by Leon Rooke
The philosopher had not shown himself gifted.
After two months influential friends had finagled his release.
“Look here at this shoe,” Heidegger said, removing the same from his left foot.
“I don’t want to look at your stupid shoe,” the craniologist said.
Stupid? Heidegger’s eyebrows lifted. The man was insufferable. Even so, Heidegger persevered.
“Notice how the heel of this shoe has worn inwards. Now look at this other shoe.”
He removed his other shoe. His feet sank a few inches into the wet soil.
“The heels of both of these shoes, and the soles as well, are worn to the inside. How I walk is a thing you can measure but what this means, the relationship between the walking habit and the workings of the brain, is a thing your cloth tapes cannot reveal.”
Heidegger paused, tapping a stiff finger hard against his brow. He could feel his brain expanding, and wondered whether the craniologist would have the wit to notice.
The craniologist looked at him. Heidegger looked away. He had never with ease looked into another person’s eyes. Something he saw in those eyes was disturbing to him. Elfride sometimes gripped his collar and shook him. “Look at me!” she would say. “Look at me!”
In his family they had never looked at each other; in that regard he was a victim of his humble origins.
“Also,” Heidegger went on. “Also, look how worn both these soles are up in the toe area. You likely have never seen this before, not even in Eva Braun or the Führer. When Heidegger has a thought, a brain wave – about nothingness, to mention but one example – his toes dig holes through the toughest leather. Before he knows it his toes are leaving bloody imprints on the streets. Every other month he requires new shoes. It is driving Elfride insane. But that, my friend, is called concentration. It is called thinking.”
The craniologist looked to the ground where Heidegger was standing. He looked at the wet black socks on Heidegger’s feet, at his narrow white ankles.
At their feet lay a bed of empty shells, black walnuts left by squirrels.
The door opened and they heard Elfride say, “Put your shoes back on, Martin. There’s a war on. I am not going to spend the whole of my life tending to a sick man.”
The cat appeared from nowhere, streaking between Elfride’s legs into the house.
Elfride screamed.
The door slammed.
The craniologist flattened his satchel, then tried buttoning his raincoat over it.
“In the cat world which has the biggest brain?” asked Heidegger.
The craniologist did not answer. He was listening to raucous sounds emanating from the house.
A week ago, the pregnant cat had assumed its position on the sill outside Heidegger’s study. It had stalked back and forth and scratched at the screen, meowing ferociously. Heidegger had just scribbled in his notebook, No shelter within the truth of being. Then the cat had again showed up, a slick, black, ugly kitten, newly born, dangling from its jaws. The kitten’s entire head was in the cat’s mouth. With its claws the cat ripped a hole in the screen. It stepped through and settled itself down in that space between the screen and the window. Heidegger had just written, Elfride’s stomach was last night made queasy by wine.
The ridiculous cat, fortunately, had produced but one very small kitten. Horrified, Heidegger had watched it eat a second one, or the afterbirth.
“How do the Jews fare?” Heidegger asked the craniologist.
The craniologist remained silent.
“Who sent you?” Heidegger asked.
“I am not permitted to disclose that information,” the craniologist said.
“What is your name?”
“That too is confidential,” the craniologist said.
“Goebbels?” asked Heidegger. “Or someone higher?”
The craniologist’s face remained indifferent to these questions.
“The Führer sent you?”
The craniologist pressed himself flatter against the building.
“I have every right to know,” said Heidegger. “The higher the office you represent the less reason I have to question your credentials. You will agree there are a lot of crackpots running about.”
It seemed to Heidegger that the craniologist did agree to this.
For a moment they watched the rain. Heidegger put his shoes back on. The trees were heavy with rain. Rain was coursing down the street beyond the hedge and flowing in thick grey curtains down the facades of the facing buildings.
From his cabin windows at Todtnauberg Heidegger had a sweet view of the Swiss Alps.
The Swiss were a durable people but theirs was not a fated nation.
At Todtnauberg he could wear knickerbockers and his peasant caps. He could tread the slopes on snowshoes.
At Todtnauberg, until recently, he had enjoyed the company of Hannah Arendt.
Christmas time two years ago he and Hannah had unsuccessfully attempted cooking a goose dinner.
The craniologist was studying him; Heidegger caught himself licking his moustache. He had got into this habit lately, one infuriating to Elfride, whose own alienating habits were confined to those inflicted upon her by her father, the high-command Prussian officer. A dozen times each day he would hear her saying, “How did these crumbs get on the table!” She saw imaginary ants everywhere. She saluted the stove, the cupboards, the light fixtures. She could stand for hours on end mesmerized by the sound and sight of water running from the kitchen faucet.
Her taut body was accustomed to upholding her father’s rigid standards on posture; when they made love her spine emitted cracking noises.
“I measured Einstein’s brain,” the craniologist suddenly said. “When he was in Berlin.” The words seemed to spurt from his cramped lips. His eyes were blinking fast.
“I measured his brain twice. Once before his property was confiscated and again before he was born.”
