Asylum

by André Alexis

  As Rundstedt and Gudrun sat at their table by the stage, the women shook their plaid skirts, then lifted them to reveal white, crotchless bloomers: their vaginal lips lightly rouged or naturally scarlet.

  – I have heard, said Gudrun, this is the best bar. Is it all right?

  – Yeah, said Rundstedt. Okay.

  He had certainly been to a strip club before, though not with a woman. This, he thought, would be much like the others: raucous, entertaining, a pleasant lieu for a drink, though the music was not to his taste. And so it seemed, until the dancers crouched, spread their legs, and invited spectators to the side of the stage so they might enjoy more proximate views of pudenda. This was unexpected, as were the magnifying glasses used by some of the patrons for an even closer look.

  Gudrun, one of a dozen female customers at the Cosey Corner, got up from the table, once she had ordered her Pink Lady. She approached the stage matter of factly, taking up a magnifying glass that lay there and inspecting a dancer’s vagina. She did it in a way Rundstedt thought typically German: with disinterest, as if to (exhaling) say

  – Yes, yes. It is a vagina.

  Smiling, one eyebrow arched, she turned to give the magnifying glass to Rundstedt, only to discover he had not followed her to the side of the stage. She held it out to him, as if it were simply his turn and, in that instant, Rundstedt felt it was most natural to step up to the stage and examine the lips of a woman’s vagina. He did so as a Canadian might, however: slightly embarrassed, putting on a brave but mocking face, as if to say

  – Well, yes. I guess it is a vagina.

  Not quite comfortable, under the circumstances, but aware that this evening, these circumstances, would make for good conversation. (The evening was one he longed to share with Edwina, but he would, when the time came, tell it his own way.) When he had finished not-quite looking at the woman’s pudendum, Rundstedt returned to the table to drink his beer and keep company with Gudrun.

  Rundstedt had not inspected the dancers with the polite enthusiasm the white-shirted Osakans did, but he felt he had been respectful of Japan, its customs, its inhabitants and, feeling this way, he relaxed. He gave his full attention to Gudrun, who, once she’d seen what the Cosey Corner had to offer, turned her attention to Rundstedt. In this way, they managed to recover something of the closeness they had discovered in Paris.

  (How odd that two strange cities, Paris and Osaka, should afford him such intense intimacy; a gift, one felt. It’s true he would have preferred to be somewhere he knew, but the presence of a woman with whom he was at ease made even Osaka seem familiar.)

  They spoke of nothing too troubling: fate, its unpredictable underpinnings, Japanese beer, its inferiority to German brew, the collegiate atmosphere in which they found themselves. Until, finally, when it was time to go, and Gudrun had, in jest, bought for Rundstedt the panties of a dark-haired stripper, they wandered back to the hotel and, as she had in Paris, Gudrun invited him to her room.

  He demurred and then relented.

  They spent another night together, talking, on the verge of sleep, though here in Osaka she teased him for his prudishness. Had he not just spent the evening at a burlesque club? Would he not make himself comfortable? Would he be troubled by her nakedness?

  – Well, no, I guess not…, he answered.

  So Gudrun took off her clothes and sat on her narrow bed as they spoke. Curiously, Rundstedt was, on this night, not at all attracted to Gudrun. He was not tempted to rise from the narrow chair facing her, to sit beside her on the bed. This was curious, to Rundstedt, because, despite her cropped hair, she was the most beautiful woman he had seen that night. Her body was, no doubt about it, strikingly desirable and, every once in a while, she would touch his arm (to emphasize a point) or absentmindedly touch one of her breasts (while speaking of her life). Yet, Rundstedt was convinced of the innocence of her gestures and deeply impressed by the ease of her nudity. Gudrun could not have seemed more chaste and friendly if she had been draped in flannel.

