Quartet for the End of Time

by Johanna Skibsrud

Her face was scratched, raw in places, and both eyes had been swollen shut. Her thick, beautiful hair had been clumsily shaved and still stuck out in matted tufts, gleaming with congealed blood and medical ointment. Alden had come to an abrupt halt just inside the door, and he stood there—dazed—breathing in the air, which smelled strongly of antiseptic and another smell—slightly sweet—like diabetic urine.

  His hesitation had given Marie-Thérèse, who had been following him closely behind, the opportunity to pass, so that now she stood facing him at the head of the bed. He looked at her and did not speak. She did not speak, either, but only stared at him. Then something flickered. He saw, for an instant, that same recognition he had seen in Franz Eckelmann’s eye as all at once all the disparate, conflicting signals he received from the world around him clicked and, for at least a brief moment, he understood his place in it. It was with this look that—each time the old man saw him—he made sense of Alden’s presence by recognizing him all over again as his nephew, Felix. And then—that was it. In a flash, Alden saw it, too. It was he—the real Felix—who was responsible for all of this. It was for him that Marie-Claude suffered now.

  Marie-Thérèse must have seen by the changed expression on his face that he at last understood. She nodded. Then turned, ushering him back through the door and into the dark hallway from which they’d come. Alden obeyed—he had no choice—but, also, he was no longer opposed to doing so.

  When she closed the door behind them and they walked together into the dim light of the next room, where Franz Eckelmann waited, as he perpetually did, for the world to assemble itself around him in accordance with some sort of recognizable meaning, and she paused and turned to face him, Alden could see that, though there remained in her eye a trace of the cold glow he had first detected there, there was something else now, too. Perhaps she hoped she wouldn’t need to hate him.

  What—? he began, though he knew now. How foolish they had been! Who—? He began again.

  Marie-Thérèse burst into sobs.

  Who? she cried. Her own schoolmates even! I used to watch them playing together—happily in the street!

  Why, oh, why had it not occurred to him? For three days as he had waited anxiously for Marie-Claude to arrive, attempting to calm his nerves at Marcello’s bar, he had overheard rumors of the punishments already being meted out to those, among others, who had been cooperating with the Germans—if not in any official capacity, then in the bedroom. The collaborators themselves, and other “war profiteers,” had begun being rounded up by the French police and gangs before the Germans had even left the city. There were public beatings and executions; day and night, police vans trolled the streets, delivering collaborators to Fresnes Prison in Val-de-Marne, and La Santé. It was no wonder Alden’s nerves were so exceedingly on edge; that he kept a low profile; that he spent nearly every one of his waking hours drinking, slowly, but nonetheless deliberately, in Marcello’s bar. Really, though (and over the course of those three days he repeated these words often to himself, like a prayer), he had nothing to worry about. He was American—first of all. And if that wasn’t enough: he’d spent time in a German prison camp—having risked his life fighting for France. His work for the Germans? He had been forced into it; absolutely anyone would be sensible to that. There had been no other way.

  And if that still wasn’t enough? There was the “lieutenant colonel.” Whose true identity he had, all that time—and for good reason—kept to himself.

  And there was the manuscript. Even if (Alden told himself, again and again) the code remained uncracked; even if his efforts had ultimately led him no closer to solving the puzzle as it first revealed itself to him than in the moment it had—his intentions, at least, had been good, and … he had been close. The poor girls he saw beaten on the streets, their clothes stripped, their heads shaved—what did they have with which to defend themselves or their intentions? These “horizontal collaborators,” as they were sometimes called, were (it was said) no less traitors—and should not be permitted to get off easily. Alden had thought immediately of Paige, when he’d heard—but she was American, too, and anyway safe by then with her sister, in Châteaudun. Why had it not occurred to him that Marie-Claude would be vulnerable? Caring day after day for the old German, Franz Eckelmann, German blood flowing in her veins, seen, no doubt, on the arm of the real Felix, her cousin, who from time to time came to call?

