I Confess

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Yes?

  Why of course!

  For instance?

  I could kill a despot, a political despot. There are plenty of them around. I could steal into his palace, win his confidence, and kill him. Then I would be a hero and an oppressed people would breathe free again. There were a lot of oppressed people. In Europe and elsewhere. The only trouble was, I didn't know much about them and cared even less. Why the hell should I kill a despot? Plenty of them had already been killed and we had more than enough monuments. And what if my assassination failed? I'd be arrested and shot. And the fact that I had a tumor wouldn't do a damn thing for me. They wouldn't let me wait for the end, they'd move it forward a little. The idea of being shot wasn't pleasant. Maybe they'd hang

  me. And the people didn't even want to be freed. Most people had been freed too often. It was no fun any more.

  Of course I could offer myself to a researcher, as a guinea pig. He could try out a dangerous experiment on me. With some new serum. Against cancer. My picture would be in all the papers. "American film writer hero. Risks life to save humanity." Newsreel cameras at my bedside. "How do you feel, Mr. Chandler? Please give us a rundown of your impressions. Are you going to vote for Eisenhower if you recover?"

  KI recover!

  But let's say I do. The experiment is a success. The researcher gets the Nobel Prize. I get a medal. And a few months later I'm dead. If I'm lucky I don't take off my pants when they're giving me the medal because I have meanwhile become an exhibitionist. Maybe I do take them off. And create a scandal. And am institutionalized. Back to Dr. Kletterhohn, who'd be pleased to see me.

  Or a book.

  I could write a book. A good book. The book of the century. A book that would shake the world. The book for which millions of desperate people have been waiting. Yes, I could do that, // I could do it. But I can't. Because I'm nothing but a pitiful little man who is desperate, believes in nothing and is afraid, and can therefore write nothing but a desperate, fearful book. No. I don't think that's the solution.

  Then, of course, there was always the church. Some people I know consulted a priest and found out a lot of interesting things, after which they felt much calmer and happier. At least that's what they told me. But I don't know whether to believe what they told me; The dear Lord never did too well by me. Of course I could try it in spite of that. It might help. Perhaps I could find peace and still experience a beautiful white winter with Margaret at my side and with faith in God and his boundless mercy. But for the fact that I didn't want to spend another winter at Margaret's side. I didn't want to when my

  problem was not acute. Now it was acute. Now every day counted.

  So what did I really want? To live with someone else? Yolanda, for instance? I gave it some serious thought and recalled all the things I had done with Yolanda—the ecstasy, the crazy hours, but then other times—quarrels and cold implacable hatred. Hours that had been dull, empty, shallow. Hours when I couldn't stand her. To spend this last year with Yolanda? How did I know if she could take it? Perhaps she would disappear one day, as she had just done, after having told me she would kiU herself if I died. No, Yolanda wasn't the answer.

  Nothing was right. Nobody was right

  The lights went on and everybody was applauding wildly. The first act was over. I applauded too, roused a little out of my lethargy, but not very much. I never did wake up completely during the entire evening. I spoke to Margaret, to the Baxters; in the intermission I even walked in the foyer with them, but actually I remained seated in the dark recess of our box, thinking—what should I do next? I noticed Margaret looking at me anxiously several times. Every time she did so, I gave her a comforting smile. But as soon as the Kghts were turned down again and the play about the villainous villain went on, I sank once more into a dreamlike state, with a comforting sense of relief, just as sometimes, at night, or in trains, or in front of the fireplace in winter when it grows dark early, one recalls with nostalgia and almost pleasurable grief, the girls of long ago and things that happened in flowering meadows or silent gardens or cafes where they play soft miisic....

  I thought of home. I would have liked to go home in this last year, to the home of my youth and my parents. We had a beautiful large house and I was happy in it. But my parents were dead and the house was sold. Home. Where was home? In hotel rooms, at the studio, in a plane? With Yolanda? Or with Margaret? Or by myself? Wherever I was, I always longed to be somewhere else,

  and when I got there I longed to be back where I came from.

  To go somewhere else. To go alone. And if things didn't turn out the way I wanted, to try another place. There were plenty of places, if one had enough money.

  Did I have enough money?

  Not very much, really. I wished there were more. But I really couldn't count on getting any more. At least not honestly. Dishonestly? Yes. Perhaps. If I was willing to become a villain.

  If I was wilhng to become a villain, then I could go wherever I wanted, to any place, to any country. If I had enough money, everything in this last year that lay ahead would be simple. And it had to be simple. I couldn't stand a last year with difficulties. But it would be difficult without money. A man in my position needed money. For all sorts of things. In time, for morphine. I would need a lot of money for morphine. I hadn't really come to grips yet with my last months, but that I'd need a lot of money was clear. Especially if I wasn't going to be mentally sound.

  If I had money, everything would be easier. I would be free to be here today, somewhere else tomorrow, and nowhere long enough to be found and caught. And if one day I were to notice that I was molesting httle children or couldn't eat properly any more, then there was always morphine. Morphine would always be handy. The only thing I still needed was money.

