The Yellow Sailor
Page 9
“What do the letters stand for?” Alois said.
“Quando finiranno questo pene?”
Alois touched the boy’s sleeve.
“What does it mean?”
“When does the pain end?”
The Italian boy put a small, warm hand on Alois’s shoulder. He leaned over.
“Pieta di un povera carcerato,” he whispered. “Pity a poor prisoner.”
“No.”
“But you want to.”
“But I have a personal savior,” Alois said.
“Nicholas rejected you.”
An Antwerp prisoner in Spanish lace crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue.
“The mental scurvy here will kill you.”
Soup came. El Maricón leaned closer.
“Don’t eat the mauvaise,” El Maricón said.
“The what?”
“The evil.”
“The what?” Alois said.
“The prison soup.”
“Why not?”
“Cooks spit in it.”
Alois pushed the soup away.
“But I’m hungry!”
“Oiler!”
Alois turned. The cook beckoned. Alois went into the kitchen. The cook’s name was Hunin and he made pastries at a table covered in flour. He gave Alois biscuits.
“Ginger biscuits!”
Hunin made candy by boiling sugar until it caramelized, then added a drop of vinegar.
“Hunin, you’re wonderful!”
Later that afternoon Alois went to Hunin’s cell. Hunin poured Canadian whiskey. He served slices of Ardennes smoked ham. “From my aunt in Houffalize.”
They rolled dice.
“Four!”
“Five!”
“Godverdomme!”
Hunin won. He poured more Canadian whiskey. He looked out the barred window.
“Nondedju,” he said. “Name of God. Look!”
Religious women from a bequinage carried bread in round wicker baskets.
“Hey!” Hunin shouted.
A religious woman turned.
“Kwezel,” Hunin said. “Do you want to dance?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t dance.”
“Why not?”
“Begijnen and kwezels don’t dance.”
Hunin exposed himself. So did Alois.
“Laugh,” Alois shouted. “But you’re also being observed!”
Kermis wagons rolled by. There was a snake woman, Siamese twins and a dismantled house of mirrors. A monkey raised a Saint Rita icon for the hopeless. It was in old French.
En me regardant tu te vois.
In looking at me you see yourself.
Guards took Alois to his cell. He lay on the wood sleeping board. He woke at midnight. French prisoners marched around a well below.
“Whom do you fear?” a guard shouted.
“La maigre,” French said. “The Lean One.”
“Who?”
“La cruelle,” French said. “The Cruel One.”
“Who?”
“La certaine,” French said. “The Certain One.”
“Who?”
“DEATH!”
A Flemish liberationist was dragged to the courtyard below and shot.
“Zomaar,” he said. “Just like that.”
A Walloon hung himself by the well.
“Adieu …”
A bus of Haarbeke Football Club supporters got stuck in mud. Alois chewed gum.
“Nicholas …”
There was movement in the next cell. A German incised his own thigh.
“Join us.”
“No.”
Two naked Germans danced under an electric light. They held each other’s tongues.
“You have a mistaken idea about me,” Alois said.
“No, we don’t.”
Effluvium dripped. El Maricón swabbed the floor.
“Alois …”
Elle eschaffe sans estre chaud.
She burns without being hot.
El Maricón came to Alois’s bars.
“Tu es mon trésor,” he whispered. “You are my treasure.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“You speak French.”
“No. I speak argot.”
El Maricón leaned in. His mouth smelled of almonds. His hair smelled of pomegranates.
“Listen, Alois. La rapide—the Rapid—the hour—goes. No palombe—dove—woman—comes to the prison. The Glorious—the sun—has set. The Luminous—the moon—is bright. Now Feel the Broiling!”
El Maricón put Alois’s hand on his own chest.
“It pounds!” Alois said.
El Maricón leaned closer.
“Viens, mon beau cavalier,” El Maricón said. “Come, my beautiful knight.”
“No.”
“A fat man is not excused from love.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I have a personal savior.”
“Nicholas rejected you.”
El Maricón laughed.
“O, cogné—feeble of spirit,” he said. “Let us do the work, you and I!”
“No!”
“Let me in!”
El Maricón slipped in with a skeleton key. An exquisite phallus circled his upper right arm. Alois backed against the wall.
“What are you going to do to me?” he said.
“Je vais t’enculer.”
“What?”
“I’m going to bugger you.”
Alois ran around the cell. El Maricón chased him.
“Oh,” El Maricón said. “I smell you—”
“Help!”
He caught Alois.
“Allee! Up with your bottom!”
“Ow!”
“Don’t be such a baby. Was that so bad?”
El Maricón left. Alois smiled in his sleep.
Il brille en mourant.
He glows while dying.
Red dawn came. Guards wrestled Alois to the infirmary. A Flemish physician castrated him. Alois waddled back to his cell in diapers. French prisoners whistled.
“They cut off your dangereux!”
An aanspreeker came. He wore a striped black suit, wide-brimmed hat.
“I am a Death Announcer.”
A huilebeek smiled. He was a small man with a white scarf under a black coat.
“This is my assistant, a Wailer.”
“What do you want?”
The aanspreeker pointed to Alois’s candle.
