Come Back, Dr Caligari

by Donald Barthelme

  “Why do you keep coming back?”

  “I don’t think that’s an interesting question.”

  Friend looks bland, studies film. Fires have started in many areas, the music is demure. I entrust myself to these places advisedly, there are risks but so also are there risks in crossing streets, opening doors, looking strangers in the eye. Man cannot live without placing himself naked before circumstance, as in warfare, under the sea, jet planes, women. Flight is always available, concealment is always possible.

  “What I meant was,” continues friend, animated now, smiling and gesturing, “other theaters. When they’re full, you get lost in the crowd. Here, if anybody came in, they’d spot you in a minute. But most people, they believe the sign.” I. A. L. Burligame walks through any open door, private homes, public gatherings, stores with detectives wearing hats, meetings of Sons and Daughters of I Will Arise, but should I boast? Keep moving, counterpunching, examination of motives reveals appeal of dark places has nothing to do with circumstance. But because I feel warmer. The intimation was, most people do what they are told, NO LOITERING, NO PARKING BETWEEN 8 AM AND 5 PM, KEEP OFF THE GRASS, CLOSED FOR REPAIRS KEEP OUT. Negro moves two seats closer, lowers voice confidentially.

  “Of course it’s no concern of mine…” Face appears gentle, interested, as with old screw in Girl on Death Row, aerialist-cum-strangler in Circus of Horrors. “Of course I couldn’t care less. But frankly, I feel a certain want of seriousness.”

  “I am absolutely serious.”

  On the other hand, perhaps antagonist is purely, simply what he pretends to be: well-dressed Negro with dark glasses in closed theater. But where then is the wienie? What happens to the twist? All of life is rooted in contradiction, movement in direction of self, two spaces, diagonally, argues hidden threat, there must be room for irony.

  “Then what are you doing here?” Friend sits back in sliding seat with air of having clinched argument. “Surely you don’t imagine this is a suitable place?”

  “It looked good, from the outside. And there’s no one here but you.”

  “Ah, but I am here. What do you know about me? Nothing, absolutely nothing. I could be anybody.”

  “So could I be anybody. And I notice that you too keep an eye on the door.”

  “Thus, we are problematic for each other.” Said smoothly, with consciousness of power. “Name’s Bane, by the way.” Lights pipe, with flourishes and affectations. “Not my real one, of course.”

  “Of course.” Pipe signal to confederates posted in balcony, behind arras, under EXIT signs? Or is all this dumb show merely incidental, concealing vain heart, empty brain? On screen famous scientist has proposed measures to contain puppet people, involving mutant termites thrown against their flank. The country is in a panic, Wall Street has fallen, the President looks grave. And what of young informer in lobby, what is his relevance, who corrupted wearer of T-shirt, holder of kite?

  “I’m a dealer in notions,” friend volunteers. “Dancing dolls, learn handwriting analysis by mail, secrets of eternal life, coins and stamps, amaze your friends, pagan rites, abandoned, thrilling, fully illustrated worldwide selection of rare daggers, gurkhas, stilettos, bowies, hunting, throwing.”

  “And what are you doing here?”

  “Like you,” he avers. “Watching the picture. Just dropped in.”

  We resume viewing. Role of Bane obscure, possible motives in igniting conversation: (1) Agent of the conspiracy, (2) Fellow sufferer in the underground, (3) Engaged in counterespionage, (4) Talent scout for Police Informers School, (5) Market research for makers of Attack of the Puppet People, (6) Plain nosy bastard unconnected with any of the foregoing. Decide hypotheses (1), (2), and (6) most tenable, if (6), however, simple snubs should have done the job, as administered in remark “People don’t always tell the truth,” in remark “I notice you too keep an eye on the door.” Also discourse has hidden pattern, too curious, too knowledgeable in sociology of concealment. Cover story thin, who confines himself to rare daggers, gurkhas, bowies, hunting, throwing in this day and age when large-scale fraud is possible to even the most inept operator, as in government wheat, television, uranium, systems development, public relations? Also disguise is commonplace, why a Negro, why a Negro in dark glasses, why sitting in the dark? Now he pretends fascination with events on screen, he says it has been playing since 1944, whereas I know to my certain knowledge that last week it was She Gods of Shark Reef, before that Night of the Blood Beast, Diary of a High School Bride, Cool and the Crazy. Coming: Reform School Girl on double bill with Invasion of the Saucer Men. Why lie? or is he attempting to suggest the mutability of time? Odor of sweetness from somewhere, flowers growing in cracks of floor, underneath the seats? Possible verbena, possible gladiolus, iris, phlox. Can’t identify at this distance, what does he want? Now he looks sincere, making face involves removing glasses (his eyes burn in the dark), wrinkling forehead, drawing down corners of mouth, he does it very well.

