The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  Very quickly Babe opened his eyes and said, “Why do you have so little accent? I know about languages, and it’s very hard to hide the German.”

  Szell almost smiled. “Janeway alerted me that you were smart, but even I did not expect such an opening foray. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ would have been expected. Perhaps some queries concerning your brother. But you have found my pride first shot, and for that I salute you.”

  “I’m just interested in languages, that’s all, it’s part of social history,” Babe said. Then: “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Bad things,” Szell promised, and, going on without a pause, he said, “I had alexia as a child, which is a disease—”

  “I know about alexia, it’s where you can’t understand written speech.”

  “Very impressive,” Szell said.

  “No, it’s just I kind of don’t mind studying so I do it a lot, English and psychology I minored in actually, it’s all related to history. What bad things, couldn’t you just tell me now, I’m not all that crazy about surprises.”

  “We were speaking of alexia and my childhood problems, and I would never change such a subject, since, first of all, you asked the question, and, second and more important, your fear is growing as we talk, you are already anticipating pain, and I would guess your cavity is aching worse than two minutes before. Don’t bother answering.”

  “It is,” Babe said.

  “It was very hard for me—I don’t expect sympathy from a Jew, but you can clearly understand that my childhood was not a particularly pleasant time, since here I was, brilliant, I knew I was brilliant, I was positive, but everyone around me thought me backward, if not actually retarded. At any rate, I have always hated written speech—my penmanship, you would call it, is still in the scrawl stage, I loathe etymology, philology, but morphology I find fascinating. I assume you know what that is too.”

  Babe nodded.

  “Well then, there you have it. Inflections fascinate me. I love the vernacular. Plus one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve spent the last quarter century and more in South America, and there isn’t much to do down there. If you’re not a revolutionary, it’s a very dull place. So I speak German, naturally, and naturally, Spanish, and also French and British and American. I am at the present time learning to speak Italian, and then, alas for me, it will all be over, I am too old to start Chinese.”

  “Russian,” Babe said.

  “You betray your youth,” Szell said. “As an historian you have gaps that need filling. After what we did to the Russians, I might just as profitably learn Hebrew.” Szell shook his head. “I was surrounded by madmen.” He looked at Babe and started laughing. “That must strike you as being humorous, since I’m quite sure you consider me a madman.”

  “I really don’t, no,” Babe said. “Listen, we all have our little quirks, you say you’re innocent, that’s good enough for me.” He nodded as reassuringly as he thought feasible, considering the circumstances.

  “I have not been innocent since I was twelve years old and had my way with a chambermaid. I never said I was innocent. I merely say that I was never involved in any lunatic fancies. Whichever T.P. came under my care was there for a sound, viable reason.”

  “T.P.?”

  “Test person. We called them that in the experimental block. How is your tooth, hurting very badly?”

  Babe nodded.

  “Are you hoping someone will rescue you?”

  Babe nodded again.

  “Possible but doubtful. Never lose hope. My father owned this building, and Erhard and Karl are the sole tenants. Next door the warehouse is unused. Keep hoping, please. It makes the pain expand. Once one stops aspiring, one becomes sluggish, a derelict. It is very difficult to force the truth from such a person.”

  “I’ve told you the truth,” Babe said. “I’ve told you and I’ve told Janeway. A hundred times. I don’t know anything.”

  “I paid your brother very well, top commission for bringing the diamonds to Scotland. I trusted him for such an exercise; Jews are only to be trusted when it comes to money. You may have different feelings, fine, I do not choose to argue. But they can only be trusted with limited amounts. Scylla worked for me for years, but once my father died, it was a different thing. I think your brother planned to kill me after I left the bank and take my diamonds, what do you think?”

  “I don’t know anything about anything,” Babe said.

