Come Back, Dr Caligari

by Donald Barthelme

  “Is there any noteworthy artistic activity in this town?”

  “Like what do you mean?”

  Buck then kissed Stephanie in a taxicab as a way of dissipating the blueness that was such a feature of her face. “Are all the girls in Cincinnati like you?” “All the first-class girls are like me,” Stephanie said, “but there are some other girls whom I won’t mention.”

  A faint sound of… A wave of… Dense clouds of… Heavily the immense weight of… Thin strands of…

  Dr. Hesperidian had fallen into the little pool in vanPelt Ryan’s garden (of course!) and everyone was pulling him out. Strangers met and fell in love over the problem of getting a grip on Dr. Hesperidian. A steel band played arias from Wozzeck. He lay just below the surface, a rime of algae whitening his cheekbones. He seemed to be… “Not that way,” Buck said reaching for the belt buckle. “This way.” The crowd fell back among the pines.

  “You seem to be a nice young man, young man,” vanPelt Ryan said, “although we have many of these of our own now since the General Electric plant came to town. Are you in computerization?”

  Buck remembered the endearing red lines on Stephanie de Moulpied’s knees.

  “I’d rather not answer that question,” he said honestly, “but if there’s some other question you’d like me to answer…”

  vanPelt turned away sadly. The steel band played “Red Boy Blues,” “That’s All,” “Gigantic Blues,” “Muggles,” “Coolin’,” and “Edward.” Although each player was maimed in a different way… but the affair becomes, one fears, too personal. The band got a nice sound. Hookers of grog thickened on the table placed there for that purpose. “I grow less, rather than more, intimately involved with human beings as I move through world life,” Buck thought, “is that my fault? Is it a fault?” The musicians rendered the extremely romantic ballads “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was,” “Scratch Me,” and “Misty.” The grim forever adumbrated in recent issues of Mind pressed down, down… Where is Stephanie de Moulpied? No one could tell him, and in truth, he did not want to know. It is not he who asks this question, it is Mrs. Lutch. She glides down her glide path, sinuously, she is falling, she bursts into flame, her last words: “Tell them… when they crash… turn off…the ignition.”

  Margins

  Edward was explaining to Carl about margins. “The width of the margin shows culture, aestheticism and a sense of values or the lack of them,” he said. “A very wide left margin shows an impractical person of culture and refinement with a deep appreciation for the best in art and music. Whereas,” Edward said, quoting his handwriting analysis book, “whereas, narrow left margins show the opposite. No left margin at all shows a practical nature, a wholesome economy and a general lack of good taste in the arts. A very wide right margin shows a person afraid to face reality, oversensitive to the future and generally a poor mixer.”

  “I don’t believe in it,” Carl said.

  “Now,” Edward continued, “with reference to your sign there, you have an all-around wide margin which shows a person of extremely delicate sensibilities with love of color and form, one who holds aloof from the multitude and lives in his own dream world of beauty and good taste.”

  “Are you sure you got that right?”

  “I’m communicating with you,” Edward said, “across a vast gulf of ignorance and darkness.”

  “I brought the darkness, is that the idea?” Carl asked.

  “You brought the darkness, you black mother,” Edward said. “Funky, man.”

  “Edward,” Carl said, “for God’s sake.”

  “Why did you write all that jazz on your sign, Carl? Why? It’s not true, is it? Is it?”

  “It’s kind of true,” Carl said. He looked down at his brown sandwich boards, which said: I Was Put In Jail in Selby County Alabama For Five Years For Stealing A Dollar and A Half Which I Did Not Do. While I Was In Jail My Brother Was Killed & My Mother Ran Away When I Was Little. In Jail I Began Preaching & I Preach to People Wherever I Can Bearing the Witness of Eschatological Love. I Have Filled Out Papers for Jobs But Nobody Will Give Me a Job Because I Have Been In Jail & The Whole Scene Is Very Dreary, Pepsi Cola. I Need Your Offerings to Get Food. Patent Applied For & Deliver Us From Evil. “It’s true,” Carl said, “with a kind of merde-y inner truth which shines forth as the objective correlative of what actually did happen, back home.”

