Doppelgänger

by Daša Drndic

  He was a rich homo. Do you play any instrument? the doctor asks Printz. That would be good. People should play instruments.

  There are a lot of street buskers these days. There are a lot of musicians with similar lives. And there are some with different lives. I’m not a homo, says Printz. A delicate madness accompanies many musicians.

  The doctor agrees: Ronnie Scott — a man of delicate madness.

  and many writers, says Printz.

  and many painters, says the doctor.

  One should believe Printz, he studies other people’s lives. And one should believe the doctor, he studies other people’s lives too. Printz and the doctor believe each other. They know each other. They meet from time to time, especially in winter, when Printz is cold in the hole near the zoo, when he feels cold and dirty so he drinks stolen wine, and wanders around as he did last night. Then the doctor takes him in.

  Take Bruckner, says the doctor. Bruckner adored young ladies.

  Graham Greene slept with forty-­seven prostitutes, says Printz. Then he adds: I won’t go to a concert, I don’t like concerts.

  Doctor: Graham Greene was a friend of Kim Philby.

  Printz: I have things in common with Graham Greene. Graham Greene is dead. Graham Greene met Castro and Ho Chi Minh. I met Tito and Suharto.

  Doctor: Many people have things in common. Hugo Wolf had things in common . . . Hugo Wolf

  Printz: Born in Slovenj Gradec in 1860, died in Vienna 1903.

  Doctor: Infected with syphilis as a young man.

  Printz: Hector Berlioz had thick red hair

  Doctor: and ended up as a librarian.

  Printz: Mussorgsky

  Doctor: Scriabin

  Printz: Rachmaninoff

  Doctor: Tchaikovsky

  Printz: epileptic

  Doctor: Handel

  Printz: Schumann

  Doctor: Rossini

  Printz: Jaco Pastorius

  Doctor: Vagrant. Drug addict. Suicide.

  Printz: Kurt Cobain. Suicide.

  Doctor: Literature!

  Printz: Kleist. Suicide.

  Doctor: Hans Christian Andersen.

  Printz: Malcolm Lowry, hospitalization, suicide.

  Doctor: Ibsen.

  Printz: Chatterton — suicide, Celan — suicide

  Doctor: Balzac.

  Printz: Faulkner, hospitalization.

  Doctor: Fitzgerald, hospitalization.

  Printz: Hesse.

  Doctor: Tennessee Williams, hospitalization.

  Printz: William Inge, suicide, Splendor in the Grass, Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty, rivers of alcohol, Come Back, Little Sheba, more alcohol. Little Sheba is a dog.

  Doctor: Maxim Gorky, attempted suicide.

  Printz: Hemingway, suicide, Virginia Woolf listens to sparrows singing in Ancient Greek, hospitalization, suicide.

  Doctor: Gogol.

  Printz: Conrad, attempted suicide.

  Doctor: Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Tolstoy, Melville, Turgenev.

  Printz: John Berryman, suicide.

  Doctor: ?

  Printz: I am the little man who smokes and smokes.

  I am the girl who does know better but.

  I am the king of the pool.

  I am so wise I had my mouth sewn shut.

  Doctor: ?

  Printz: Phenomenal memory. Father — suicide under his window. Alcoholism. Jumps from a bridge.

  Doctor: Strindberg, Zola, Henry James.

  Printz: Eugene O’Neill, hospitalization, attempted suicide.

  Doctor: Artaud, hospitalization.

  Printz: Baudelaire, attempted suicide.

  Doctor: Byron, T. S. Eliot, Alexander Blok.

  Printz: Yesenin, Hart Crane, suicide, suicide, Gérard de Nerval, suicide, Mayakovsky, suicide.

  Doctor: Blake.

  Printz: Sylvia Plath, suicide, Cesare Pavese, suicide

  Doctor: Torquato Tasso, Pasternak, Shelley.

  Printz: Poe, attempted suicide, Roethke, suicide, Tsvetaeva, suicide. Borowski, suicide.

  Doctor: Churchill!

  Printz: Lincoln. Idi Amin.

  Doctor: Vivien Leigh!

  Printz: Spencer Tracy. Robin Williams.

  Doctor: Dick Cavett.

  Printz: Painters.

  Doctor: I don’t have much idea about painters.