  “You see, I do not believe you. Your brother was trustworthy because he loved money. He was, after all, an American, and that is something of a national trait; an exaggeration, certainly, but not totally without foundation. Scylla was a courier for me, and a splendid one, powerful, armed, alert, all but impossible to rob. He received for his services much money, but always bit by bit over the years. Some now, more then. But the day of thousands is done; we have quantum jumped. Now we are into millions beyond dreaming. Now we are dealing with a different Scylla, and he cared, I am led to believe, for you, and he died, I am led to believe, in your arms, and so therefore it must not be overlooked that you would perhaps know something, perhaps only a little, perhaps a great deal, perhaps all—was he, for example, planning anything, and if he was, was he planning to do it alone, and if not, who else had he gone into business with, and since he is no longer with us, will they stop or does the plan stay in effect regardless, am I going to be robbed when I leave the bank—perhaps you could clarify some of these questions for me.”

  Babe’s cavity was steady with pain now; he could tell the talk would be ending soon. “I don’t know.”

  “For the last and final and, I promise you, ultimate time: Is it safe to get my diamonds?”

  There was nothing Babe could say.

  Szell opened the black leather case.

  And took out a portable hand drill.

  “Probably you have been thinking,” Szell said, busying himself with the equipment, “that you have been running in bad luck, having a cavity already sore for me to pick at. It would not be unreasonable for such a thought to have crossed your mind. If it has, let me tell you that, in point of fact, you were lucky, not the other way around.”

  Babe’s heart would not stay in place. He remembered a bird from his childhood. It had gotten so excited when a cat came to its cage that it fluttered and screeched for a wild moment and then toppled, dead, its poor heart unable to stand the menace.

  Babe wondered about his own heart, because this menace was very clearly growing. Szell plugged in the drill, switched it on experimentally, then quickly off once he determined it was working. He reached into the leather case again and removed what looked like a good-sized nail. He put the sharp end into the drill, locked it in place, called for Karl.

  “His head,” Szell indicated quietly when Karl was in the room and the door shut again. “Very steady. It must be very steady this time, Karl, no movement at all, yes?”

  Karl took Babe’s head between his big hands and exerted really a tremendous amount of pressure. Babe was helpless. No, he had been helpless all this while, he was only more helpless now. But was that possible? He tried forcing his good brain into concentrating on that particular subject.

  No good.

  His mind was not his to control now. He could only stare at the drill and the nailheadlike object sticking out of it.

  Szell saw his fascination. “A diamond stone,” he said, indicating the nailhead. “A portable hand drill, obtainable at, I should think, any first-class hardware store, and an ordinary diamond stone, an absolutely standard dental tool. That is the beauty of it all, the ease of availability. Back at the camp, I tried getting that point across, but Mengele was so obsessed with his lunatic notion of breeding a race of blue-eyes that he ignored the implications of what I was trying to get through—but then, I told you he was a madman, what could any one expect? But, you see, throughout combat over the centuries, a captured spy was of value only if he spoke the truth, and
you know about iron maidens in the Middle Ages and testicle shock in more modern times, but they don’t work—they have no build to them. You’re feeling fine, then you’re in agony, and if they keep it up you die, and if they stop the pain eases, and it really could have all been so simply solved if Mengele had listened. You see, anyone can do to you what I’m about to do to you—a few days of training is more than enough, and if Mengele had listened, there would not have been a captive able to resist us, because a newly cut nerve is much more sensitive than the one I touched in your cavity before—that nerve was already in the act of dying before I began.”

  “You’re going to cut a nerve?”

  “A live nerve, yes, a healthy one. I’ll just drill straight into a perfectly healthy tooth and in no time at all I’ll reach the pulp.”

  Pulp. Babe registered the word.

  “The inner substance of your teeth,” Szell said. “With a young person like yourself, the pulp is easily reachable. It shouldn’t take me more than a minute. Drilling into a healthy tooth isn’t all that dreadful, except in this case the drill will cause a good bit of heat, and of course that won’t help you much, but until we reach the pulp it should be more or less bearable. The pulp is where the nerves are. It’s really a complex of blood vessels and nerve fibers, veins and arteries and lymphatic tissue all intertwined—don’t worry, though, there won’t be a lot of bleeding—oh, I’m not saying there won’t be a drop or two, but no more,” and with that he started drilling straight into the front of Babe’s biggest tooth, the upper left incisor in the center of his mouth.