“Your light is dead.”
“It was the wind.”
“Wat blijft?” the huilebeek said. “What remains?”
Alois turned to the wall.
“Nicholas.”
“Nicholas rejected you,” the aanspreeker said.
Alois sobbed.
“If it could enter you—!” the aanspreeker said.
“What?”
“Onblusbaar licht,” the aanspreeker said. “Inextinguishable light!”
Alois turned to the aanspreeker. Tears ran down his mustache.
“God?”
“No. Not God.”
“Why not?”
“There is no God without a personal savior,” the aanspreekr said.
“And your personal saviour rejected you,” the huilebeek said.
The aanspreeker and huilebeek left. Alois sat alone.
“NICHOLAS!!”
BADEN
BERNAI WORE baggy hunter’s trousers, a lanyard with small binoculars, and a rose ascot.
He read newspapers: Die Freundschaft, Uranos, Fanfare. He turned to personal ads. Junger Mann sucht Freund. Young man seeks friend. Älterer herr, kein Damenfreund, sucht Bekanntschaft mit Gleichsinnen. Older man, no friend of woman, seeks acquaintance of like-minded. Junggeselle sucht Freundschafft. Energisch, herrischen. Young companion seeks friendship. Energetic, masterful.
Dr. Dehmel knocked.
“Entree.”
Dr. Dehmel wore a white coat and white hat. His jowls were red from a razor.
“Would you join us for lunch at Baden?” he said.
“Us?”
“Elise Geiger.”
“Who?”
“The woman in the photograph.”
Bernai folded the newspapers.
“Is she here?”
“In the courtyard.”
Bernai parted the curtains.
“I don’t see her.”
“Nevertheless, she’s there.”
“Where?”
“In the sun.”
Elise Geiger wore a dark blue dress with white designs. She leaned against Dr. Dehmel’s Volvo and took a pebble from her sandal. Her hair was silk blond, cut short. She was petite, fine-boned.
“An elegant woman, Dehmel,” Bernai said.
“Yes.”
“You’re outclassed.”
“I know.”
“What does she see in you?”
“Jewish pessimism.”
Bernai laughed. He looked again.
“Does she have any brothers?”
“No.”
“Pity.”
Dr. Dehmel and Bernai went down the spiral stairwell. Eros was bright.
“Elise,” Dr. Dehmel said, “I present Herr Julius Bernai.”
Elise had an easy, confident smile.
“Stefan told me about you,” she said.
“Nothing bad?”
“No. He’s happy you’ve recovered.”
“So am I.”
“Was it nervous exhaustion?”
“Too many love affairs,” Dr. Dehmel said.
“He’s jealous,” Bernai said.
Dr. Dehmel drove toward Baden. The Volvo got stuck behind a hay cart. He honked twice. Sunlight flared off Elise’s silky hair. She turned.
“Are you German?” she said.
“I was born in Breslau,” Bernai said. “But I spent my formative years in Berlin.”
“Do you go back to Berlin often?”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I am a registered Reichs criminal.”
Elise paused.
“What did you do?”
“Unzucht zwischen Männer,” Bernai said. “Unchastity between men.”
“Good heavens.”
“Orgasmus durch Friktion des Genitals,” Bernai said. “Orgasm by friction of the genitals.”
“Prussians are precise,” Dr. Dehmel said.
“It’s the rye bread and state dentists,” Bernai said. “An obsession with order.”
Bernai laughed. The Volvo drove. A train went by: two railroad cannon, flat howitzers.
Dr. Dehmel parked in Baden. They walked under hanging baskets of blue and purple pansies and turned into a lane of old yellow houses. They went through a rose garden. Roses had women’s names. They came to a grove with a gazebo and dining tables near the casino.
“Is this table all right?” Dr. Dehmel said.
“Fine,” Elise said.
They sat.
“This isn’t too close to the bandstand?” Dr. Dehmel said.
“It’s lovely.”
A Croatian woman sold red gladioli. Dr. Dehmel bought a bouquet, gave them to Elise, and kissed her.
Elise turned to Bernai.
“Who is the water nymph in the fountain?”
“Undine.”
“Who?”
Bernai lighted a cheroot.
“Undine. Undine is a water nymph. She kissed her lover so hard on the mouth he suffocated.”
“What is the secret meaning,” Elise said, “of Undine?”
“No secret meaning.”
“No?”
“That’s what men and women do.”
“Not in the real world,” she said.
“Oh, very much so, I’m afraid, Fraülein Geiger.”
The band started.
“Do you like German music, Fraülein Geiger?” Bernai said.
“A bit.”
“But not that much?”
“No.”
“It’s not for me to judge the German race,” Dr. Dehmel said, “but their idea of music is not beauty.”
“Oh? What, then?”
“Grinding ahead.”
“What about Mozart?” Bernai said. “Haydn?”
“They were Austrian,” Dr. Dehmel said. “And Paderewski and Rubinstein are Jews.”
“Beethoven?”
“Of Dutch ancestry,” Dr. Dehmel said.
They laughed. Dr. Dehmel put his arm on the back of Elise’s chair.