  Printz: Van Gogh, suicide, Testa, suicide by drowning, de Stäel, suicide.

  Doctor: Michelangelo?

  Printz: Yes.

  Doctor: Gauguin?

  Printz: Yes. Rothko, suicide.

  Doctor: Munch? Modigliani?

  Printz: That’s enough.

  Doctor: What about sculptors?

  Printz: There are hardly any bipolar sculptors. I’ve had enough.

  Doctor: There, all great people with things in common, delicate madness, manic-­depressive. Humanity is in their debt.

  A nurse comes into the clinic. Printz knows, he is going to have an injection, he will have medication, his satyriasis will disappear, his loquacity will dry up, his sleepiness will grow and then for a long time he will not think. Printz does not complain. He has been washed. He has been fed. He has had enough sleep.

  I’ve had enough sleep.

  The nurse says nothing.

  Maybe I’ll go to a concert after all. It’s warm at concerts.

  The nurse says nothing.

  I saw yellow roses in a shop window, says Printz. They were artificial roses made of silk, with plastic dew drops. They looked wonderful.

  Printz knows the zoo keepers. He drinks stolen wine and bought beer with them, he shares cheap, only cheap drinks with them. Then they spend time together, Printz and the keepers. The keepers are Printz’s friends, Printz’s new friends. Printz likes them.

  They are my friends.

  Printz does not drink brandy, Printz has never drunk brandy, especially not made from plums, Printz does not like plums. He would sometimes drink grappa in Italy, so as not to insult his Italian partners, Italian chemist-­spies.

  Italian chemists wear Paciotti shoes, Moreschi or Gravati shoes. Some wear Aldo Brue shoes. All Italian chemists’ shoes shine, Italian shoes in general are very shiny.

  Cognac, yes, Printz likes cognac in small quantities, after dinner. Sometimes Printz feels like French cognac, oh yes, out of a fine wide glass, in a club, in an elegant club, it could be a French club, or an English club, it could be a chemists’ club, a spies’ club, it could be a club where artists get together, painters, he fits into all kinds of groups, he feels like company, he feels like getting together, he Printz, where is Maristella?

  I fit in well. I haven’t fitted in for ages. I’d like to fit in again. Is it too late?

  Printz’s pension is incomprehensibly small because Printz is in fact a bit young for a pension, that is why his pension is small, and also the pension funds are empty, plundered.

  I’ve got a pauper’s pension, presumably it’s my fault.

  It is impossible to live on that pension. It is a Balkan pension.

  Transitional.

  Printz mainly uses the pension to buy drink, what can he do. If a bit of money is left, he gives it to beggars. Printz likes giving.

  I like to give. Oh, Maristella, I would give you yellow artificial roses with drops of plastic dew.

  The zoo keepers sometimes give Printz their old clothes, blue, overalls. The keepers sometimes hide Printz in the store­room and let him sleep there, secretly.

  You can sleep here, they tell him.

  The storeroom stinks of animals. Printz puts the piled up working clothing under his head, the floor is wooden.

  Printz is going to go back to Ugo Tutz­man. It is five years since he last visited Ugo Tutz­man. He has to go t
here to take back at least one volume of his Encyclopædia Britannica so that he has something to leaf through in the big storeroom at the zoo, in the winter. Printz has not read anything for a long time. He will go to Ugo Tutz­man, yes.

  Printz is no longer allowed into the reading rooms.

  It’s nice there. They won’t let me in.

  We do not let tramps in, they tell him. Or the homeless, say the women between clenched teeth.

  Your mouth’s like an asshole, says Printz and leaves. Printz always leaves. Printz does not quarrel, he is not a quarrelsome type, he is gentle. In reading rooms and libraries there are always women at the desk.

  The Britannica would be handy for Printz under his head because his neck gets stiff,

  his neck vertebrae are fucked

  his worker overalls stink like a billy goat

  priests stink like billy goats, village priests particularly

  perhaps it is me?

  So, Printz lies in the store­room, thinking. In the morning he asks the keepers: Where are the rhinos?

  The keepers say: Sleeping.

  Printz says: They sleep a lot.

  The keepers say: They were self-­destructive. We put them to sleep.

  Printz says: Will they wake up?

  The keepers say: When they wake up, they will be tame.

  Then Printz says: I’m going. People pass by my cage and don’t notice me.

