I said, "I accept Herr Herford's generous conditions."
"Good. One more thing. We would be willing to pay a substantial sum—substantial in consideration of your deplorable situation—if you would be willing to let Blitz continue to use your pseudonym, Curt Corell."
My hands were fists. I said nothing.
"Well?" He rocked back and forth.
"So that you can enhance Total Man' with it?"
"Naturally. Corell is a concept, and we are the ones who made it famous, as you know only too well. Without us and the promotion we gave you, you could never have made it to the top. So, how about it?"
"No."
"You won't let us use the name?"
"No."
"Under any circumstances?"
"Under any circumstances."
I was furious. The name Corell had to disappear. Forever! Had to!
"You won't consider any amount?"
"I won't consider any amount," I said. "Forget it. The name belongs to me and disappears with me. If you use it in spite of my specific refusal—"
"Yes, yes, yes," said Rotaug. "That's all you need now to get on your high horse. We'll survive without Curt Corell; whether you can is a different story. I doubt it. And now, please, the papers and keys for your car. The Lamborghini stays here. I'll see you this afternoon at your apartment, with qualified appraisers, and we'll find out what your property's worth. You will, of course, then hand over to me all the tapes that are in any way connected with your last assignment, also all your research material and notes. Do you have your checkbook with you?"
"Yes."
"Call your bank and have them give you the amount in your account as of now. I'll listen on the other phone."
I phoned. The girl in the bookkeeping department recognized my voice and gave me the information—approximately twenty-nine thousand marks were still in my account. (I had just paid a large amount in back taxes.) Dr. Rotaug had me write a check for twenty thousand marks. I was allowed to keep the remaining nine thousand thanks fo his 'generosity.'
"You have no other accounts?"
"No."
"I'm warning you, if you're lying and we find out that you have any other accounts, we'll sue. You'll have to sign a declaration anyway, under oath." I nodded. It had been Bertie's idea to make duplicate copies of all the tapes. He had spent the whole night on it. Hem had photocopied my notes.
"As soon as we have appraised your belongings, we'll see the notary. Tomorrow morning. It's Saturday, but he'll see us. That's all. I'll be at the apartment with the appraisers at 3:00 p.m." And with that he walked out of his office.
I got up and left. None of the secretaries responded to my greeting, and in the elevator everybody again avoided looking at me. I went all the way down to the basement and took one last look at the Lamborghini. I stroked the hood and walked away fast then. I walked all the way home. It was a cold day and the fresh air did me good. And another thought gave me satisfaction. In the apartment that had once been mine there was a wall safe. I had always kept money in it and three unset clear diamonds, a little over four carats in weight. I had given them and twelve thousand marks to Bertie for safekeeping.
Irina had prepared veal cutlets and pretended to be cheerful, so did I. And I really was I I was also hungry.
Punctually at three Rotaug came with two appraisers, stoical fellows. They worked fast. I wasn't surprised when everything they appraised was worth only a fraction of what it had cost. A third appraiser had meanwhile evaluated the Lamborghini at fifteen thousand, which was shameless. The car had cost fifty-eight thousand. Nothing I could do about it.
Rotaug and the appraisers made an inventory of the apartment's contents, then they spent a while figuring, and after subtracting what was left of my debt, I still owed Blitz a hundred and twenty-five thousand marks. Rotaug took the tapes and notes (Hem and Bertie had got them back to me in time, thank God!). Next morning I went to the notary and dutifully signed a declaration of debt and the promissory note, also a sworn statement to the effect that I had no hidden properties or had put anything away. I signed this declaration with an especially light heart.
