep waking it. I can’t shoot you, I can’t send you away. I have to break your legs, your arms, your tongue, not literally—my God it’s a new gloryday, when barbarism is of a newer and more glorious sort as well—I mean I have to break the legs and arms, the tongue, that walk and reach and talk in the place where his myth lives. I have to make you the saddest man alive. A dead man caught in the body of a living one.”

If you take the hands, it’s simply a serious mistake not to take the stumps. And when does it end then? “Just do it to
me
,” I whisper. “Whatever it is, please do it to
me
.”

He’s silent long enough I believe he hasn’t heard me. “Russia, that was the issue,” he finally says. “Almost twenty years ago he argued that we would have to take Russia. I thought it was … a mistake. He was right, I was wrong. But now we don’t have Russia, his inviolate will violated. Now instead we have this uneasy alliance on our eastern border, which it may be too late to do anything about. We would rule not only Europe but Asia at this moment, perhaps with Japan … perhaps without. The American solution would be self-evident.” He says, “Of course I won’t do it to you mein Herr, you just haven’t been
listening
.” Drumming his fingers on the desktop for a moment, he turns to the guard by the door and gives a signal. The door opens and after a moment the soldier brings into the room my wife and child.

I can’t say anything. Megan looks at me stunned, the color has run even from the freckles. Courtney has the insolent courage of four-year-old girls; she keeps looking up at the soldier waiting for him to explain himself. Megan pulls her into her skirt. I would abandon all of my moments before or after this if I could only remove the two of them from this one. But it’s too late for that now. One’s no longer young when he understands some things are irrevocable. The little crippled man hobbles over to Megan and Courtney; he doesn’t look at Megan but only Courtney; he rubs his hand in her hair. He turns his back on them and the soldier rips Courtney from her mother. He pushes her onto the footrest before the window and then up onto the windowsill. Megan wails with horror. “Daughters,” X mumbles to himself, shaking his head. Courtney on the windowsill turns and looks at me, and we hold between us the moments I dangled her from rooftops, all the high places she lived and owned. The soldier pushes, and she steps out.

All my moments, if only to cut this one out of time. It seems to hold in place. In it, Megan, four-foot-eleven, takes, in the last moment I’ll ever know her, command in a room full of Germans not entirely unlike the way she commanded the first night I knew her. She tears herself from any attempt to stop her and leaps through the window before the moment is out; and with what’s left of this part of time, she spins Courtney in midair and pulls her to her chest. There’s no question, you know, of retrieving her. There’s no question of rescue. Megan knows this, everyone knows it. It’s only so the freckletot will not take the long ride down all by herself. It’s only so that however extended this moment will be after only a brief four years of them, it won’t be so utterly lonely, out there in the black Vienna night, with all that night beneath her little feet. In the last bit of this moment Megan turns and looks at us with defiance. The moment joins itself to every other one I will know, all the ones I cry out in my head to exchange. I carry it everywhere, Megan clutching our daughter to her and the two of them seeming to hang there in the window.

Then they’re gone. Then the next moment there’s nothing in the window but the still Vienna night.

You should have taken the stumps.

He buckles somewhere between my hands. …Someone’s hitting me with something, the soldiers with their guns I guess; I’m sure it’s rather amusing, X croaking out from between my fingers, Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot; and then, when the life starts to dribble out of his eyes, he says, Well, yes, shoot him. The soldiers are a little confused. After they’ve hit me in the head with the butts of their guns enough times, the blood runs into X’s hair, eyes. After a while I don’t see anything anymore.

Actually, they did take the stumps. Actually, they took everything. Or did I just hand it all over, long ago?

1943.

1944.

1945. I CAN SEE THE SMOKE.

1946.

1947. I COME TO
the place one afternoon while walking, I lose track much better when I walk, I’ve walked every day now for a long time, the place is there on the sidewalk before me, and though there isn’t a single sign that it happened here I know immediately even though I haven’t been conscious of where I’m going, and I step back looking around me and realize I’m in front of the hotel and that high above me one of those windows is the window. I look at the place on the sidewalk and begin to smash myself against the stone of the hotel and strike at the sharp edges of the edifice with my wrists that I might open up some vein and pour the blood of my impure mongrel mother over the city that it will be fouled in some way that fouls him in turn, that fouls the humiliation he inflicted on this city by which he meant to glorify his squalid vagabond womanless youth and to make meaningless the way the city beckoned her away from him sixteen years ago. Soon there’s blood all over. They come and stop me soon. Five or six of them pull me down, before they do I’ll ring the Ring with the black blood of the Indian who bore me, twisting bloody wet in the grasp of them, my guardians who appear from nowhere to protect me from myself, and who will always be with me for as long as he lives, his moment joined to mine.

T.O.T.B.C.—10

I
LOSE TRACK MUCH
better when I walk.

It’s 1948. Springtime, I guess.

The war goes on. Dead soldiers come back from Mexico and are sealed up in the walls of the Hofburg. Z’s final revenge against the city he loves and loathes; he’d rather fill up Vienna with them than the deserts of Occupied Yucatan. The rigor mortis has set in on all of them, their bodies frozen in strange shapes. The walls of Old Vienna protrude with dead elbows, dead knees that jut out from the new cement.

Z speaks to the continent over radio on a weekly basis. Most of the time it’s obvious the tape is an old speech from ten years ago, his voice stronger and clearer. When the news is a bit more momentous they try to get by with a new speech. His words slur and his voice breaks, sentences wander off to no resolution. The rumors from Berlin never stop. The military seems to have taken control of things, many of the top party people have vanished. Though there has never been an official announcement, X is apparently dead. I like to think I killed him. I don’t remember that night well enough to be sure, and if I analyze it I admit it seems unlikely they would have let me do it, but who knows. All those generals standing around there looking at each other saying, Why not? Sure. Maybe it makes sense after all.

I don’t write anymore, which is exactly what X had in mind, of course. But others have something different in mind, and they still keep me on Dog Storm Street where this toady or that regularly visits. Sometimes they cajole me, sometimes they rant. They know I would not mind their torture. They know I would not mind dying. I’m sure they’d consider just doing away with me if it didn’t threaten the decrepit passion by which Z still mesmerizes Greater Germany. With the guerrillas in the hills and insurrection in the cities they can’t afford it. It doesn’t matter to me in the least what they do. Every two weeks an envelope is brought to my door; I’m paid in Deutschemarks.

The alliance is no better than ever. Rumor even has it that it was the Russians who smuggled the Bomb to America as Z was preparing to use it. Courtney would be ten now.

I am … thirty-one? Megan would be thirty-five.