by Elly Welt
“Murphy? I’ll have a cheese sandwich on rye and French fries.”
“Kitchen’s closed.”
Josef looked at his watch. “It’s only two twenty. Sign says it closes at two thirty.”
“Can’t help it. Cook leaves early on Tuesday. Has a class.” He sighed. “How about some popcorn? Just made it fresh right before you came in.”
“O.K. Please—butter but no salt.”
Murphy filled a large glass bowl with the yellow popped corn and put it on the bar. “It’s already salted, and we use margarine,” he said, soberly. “But it’s free of charge. On the house.”
“Why?”
Murphy threw up his hands. “It’s so salty that it makes you thirsty so you’ll buy more to drink.”
“I see.” Josef tried the corn, three or four kernels, then pushed the bowl away. “Too salty.”
“All bars do it. Standard practice.”
Josef snorted and looked at the array of bottles on the counter behind the bar. “Is that vodka?” He pointed to a bottle of clear liquid half hidden behind the bourbon.
“That’s gin. But we’ve got vodka.”
“I’ll take some.”
“How do you want it?”
“In a glass, without ice.”
Murphy put a tiny shot glass on the counter and filled it to the brim with vodka.
“Good Lord. How much is that supposed to be?”
“Ounce and a half.”
Josef picked up the shot glass and dumped the contents into the empty five-ounce glass. “Another.” And then, “Another.” Murphy looked on, aghast, as he realized that the five-ounce glass was only slightly more than half full. “Your shot glass.” said Josef, “is only one ounce, not one and a half.”
“That does it!” shouted Murphy, reaching up to pull off his hair again.
“No! Stop! Don’t do that!”
Murphy dropped his hand. “Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t quit right now.”
“Because you need the job and quitting would just be giving in to those swine.”
Murphy nervously mopped the clean bar with the dry cloth. “You think we oughta break all the windows in town, don’t you?”
Josef shuddered. “No. Believe me. Murphy, that does no good.” He swiveled on his barstool and gazed absentmindedly at the large plate-glass windows of the bar front. Carlos.
Borbon was across the street talking to Susan Ingram, gesticulating wildly with his arms. Josef swiveled quickly and faced the back, his heart pounding.
“So what should we do?” asked Murphy.
Most likely there was an exit through the kitchen—into an alley, perhaps. Or he could hide in the men’s room.
“What do you think we oughta do about it?” Murphy repeated.
“I don’t have any answers,” said Josef.
“What are you, a nihilist or something? You come in here and tear the place apart and then you don’t do anything about putting it back together.”
“Murphy, do you see a man—right across the street—wearing hospital greens?”
Murphy turned and stared out the window for some time, but did not answer. Josef heard the entrance door open, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. “Did he come in here?”
“No.”
“Is he coming over here?”
“No.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Talking to a little lady with boobs. No, wait, he’s leaving.”
Josef was afraid to turn his head. He contemplated a bolt into the kitchen. “Where is he going?” Josef inhaled a deep, musical breath and held it.
“He’s getting on the Cambus.” Pause. “He’s gone.”
“Good!” He exhaled in a loud wheeze. The Cambus would take Carlos back to the hospital. Josef turned toward the window. Customers—two women students—were settling at a table in front.
“Was he looking for you?”
“Yes. One thing you could do is pressure your professors to order books elsewhere—at Epstein’s—and get the university to open its own bookstore. Another thing—you could put less ice in the glasses.”
“But—”
“You’ve got customers.” Josef nodded toward the front.
Murphy sighed, dropped his cleaning cloth, and moved heavily to the end of the bar nearest the front. Josef swung his barstool about and stared through the windows at Susan Ingram across the street. What had Murphy called her? Josef patted his breast pocket, feeling for cigarettes, stood, searched through his pockets for change, and headed for the cigarette machine near the front entrance. Little lady with boobs. They reminded him of Kirsti Krupinsky. He dropped forty cents into the vending machine and pushed Camels. Little lady with boobs. Little lady with rod that made them rise from their noon apple-dreams and scuttle goose-fashion under the skies—that damned poem. Rise and skies . . . scuttle and . . . little . . .
. . . little
Lady with rod that made them rise
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle
Goose-fashion under the skies!
While walking back to his end of the bar, he opened the pack, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and cupping his hands, lit it, inhaled, and exhaled with a racking cough. Still he could close his eyes and bring forth the image of those breasts—and still that image aroused him. Kirsti. She, most likely, had made it—survived—but Krupinsky had not. Josef took another drag from the cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, and began retching coughs so profound he almost vomited. He was dead. It was no good. He snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray. Josef picked up the glass of vodka. “Lieber Herr Schtalin,” he whispered harshly, “fuck you,” and threw the three ounces of vodka down his throat, gasped, choked, coughed again, then shuddered all over. It was raw stuff. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and then brought forth from the depths a belch that relieved the nausea. He found out about the Krupinskys and the others from the Roumanian Biologist George Treponesco, returned from the USSR to teach at the university. That was five months after the escape through the apples. The University of Berlin reopened in January of 1946, and in his first class after lunch, he sat high in the back row of the tiered benches, waiting, along with sixty-five other students, for the zoology professor to appear. The university was in the Russian Sector, and Josef was wondering what kind of an idiot they had found who would be willing to teach the biological sciences under the control of the Soviets, who denied Darwin and Mendel in favor of Lamarck, when in swaggered Treponesco, slammed his books onto the table, then tried to push it aside—the way the Chief used to do—but it was bolted to the floor. He tried to lift off the lectern, but it was screwed to the table. He began to pace, hands locked behind his back, looking at the students—just the way the Chief had done it. He hadn’t yet seen Josef.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Treponesco paced as he talked. “This is a course in zoology; simplified for medical students. No credit will be given for majors in the sciences. Since you are medical students, you will probably have difficulty with it. Correct? Or am I right?”