Rotaug and I received a copy each of every document, and the notary kept one. Of course I was allowed to foot the bill. Two more things must be noted: The clothes Mama had let Irina choose were not confiscated, the house paid that bill without a murmur; they also went on paying Fraulein Louise's expenses in the psychiatric clinic. In a huge enterprise like Blitz, once a minor employee has been told to attend to something and the powers that be forget to rescind the order, the minor employee goes on doing as he has been told—
The notary's office was on the second floor of an office building, and in the end Dr. Rotaug and I walked down the one flight of stairs together. Outside the building Rotaug turned left without a word and walked to where his chauffeured car was parked; I turned right and walked to the nearest streetcar stop. And that was how my fourteen years as star reporter and writer for Blitz ended. In my opinion, it was a thoroughly dignified end.
I reached my apartment, which was mine for only ten days more. Again I put on a show of being cheerful, so did Irina, and we pretended to be confident and carefree. Everything would turn out all right. Ridiculous to contemplate anything else. That's what I thought, until the afternoon mail came.
In the Bundesrepublik there is a Press Bulletin that prints the inside news and gossip of the profession. All of us subscribe to it. The afternoon mail brought the latest edition. Herford worked
IP 1
fast. Two pages were attached to the issue, and under the headline "Latest News" there was an article about me. "The End of Walter Roland?" was the heading, and the whole article was as sly, legally, as the question mark after my name. It was peppered with phrases such as "it seems that...," "it appears to be true...," "according to what we hear..."; in other words, every sentence was legally safe and infamous beyond anything I could possibly have dreamed up, and there was very little in this business that I considered impossible. Rotaug had written a masterpiece!
Because of recent events at Blitz, what had been suspected for a long time had finally to be acknowledged: that alcohol had written finis to a brilliant career. I was nothing more now than an irresponsible, disloyal, amoral alcoholic on the brink of total collapse and without the capacity to write as I had once written. I had insulted my publisher in the most shameful fashion when he had dared to give me some well-meant advice. He had therefore been forced to dismiss the man who had been his star writer but was nothing now but a liability and a threat to the magazine. And so on and so forth, two pages of it. I read it through again, and drank, and thought that now I'd have to sue the Press Bulletin and Blitz, but then I thought: What was there to gain with such a suit? The Bulletin and Blitz must have counted on the possibility, and Blitz must have treated the Bulletin to a hefty sum of money and promised them all support if I did bring suit. I was sure, after all the experience I'd had with similar slander campaigns during my years with Blitz, that Herford was even counting on such a suit and having to recant. But months could go by before such a suit was concluded, months during which the assertions in the article j would remain uncontested. And that was the main objective of Herf ord's revenge. He wouldn't give a damn if he had to pay stiff damages (I owed him enough anyway)—or perhaps Blitz wouldn't lose, because some of the things that were expressed in such a devilishly clever way were true. And even if I won and the denial was printed, what use would it be to me after so many months? Who took denials seriously, anyway, in my profession? I had been fired; that was fact, no getting around it. Nothing else was of interest—because there must have been a damned good reason for Herford to fire his top writer. And it was clear to me suddenly why none of the rival houses, why nobody in the business, had called me yet to ask me to work for them. Herf ord's people must have spread the accusations that were in the Press Bulletin by phone also, I thought, and for the first time felt
uneasy. And then, in a flash,
it attacked me. I couldn't breathe. My hands flew to my throat and I felt fear, deadly fear, utter helplessness, and a terrifying weakness. He had come without warning—the jackal.
I shall never forget what followed. It started as it always did—I undressed fast and took 20 mgs. of Valium, went to bed, lay quiedy on my back, and tried to breathe deep. I tried to control my fear by recalling the many similar situations when this had helped. Irina was shocked. She hurried over to me and I explained as best I could, in clipped, halting words, that this happened to me sometimes. It came from drinking, and that was why she shouldn't call a doctor, because that was what everybody was talking about, the fact that I was a heavy drinker. And a doctor might insist that I go to a clinic, probably quite unnecessarily, and then it would really be out and everyone would say, "There. You see?"—and I'd never get another job. She was terribly worried but promised not to call a doctor, and then I tried to sleep.