  How dare he! Alden was filled with sudden disgust at the clumsiness of it all. How her own cousin had exposed her to this outrage—and where was he now? Had he fled? Like everyone else? Alden hoped sincerely that wherever he was he felt every bruise and burn on Marie-Claude’s body.

  I didn’t think— Alden said. Of course. Felix, he said. They would not think to make the distinction that … well, he is only her cousin; that it was not a matter—

  Marie-Thérèse had covered her face with her hands, but now she looked up at Alden, surprised.

  Oh, no, she said. It wasn’t him … But here she paused.

  Alden waited.

  Well, he said. What then? The vague thought that Marie-Claude had been seen with other German soldiers—that she had even had “horizontal” relations with them—flashed into his mind like a hot flame, but it was quickly dampened. Impossible.

  Don’t you understand? Marie-Thérèse asked him slowly, still staring at him with a blank expression of surprise and disbelief.

  He must not have replied. There was a strange feeling in his throat like something was trying to catch at it, but there was nothing to hold on to, and whatever it was kept slipping away.

  Don’t you understand? she asked again. She stood there shaking her head, waiting for him to reply, but he did not.

  Alden, she said, finally. It’s … Her voice trembled again as it had at the door. It’s you.

  He shook his head. There was indeed nothing to hold on to. He felt he was not made out of flesh and blood, but only the absence of where flesh and blood once imagined itself to be. He could see himself as if from above. And Marie-Thérèse, too, Marie-Claude’s mother. The way she looked at him, almost curiously now, all hatred dissolved; her face concerned, her hands fluttering like two pale birds.

  Alden, she whispered. You must be careful; they will be looking for you now. And you must— she added. You must—Alden—do you promise me?—never come here again.

  Her voice broke.

  Alden nodded his head and somehow managed, with the help of Marie-Thérèse, who led the way, to navigate his way to the door. She opened it; the sun streamed in, temporarily blinding them.

  Tell her, he said … But just at that moment whatever had been attempting to catch in his throat caught, and there was no way for him to open his mouth again, or utter any sound at all, and that was a great mercy, because he did not know what—even if he could speak—he would say.

  He turned, and exited onto the street.

  VIII.

  AWAITING TRIAL. THE JUDGE’S STUDY AND ANALYST’S OFFICE, WASHINGTON, D.C., 1944—WITH A BRIEF DETOUR TO TUCSON, ARIZONA, 1936.

  Sutton comes. Twice a day to the door. She stands there, hovering for a while, as though she has something to say, but can’t bring herself to say it. When she does speak, it is always the same thing that she says. She admonishes him, for example, for his poor eating habits when she takes up a tray of food he’s left out for her, more often than not untouched, or for not resting properly, or for straining his eyes. It is very dim in the room, there being only an empty ceiling hook where, if it were the last century, a chandelier might have hung. The only light comes from a small lamp on the desk, which casts—even when he remembers to light it—only a very limited glow.

  He rarely remembers. Even when, each time she enters, he picks up a book kept open nearby, and for this very purpose—burying his nose in it the instant he hears her at the door. He suspects she knows the book is only a ruse—especially if she enters the room after it has already been plunged (the lamp still unlit) into darkness—but she uses it as
her own. It provides her with an excuse to linger awhile longer, as she fusses with the light—turning it on, then adjusting it, so that it illuminates the stillunread page. Only then does she disappear again down the hall.

  As soon as her footsteps fade, he shuts the book and switches off the lamp again.

  Sometimes she comes with papers for him to sign, or with information on doctor appointments, and from time to time she shuttles him herself to the hospital in their father’s old Hupmobile and sits beside him, flipping through magazines in the waiting room.

  And they wait. She snaps the pages deliberately: snap snap snap, as regular as the ticking of a clock, and doesn’t say anything until his name is called. It is as if she is waiting for this cue—which indicates that the time in which to say anything is already gone.