  It is winter. February 2001. Printz is completely rootless. Printz loves white sweaters.

  White sweaters really suit me. In white sweaters I am very handsome. I could get some socks.

  There is snow, Printz’s feet are frozen, he is frozen all over, Printz has no sweater, the Burberry is not warm. The wind blows. Printz has no socks at all. His Florsheim shoes have holes in the soles. Printz is dirty. It is the sixth year of Printz’s wandering. The sixth.

  I’d like to have nice boots. Black. Leather. Not Florsheim, I’m sick of Florsheim footwear. They could be Bally boots or Salamander boots or solid Austrian boots from the Ludwig Reiter workshop, lined with fur, with thick rubber soles, oh, I’d be able to walk and walk, I could survive: the Austrians make robust goods.

  Printz seems to be waking up.

  He says: I’m going to Ugo Tutz­man. I haven’t been there for a long time.

  At Ugo Tutz­man’s Ugo Tutz­man tells Printz: I haven’t seen you in a long time and I have news.

  Do you have any warm boots? asks Printz.

  I’ve found Isa­bella Fischer, married name Rosenzweig. I sent her your silverware, the trays and cutlery through a foreigner. I have contacts with foreigners, do you know that? says Ugo Tutz­man.

  Are you Catholic? asks Printz.

  That foreigner brought it all back. Isa­bella Fischer died. She no longer exists. Here are your goods, says Ugo Tutz­man.

  I’d like a spoon, silver, and some money, says Printz. You haven’t got any boots?

  You can have lunch with me, you can do that, suggests Ugo Tutz­man.

  I’d like that, says Printz. I’d like to eat with this silver cutlery. I live in a hole, you know, in a cage.

  Ugo Tutz­man and Printz eat in silence. They eat thick vegetable soup and a lot of bread. The bread is warm because Ugo Tutz­man keeps it wrapped in aluminum foil on his tiled stove. It is warm in the room as well.

  We had a tiled stove when I went to kindergarten, says Printz. Your stove takes me back to my childhood.

  After they have eaten, Ugo Tutz­man says: I’ll give you a bottle of original French cognac in exchange for your silverware.

  Printz says: That would make me happy. I’m a connoisseur of cognac. Cognac is living matter. Cognac is the taste of happiness. Cognac transforms all ordinariness into exaltation, and exaltation is the sublimation of beauty. Cognac is sublimation. Lobster and crêpes Suzette flambées in cognac. Do you know Maristella?

  Cognac ferments. The best cognac takes decades to come into its own. Cognac needs time and moisture and special oak barrels. There is no bouquet without oak. Now I understand, I actually adore cognac. Cognac is the servant of time. The last phase in the maturation of cognac is oxidation. Oxidation comes after hydrolysis. Give me the right conditions, I’ll make cognac for you. Do you know Maristella?

  I prefer liqueurs, says Ugo Tutz­man. I adore Benedictine.

  Deo Optimo Maximo, said the Benedictine Don Bernardo Vincelli and made his elixir from 27 kinds of herb, says Printz. That was the beginning of the sixteenth century in the Fécamp monastery. Nowa­days Fécamp is a tourist destination. I could tell you various religious stories.

  I’m not a believer, Mr. Dvorsky, I only sell other people’s belongings.

  Printz likes Ugo Tutz­man. He likes the fact that he is not a believer although he does not like his dark room. Ugo Tutz­man’s dark room sows disquiet in Printz’s soul.

  That is why Printz says: Mr. Tutz­man, you are a dear man. Pull up the blinds.

  You are a connoisseur of alcohol, Mr. Dvorsky? asks Ugo Tutz­man.

  Oh yes, says Printz. Then he adds: today I feel like Benedict.

  Benedict lived like a hermit in an inaccessible cave above Subiaco, says Ugo Tutz­man. He was visited by a raven and he kept imagining he saw a woman. Then he threw himself into nettles and thorns, completely naked, and rolled around in those thorns, rolled and rolled until he was covered in blood.

  Yes, says Printz. I keep imagining I see a woman too. And I am covered in blood, but I don’t roll around. In recent times I have become less bloody. The recipe for Benedictine was lost during the French Revolution and has no connection with St. Benedict. The recipe was discovered by chance. The liqueur contains saffron, coriander, thyme, juniper, orange peel, infusions, honey. It’s a good liqueur. Could you give me that French cognac now, Mr. Tutz­man. I should be going.

