The room was silent.
“Very well, then,” the doctor said. He took his notes from the lectern and tucked them snugly under his arm. Then he turned, his eyes catching those of the vermin who stood motionlessly before him. And at that moment, something of the past, something of a nobler and kinder world rose quite accidentally within him, odd and out of place, astonishing as an open book on a hangman’s scaffold. It was a simple gesture: he bowed quickly to the vermin, in the same courtly way with which he might have excused himself from a men’s club. “Thank you,” he said.
The vermin stared at him, his eyes taking on a certain incomprehensible light, as if with a mere clapping of his hands he might suddenly change all of this, as if the amphitheater, the grinning, black-booted students, the contrived biology were as frail as papier-mâché, a stage set for some outlandish farce upon which, for some perverse reason, the curtain refused to fall.
In the Royal Chapel that rests within the shadow of the Tower of London, the lords and ladies of the realm came to pray before they were executed. Victims of court intrigue, ensnared by their ambition, they yet retained a certain reverence for style. And so they came to this small, elegant chapel, dressed in their finest attire, looking like the splendid lords and ladies of the court. And here, in the Royal Chapel, they bowed their heads in futile prayer. The block stood outside the chapel door, and beside it, the executioner in his black hood. He must have heard their mutterings, must have heard the soft crinkle of the great, broad skirts as the ladies bowed, then rose, must have heard the muffled pad of their stockinged feet as they moved toward the door, then opened it to face him. At that moment he must have seen their eyes widen, then contract, as they watched his hooded head or stared at the broadaxe nestled in his arms. Did he nod to them? Did he bow? Did he perhaps say, from beneath the anonymity of the hood, “Thank you, my lady, for not detaining me too long”?
The vermin nodded politely to the doctor and stared at him, hollow-eyed. Then two officers stepped forward briskly, each taking one of the vermin’s arms, and escorted him from the room.
“Please forgive my rudeness,” Schoen said to Langhof in that groveling manner of his.
Langhof watched the vermin disappear behind the door at the front of the room. The doctor remained near his lectern, his eyes perusing a large chart upon which the human skeleton was displayed.
Doubtless, there are certain moments in certain human lives when the intelligence, formerly scattered and disconnected, suddenly forms itself into a thin, firm blade and begins the process of ripping into all the vagaries and seductions that surround it. Proust bites into a madeleine or stumbles on uneven paving stones, and the world shifts into focus. A man is walking with his child, the child lurches from the curb in front of a passing automobile, and suddenly the man sees each person’s isolation, each person’s helplessness, sees the mechanics of faith and the structure of purpose dissolve before his eyes. There was nothing to seize the child or swerve the car. Nothing. Only the impact of matter against matter, a child’s head against a headlight; only metal moving at a certain velocity toward the delicate tissue of brain and bone. At such a moment, even the least lonely feels utterly alone. What is left is only the sullen recognition and an overwhelming sadness.
But was it this emasculating sadness that Langhof felt as he stood among his fellows and watched the vermin disappear behind the great oak door of the amphitheater?
No. Not sadness. Not pity. Only the terror that comes with the first, awesome comprehension of our infinite capacity for contradictions: the hard, irreducible fact that a man could humiliate another man with a wooden pointer and yet retain the sense of high civility that decrees a polite bow and a crisp “Thank you” at the end of the display. It seemed to Langhof that a creature capable of such ideological gymnastics was truly fearful. For if the Special Section doctor was capable of such ambidexterousness, who else might be capable of it? Schoen? Of course. Trottman? Yes. But what about Goethe? Beethoven? The scientist in our hero affirmed the undeniable, that it is a universal capacity. Nor was it only a question of ignorance. Schoen might be overwhelmed by the imbecilic biology of the regime, but no one, it seemed to Langhof, could claim immunity from this greater lunacy.