  You must remember, she warns him, just as he is obliged to rise and follow the starched white nurse into the cavernous hall, the more information you can give him—here she pauses; the word even before she says it rings out ridiculous and false—the better, she finishes. Apologetic now.

  He nods.

  ALL RIGHT, THE ANALYST says as he enters, indicating a chair adjacent to his own where Alden should sit. It is, after all, the only unoccupied chair. It is hard-backed and upright. Funny. He always imagined he might be allowed to recline.

  Let’s go back, the analyst says. And with that—as though no time has passed between this visit and the last—they begin where their previous session left off.

  You were saying, the analyst says, that … this certain photograph; that the man pictured was immediately recognizable to you. Did there ever enter into your mind any … doubt? At any time, did you consider the possibility that the man who appeared to you might in fact be the man he, and everyone else in the position to have an opinion on the matter, affirmed?

  No, Alden says. There was never any doubt.

  The analyst nods, and glances down at his notes, which are open before him. It seems very odd, he says slowly, scratching his head and seeming to genuinely puzzle over whatever he has found on the page. Does it not indeed, he says, looking up again, and leaning forward in his chair, seem odd that a man convicted of a crime in 1932, sentenced to a five-year prison term, but released the very next year, might show up eleven years later disguised as a dead British officer whose records are all perfectly intact?

  Yes, says Alden, returning the analyst’s gaze. It strikes me as very odd, indeed.

  Again the analyst nods. He says nothing for a little while. He only continues to regard Alden. Watching, as he can only suppose, for any signs that might indicate—what, exactly?

  Alden tries very hard not to blink, and he wonders, given the harsh glare of the fluorescent light overhead and the overlong time to which he has now been exposed to it, if his pupils are retracting slightly, and if they are, if that might be read as a sign. But there is no way of knowing this. As hard as he tries, he cannot detect any manner in which to be certain if his pupil is expanding or retracting, and he only tries to remain calm and still, and not to blink, for as long as he can.

  Finally, the analyst drops his gaze and leans back in his chair.

  You see, he says, the curious thing is that your own report of your activities during 1932 through to the present day does not always correspond with the official record. He glances down again at his file, and shuffles through a few pages before returning his gaze.

  You see, there are records here of your employment with the Washington Post, then of a short stint at Internal Affairs—but there is nothing to indicate the sort of extracurricular involvement to which you allude. I can assure you the government has a vested interest in keeping track of such involvement, and is able to do so with an accuracy that may surprise even you. I am not saying, the analyst continues carefully, that your recollections are … false, exactly. It is only pertinent to consider—given the emerging pattern that can be observed in your account—that you do have a certain … history … of experiencing events somewhat sideways to their—

  But this is all simply ridiculous—Alden can’t help but put in, a little more hastily than he would have liked. He tries, whenever possible, to keep his responses and reactions to a controlled minimum. Need I remind you that my extracurricular, as you say, dealings with the Communist Party were kept under strict confidence for the express purpose of their remaining strictly off the record?

  The analyst strokes his heavy jaw and shifts in his chair.

  Does it not strike you, he says, in an altered tone—his voice suddenly deep, almost conspiratorial—as somewhat odd that it is only now, when the charges that have been brought against you are so much greater than they ever would have been had you actually been brought to task for your earlier involvement in the party’s business and the—he waves his hand— the Bonus Army affair—that these phantoms from the past should suddenly appear? And that it is precisely on the basis of these phantoms that you are presently seeking to exonerate yourself from the current charge?

  Now this is simply outrageous! Alden cries. I am not, he says—tempering his tone, and employing everything in his power to keep his voice steady and controlled—attempting to exonerate myself in any way! It is—he hesitates, but only slightly—just the opposite. I am most guilty, he says. Only not of the crime of which I’m accused.