  “Tell me exactly what it is you hide from,” he drops, the Enola Gay on final leg of notorious mission.

  Bomb fails to fire, Burligame reacts not. Face the image of careless gaiety, in his own atrocious phrase, couldn’t care less. Bane now addresses task con amore, it is clear that he is a professional, but sent by whom? In these times everything is very difficult, the lines of demarcation are not clear.

  “Look,” pleads he, moving two spaces nearer, whispering, “I know you’re hiding, you know you’re hiding, I will make a confession, I too am hiding. We have discovered each other, we are mutually embarrassed, we watch the exits, we listen for the sound of rough voices, the sound of betrayal. Why not confide in me, why not make common cause, every day is a little longer, sometimes I think my hearing is gone, sometimes my eyes close without instruction. Two can watch better than one, I will even tell you my real name.”

  Possible emotions in the face of blatant sincerity: repugnance, withdrawal, joy, flight, camaraderie, denounce him to the authorities (there are still authorities). And yet, is this not circumstance before which the naked Burligame might dangle, is this not real life, risk and danger, as in Voodoo Woman, as in Creature from the Black Lagoon?

  Bane continues. “My real name (how can I say it?) is Adrian Hipkiss, it is this among other things I flee. Can you imagine being named Adrian Hipkiss, the snickers, the jokes, the contumely, it was insupportable. There were other items, in 1944 I mailed a letter in which I didn’t say what I meant, I moved the next day, it was New Year’s Eve and all the moving men were drunk, they broke a leg on the piano. For fear it would return to accuse me. My life since has been one mask after another, Watford, Watkins, Watley, Watlow, Watson, Watt, now identity is gone, blown away, who am I, who knows?”

  Bane-Hipkiss begins to sob, cooling system switches on, city life a texture of mysterious noises, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, we win control of the physical environment only at the expense of the auditory, what if one were sensitive, what if one flinched in the dark? Mutant termites devouring puppet people at a great rate, decorations for the scientists, tasty nurse for young lieutenant, they will end it with a joke if possible, meaning: it was not real after all. Cheating exists on every level, the attempt to deny what the eye reveals, what the mind knows to be true. Bane-Hipkiss strains credulity, a pig in a poke, if not (6) or (1) am I prepared to deal with (2)? Shall there be solidarity? But weeping is beyond toleration, unnatural, it should be reserved for great occasions, the telegram in the depths of the night, rail disasters, earthquakes, war.

  “I hide from the priests” (my voice curiously tentative, fluting), “when I was the tallest boy in the eighth grade at Our Lady of the Sorrows they wanted me to go out for basketball, I would not, Father Blau the athletic priest said I avoided wholesome sport to seek out occasions of sin, in addition to the sin of pride, in addition to various other sins carefully enumerated before an interested group of my contemporaries.”

  Bane-Hipkiss brightens, ceases sobbing, me
anwhile film begins again, puppet people move once more against U. S. Army, they are invincible, Honest John is a joke, Hound Dog malfunctions, Wowser detonates on launching pad, flower smell stronger and sweeter, are they really growing underneath our feet, is time in truth passing?

  “Father Blau took his revenge in the confessional, he insisted on knowing everything. And there was much to know. Because I no longer believed as I was supposed to believe. Or believed too much, indiscriminately. To one who has always been overly susceptible to slogans they should never have said: You can change the world. I suggested to my confessor that certain aspects of the ritual compared unfavorably with the resurrection scene in Bride of Frankenstein. He was shocked.”

  Bane-Hipkiss pales, he himself is shocked.

  “But because he had, as it were, a vested interest in me, he sought to make clear the error of my ways. I did not invite this interest, it embarrassed me, I had other things on my mind. Was it my fault that in all that undernourished parish only I had secreted sufficient hormones, had chewed thoroughly enough the soup and chips that were our daily fare, to push head and hand in close proximity to the basket?”