“In the womb?” said Heidegger. “You took his measure in the…?” The philosopher’s tone suggested that not since his honeymoon had he been so amazed.
Then he remembered that he and Elfride had succumbed to two wedding ceremonies, Lutheran one week and Catholic the following. That had amazed him. He would have to think a while now, to recall why it had been so important.
He and she had prayed together in those days.
“Trotsky,” the craniologist said. “Lenin, I’ve done them all.”
Nietzsche, Heidegger thought. I’ll bet the son of a bitch will next be telling me he’s done Nietzsche.
“Nietzsche, also. Now there was someone a man could talk to.”
“You conversed with Nietzsche?” Heidegger could not believe this. For years he had himself been conversing daily with Nietzsche.
“We were… intimate,” the craniologist said.
Something in the sound of the rain must have led Heidegger’s mind to wonder. He became aware suddenly that the craniologist had mentioned a dozen more names of those immortalized.
“Wagner?”
“Wagner, of course.”
They were both silent a moment.
“Napoleon, too,” the craniologist said.
Silence fell again.
Heidegger stepped away from the wall. He didn’t care how wet he got. He was excited.
“Who didn’t you do?”
“I don’t do Jews. Einstein was the last.”
“I hear Julius Streicher is insane. Is the insane mind larger?”
The craniologist rolled his eyes.
“Have you done him?”
“I have done the highest echelon of Reich officials.”
“Whose is biggest?”
“I am not permitted to divulge that data.”
“Hölderlin? Our greatest poet! I would be curious to know whether you have done him.”
“Too much decay.”
“Hölderlin? Decayed? Our greatest poet!”
“Unlike Napoleon. Perfectly preserved.”
“Jesus? What about him?”
The craniologist stared at Heidegger.
“Pardon me,” the craniologist said. “But I would not walk in all that shit.”
After a moment, Heidegger nodded. So here was another who had shed his faith.
“But I did Pontius Pilate. Very impressive.” Clearly this craniologist, built like a scarecrow, as emotionless as history, was another time-and-being man.
The door opened.
Elfride stood on the landing, hands on her hips.
They waited for her to say something about the cat. But she did not speak of the cat. She had perhaps dealt with the cat as she had with its kitten.
She had dressed. She had done up her hair and put on lipstick. She had put on an alluring frock, with a silk scarf folding from a pocket, and had the niceties adorning her throat.
“Come inside,” she said. “Both of you. Come inside now.”
The two deposited their shoes by the door.
“Take off those wet socks,” she said.
They entered.
“Your office called,” she told the craniologist. “I had no idea this project was all so scientific. I had a nice chat with Goebbels himself. He was most gracious. Quite an enchanting man.”
Heidegger stared at her red lipstick.
She was wearing stockings. Stockings were precious. Something of significance must have transpired over the phone, for her to put on stockings.
“Did he say anything about me?” Heidegger asked. “Did he offer any hints?”
Elfride was studying the craniologist’s head. The heels of her hands rested against her slim hips. A cigarette burned there between two fingers, the nails still damp with red paint.
She seemed mesmerized by what she saw behind the craniologist’s thick brow.
But a moment later she emerged from this state.
“The poor man needs a towel,” she said. “Martin, get our visitor a towel. A nice one, from the guest room.”
In one thin hand the craniologist was holding up his dripping socks. Elfride, her face flushing, the flush spreading to her ears, suddenly lunged, snatching them from him.
“I’ll give them a quick wash,” she said.
Heidegger was still by the doorway, holding his. It stupefied him that Elfride would wash another man’s socks.
“What about mine?” he said. “What about me?”
But Elfride was already scurrying away. They heard water running in the sink in the kitchen.
The craniologist entered the living room. He looked about for a second, then settled himself into the room’s most comfortable chair.
From the hallway Heidegger watched him cross his legs; he watched the craniologist dangle his naked white foot. The skin was hairless. Raw scabs, spots of blood, showed on the nubs of his toes.
Beneath the chair crouched the deformed cat. Its lunatic eyes were staring fixedly at Heidegger.
Heidegger felt a shiver steal over him. A thought had just come to him, bewildering and frightening.
Hitler would lose the war. The Volk would not claim its rightful greatness.
[The Speaker falls silent. He drains the last of the cognac in his glass. He rearranges the judicial robes, buffs the toe of one black shoe. A door is heard opening. A new shadow is seen. A soft voice is heard. “Gentlemen. It is time to reconvene.”]
AARON & MAE
Dear Mae,
When you left me I was without Christ.
I never hit you, though, whatever you claim.
I was bad for the children, I remember you saying that.
The day that I was up on charges I said many bad things
to your face and to your backside later on.
Last night at the Bethel Street Church I accepted the
Lord as my Saviour. I tried this morning taking out a bank
loan to pay you back support payments said to be owed.