But I didn't have a chance. My accelerated pulse, the difficulty I had breathing, the dreadful sense of weakness and the nausea that went with it, grew worse. I began to sweat—this hadn't happened to me before, especially the palms of my hands, my head and my chest—and my sweaty hands began to tremble. But I was stubborn and determined. I didn't drink whiskey, but took another 20 mgs. of Valium, then another 20, after which I slept, a deep sleep with terrifying nightmares. I can't remember them, only that in them I nearly died of fright. When I woke up, Irina was sitting beside my bed, wiping the sweat off my forehead. She gave me fruit juice to drink. And I had slept three hours. Three hours, with 60 mgs. of Valium!
I wanted to get up but almost fell. Irina had to support me. In the bathroom I vomited, although I had eaten nothing. I wanted to take more Valium, but the small glass vial slipped out of my hand and broke. Irina collected the little blue bills and handed
them to me, and took me back to my bed, which she had made up fresh in the meantime, because I had soaked the sheets. Irina
Whenever I woke out of my frightful dreams, she was sitting beside me. She brought me something to drink, tried to make me eat, insisted that I eat and drink even if I threw it all up again. She led me—no, by now she was dragging me to the bathroom and back again, and always she'd made up my bed fresh in the meantime. She didn't speak, but she smiled although I could see the tears in her eyes. Irina
I don't know how she managed to stay awake, but she was awake every time I opened my eyes. She had brought the mattress and bedding out of the guest room and made a bed for herself on the floor beside mine, and she was always sitting up in it, near me, when I came to. Irina—
I came to, but I wasn't really awake. I became more and more confused and when I was awake I relived the horrors of my dreams. My dreams pursued me, ever present, waking or sleeping. They got mixed up with reality, and occasionally I would scream at Irina and curse her and tell her I hated her. She should get out! Go away 1 She never took me seriously. Irina—
Besides the Valium, which I was taking in dangerously big doses, because I told myself the damned stuff had always sent the jackal away, I took all sorts of sleeping pills. But my dreams only grew worse, so did the perspiring, the trembling, the fear. I couldn't focus properly. My room was tiny, suddenly, then it was large again; my bed was in the wrong position and everything changed shape, color, even Irina's face.
"Don't you think you'd better try some whiskey?" she asked once—I think it was on the second day.
"No," I said, the saliva running down my chin. "No, no. I've got to manage without it. The jackal's got to go away without it. Give me some more Valium."
She did, but the jackal didn't go away and my condition worsened hourly. I dreamed a hell of Breughels and Dantes, and when I came to, my waking hell was worse. I couldn't move without Irina's help. She had to hold me and support me, even in the bath. I was deeply ashamed, but she showed nothing but worry and compassion, never impatience or revulsion, not even when I had diarrhea and vomited and soiled everything I touched. She cleaned up after me. Irina—
My dreams became unbearable. I could smell the stench of the jackal's breath. The animal was lying beside me, in my bed,
licking my face, and I retched and retched. Then Irina was there again with fruit juice or soup or white bread with butter and honey, insisting that I eat and drink, no matter what happened afterwards. I couldn't tell the difference anymore between artificial light and daylight; I didn't know whether it was day or night and had to ask Irina.
At the end of the second day, my heart stopped beating. Of course it didn't really stop beating, or I would have died, but it felt as if it had, and it was the most gruesome experience I have ever had. Everything went black around me, and with my mouth open wide, I struggled for air, air, air, and couldn't breathe. I pressed my sweating hands against my sweating chest and—this I do remember—my body curled up and I panted, "Help! Help I Help!" Then I collapsed and was at peace.
I have no memory of the next two days. I survived them, but all I know about them is what Irina told me. She watched at my bedside and never left me. She told me that during those two days and nights I slept, but I screamed in my sleep and tossed from side to side. Occasionally I awakened. Then she took me to the bathroom or fed me. I even sat up in a chair once and shaved. But when I finally came to on the fourth day, I knew nothing of all this. She must have been right, because I was clean-shaved and had on clean pajamas, the bed was freshly made, and I saw Irina lying on the mattress beside my bed, fully dressed. She had fallen asleep, exhausted. The light was on. The minute I moved she woke up, and her smile was there. "What—what is it?"