  I opened my eyes.

  Margaret was staring at me strangely. I had the feeling she had been looking at me like this for quite some time. I smiled; she smiled back. The Baxters were watching the stage. The play was almost over. At Tamworth the sleeping king was being visited by the ghosts of his betrayed and murdered friends. They rose around.his tent, one after the other, in the fallow light of the room and whispered their curses. Buckingham's ghost leaned over Richard. "Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death: fainting, despair, despahring, yield thy breath!"

  That wasn't very nice. And King Richard didn't go on dreaming. He leapt to his feet and looked about him wildly. The ghosts were gone. Nothing moved, not on the stage, not in the audience. This was the big scene: "O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! The lights bum blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by."

  I leaned forward, fascinated, and recalled that we had read the play once in school, each one of us taking diflEer-ent parts. I had read Ratcliff, but I could remember the king's words. They crowded into my consciousness and I spoke them softly right along with Krauss, "Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why: lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good that I myself have done unto myself?"

  "Psst!" said two furious voices. I started. Indignant faces were staring at me from the box next to ours. I was silent and leaned back. I closed my eyes and heard the king's words, "I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; and if I die, no soul shall pity me: Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself find in myself no pity for myself?"

  The voice was silent. The blood was throbbing in my head, strong and warm. My blood. I was still aUve, and my blood said: Go away.

  Incessantly: Go away.

  The words intoxicated me.

  On the stage, Werner Krauss was screaming for a horse for which he was prepared to sacrifice his kingdom, and the blood coursing through my head, streaming around the glioblastoma, spilling over it, was saying: away. Far away.

  The curtain came down. T saw it as through a veil. Again wild
applause. The lights went on, people were shouting themselves hoarse for the great actor who had

  played Richard. He came up to the footlights and bowed over and over again. The applause would ndt die down. I was one of those who shouted loudest.

  "Wonderful!" yelled Ted Baxter. "Isn't he just wonderful?"

  "Yeah," I cried, clapping like mad. "He's great!" I looked down at the footlights. There was Werner Krauss, still bowing. Everybody saw him, only I didn't. In his place I saw someone else, saw him quite clearly and applauded him loudly. I saw myself. And I bowed before myself, who was applauding myself.

  31

  After that evening, things followed pretty fast. Next afternoon the doorbell rang. It was Dr. Kletterhohn. Dr. Eulenglas was with him. It hadn't been difficult for Dr. Kletterhohn to find out, by way of Dr. Eulenglas' clinic, where I Uved.

  At first both of them were very excited and worried about me, but I managed to calm them down with my controlled, almost blithe behavior. I promised not to do anything rash (as Eulenglas put it) and to come for my first x-ray treatment in a few days. I had no intention of keeping my promise because I had quite different plans, but it seemed to reassure both of them. Margaret, too, calmed down. I told Kletterhohn that I was sincerely sorry to have deceived him, and he accepted my apology. When I promised to get the picture with Alan Ladd's autograph for his colleague, he looked at me almost fearfully. He seemed to find my behavior weird.

  lii the afternoon I called a certain number. I had to try

  again. Again I was connected with the service. Yolanda had disappeared.

  My second call was not in vain. I made both calls from a booth near the streetcar stop Grosslesselohe. I had my car; Margaret had calmed down suflBiciently to let me drive into the city alone.

  "Hello," said a voice, after I had dialed the second number.

  "Hello. Chandler speaking.'*

  A short silence, then Mordstem said softly, "Yes, Mr, Chandler?" I had the feeling that I was disturbing him.

  "May I come by for a moment?"

  "Yes, of course," he said, hesitantly. "What do you want to see me about?"

  "You made me an offer the other day," I began, but he interrupted me.

  "Aha," he said with animation now. "You have reached the point?"

  "That's what I'd Uke to talk to you about."

  "All right. When would you like to come?"

  "May I come now?"

  Again he hesitated, then he said, "How long will it take you?"

  "I can be there in ten minutes."

  "Very good."

  He lived in the Schwanthalerstrasse, near the main station. I had his address. It was a beautiful, sunny, autumn day and the warmth made me feel good. I took the elevator to the fifth floor and rang the doorbell -under the name Mordstein.

  He opened the door himself. He was elegant, as usual, and was wearing a red and blue striped robe. "Come in," he said and led me into a pleasantly furnished bachelor apartment. A window was open and the street noises could be heard softly from below. I looked around me.

  "Please sit down."

  "Are you alone?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I was only asking," I said. I had the distinct feeling that somebody else was in the apartment. I couldn't put my finger on why I felt this, but it didn't leave me. It wasn't an uneasy feeling but rather one that gave me a certain dreary satisfaction. There was somebody else in the apartment. I knew it. But he said there wasn't, so what could I do about it?

  Mordstein offered me cigarettes, cognac. I accepted both. Then he sat down beside me. "So you want papers."

  I nodded.

  "Didn't I say the first time we met that you'd be coming to me?"

  "Yes. I've thought about that. How did you know?"

  "I have a sort of sixth sense," he said. "Are the papers for yourself or for someone else as well?" He asked the question with a strangely sharp look.