  There was only one moment when he felt discomfort, but it was a moment he would remember for the rest of his life: Gudrun had begun to talk of her childhood when, after an unexpected shift in her mood, she confessed she had been molested by an uncle, Georg, her mother’s brother, who’d made her sit on his knees in a certain way, and face him so she could fasten the buttons of his shirt that, when they were alone, always seemed to be undone. A sad story. And then Gudrun seemed to lose herself and, before he could say or do anything, she rose from the bed, sat astride his knees, unfastened his shirt buttons and fastened them again, all the while imitating the sounds her uncle had made so many years ago. Rundstedt was genuinely distressed. If he’d felt any desire for her, it would have been crushed by her demonstration. Not that Gudrun seemed to notice. When she had finished buttoning his shirt, she laughed in a melancholy way and returned to her bed. She had forgiven her uncle long ago, or so she said. It was some time before she spoke to Rundstedt again, and when she did she hid her legs with a coverlet.

  (And isn’t it odd, the familiarity one allows without consenting. Had he been asked, before entering Gudrun’s room, if he would care to participate in a re-enactment of abuse and incest, he would almost certainly have said

  – No

  but he had entered and, in entering, he had accepted the terms of a contract with which he was somewhat familiar. In the past, Gudrun Lindemann had been friendly, naked, and nostalgic. So, he could not now (or later) claim he hadn’t expected her familiarity, nudity, or nostalgia. Whatever he did or did not expect, however, the moments when Gudrun undressed, sat on his lap, and relived her past were moments of pure betrayal. And all her art consisted in having duplicity pass for closeness.)

  Rundstedt left Gudrun’s room just before dawn: pleased by his restraint, convinced he now knew Gudrun as well as he had known anyone, and that she knew him in his stuttering, inarticulate, and vulnerable depths, because he had finally managed to speak of himself, of his own life, with someone who, unlike Edwina, did not know it as well as he did. And he felt this communion with her as a communion with all he was and might be: an exhilarating night, despite Uncle Georg, a night of true feeling, in which he encountered himself through the intercession of Gudrun.

  He returned to her room eight hours later, because he had forgotten the souvenir she’d bought him, and because she had not told him her plans for the day and he hoped to spend time with a woman with whom he was, whatever else one might have said, well acquainted.

  She was not in her room.

  He returned to her door periodically for four hours before, finally, asking for her at the desk.

  She had checked out at seven.

  No, she had not left word for Mr. Rundstedt.

  Rather, yes, she had, perhaps, as there was an envelope for Mr. Rundstedt: oversized, manila, closed with red string wound about a red-paper button, his name neatly written in Gudrun’s hand. How strange the premonitions of disaster. When he took the envelope, it was five in the afternoon and Rundstedt was, finally, hungry. He had slept until noon. He had been distracted by thoughts of Gudrun, but now, with her envelope in his hand, he thought of food, a return to the place they’d been the night before, if he could remember its name. He thought, in other words, of ways to avoid opening an envelope that, in some part of his soul, he knew to be trouble. There was something about the handwriting. He could not have said why, but Gudrun’s handwriting disturbed him. She had written his name plainly, precisely, but as if she were writing it for someone else. A ridiculous thought, yet he did not open the envelope at the front desk or in the elevator. He opened it in his own room, but only after he had showered and shaved and put on clothes for the evening.

  In the envelope there were two photographs of himself and Gudrun. In the first, he was in the chair while she sat astride him, naked, his hand on her waist where she held it. In the second, he and Gudrun were in the Cosey
Corner: he was smiling stiffly, as he examined the pudendum of a plaid-skirted dancer.

  On the back of the photographs, the date and locations where the pictures had been taken were written in Gudrun’s neat, impersonal hand. It was as if she herself were not implicated in the pictures though there she was (Gudrun Lindemann, if that was her name), her expression jubilant in both photographs. It looked as if she were having a wonderful time.

  And they say the camera doesn’t lie.

  Rundstedt did not remember Gudrun looking as she looked in these photographs. In fact, the difference between his perspective and the perspective revealed by the photographs was, at first, a source of puzzlement. He tried to imagine the vantage from which the photographs had been taken.

  Where had the photographer hidden?

  In the first picture, it was as if the photographer had been on the ceiling above him. Rundstedt’s face was clearly visible. Gudrun’s back was to the camera, but she was in profile: her left nipple visible, her eyes closed, her tongue slightly protruding. In its way, it was a perfect picture. You could see Rundstedt had kept his shirt on, but you could not see if he still wore pants. Even to Rundstedt, it looked as though he and Gudrun were sexually engaged. This picture alone would have been trouble, but no doubt there were others, taken from the same camera, or from another in the same room.