  “You could have faked a sprained ankle,” Bane-Hipkiss says reasonably.

  “That was unfortunately only the beginning. One day in the midst of a good Act of Contrition, Father Blau officiating with pious malice, I leaped from the box and sprinted down the aisle, never to return. Running past people doing the Stations of the Cross, past the tiny Negro lady, somebody’s maid, our only black parishioner, who always sat in the very last row with a handkerchief over her head. Leaving Father Blau, unregenerate, with the sorry residue of our weekly encounter: impure thoughts, anger, dirty words, disobedience.”

  Bane-Hipkiss travels two seats nearer (why two at a time?), there is an edge to his voice. “Impure thoughts?”

  “My impure thoughts were of a particularly detailed and graphic kind, involving at that time principally Nedda Ann Bush who lived two doors down the street from us and was handsomely developed. Under whose windows I crouched on many long nights awaiting revelations of beauty, the light being just right between the bureau and the window. Being rewarded on several occasions, namely 3 May 1942 with a glimpse of famous bust, 18 October 1943, a particularly chill evening, transfer of pants from person to clothes hamper, coupled with three minutes’ subsequent exposure in state of nature. Before she thought to turn out the light.”

  “Extraordinary!” Bane-Hipkiss exhales noisily. It is clear that confession is doing him good in some obscure way. “But surely this priest extended some sort of spiritual consolation, counsel…”

  “He once offered me part of a Baby Ruth.”

  “This was a mark of favor?”

  “He wanted me to grow. It was in his own interest. His eye was on the All-City title.”

  “But it was an act of kindness.”

  “That was before I told him I wasn’t going out. In the dark box with sliding panels, faces behind screen as in Bighouse Baby, as in Mysterious House of Usher, he gave me only steadfast refusal to understand these preoccupations, wholly natural and good interest in female parts however illicitly pursued, as under window. Coupled with skilled questioning intended to bring forth every final detail, including self-abuse and compulsive overconsumption of Baby Ruths, Mars Bars, Butterfingers, significance of which in terms of sexual self-aggrandizement was first pointed out to me by this good and holy man.”

  Bane-Hipkiss looks disturbed, why not? it is a disturbing story, there are things in this world that disgust, life is not all Vistavision and Thunderbirds, even Mars Bars have hidden significance, dangerous to plumb. The eradication of risk is the work of women’s organizations and foundations, few of us, alas, can be great sinners.

  “Became therefore a convinced anticlerical. No longer loved God, cringed at words ‘My son,’ fled blackrobes wherever they appeared, pronounced anathemas where appropriate, blasphemed, wrote dirty limericks involving rhymes for ‘nunnery,’ was in fine totally alienated. Then it became clear that this game was not so one-sided as had at first appeared, that there was a pursuit.”

  “Ah…”

  “This was revealed to me by a renegade Brother of the Holy Sepulcher, a not overbright man but good in secret recesses of heart, who had been employed for eight years as cook in bishop’s palace. He alleged that on wall of bishop’s study was map, placed there were pins representing those in the diocese whose souls were at issue.”

  “Good God!” expletes Bane-Hipkiss, is there a faint flavor here of…

  “It is kept rigorously up-to-date by the coadjutor, a rather political man. As are, in my experience, most church functionaries just under episcopal rank. Paradoxically, the bishop himself is a saint.”

  Bane-Hipkiss looks incredulous. “You still believe in saints?”

  “I believe in saints,

  “Holy water,

  “Poor boxes,

  “Ashes on Ash Wednesday,

  “Lilies on Easter Sunday,

  “Crèches, censers, choirs,

  “Albs, Bibles, miters, martyrs,

  “Little red lights,

  “Ladies of the Altar Society,

  “Knights of Columbus,

  “Cassocks and cruets,

  “Dispensations and indulgences,

  “The efficacy of prayer,

  “Right Reverends and Very Reverends,

  “Tabernacles, monstrances,

  “Bells ringing, people singing,

  “Wine and bread,

  “Sisters, Brothers, Fathers,

  “The right of sanctuary,

  “The primacy of the papacy,

  “Bulls and concordats,

  “The Index, the Last Judgment,

  “Heaven and Hell,

  “I believe it all. It’s impossible not to believe. That’s what makes things so difficult.”

  “But then…”

  “It was basketball I didn’t believe in.”