  Mr. Dvorsky, says Ugo Tutz­man, don’t worry, I am alone too.

  The Tarantula cocktail is made from Benedictine. A tarantula is otherwise a deadly spider. It was once thought that the tarantula provokes tarantism, but tarantism is a disease of enforced dancing. A person with that disease twitches. Tarantism is also called chorea, from the Greek — dance and is also called St. Vitus Dance. Do you think that St. Vitus danced?

  St. Vitus is the patron saint of some towns, says Ugo Tutz­man.

  The Tarantula cocktail contains whiskey, vermouth, Benedictine, a little lemon and a lot of ice. The Tarantula cocktail refreshes and warms at the same time. I drank it in Greece. Dogs can get chorea as well. I had a dog that caught chorea. He was called Bufi. He twitched like a puppet on a string. He had to be put down. He was my dog. After that I got a new dog but he was taken away from me too. He was also called Bufi. All my pets were called Bufi, unless they were birds. The birds were called Ćićo. I’m not remotely alone. I’m going, says Printz. Incidentally, Mr. Tutz­man, I have a photographic memory.

  In the monasteries the friars didn’t only eat and drink, they adored bloodletting. They had their blood let more than fifteen times a year. After every bloodletting they could eat and drink even more. They became lively. What are you saying, Mr. Dvorsky?

  Perhaps Mr. Tutz­man knows something? Printz says:

  Women take alcohol better than men because the female body contains more moisture. Women have unusually moist bodies.

  Who is Maristella? asks Ugo Tutz­man.

  I feel like a bull, says Printz. Do you hear the bells? Church bells make me lively. When I hear church bells I feel lively. One could say — angry. I would not wish to be angry now. Is it a feast day?

  The clanging of the church bells produces little images in Printz’s brain, swaying images, drunken and red. Those images, clearly framed, come before Printz’s eyes, where they multiply and disturb him. That is why Printz feels like a bull and he does not know whether he can explain this to Ugo Tutz­man. They are not easily ex
plained phenomena, those images. Here, for instance, swans appear. Swans sail through Printz’s brain and as they sail they change color, they are not white swans as in real life, they are special swans from some other world, from a world Printz does not belong to, from some buried world. Those swans, those red swans, are elusive. With their necks wound into a wreath, in fact into a knot, they sail together, as though imprisoned, Printz is afraid. What if the swans sail out of his head and into Ugo Tutz­man’s room? What if, with their twisted, bound necks, they start padding around Ugo Tutz­man’s room? What if they spread their wings? Red swans with their wings stretched could look terrifying. Swans have beaks. What if they start using their sharp beaks to dig at his eyes, to peck at his skull looking for a way out? Ugo Tutz­man could take fright and tell Printz it’s time you were going. Perhaps it really is time for Printz to be going? But Printz enjoys being at Ugo Tutz­man’s. Ugo Tutz­man has given him cognac, if he stays for another hour or two, Ugo Tutz­man might be able to find, among his old things, some suitable footwear for him, Printz, his Florsheim shoes have become unusable, there are at least five layers of newspaper in them, they are full of plastic bags, they are too tight for Printz’s feet and he could get fungus from the damp.

  Fungi might start growing between my toes, says Printz.

  Fungal diseases are very tedious, says Ugo Tutz­man. Fungus is hard to cure. Hard to eliminate.

  If there are no shoes for him, perhaps Ugo Tutz­man could offer him somewhere to sleep, he could do. It is dark. It is winter. The nights are cold and windy. Printz does not want to go back to that hole anymore. He doesn’t want to.

  I’d like to stay a bit longer, says Printz. Who knows when I’ll come again.

  I’m not Catholic, says Ugo Tutz­man. I am not a believer. The church bells no longer have any effect on me. None. You can stay the night.

  Oh, how proud of himself Printz is. He had a thought, he had a little wish and he succeeded in realizing his wish. That had not happened to him for a long time, that he had a wish and secured its realization. He had carried out this business about staying the night well, elegantly, he had done it unobtrusively. Ugo Tutz­man is a good man. Printz was not mistaken.

  I was not mistaken. You are a good man, says Printz.