  Babe stood it.

  Szell kept on drilling.

  A little heat from the drill now.

  More heat.

  Szell bent closer.

  Babe wanted to scream, but wouldn’t give Szell the satisfaction.

  Szell kept at it.

  Babe screamed.

  “I told you the heat would be uncomfortable,” Szell explained. “Just a few more seconds and we should be through to the pulp.”

  “I don’t know what you want—Christ wouldn’t I tell you if I knew?”

  “Your brother was very strong. Strength is an inherited trait. No. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t know the extent of your knowledge until we’re well into the pulp. You’ll tell me everything then.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Quite so.” He went back to his drilling.

  Babe was tensed to scream again, but it wasn’t that bad this time, the heat hadn’t developed to a point beyond bearing. And then, surprisingly, no more than a few seconds after he had begun, Szell turned the drill off.

  “We’re at the edge of the pulp now,” Szell said. “You told me before you didn’t like surprises, and I was just being helpful. Now, in just a moment you’ll understand how right I was when I said that a nerve in an existing cavity is infinitely duller than a good fresh one. I don’t think there’s anything to equal a good fresh one, especially in a young person like yourself. Tell me if you think I’m right.”

  He drilled into the pulp.

  Babe started to cry. It wasn’t something he had any control over. There were suddenly tears of affliction criss-crossing down, and Szell seemed not at all surprised, only nodded and kept going deeper into the pulp.

  Babe was half unconscious when Szell stopped.

  “Care to see a nerve?” he asked Karl. “It’s all right, he needs a moment, let his head alone.”

  Karl took his hands away, allowing Babe’s head to go limp. Gently, Szell took Babe’s face and opened his mouth. “That red is a nerve,” Szell said softly. “Didn’t know that, did you?”

  Karl made a negative sound.

  Without the drilling the pain was considerably less. Babe lay quietly, head limp. It was important to keep that from Szell.

  Only Szell knew, because at that exact moment he said, “All right, back to it,” and again Karl stationed the head, and again Szell drilled, and again Babe cried. This time when Szell stopped, he did not allow Karl to release his grip; this time Babe’s respite was shorter.

  In the silence, Babe managed, “... How ... how can ... you do this? ...”

  “How? Shall I give you one old Jew’s answer? A wise man. He said this: ‘We were not for them the same.’ You are not quite, for me, human.”

  After the third session, Babe begged, “... Kill me ...”

  “A Jew cannot die when he will, only when we will” was all Szell answered. Then they went back to it.

  After the seventh session, Szell shouted for Erhard and Janeway. “He didn’t know—he told me nothing—if he had known, he would have told me, we’ve wasted time, get rid of him.”

  Babe was only barely conscious in the chair.

  “Kill him, you mean?” Karl asked, making sure.

  “How would you like it to happen?” from Erhard.

  “Do once something right without me!” Szell thundered, patient no more.

  24

  ALMOST BEFORE SZELL HAD slammed the door, they started bickering. “Unstrap him,” Janeway said.

  ERHARD LIMPED TO THE chair and started to work, but Karl did not move. He stared at Janeway. “I have told you already, I do not tell you a third time: Keep your orders.”

  Janeway stared right back at the bigger man. “You pick him up, and don’t give me any goddamned static.”

  “Oh come on, come on,” Erhard said, releasing the last of the straps. “Karl, you’re the strongest, you handle the boy; it would be no trouble for you, not with your power.” Karl liked to be reminded of his might; Erhard did it as often as necessary.

  Karl grabbed one of Babe’s arms, pulled it around his thick neck, dragged Babe from the chair. Babe was dead weight. “Walk!” Karl said, and Babe tried to make his feet move. Karl was still doing the bulk of the work, but every so often Babe was able to take a half step on his own.