  “Now, look at the way you made that ‘m’ and that ‘n’ there,” Edward said. “The tops are pointed rather than rounded. That indicates aggressiveness and energy. The fact that they’re also pointed rather than rounded at the bottom indicates a sarcastic, stubborn and irritable nature. See what I mean?”

  “If you say so,” Carl said.

  “Your capitals are very small,” Edward said, “indicating humility.”

  “My mother would be pleased,” Carl said, “if she knew.”

  “On the other hand, the excessive size of the loops in your ‘y’ and your ‘g’ display exaggeration and egoism.”

  “That’s always been one of my problems,” Carl answered.

  “What’s your whole name?” Edward asked, leaning against a building. They were on Fourteenth Street, near Broadway.

  “Carl Maria von Weber,” Carl said.

  “Are you a drug addict?”

  “Edward,” Carl said, “you are a swinger.”

  “Are you a Muslim?”

  Carl felt his long hair. “Have you read The Mystery of Being, by Gabriel Marcel? I really liked that one. I thought that one was fine.”

  “No, c’mon Carl, answer the question,” Edward insisted. “There’s got to be frankness and honesty between the races. Are you one?”

  “I think an accommodation can be reached and the government is doing all it can at the moment,” Carl said. “I think there’s something to be said on all sides of the question. This is not such a good place to hustle, you know that? I haven’t got but two offerings all morning.”

  “People like people who look neat,” Edward said. “You look kind of crummy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “You really think it’s too long?” Carl asked, feeling his hair again.

  “Do you think I’m a pretty color?” Edward asked. “Are you envious?”

  “No,” Carl said. “Not envious.”

  “See? Exaggeration and egoism. Just like I said.”

  “You’re kind of boring, Edward. To tell the truth.”

  Edward thought about this for a moment. Then he said: “But I’m white.”

  “It’s the color of choice,” Carl said. “I’m tired of talking about color, though. Let’s talk about values or something.”

  “Carl, I’m a fool,” Edward said suddenly.

  “Yes,” Carl said.

  “But I’m a white fool,” Edward said. “That’s what’s so lovely about me.”

  “You are lovely, Edward,” Carl said. “It’s true. You have a nice look. Your aspect is good.”

  “Oh, hell,” Edward said despondently. “You’re very well-spoken,” he said. “I noticed that.”

  “The reason for that is,” Carl said, “I read. Did you read The Cannibal by John Hawkes? I thought that was a hell of a book.”

  “Get a haircut, Carl,” Edward said. “Get a new suit. Maybe one of those new Italian suits with the tight coats. You could be upwardly mobile, you know, if you just put your back into it.”

  “Why are you worried, Edward? Why does my situation distress you? Why don’t you just walk away and talk to somebody else?”

  “You bother me,” Edward confessed. “I keep trying to penetrate your inner reality, to find out what it is. Isn’t that curious?”

  “John Hawkes also wrote The Beetle Leg and a couple of other books whose titles escape me at the moment,” Carl said. “I think he’s one of the best of our younger American writers.”

  “Carl,” Edward said, “what is your inner reality? Blurt it out, baby.”

  “It’s mine,” Carl said quietly. He gazed
down at his shoes, which resembled a pair of large dead brownish birds.

  “Are you sure you didn’t steal that dollar and a half mentioned on your sign?”

  “Edward, I told you I didn’t steal that dollar and a half.” Carl stamped up and down in his sandwich boards. “It sure is cold here on Fourteenth Street.”

  “That’s your imagination, Carl,” Edward said. “This street isn’t any colder than Fifth, or Lex. Your feeling that it’s colder here probably just arises from your marginal status as a despised person in our society.”

  “Probably,” Carl said. There was a look on his face. “You know I went to the government, and asked them to give me a job in the Marine Band, and they wouldn’t do it?”

  “Do you blow good, man? Where’s your axe?”

  “They wouldn’t give me that cotton-pickin’ job,” Carl said. “What do you think of that?”