Given this new recognition, what was our frightened philosopher to do? Perhaps he could announce his discovery — run about in the streets, grab astonished pedestrians by their shirt collars, shake them, shout in their faces, “Can’t you see? It’s not safe to be in this world! It’s not safe to live among us! Men are not only stupid, they are inconsistent!” How trite an observation, how comic. How horrible its implications.
What, then, did our hero of the intellect do with this frightening new intelligence?
Nothing. Except to pursue the science of hygiene and carefully brush the twin lightning bolts on his uniform lapel.
FATHER MARTÍNEZ lightly brushes the shoulder of his cassock as he creaks up the stairs of my verandah. At the top he leans on a briar cane that he hopes will someday be an archbishop’s crosier. He smiles. “These stairs are becoming more difficult for me, it seems.”
I point to the chair opposite me. “Rest yourself, Father.”
Father Martínez struggles over to the chair and eases himself into it. A rim of dust coats his upper lip like a faint, brown mustache. “I hope I find you well, Don Pedro,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Good, good,” Father Martínez says. He nods slowly, rhythmically, like the tolling of a bell. He watches me for a moment but says nothing. What he wishes to know he will never ask: How did you end up in the Camp? What did you see? Dear God, what did you do?
The silence grows awkward and he breaks it. “How is Dr. Ludtz? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him in quite some time.”
“He has a slight fever, I’m afraid.”
“Fever, yes,” Father Martínez says. “It’s going around the whole province.” He takes his shovel hat and places it on his lap. There is only a hint of gray in his hair, for he is not an old man, though he would like to be one. For him, the idea of the aging, kindly priest serves as the perfect symbol of holiness. He wishes to age into saintliness, to grow ancient in the jungle, so that his long years of selflessness and humility might be noticed by his papal superiors.
“You are well, Father?” I ask.
“Me? Yes, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Of course, the fever is rampant in the village. We’ve even had some problems with hallucinations. The fever causes them, I suppose.”
“Nothing that can’t be handled, I hope.”
Father Martínez shakes his head. “No, nothing we can’t handle. A few women claimed they saw curious visions. Devils, that sort of thing. But nothing serious, Don Pedro.”
“Would you like some refreshment, Father?”
“No, thank you, Don Pedro. I don’t have long to stay.” He watches me again, the silence lengthening. “Actually, I’ve come on a mission of sorts,” he says after a moment.
“A mission?”
“Yes,” Father Martínez says. “And a successful one, I hope.”
“What sort of mission, Father?”
He looks at me worriedly. “Well, it has to do with the orphanage, Don Pedro.”
“I see.”
“You know, the one in the village,” Father Martínez explains unnecessarily. He smiles. “You’ve seen it. Your generous gifts helped to build it, if you recall.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m afraid so, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says sadly. “And, as always, it has to do with money. The fact is, we’ve run out of money to buy medicine.”
“I understand,” I tell him. He comes to me often with his requests, believing that I cannot turn him down because my life is steeped in crime. And so I must give in a spirit of atonement, must give money like a palmer’s withered leaves.
“The situation has become quite serious, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez adds.
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I knew you would be.”
“How much do you need, Father?”
Father Martínez almost flinches at the directness of my question. For people to offer so readily diminishes the laboriousness of his labor, and therefore the glory of his martyrdom.
“Well …” he stammers, “the exact figure. I don’t know.”
“An approximation, then.”
He gives me a paltry estimate. He could ask for many times more, but that would make his periodic trips unnecessary. Although he wants the money I can give him, he wants my confession more, and he believes that ultimately, on one of his little sorties against the obstinacy of my soul, I will break down and give it to him.
I offer three times the figure he has named. “I hope this will keep you in medicine for quite some time, Father,” I tell him.
Father Martínez’s eyes widen. “So much, Don Pedro! So generous! Please, I could not accept such a large amount.”
“I am an old man, Father, what do I need it for?”
Father Martínez looks at me sorrowfully. If I should die, he would be denied the only really noteworthy conversion in El Caliz. “Really, it is too much, Don Pedro.”