"Better," I said, sounding as surprised as I felt. "I—I think I'm better."
She uttered a cry of joy and ran off into the kitchen. She came back soon with a light meal. When I sat up in bed and ate, I realized how weak I was. My hands started to tremble again and I began to sweat. But the jackal was gone, no doubt about that.
It had been 1:00 a.m. when I had awakened; now I took some more Valium and slept until the following morning, and for the
first time could go to the bathroom alone, although I had to feel my way along the walls and stop every now and then. My knees were shaking, the sweat was pouring down my body; but I managed to shave standing, and to wash myself. Then I stumbled back to bed and without taking anything, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. This time I slept around the clock, and when I woke up it was the morning of November 28,1968, a Thursday, a day I shall never forget.
Gray light was filtering through the window, the light was on in the room, Irina had fallen asleep on her mattress, and she didn't wake up when I got up. And then—it was miraculous—my legs felt steady, I could stand and walk. I didn't feel sick, I wasn't sweating, my heart was beating normally, and I could breathe. And I was hungry!
I went to the kitchen and prepared a big breakfast for Irina and me. While I was waiting for the water to boil, I thought of something. I went to the bar and the pantry, got what I could find in the way of whiskey and liquor, then I took a heavy hammer and smashed every bottle. When I was done I swept up all the glass shards and dumped them. That was the last time I had to vomit, when I smelled the alcohol as I washed the stuff down the drain. In the bathroom I cleaned my teeth. It was then I noticed that someone was watching me. Irina.
"It's over," I said.
She ran to me and threw her arms around me and kissed me over and over again. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—" Nothing else. I asked her whom she was thanking. Whoever it was, I thanked him, too.
We breakfasted in the kitchen. I was very hungry. We laughed and were silly, and the five worst days of my life were over.
Some time later, I asked Dr. Wolfgang Erkner if such a thing was possible. He said indeed it was—when profound psychological disturbances occurred during a certain stage of alcoholism, or if the alcoholic was torn out of his accustomed milieu, but also if he was freed from a profound sense of oppression; but such conditions, if treated at home, rarely led to recovery.
>
What I am about to write now is not told to moralize, nor to sound like a preacher, but because something important would be missing if it were left out: From that twenty-eighth of November to the present day, I have not touched alcohol in any form whatsoever. And the jackal never came back.
Hem took Irina and me into his big apartment. He gave us two rooms, one for us to sleep in, the other for me to work in. When we left my apartment in the penthouse, two employees from Blitz watched that we didn't take anything with us that was on Rotaug's list, so we took very little. It fitted easily into two large suitcases. We moved them, and my suits and Irina's clothes and the books I was allowed to take, in Bertie's Mercedes. We only had to make three trips. I gave the keys to the men from Blitz, Hem had given me the keys to his apartment. We moved on the Monday after Advent, and it snowed for the first time that year.
Hem's apartment was furnished with antiques. The big double bed he and his wife had slept in was in the bedroom he had assigned to us. He slept at the other end of the apartment.
Irina and I were alone on that first Monday because it was closing day, and Hem and Bertie had a lot to do. I knew Hem would be home late.
Toward evening I grew uneasy because I realized I would now have to sleep in the same bed with Irina, and this worried me. I told myself that we loved each other; it was perfectly natural, therefore, for us to sleep together; but then I had to think that the child she was carrying wasn't mine, but another man's. I wanted desperately to sleep with her, but couldn't help thinking of everything that had happened. In the end I decided to tell her that I could control myself and wait until the child was born, even if it meant waiting half a year. I didn't know whether I could stand it, night after night, but if things became unbearable, there was a couch in the room I worked in.
The Traitor Blitz Page 57