  “This eschatological love,” Edward said, “what land of love is that?”

  “That is later love,” Carl said. “That’s what I call it, anyhow. That’s love on the other side of the Jordan. The term refers to a set of conditions which… It’s kind of a story we black people tell to ourselves to make ourselves happy.”

  “Oh me,” Edward said. “Ignorance and darkness.”

  “Edward,” Carl said, “you don’t like me.”

  “I do too like you, Carl,” Edward said. “Where do you steal your books, mostly?”

  “Mostly in drugstores,” Carl said. “I find them good because mostly they’re long and narrow and the clerks tend to stay near the prescription counters at the back of the store, whereas the books are usually in those little revolving racks near the front of the store. It’s normally pretty easy to slip a couple in your overcoat pocket, if you’re wearing an overcoat.”

  “But…”

  “Yes,” Carl said, “I know what you’re thinking. If I’ll steal books I’ll steal other things. But stealing books is metaphysically different from stealing like money. Villon has something pretty good to say on the subject I believe.”

  “Is that in ‘If I Were King’?”

  “Besides,” Carl added, “haven’t you ever stolen anything? At some point in your life?”

  “My life,” Edward said. “Why do you remind me of it?”

  “Edward, you’re not satisfied with your life! I thought white lives were nice!” Carl said, surprised. “I love that word ‘nice.’ It makes me so happy.”

  “Listen Carl,” Edward said, “why don’t you just concentrate on improving your handwriting.”

  “My character, you mean.”

  “No,” Edward said, “don’t bother improving your character. Just improve your handwriting. Make larger capitals. Make smaller loops in your ‘y’ and your ‘g.’ Watch your word-spacing so as not to display disorientation. Watch your margins.”

  “It’s an idea. But isn’t that kind of a superficial approach to the problem?”

  “Be careful about the spaces between the lines,” Edward went on. “Spacing of lines shows clearness of thought. Pay attention to your finals. There are twenty-two different kinds of finals and each one tells a lot about a person. I’ll lend you the book. Good handwriting is the key to advancement, or if not the key, at least a key. You could be the first man of your race to be Vice-President.”

  “That’s something to shoot for, all right.”

  “Would you like me to go get the book?”

  “I don’t think so,” Carl said, “no thanks. It’s not that I don’t have any faith in your solution. What I would like is to take a leak. Would you mind holding my sandwich boards for a minute?”

  “Not at all,” Edward said, and in a moment had slipped Carl’s sandwich boards over his own slight shoulders. “Boy, they’re kind of heavy, aren’t they?”

  “They cut you a bit,” Carl said with a malicious smile. “I’ll just go into this men’s store here.”

  When Carl returned the two men slapped each other sharply in the face with the back of the hand, that beautiful part of the hand where the knuckles grow.

  The Joker’s Greatest Triumph

  Fredric went over to his friend Bruce Wayne’s house about every Tuesday night. Bruce would be typically sitting in his study drinking a glass of something. Fredric would come in and sit down and look around the study in which there were many trophies of past exploits.

  “Well Fredric what have you been doing? Anything?”

  “No Bruce things have been just sort of rocking along.”

  “Well this is Tuesday night and usually there’s some action on Tuesday night.”

  “I know Bruce or otherwise I wouldn’t pick Tuesday night to come over.”

  “You want me to turn on the radio Fredric? Usually there’s something interesting on the radio or maybe you’d like a little music from my hi-fi?”

  Bruce Wayne’s radio was a special short-wave model with many extra features. When Bruce turned it on there was a squealing noise and then they were listening to Tokyo or somewhere. Above the radio on the wall hung a trophy from an exploit: a long African spear with a spearhead made of tin.

  “Tell me Bruce what is it you’re drinking there?” Fredric asked.

  “I’m sorry Fredric it’s tomato juice. Can I get you a glass?”

  “Does it have anything in it or is it just plain tomato juice?”

  “It’s tomato juice with a little vodka.”

  “Yes I wouldn’t mind a glass,” Fredric said. “Not too heavy on the vodka please.”