I was refused. I will try another bank, or there’s a guy
I know. The past week I saw my oldest on the street
and he did not recognize me. Even when he dropped
a dollar in my hat. I am now living in the Good Light
rooming house next door to the church. You have to be
saved to live there. It’s mixed, but I have left the women
alone. I walked by a room where a woman was ironing.
She reminded me of you. If you are not saved,
I pray that you think about it.
Your
Aaron
Dear Aaron,
Please do not write me again.
Dear Mae,
The woman ironing and me have established a
good relationship. Such is frowned on at the Good Light
and we are keeping it a secret. Judy is fighting the bottle
the same as me, only she’s AA. She has two children,
the same as me. Do you have a copy of our divorce
papers? Judy won’t believe me when I tell her I am
a single man. I’m sorry for that ruckus was made when
I come to your house. You ought to get rid of that
vicious dog. I could sue your pants off. The rock
through the window I see now was a mistake. It was
mean of you to put the law on my tail. They came
around to Good Light, asking questions, making
trouble. I am still saved, thank the Lord. I know
his love, if not yours.
Your
Aaron
Dear Mae,
I don’t have money to keep throwing away on cabs.
A good Christian would open her door to her fellow man.
Judy and me have been kicked out of Good Light, owing
to a lot of tales. Drinking was not involved. You better write.
I want the kids to send me a note and pictures. I saw you
had a man around the place. I don’t like that, and the Lord
wouldn’t either. I am looking for another church. The Bethel
Street bunch can go to hell. I wasn’t nowhere near their
tithe box. I put a brick through their window, the shits.
I will confess now it was me did it to your Dad’s windshield
that time of our trouble when he come at me. Also, dear, my last
letter to you come back but I know you had steamed it open.
I’m wise to your ways and know the kind of woman you are.
Judy’s the same. You can’t take her out for a drink
without she’s making eyes at someone. Her arm got broke,
don’t ask me how. The car wash didn’t work out, I only put in
two days. Judy is baby-sitting the Cloris woman’s fat twins
and I am doing part-time roofing work these days
with a guy I know, Jerry, I think he come over
to the house once when we were in the two-roomer on
Darrell Street. Oh yeah, Judy’s youngest showed up, he’s 14.
He’s the image of his mother and of solid mind. I told him I
wanted to be his daddy, and he said, Well, if so you’d be
the first one. So that got us going on virgin birth and the scripture
and we had a fine time. He don’t smoke, drink, or cuss, and
has a bright fine Christian face. I give him a dollar or two, as
he’s off to Utah. I carry the Good Book with me at all times.
I know my Jesus. I will be calling upon you soon. Your
injunctions don’t weigh much with me, knowing as I do
your true heart. I saw your bumper plate sticker, Save Our
Wilderness, and nearly croaked. You’d best be looking after
hearth and home. It isn’t right my children to be raised
by a heathen mother. They will fry in hell, that’s guaranteed.
Your
Aaron
FAMILY QUARRELS
Young fella came up to me. Young fella said, “Old man, you’re good as dead.”
I said, “Young fella, be polite. What have I ever done to deserve your insults?” He said, “Father, I am your son. Father, give me a dollar.” I said, “Son, go to work. Earn your dollars the same as I have mine.”
This made the young fella mad. He tried to take my dollar and anything else I had. He said, “Old man, father, surrender your earthly goods, or die.” He tried scattering my brains with a tire iron, but I held him off with a thick board. I got him down. I said, “Young fella, son-of-a-bitch, here is a dollar. Buy your sweetheart a present.” And I dropped the dollar in his face, now that he knew who was boss.
So that is how our friendship began. It is how our friendship got off to a good start. He turned out a pretty good young fella. He found employment, started thinking about settling down, raising a family, buying himself a good piece of land. I would give him a dollar or not give him a dollar, it was all the same to me. Blood is blood. You can’t fault a child every time he comes up short. “Old man,” he’d say, “thank you, father, you have turned my life around.” “Bless you, son,” I’d say, and we’d hug up to each other like lamb against lamb.
It was then the wife popped up. We hadn’t seen her in some twenty years.
“There you are,” she said, “the two thugs. All this time I been wondering what had happened to the pair of you. Wondering would you ever get together. Now here you are, thick as thieves on the Cross.”
Then she got this cunning look in her eyes, and we could see trouble coming. We could see she had old scores to settle. What she did was take out this old dollar and flutter it up in the air. “Take it if you can,” she said. “If you two snakes think you are better than me, then come and get it.”
So we all three looked at each other and saw there a thousand scores never had been settled. We saw all these family skeletons rattling right there in that dollar.
We flung us all three into the battle. Him with his tire iron, me with my board, and her – to hear her tell it – with nothing but sober innocence on her side.
Don’t ask me how it come out. All I know is the dust, to this day, has never settled, and every time I rehash it I’ve sunk lower.
DON’T COOK A PIG
We cooked a pig and fourteen people took sick. The wife said pig was wrong, we should have cooked a stallion. I looked at the stallion, and figured otherwise. Yet fourteen people took sick, eighteen if you counted the brothers, so could be the wife was right. Could be she is on to something.