Josef, his head pounding, hardly able to breathe, pushed his books and notebooks onto the floor, and then his pencils, sending them flying. Treponesco could not help but notice. He stopped pacing.
“Bernhardt, I want to talk to you. Come down.”
Josef stood and began to walk toward the front.
“Bring your books!”
Josef began to pick up his books, notebooks, and pencils. The two women seated on either side of him dropped down to help. Since there were very few men left in Berlin, his class was mostly women. Treponesco waited silently below until Josef was face-to-face, then, remembering the sixty-four other students, he turned to the class and, after two brief bows, said, “Excuse me, please. A long-lost friend. Excuse me a moment.”
Josef followed him into the hall.
“I do not want to see your goddam curly face in my classroom again!”
Josef stood, silent,
and looked Treponesco in the eye.
“Oh, come on, Bernhardt. Read the book. You’ll pass the exam with flying colors. This stuff is so elementary you know it already. And anyway, what are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be at M.I.T.? What’s the matter, weren’t you accepted?” He snickered.
“I was awarded a full scholarship, but I couldn’t get a visa.”
“The Americans wouldn’t give you a visa? Why not?”
“Because I’m a German. Weren’t you taken with the others?”
“We were all taken. They let me come back to teach.”
“Did any of the others make it back?”
“My wife. She’s divorcing me.”
“I don’t blame her.”
“Neither do I. What about Tatiana?”
“She’s enrolled here, unfortunately in biology.”
“Good!” He rubbed his hands together. “She’ll have to take my class. You two still going together?”
“We’re engaged.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. What about the others?”
“I ran into Rabin in Moscow; that is, I went to his concert and caught him afterward, backstage. He was really glad to see me.” Treponesco shrugged. “Told me that the Yugoslav was dead.”
“Mitya? What happened?”
“Seems that the monkeys started dying—during the trip. So he just injected the rest of them—and then himself. He did himself in.”
“My God!”
“Ignatov’s O.K. Rabin says he got his old position back—you know, doing research on the plague—in Kiev, Soviet Academy of Science and Medicine.”
“What about the Chief and Sonja and Professor Kreutzer and the Krupinskys?”
“Look, Josef, I’ve got students in there. Meet me after class in that cafe on the corner. We’ll have a beer, and I’ll tell you what little I know.”
After the beer, Josef had gotten on his BMW and raced out to the Institute for the first time since his escape through the apples.
His body swayed, a momentary vertigo; he held on to the bar. He had small tolerance for alcohol and had done little drinking since the Institute. Dizzy, he turned slowly on his barstool and looked out the plate-glass window. There she was, the little lady with boobs, Susan Ingram, picketing against war:
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR
Josef reached for the little calendar note pad and pen he kept in the inside pocket of his suit jacket and wrote: Her wars were bruited in our high windows, and under that, in his illegible physician’s hand, he wrote the first four lines of the poem that had been plaguing him all day:
There was such speed in her little body,
And such lightness in her footfall,
It is no wonder her brown study
Astonishes us all.
He paused, then sketched in other words and phrases as they came to him. It was rhymed, or near rhymed, so he should be able to reconstruct it all once he found the words: Her wars were bruited in our high windows . . . apple orchards and beyond . . . Lazy geese who cried in goose alas! for the little lady with rod, that . . . harried unto the pond the lazy geese . . . dropping their snow on the green grass . . . Alas! To the little lady with rod . . . noon-apple dreams.
He had the first verse and much of the middle, but was having trouble with the end. He wrote “Bells for John Whiteside’s Daughter” by John Crowe Ransom and put the note pad and pen back into his pocket. He needed a little help with the ending and decided that he would wander up Clinton to Epstein’s and look up the poem in an anthology. It had been years since he had allowed himself the joy of browsing through the stacks—not since his youth, when his father gave him a charge account at the bookstore in Gartenfeld. Both Mutti and Papa encouraged him to buy as many books as he wished, and his third-floor bedroom was filled with them.
“Can I get you anything else?” Murphy’s voice seemed far away.
“No, thank you.” Josef stood. His lips were numb, fingers and toes tingling, and his legs lead. He was quite drunk.
“You leaving?”
“How much do I owe you?” Josef reached for his wallet.
“I have no idea what to charge you.”