  While Bruce went out to the kitchen to make the drink Fredric got up and went over to examine the African spear more closely. It was he saw tipped with a rusty darkish substance, probably some rare exotic poison he thought.

  “What is this stuff on the end of this African spear?” he asked when Bruce came back into the room.

  “I must have left the other bottle of vodka in the Batmobile,” Bruce said. “Oh that’s curare, deadliest of the South American poisons,” he affirmed. “It attacks the motor nerves. Be careful there and don’t scratch yourself.”

  “That’s okay I’ll just drink this tomato juice straight,” Fredric said settling himself in his chair and looking out of the window. “Oh-oh there’s the bat symbol spotlighted against the sky. This must mean a call from Commissioner Gordon at headquarters.”

  Bruce looked out of the window. A long beam of yellowish light culminating in a perfect bat symbol lanced the evening sky.

  “I told you Tuesday night was usually a good night,” Bruce Wayne said. He put his vodka-and-tomato-juice down on the piano. “Hold on a minute while I change will you?”

  “Sure, take your time,” Fredric said. “By the way is Robin still at Andover?”

  “Yes,” Bruce said. “He’ll be home for Thanksgiving, I think. He’s having a little trouble with his French.”

  “Well I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Fredric said. “Go ahead and change. I’ll just look at this magazine.”

  After Bruce had changed they both went out to the garage where the Batmobile and the Batplane waited.

  Batman was humming a tune which Fredric recognized as being the “Warsaw Concerto.” “Which one shall we take?” he said. “It’s always hard to decide on a vague and indeterminate kind of assignment like this.”

  “Let’s flip,” Fredric suggested.

  “Do you have a quarter?” Batman asked.

  “No but I have a dime. That should be okay,” Fredric said. They flipped, heads for the Batmobile, tails for the Batplane. The coin came up heads.

  “Well,” Batman said as they climbed into the comfortable Batmobile, “at least you can have some vodka now. It’s under the seat.”

  “I hate to drink it straight,” Fredric said.

  “Press that button there on the dashboard,” Batman said. Fredric pressed the button and a panel on the dashboard slid back to reveal a little bar, with ice, glasses, water, soda, quinine, lemons, limes etc.

  “Thanks,” Fredric said. “Can I mix you
one?”

  “Not while I’m working,” Batman said. “Is there enough quinine water? I forgot to get some when I went to the liquor store last night.”

  “Plenty,” Fredric said. He enjoyed his vodka tonic as Batman wheeled the great Batmobile expertly through the dark streets of Gotham City.

  In Commissioner Gordon’s office at Police Headquarters the Commissioner said: “Glad you finally got here Batman. Who is this with you?”

  “This is my friend Fredric Brown,” Batman said. “Fredric, Commissioner Gordon.” The two men shook hands and Batman said: “Now Commissioner, what is this all about?”

  “This!” Commissioner Gordon said. He placed a small ship model on the desk before him. “The package came by messenger, addressed to you, Batman! I’m afraid your old enemy, The Joker, is on the loose again!”

  Batman hummed a peculiar melody which Fredric recognized as the “Cornish Rhapsody” which is on the other side of the “Warsaw Concerto.” “Hmmmmm!” Batman said. “This sounds to me like another one of The Joker’s challenges to a duel of wits!”

  “Flying Dutchman!” Fredric exclaimed, reading the name painted on the bow of the model ship. “The name of a famous old ghost vessel? What can it mean!”

  “A cleverly disguised clue!” Batman said. “The ‘Flying Dutchman’ meant here is probably the Dutch jewel merchant Hendrik van Voort who is flying to Gotham City tonight with a delivery of precious gems!”

  “Good thinking Batman!” Commissioner Gordon said. “I probably never would have figured it out in a thousand years!”

  “Well we’ll have to hurry to get out to the airport!” Batman said. “What’s the best way to get there from here Commissioner?”

  “Well if I were you I’d go out 34th Street until you hit the War Memorial, then take a right on Memorial Drive until it connects with Gotham Parkway! After you’re on the Parkway it’s clear sailing!” he indicated.