“Take it with my blessing, Father.”
“With great thanks, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says finally, and with great disappointment.
“I hope it will be of help, Father.”
“Much help, thank you, Don Pedro.”
“Good.”
Father Martínez does not move. He looks as if something has been skillfully stolen from him.
“Is there something else you wanted, Father?”
Father Martínez looks at me. His hands move nervously in his lap, like fish flopping about. “Don Pedro,” he begins cautiously, “I wonder if you would ever consider coming to the parish church?”
I feel something unspeakably cold skating in my blood. “For what purpose, Father?”
Father Martínez blinks rapidly. “Purpose, Don Pedro?”
“For what purpose should I come?”
“Well, I … for your own …”
“What?”
“Betterment, Don Pedro.”
“It is a long trip for an old man, Father,” I tell him. For years they have swarmed over the bloated carcass of the Republic in their black soutanes and dusty hats. I have seen them come and go, come and go. And some have done much goodness while they watched the jungle roll in its immemorial butchery. But all have died within the immense, consuming fog of their faith’s mystification.
“The journey to the village is not so bad, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says lightly. “I make it quite often, as you must know.”
“You are not old, Father.”
Father Martínez looks at me as if I have insulted him. “True,” he says, reluctantly giving in to the distance between himself and the grace of age. He takes a deep breath. “Well, it was only a suggestion.”
“One that I appreciate, Father,” I tell him.
Father Martínez’s face brightens: “I’m told that you are a friend of the Archbishop.”
“You are misinformed, I’m afraid.”
Father Martínez’s smile collapses. “Really? Misinformed? I’m sorry. I had heard that you and His Eminence were quite close.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, Father,” I tell him. “There are many false stories about me in El Caliz.”
Father Martínez watches me curiously, trying to determine which of the many stories he must have heard about me are true. “Well,” he says, “since you are the only European in El Caliz, I suppose that …”
“Yes. That must explain the stories, Father.”
Father Martínez smiles weakly. “I’m sure it does, Don Pedro.”
“I’ll send Juan with my offering tomorrow, Father,” I tell him.
“The children will be most grateful, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says. “Perhaps we could give you something as an act of appreciation.”
“That is unnecessary, Father.”
“But only as a gesture, Don Pedro.”
“Let them run and play, Father. Let them be healthy. That will be their gift to me.”
“But perhaps I could have them make something for you,” Father Martínez insists.
If they made something for me, then he would be required to bring it to me. This is what he wants. “No, Father,” I tell him firmly, “I will not accept any gifts from the children.”
“Then from me, Don Pedro?”
“No.”
He looks at me as if I have slipped a blade between his ribs. “As you wish, Don Pedro,” he says softly, lowering his eyes. He is a master of the aggrieved gesture.
“If you require anything else, Father, please let me know.”
Father Martínez raises his eyes. “Thank you, Don Pedro.” He pauses, watching me. “And if you ever require anything from me — any of my services — I hope that you will also let me know.”
I smile. “I will, Father.”
Father Martínez glances at the ridges in the distance. “The sun will be setting soon.”
“Yes.”
“I’d better get back to the village before dark.”
“I understand.”
Father Martínez rises from his chair. “The night is comforting, don’t you think?”
“No.”
Father Martínez looks at me with a mildly fearful expression, as if I were some relic from a torture chamber. “But at least there’s sleep,” he says.
I rise and offer my hand. “Let me know if I can be of any assistance to you, Father. As you can see, I have much to share.”
“Thank you, Don Pedro,” Father Martínez says. He turns toward the stairs.
“I hope you have a safe journey,” I tell him.
Father Martínez glances over his shoulder quickly, as if a threat is hidden in my remark. “Safe? Oh, yes. Well, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening, Don Pedro.”
He makes his way down the stairs, stooping slightly over his cane, assuming the bent attitude of the holy old man. At the bottom of the stairs he turns toward me. “Thank you so very much, Don Pedro,” he says.