  "Just for me."

  "You're married, aren't you?" he asked politely.

  "That has nothing to do with it," I repUed curtly.

  At that moment I heard a door close. I jumped to my feet and looked at him, startled. "What was that?"

  "A door closing. Why?" He remained seated.

  "You said you were alone."

  "That's right."

  "But the door "

  "It was the door to the next apartment." He took a sip of his drink but didn't move. I ran quickly into the foyer. It was empty. I opened the front door. There was no one in the hall. I listened but could hear no steps. As I walked back to Mordstein, slowly and a little ashamed, I felt the dreary satisfaction grow stronger. When I got back to the room, I was shivering.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm nervous."

  "That's all right. So what do you need?"

  "A passport, a birth certificate and a certificate of domicile."

  "American?"

  "No."

  "German?"

  "Austrian."

  He looked at me, astonished. Now he was smiling a little. "Forgive my amusement, Mr. Chandler, but isn't that a rather pecuUar request?"

  "I have given it a lot of thought," I said. "And by the way—^if I hear from any quarter whatsoever that you haven't treated this conversation with absolute discretion, I shall deny it. You have no witnesses."

  He shook his head. "Come, come, Mr. Chandler, what do you take me for? After all, this is my profession. I'm not going to put myself in jail. You have certainly never been here, even if it should occur to you to say you have."

  "Don't you want to know why I need the papers?"

  "No," he said. "But if you want Austrian papers, then we must also get you an ID card or you won't get across the demarcation line into the Russian Zone."

  "All right."

  "And what is the name to be?"

  I recalled my visit to the wigmaker. "Walter Frank," I said.

  "Very well." He emptied his glass. "Married?"

  "No."

  "Children?"

  "No."

  "Profession?"

  "Whatever you like. But nothing to do with the arts."

  "Residence?"

  "I thmk Vienna would be best."

  "Bom?"

  "Also in Vienna."

  "Age."

  "Middle forties."

  He nodded again. "All right, Mr. Chandler."

  "Aren't you going to write anything down?"

  "Never," he said.

  "May I have a cognac?"

  He handed me the bottle. "Parents, profession, etc. at my discretion. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  "Did you bring passport pictures?"

  "Yes." I gave them to him. He looked at them sharply, then stuck them in his pocket.

  "By the way, how did your examination turn out?" he asked abruptly.

  "Thank you. Very well," I said, surprised.

  "I'm glad to hear that. So you're in good health?"

  "Perfect."

  "Very good," he said in a disinterested tone and smiled politely.

  I don't know why I told him, but it was bom of the dreariness which had held me in its grip ever since I had come to him. "Listen, Mr. Mordstein," I said softly. "I am not well. I have a terminal illness and in a year I will be dead."

  "I'm sorry about that," he said in the same disinterested tone. He cleared his throat. "What do you want to give me as a down payment?"

  "What will the documents cost?"

  "I can't say yet."

  "Approximately,"

  "Approximately six thousand," he said curtly. I had counted on eight thousand.

  "Good," I said. "Then I'll give you two thousand now."

  He counted the bills, then pocketed them.

  "When can I have the papers?"

  "In five days."

  "On Saturday, then?" I said.

  "On Saturday."

  "Can I rely on that? I've got to know."

  "You can rely on it if you bring the money."

  I nodded.


  "Yes» the money," I repeated, and looked him in the

  eye. ^Would you be interested in another business transaction, Mordstein?"

  "I am always interested in business transactions," he said. "What did you have in mind?"

  "Money."

  "What money?"

  "Money that belongs to me," I said. "German marks. A large amount."

  "And what am I supposed to do?"

  "You could help me exchange them for Austrian schillings."

  He looked at me curiously but didn't say anything. Instead he smiled broadly.

  "WeU?"

  "How much money is involved?"

  "How much could you handle?"

  "That depends. At what rate of exchange?"

  "Six," I said.

  "Five," he said.

  After some back and forth we settled for five point eight.

  "How do I get the money in Austria? You can't transfer it legally."

  "I shall give you the address of a friend. You will pay the money here, into an account I shall designate, and when you get to Austria you will show him the receipt and get your schillings."

  "And where does your friend live?"

  "There are several."

  "Does one of them live in Vienna?"

  "Yes."

  *Then let's use hun."

  "Very weU."

  "One moment." I raised my hand. '"What guarantee do I have that I'll get the money in Vienna after I've paid you the amount here?"

  "You have me."

  "I know."

  "And that doesn't suffice?"

  "No," I said. "I'd like to suggest the following: I put the amount, in marks, in a package, and leave it in the checking office in the station. I take the ticket with me to Vienna. When I have the schillings, your friend gets the ticket."

  He thought for a moment, then grinned. "That's all right with me. It's a nice idea."

  "I thought about it all night."

  "And what is the amount?"

  "Forty thousand marks."

  He sat still and smiled. Then he looked at the cognac glass he was holding in his hand and twisted it. "You're an interesting person, Mr. Chandler," he said finally.