  The analyst nods and nods. Then he bends to his file and writes something down. For several minutes all Alden can hear is his pen scratching away at the page—it is an irritating sound. That, and the electric whirr of the light overhead.

  Finally, the analyst lays his pen aside.

  It is clear to me, he says—his tone apologetic now—that regardless of your personal culpability in the previous affair, real or imagined, what we are faced with today is a simple confusion between events of the future and events of the past. You see, the analyst continues, the mistake most analysts make in these sorts of cases—and which I am not prepared to make in yours—is to fail to realize that for certain patients, such as yourself, Mr. Kelly, with what we might call an improperly elongated sense of time, the past and future can seem to occur as if simultaneously. It is possible, you see—that is to say, it does happen—that things become in a patient’s mind, especially after difficult periods of stress, so confused that the boundaries that would normally separate different experiences or events are erased. Two things—something heard, or imagined, or seen—become overlaid in the mind with another, in this case earlier, episode.

  Think of a dream—the analyst says, becoming suddenly animated— where a single person may represent two or more people at the same time, or two disparate events of the day—each one in itself quite solid— can recombine to engender the strangest of fictions. When it comes to interpretation, we find ourselves, just as with a dream, in very tricky territory indeed. The dream imagination, you see, almost always prefers a different image than the object to which it corresponds—as long as, that is, it is capable of expressing some particular aspect of the object the imagination would like to represent.

  It may be that the fixed form in which objects or events appear to us in the waking world is too simplistic—that the dream imagination attempts to express them more truly by deconstructing and rearranging the images it experiences and the information it receives. The problem lies in the fact that what results from this effort most often appears to us, in our waking life, as utter nonsense!

  To make matters worse, the dreamer very rarely paints any picture in an exhaustive or methodical manner. Instead, he will offer only the broadest strokes, and we are never privy to a finished image but instead only to brief glimpses into an ongoing act of free association. Not only that (and here we may come to the root of the thing), the images (even as they remain incomplete) are not content to remain images. The dreamer is almost certainly compelled to interact with them, to turn them from mere information—lines drawn cursorily on the canvas of his mind— into some sort of dramatic act or deed. If a dreamer, for example, encounters a lake, he is l
iable to enter it. He will at least wet his feet, if he does not go any farther—the water may even threaten to drown him. Or perhaps a boat will appear. If it does, he will certainly board it. Finally, the compulsion of the dream to conjure up what has been systematically repressed by the dreamer runs directly counter to the dream’s compulsion to repress any disturbing impulses that might interrupt the dream and thus disturb the dreamer, further complicating things.

  Now, it would not surprise me, Mr. Kelly, the analyst says, eyeing Alden sharply over the width of the desk, if in your case we are faced with just this sort of situation, where the guilt and anxiety regarding your current situation (which cannot help but cast itself apprehensively forward, toward a far deeper anxiety—vis-à-vis the “ultimate punishment” with which you are now faced) has been absorbed, adapted, and finally expressed, through what we can only reasonably understand today as a “demonic” resurrection of the past. In short, Mr. Kelly, it is my recommendation that—as you are unfit at the present time to act as your own witness—

  Alden has been drifting—for some time only half listening to what the analyst is saying—but now he is jarred to full attention.

  Unfit?

  Yes, Mr. Kelly, the analyst replies. I am sure you will agree—perhaps with some proper rest and treatment, you may once again regain the … perspective, and perhaps even more importantly the … resilience of spirit needed in order to undergo these sorts of procedures, which, as I am sure you must understand, can prove quite grueling.

  I assure you, Alden says, I am quite fit.

  Again, Mr. Kelly, the analyst insists, I must impress upon you—there’s a certain procedural code with these sorts of measures, which you would be required to obey. They are quite adamant, of course, that every word that is spoken for the record is the truth and can be verified without—

  I assure you, I am quite fit!

  Perhaps—yes. After some rest. But for now, my recommendation will remain—