  But there is more, it was the first ritual which discovered to me the possibility of other rituals, other celebrations, for instance Blood of Dracula, Amazing Colossal Man, It Conquered the World. Can Bane-Hipkiss absorb this nice theological point, that one believes what one can, follows that vision which most brilliantly exalts and vilifies the world? Alone in the dark one surrenders to Amazing Colossal Man all hope, all desire, meanwhile the bishop sends out his patrols, the canny old priests, the nuns on simple errands in stately pairs, I remember the year everyone wore black, what dodging into doorways, what obscene haste in crossing streets!

  Bane-Hipkiss blushes, looks awkward, shuffles feet, opens mouth to speak.

  “I have a confession.”

  “Confess,” I urge, “feel free.”

  “I was sent here.”

  Under their noses or in Tibet, they have agents even in the lamaseries.

  “That reminds me of something,” I state, but Bane-Hipkiss rises, raises hand to head, commands: “Look!” As Burligame shrinks he strips away his skin. Clever Bane-Hipkiss, now he has me, I sit gape-mouthed, he stands grinning with skin draped like dead dishrag over paw, he is white! I pretend imperturbability. “That reminds me, regarding the point I was making earlier, the film we are viewing is an interesting example…”

  But he interrupts.

  “Your position, while heretical, has its points,” he states, “but on the other hand we cannot allow the integrity of our operation to be placed in question, willy-nilly, by people with funny ideas. Father Blau was wrong, we get some lemons just like any other group. On the other hand if every one of our people takes it into his head to flee us, who will be saved? You might start a trend. It was necessary to use this” (holds up falseface guiltily) “to get close to you, it was for the health of your soul.”

  Barefaced Bane-Hipkiss rattles on, has Burligame at last been taken, must he give himself up? There is still the sign marked EXIT, into the John, up on the stool, out through the window. “I am empowered to use force,” he imparts,
frowning.

  “Regarding the point I was making earlier,” I state, “or beginning to make, the film we are watching is itself a ritual, many people view such films and refuse to understand what they are saying, consider the…”

  “At present I have more pressing business,” he says, “will you come quietly?”

  “No,” I affirm, “pay attention to the picture, it is trying to tell you something, revelation is not so frequent in these times that one can afford to diddle it away.”

  “I must warn you,” he replies, “that to a man filled with zeal nothing is proscribed. Zeal,” he states proudly, “is my middle name.”

  “I will not stir.”

  “You must.”

  Now Bane-Hipkiss moves lightly on little priest’s feet, sidewise through rows of seats, a cunning smile on face now revealed as hierarchical, hands clasped innocently in front of him to demonstrate purity of intent. Strange high howling noises, as in Night of the Blood Beast, fearful reddish cast to sky, as in It Conquered the World, where do they come from? The sweetness from beneath the seats is overpowering, I attempted to warn him but he would not hear, slip the case from jacket pocket, join needle to deadly body of instrument, crouch in readiness. Bane-Hipkiss advances, eyes clamped shut in mystical ecstasy, I grasp him by the throat, plunge needle into neck, his eyes bulge, his face collapses, he subsides quivering into a lump among the seats, in a moment he will begin barking like a dog.

  Most people haven’t the wit to be afraid, most view television, smoke cigars, fondle wives, have children, vote, plant gladiolus, iris, phlox, never confront Screaming Skull, Teenage Werewolf, Beast with a Thousand Eyes, no conception of what lies beneath the surface, no faith in any manifestation not certified by hierarchy. Who is safe in home with Teenage Werewolf abroad, with streets under sway of Beast with a Thousand Eyes? People think these things are jokes, but they are wrong, it is dangerous to ignore a vision, consider Bane-Hipkiss, he has begun to bark.

  Will You Tell Me?

  Hubert gave Charles and Irene a nice baby for Christmas. The baby was a boy and its name was Paul. Charles and Irene who had not had a baby for many years were delighted. They stood around the crib and looked at Paul; they could not get enough of him. He was a handsome child with dark hair, dark eyes. Where did you get him Hubert? Charles and Irene asked. From the bank, Hubert said. It was a puzzling answer, Charles and Irene puzzled over it. Everyone drank mulled wine. Paul regarded them from the crib. Hubert was pleased to have been able to please Charles and Irene. They drank more wine.