“De nada.”
He offers me a telling look that he hopes will somehow sear my soul, somehow raise it to life again.
“It will be evening soon, Father,” I tell him. “Your children are waiting for you.”
The pointed look recoils into his face and something like muted resentment takes its place. “Yes, I must go,” he says. “Give my best to Dr. Ludtz.”
“I will, Father.”
He turns quickly and walks away, a small wind slightly lifting the hem of his skirt.
There was a time when I was tempted to make my way down to the little mud cathedral over which Father Martínez now presides. I was tempted, so very tempted, to lay prone before the altar, my arms outstretched in an attitude of crucifixion. There was a time when it would have been so very easy to split myself open and bathe my soul in the healing light of faith. But what would have come from so self-serving a conversation? Only the acceptance of an illusion that went no farther than myself, that animated nothing, bestowed nothing, taught nothing but the endless repetition of itself. I would have become no more than the vessel of a catechismal chant, a disembodied voice calling some great, imagined tongue down to lick my wounds. But I have come to know that mine are not the wounds that matter, and that even if they were, they are long past mending by priestly ministration delivered in a sacerdotal haze. For in the acceptance of that delusional comfort I would find my soul’s repose, and in such repose the seed of yet another crime.
AT THE END of day here in the Republic, the sun drops slowly through a cloud of heat like a ruby through a tube of oil. Across the river, the wind begins its ghost waltz with the trees, pressing against them like a proud but subtle lover. There is never snow here, except, they say, in the northern provinces, wh
ere it comes only at the most telling moment, when lovers part or old men die by the window. At such times, it is said to come in huge flakes, drifting as languorously as goose down and remaining, unmeltable, until the symbol has run its course. But in El Caliz, heat is the only metaphor we have.
Juan passes below me, stooped, weary. For him, all metaphorical embellishment is reduced to the thick, dark humus of his impregnable superstitiousness. He lives utterly without benefit of subtlety, responding only to gods and demons who are wholly visible to him. They drown the fields, bake the stream beds, humiliate the orchids. They dispense blessings or maliciously withhold them. Walking through the jungle toward his home, Juan seems to merge with the engulfing brush, a perfect natural man, Rousseau’s boyish dream, a simple, humble peasant who could only be accused of crime in some distant, dreamed-of world where men are expected to despise all manner of delusion.
In the Special Section, they taught us to sink all of our petty, personal illusions in the smudgy, boiling cauldron of a great one.
“Allow me to extend my personal congratulations,” Dr. Trottman said. He smiled heartily. “A very distinguished record, Herr Langhof. But wait. I suppose I must address you as Dr. Langhof from now on.”
The distinguished graduate allowed himself a moment of harmless banter. “That would be appropriate, I think,” he said with mock haughtiness.
Dr. Trottman seized Langhof’s hand and shook it vigorously. “You will bring great credit to yourself, Doctor,” he said, his speech still retaining the arch formality of the professorial classes.
“That is my hope, Dr. Trottman,” our hero said.
And so Peter Langhof became a doctor. Langhof, the little boy who watched impassively as the blood trickled from his father’s temple, who could not stand his mother’s strudel, who spoke harshly to the butcher who later became his stepfather. Langhof, who found Anna and then lost her, who stood in the park and felt the first blessing of the stars, who wished to clean himself in the study of hygiene, who loved science and distinguished himself in gymnasium, university, and medical school. Our hero Langhof, who came to manhood in the Special Section, who was given an appointment at the Institute of Hygiene and then later reassigned to a place he calls the Camp. He, the catastrophic I, who later escaped as the cannons neared, who found his way to Switzerland and then to the southern provinces of the Republic by way of boat and burro and a battered little box of diamonds. He, Langhof, our beneficent Don Pedro, who sits white-haired in the sunset of El Caliz and who speaks with admirable detachment of the unspeakable.
The Orchids Page 9