  The second picture had been taken by someone just behind them, but as the bar had been crowded, it could have been anyone at all, from the waitress to the patrons. Here, too, it would be surprising if there were not more photos very like this one with him bent forward, peering at a young woman’s genitals, and smiling like a…What would Edwina say? An ignorant chicken farmer, a plucking idiot.

  Along with the photographs, there was a short letter, neatly written of course:

  Dear Mr. Rundstedt,

  I hope you will enjoy the pictures.

  We will meet again in Vancouver, Canada, on

  October 15, 1988, at 5 p.m.:

  Hotel Georgia

  801 West Georgia Street

  I am sorry we will not talk before then, but it is very important for you to be at this hotel, at the correct time.

  Yours truly,

  Gudrun Lindemann

  The months passed, months during which he threw himself into his work. And here it was, October already, and Rundstedt was in the midst of an arduous campaign. Arduous, because it might go either way. (“Either way” for the Conservative Party, not Rundstedt. Rundstedt was so far ahead in the polls, it would be difficult for him to lose, were it not for Gudrun, were it not for this business in Vancouver.) Arduous, because he was afraid his world could collapse at any time. (He tried to think of other things but, every so often, he imagined the worst: a newspaper on whose front page was a picture of his face poised over the neatly trimmed pelt of a young woman.) Arduous because, for the first time in his life, he was not convinced of his suitedness to serve. (He had been genuinely attracted to Gudrun Lindemann. He had allowed himself to play at a fire set for him. So, you know: whither judgement? But, wait, was he really idealist enough to wonder if a corrupt man could serve the good without corrupting it? Yes, he was, though he knew any number of corrupt men who had, despite themselves, served “the good.” It was late in the day to discover such raw idealism in himself and positively disturbing to experience the insecurity it brought here, on the campaign trail, where he had never been anything but confident.)

  The most gnawing and distracting aspect of his predicament, however, was the lassitude he felt where Vancouver was concerned, lassitude despite the memento he’d been couriered: panties from the dancer at Cosey Corner. It was as if, whenever he thought of Vancouver, a great, grey weight were on him, dampening his emotions, tiring him out. Vancouver should have been an easy decision. He had worked for years to achieve what he had. He had the confidence of everyone. Martin Brian himself had shaken his hand, clapped him on the shoulder, and treated him like a friend. He was a great man, was Brian, and the party was now, only now, a servant of the people: east, west, and all points between. He, Rundstedt, belonged. He wanted to belong to the Progressive Conservative Party. So, Vancouver should have been an occasion to discover the nature of Gudrun’s menace, to find what could be salvaged and at what cost.

  And yet…

  He was not interested in Vancouver, not interested in Gudrun. Though it would mean the end of public life, the end of belonging to the PC, Rundstedt seriously considered avoiding Vancouver, avoiding October 15, and dealing with the consequences later. He believed his life was worth certain sacrifices. He would, if he could, spare his wife and family the humiliation of a public disgrace. Then again, he would not do so irrespective of price. (Again, what an unfortunate time to discover such principles in himself.) He would give money, a little, if that was what Ms. Lindemann wanted but, really, that was all he would give and as he suspected Ms. Lindemann was after more than money, he thought it useless to go to Vancouver, head bowed, like a mourner at the funeral of his public life.

  He went, though. He contrived reasons to be in Vancouver and went alone, waking up early, on the morning of October 15, to write letters, go over speeches, and talk to his campaign manager, the good Mr. Yanovsky, who believed Rundstedt was in Vancouver visiting a bedridden acquaintance. Rundstedt was at the Empire Landmark, but at 4:45 p.m. he stood outside the Georgia, entering the lobby at 5:00 exactly, precisely on time for the first time in his life.

  He was disappointed. Ms. Lindemann was nowhere to be seen. He gave her five minutes, and then called up to her room from the front desk.

  – Yes, hello?