Josef dropped a ten-dollar bill on the counter.
“That’s too much.”
“Keep your hair on,” said Josef and walked toward the entrance.
“Hey,” shouted Murphy. “You forgot your briefcase.”
Unsteady enough from the three ounces of vodka to be conscious of each careful step, Josef wandered up Clinton, his briefcase, held by the grip, swinging by his side. The city noises came from a great distance; the center of a quiet, glowing circle, he crossed the intersection with the light, aware that others, without fear of Uncle Philip, were ignoring the traffic signals, and that he, Josef, actually was enjoying the warmth of the beautiful October day. As he strolled along, studying the storefronts on both sides of the street—crystal intact—looking for the other bookstore, Epstein’s, his attention was captured by the colors in the window of a men’s clothing store, and he stopped to stare through the glass, mesmerized by the rich hues of a carefully arranged display of autumn leaves and matching wool sweaters—russet, gold, burgundy, brown.
“Buy it.” Susan Ingram had slipped up beside him. He could see her reflection in the glass.
He turned slowly, so that he would not lose his balance, and looked down at her—the open work shirt, no bra, her full breasts. “Miss Susan Ingram, R.N.” He slurred the words.
“I am surprised you remember my name.”
“You are quite memorable, Miss Ingram.” He pointed to the sweaters behind glass. “Which one? The brown?”
“The red! Your suits are too dark. You always look as though you’re going to a funeral.”
Josef cocked his head to one side and contemplated the wine-red sweater. Tanya would have said that he was too old to wear red.
“Look, Dr Bernhardt, what have you got to lose?” She slipped her arm into his and propelled him through the door of a store that, obviously, catered to the more conservative element of Iowa City. There were standard dark suits and quiet sport coats and slacks along one wall; shirts in proper boxy cubicles along the other; sweaters and other accessories neatly stacked on tables in the center. No blue jeans or work shirts here.
An odd couple: Susan Ingram, looking like a hippie, and Josef in prudent charcoal-gray, carrying a fine leather briefcase, with the only hint of improvidence the unbuttoned collar, the missing necktie which he had stuffed into his jacket pocket after Elizabeth’s examination; of course, he was drunk, but that, he assumed, would not be noticed by anyone.
The two sales clerks, men in quiet suits, surveyed them with lowered lids but did not rush to wait on them.
Susan pulled Josef along the stacks of wool sweaters and picked up a burgundy long-sleeved V-neck. “Dr Borbon was looking for you,” she said. “He stopped to talk to me in front of the Pentacrest. It was after you left the bookstore and went into the bar.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I was?”
“It was obvious you were trying to avoid him.”
“But you knew where I was all along?”
She nodded. “Have you been drinking?”
“Is it noticeable?”
“Yes. Do you drink a lot?”
“Not recently. Tell me, Miss Ingram, how long have you been following me?”
“About a month. Will you please call me Susan?”
“Susan. I’ve been in Iowa City slightly more than two weeks.”
“I know. But I was interested in you even before you came. Dr Borbon talked about you a lot. Especially after you finally got your visa and were coming down soon.”
“Are you a friend of Dr Borbon’s?”
“Not exactly. I am . . . was a friend of a friend of his for a while. One of the writers over at the Workshop.”
“I see. Do you specialize in friends of Borbon?”
“I could do worse. He likes to coll
ect brilliant people around him—like Dr Matsumoto, the biochemist, and some of the writers over at the Workshop.” She looked up at him, her face serious, her dark eyes wide. “He said you have an I.Q. of two hundred and five and that you’re separated from your wife, which is good because she was bad for you.”
“Good Lord,” said Josef.
“Is it true? About your marriage?”
Josef thought for a moment. “True,” he said.
“Do you want to try this on?” She waved the burgundy sweater at him.
“I’m too sweaty to put on clean clothes.”
“My apartment’s right across the street—above Burger Qwik. You could shower there . . .”
Josef looked down her cleavage. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I help you?” A thin-nosed, balding clerk, finally, approached them.
Josef bought the burgundy sweater.
He awakened in some confusion, dreaming of the cave in his back yard, of Papa standing there beside the hole looking down at him and at Petter, and he realized that he was a collection of symptoms: intermittent epigastric pain, distended abdomen, mild nausea, and urinary urgency—but his headache was gone, and he could breathe. Petter! He had not thought of his high school friend for years. To relieve the pain in his gut, he needed to flex his knees, to pull his legs up a bit, but he did not want to disturb Susan, who lay sweetly sleeping on his shoulder, her tousled hair hiding her face. He had asked her to unbraid her long dark hair, brush it, and let it lie free.
Another pain, sharper this time, lower, and the muscles in his legs involuntarily spasmed. Susan’s hand, resting on his belly, began to stroke lightly, moving down to his sex.
He stopped her, gently lifting her hand. “I don’t think I can,” he said.
She pulled her hand away abruptly and tried to sit up, but Josef restrained her.
“Don’t be angry.”
With one hand securing the towel he had tucked between her legs, Susan sat and pushed her back against the wall, the flowered sheet settling around her waist.