  Janeway opened the door and Erhard hurried on ahead, limping along the corridor, holding the door that led down the stairs. As they approached it, Babe was able to walk a little on his own, but the stairs were too much for him; he stumbled, almost fell, surely would have if Karl had ever let him go. “Banister!” Karl said, and Babe reached out, took it with his free hand, and by the time they got to the bottom, he could almost keep his balance.

  Erhard was the first to the street, Janeway following, Karl and Babe the last. “We’ll use my car,” Erhard said, and he gestured toward the corner. “Come on, come on,” and he limped ahead. He liked to do that, Janeway noted, take the lead. Whenever they were going anyplace and Erhard knew the destination, he was always first. “Come on, come on,” he liked to say, and Janeway never objected; let Erhard have his little triumphs, it hurt nothing.

  Karl, though, was a different matter. Back upstairs when Erhard had said that Karl was the strongest, it had nettled Janeway. Not that in a pure weightlifting contest Karl wouldn’t have been victor, but put them in a darkened alleyway and Janeway knew Karl wouldn’t have survived half a minute. Probably that was ego talking—he hadn’t been an active Provider for several years now, and desk work took a certain amount away from you. Karl might have survived fifty seconds with him now, he had probably slowed that much. Why did he loathe Karl so? Probably a natural contempt any species has for a lower form, coupled with vast differences in tastes, entertainment, lusts.

  They turned the corner and entered the dark side street. “Come on, come on,” Erhard said from up ahead.

  “Did you park in Jersey, for Chrissakes?” Janeway said, angry at even having been ordered to go along. Surely these two failures could have finished the boy. Szell must have been particularly furious that his methods hadn’t worked; otherwise he would never have humiliated Janeway by forcing him to go along on something as trivial as this.

  “It’s just a little more, come on, come on.”

  “You take him now, your turn,” Karl said.

  Janeway ignored him.

  Karl muttered something then, probably “fag” in G
erman.

  Janeway decided not to hear that too.

  Karl’s irritation was growing; he pushed Babe. “Walk—you can walk.”

  Babe did his best. At first he slipped, but then he got the hang of it, managed tiny steps, didn’t fall again, as he had almost done coming down the stairs.

  “Here we are,” Erhard said, “just one second more and we’ll be ready to go.” The car was an old Ford, and Erhard took a bunch of keys from his pocket, searched around in the darkness to find the right one.

  “You locked this thing?” Janeway said incredulously.

  “Here is a terrible neighborhood,” Erhard tried to explain. “Everyone always steals everything, and this is a wonderful car, never one moment’s trouble, not once in now twelve years.”

  “If it’s so goddamn wonderful, why can’t you Jesus Christ get it open?” Not necessary. Nothing gained insulting a cretin like Erhard; if you must insult a cretin, insult Karl, who was standing stupidly watching by the hood of the car, which Babe lay silently sprawled across.

  “Here, here, I’ve got it now, no need for trouble,” Erhard said, and he put the key into the lock, jiggled it.

  “Don’t force it,” Karl said, “—last time you forced it it was the trunk key—don’t do that again—”

  “Nothing is being forced,” Erhard said, and then, a second later, “Dammit,” and Janeway angrily moved to him, saying, “Give it to me, just let me have it, I’ll open the stupid thing,” but Karl said, “You don’t know this car, I’ve ridden in it, I’ve driven it, I know how to open it,” and he grabbed the keys from Erhard as Babe rolled off the car hood and tried to stagger away, but Janeway saw him immediately and said to Karl, “You were supposed to stay with the boy, go get him,” but Karl said, “I’m doing the keys and from you, no orders,” so Erhard said, “Oh I’ll do it, just get the door open,” and he went limping to retrieve Babe.

  “Outrun by a cripple,” Babe thought, reeling like a Bowery drunk along the dark street; that’s some finish for a marathon man, all right, the perfect epitaph. “Here lies Thomas Babington Levy, 1948-1973, Caught by a Cripple.”