  It was a man’s voice: foreign accent, but unrecognizable.

  – Gudrun Lindemann, please.

  – Ah. You are Mr. Rundstedt.

  (“Rundstedt” spoken in the German way.)

  – Yes.

  – Wonderful to hear your voice. Would you care to come up to the room?

  – No, I wouldn’t, said Rundstedt.

  Pause.

  – I’ll come down then, shall I?

  – Sure, if you want to. Where’s Gudrun?

  – Ah, you see, Ms. Lindemann is not here.

  – Then there’s nothing to say.

  – No, no. I think there is, Mr. Rundstedt. There is much to say, if you’ll allow me a few minutes of your time, yes? I want to talk about certain photographs, and to put your mind at ease, you see?

  It surprised him to say so, but Rundstedt said

  – We don’t have anything to talk about.

  The voice on the other end of the line grew more ironic. You could hear the smirk in it.

  – Come, come, Mr. Rundstedt. This is not what you think. Besides, you owe your family and your party to listen. I will not be long. Stay in the lobby. I know what you look like. I have seen your picture.

  With that, the man hung up. And Rundstedt, though he knew there was extortion in this somewhere, politely waited in the lobby: for ten minutes. (If there was one thing he couldn’t shake, one thing worse than scabies, it was manners. Though the man kept him waiting, he couldn’t bring himself to walk out.)

  Two men came towards Rundstedt at the same time. The first was almost archetypically German. Neatly dressed: three-quarter-length black leather jacket, grey slacks, blue V-neck sweater. He was lantern-jawed, had a day’s growth of beard and closely cropped blond hair. He had nothing to do with anything. He walked by Rundstedt without stopping.

  The second man resembled Rundstedt or, at least, Rundstedt’s version of himself: somewhat portly, if that was the word, well dressed but perhaps more relaxed within his overcoat, tie, and shoes than Rundstedt, hair nicely parted, but fingernails a little dirty.

  – Mr. Rundstedt, he said

  extending his hand.

  – And you are? asked Rundstedt

  shaking hands with the stranger.


  The man smiled politely.

  – Why don’t you call me Larry? he said.

  – Fine. What’s this about, Larry?

  – It is not what you think, Mr. Rundstedt. Shall we walk?

  Larry moved his hand in the direction of the street.

  – It will be easier to talk outside.

  They stepped out, and went southwest on Howe.

  As if they were tourists, Larry said

  – A beautiful city, isn’t it?

  It had never seemed so to Rundstedt. You couldn’t have a conversation in which Vancouver figured without someone mentioning its supposed beauty, but without the mountains Vancouver was Fredericton done over and over. He preferred Calgary.

  – No, he said. It’s too big.

  – Yes, said Larry. I suppose you’re right. Listen, you are probably thinking this is about money.

  – Isn’t it?

  – No, not at all. No one wants your money, Mr. Rundstedt. How can you put a price on a man’s life?

  Larry took an envelope from a pocket of his overcoat.

  – These are for you, he said.

  Rundstedt knew what they were, but he stopped to look at them anyway, stepping from the sidewalk into a doorway. There were photographs of Rundstedt in Gudrun’s room at the Kitahachi. Gudrun was naked, of course, her hands on his shirt buttons, but most of these photos were from different angles than the one he’d first seen. How many cameras had there been?

  – I don’t want them, he said.

  – Keep them, said Larry. You can show them to your wife.

  Rundstedt thought of taking offence, but he didn’t. This man, this “Larry,” had nothing he wanted and held no sway over him, though he thought he did. He was distraught at the idea of losing the life he had built for himself and his family, but Rundstedt had resolved to finish this business here. In the months between Osaka and Vancouver, he had imagined a million scenarios. At the end of all of them, however, there had been only one thing: uncertainty. Even in those moments when he’d considered giving whatever was asked of him, he knew his old life was dead. In fact, it had died in Osaka. (For one giddy instant, it occurred to Rundstedt to throw all the photographs up in the air, let them fall into the hands of those going home.) He might have given Larry a modest amount of money to go away, but nothing else, and, as Larry did not want money, they had no business to conduct. It was simply that Larry did not know it.