“Elise likes English tunes.”
Elise playfully hit Dr. Dehmel’s knee.
“That was my secret, Stefan.”
The waiter came. They ordered. The waiter left.
“So. You like English tunes?” Bernai said. “Why?”
She reddened.
“They make me happy.”
“And that’s important to you?” Bernai said.
“Yes.”
“Good. Everybody must be happy.”
Dr. Dehmel went to the bandstand and gave the bandleader money. The band played “Für Elise.”
“Tell us a joke, Herr Bernai,” Elise said.
“A joke?”
“Stefan says you’re witty.”
“I turned fifty.”
Elise laughed.
“That’s not funny, Herr Bernai.”
“Dr. Dehmel found it amusing.”
“Try again,” Elise said.
“There was a homosexual,” Bernai said. “In prison. His cell was dirty, dark, and cold. It rained and there were rats. ‘Nobody can be worse off,’ he said. Then he heard scraping below. A married man was trying to escape.”
“Was that funny?”
“An observation, really.”
Elise’s silver pendant earrings hit sun. Dr. Dehmel turned to Elise.
“Are you getting sunburned?”
“A little.”
“Let’s move our chairs.”
They moved their chairs into the shadows. The waiter brought schnitzel, potatoes, and salad. Bernai poured white wine. A bright waltz played.
“Herr Bernai is an elegant dancer,” Dr. Dehmel said.
Bernai looked up, cutting schnitzel.
“Who says?”
“A barrister second to none.”
Bernai blushed.
“Oh. He said that, did he?”
“He did.”
Elise reddened but pressed a finger on the table.
“Herr Bernai, when you dance, with a man, who leads?”
“I do.”
“How do you know who leads?”
“It is known.”
Dr. Dehmel relaxed.
“Dance with Elise, Herr Bernai.”
Bernai giggled.
“Go ahead,” Dr. Dehmel said. “She’s very good.”
“No.”
“Dance with her, Herr Bernai.”
“Is this why you brought her?”
Dr. Dehmel laughed.
“You don’t know what he means, do you, Elise?” he said.
“No.”
“Good.”
Dr. Dehmel stood. Bernai stood. Bernai and Elise went to the gazebo. They danced. Her hand rested on Bernai’s shoulder. Police asked for Bernai’s documents. People stopped dancing. The police examined his papers and left.
The waltz began again. She shook hair off her forehead.
“Are you watched all the time?” Elise said.
“Yes.”
“But could you change?” Elise said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Ich bin echt, eingeborene Homosexual,” Bernai said. “I am a genuine, born homosexual.”
“It’s like that?”
“Yes.”
“How could it be?”
“It is,” Bernai said. “I’m sure of it.”
The waltz ended. Bernai bowed.
“My pleasure, Fraülein Geiger.”
> Bernai escorted Elise to Dr. Dehmel. They sat. Bernai daubed perspiration from his forehead.
“The most beautiful woman in Austria is not for me,” he said. “But—o—soldiers!”
“Soldiers?”
“Yes, Fraülein Geiger. It is my privilegium odiosom,” Bernai said. “A ridiculous business. Anyway, it’s over quickly enough. A bit stupid, really.”
“Why stupid?”
“Because love is stupid.”
The shadows were long now. Yellow casino lights came on. Dr. Dehmel and Elise whispered. She nodded. Dr. Dehmel got up from the table.
“Come, Herr Bernai,” he said.
“So soon?”
“Something has put you in a strange mood.”
They went through the rose garden.
“Are you all right, Elise?” Dr. Dehmel said.
“Just a chill.”
Dr. Dehmel drove to Hainfeld. A red horizon silhouetted pines. Elise’s head moved slowly onto Dr. Dehmel’s shoulder.
“Are you awake?”
She rubbed her eyes.
“I’m awake.”
The Volvo entered Hainfeld. A konditorei with blue plush booths was closed. There was a bank, telephone wires across a dirt intersection. Dr. Dehmel parked by an old house. There was a black-bordered card on the heavy door: Matthais Geiger. After a long and terrible struggle.
“Your father?” Bernai said.
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
“A month ago.”
“I didn’t realize it was so recent. My regrets.”
“Thank you.”
She unlocked the door. The house was stone, centuries old. It creaked.
“At the end I didn’t recognize him,” she said. “Just his voice. I cried and cried.”
She stood in the dark.
“But I am not bothered by thoughts of my own death,” she said. “The process or the permanency.”
Elise turned on a light. A statue of Pygmalion stood by a fireplace. Off the balcony, by French doors, was a dirt road to the pines. She cut the red gladiolus stems, put them in a vase, filled the vase with water, and put it on the mantel. Bernai picked up a black-rimmed photograph.
“Was this your father?”
Elise turned, green eyes and pendant earrings in the amber light.
“Yes.”
“He looked like Dr. Dehmel.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Bernai put the photograph down. Dr. Dehmel paced the parquet floor.
“Would you like cognac?” she said.
“We should go,” Dr. Dehmel said. “You’re tired.”
“Stay a few minutes.”
Elise brought three crystal glasses and a bottle of cognac. It was very expensive cognac.