"How long?"
"Until about midnight."
"And then?"
"We gave you something to sleep and to facilitate your removal to the clinic."
Suddenly—a spark of memory. "Yo ... Yo ..; Yo ..." I began. There it was again. I couldn't even say her name. My God, I thought. My God!
"I beg your pardon?" Eulenglas was looking at me inquiringly.
"Nothing. Where did they find me?"
"In front of 127 Romanstrasse," he said. "I take it you were there on business."
"Yes," I said. "My secretary lives there. I'm working on a script." I considered for a moment, then added, "I had to dictate two new scenes."
"She has been here," ^aid Eulenglas.
"Who?"
"Miss Yolanda Caspari," he replied. "That's your secretary's name, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said. "When was she here?"
"This morning. She brought those flowers." He pointed to a small table beside my bed. A telephone stood on it, and beside the phone, two vases of flowers—red gladiolas in one, heUotrope in the other.
"The gladiolas are from your wife," he said, looking at me again. I had the feeling that he was amused.
"Why are you smiling?" I asked. My tone was sharp.
He looked slightly baffled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Chandler."
"I asked why you were smiling. What's so funny?"
"You are unnerved, Mr. Chandler. I wasn't smiling."
"Oh," I said, slightly dashed. Perhaps he hadn't smiled. I was unnerved. "I apologize."
"That's quite all right, Mr. Chandler. You speak excellent German."
"My grandparents were German. In my family German was the second language."
"I see." Now he really was smiling, but it was a friendly-doctor smile. "Both ladies are coming back," he explained. "Your wife just as soon as we notify her that you are conscious; Miss Caspari this afternoon."
"Thank you," I mumbled. Then, suddenly, my head was perfectly clear. Even the pain was gone. I sat up and noticed that I was wearing pajamas that didn't belong to me and began to make a fuss.
"So," I said, "now that I seem to have come to my senses again, would you mind telling me what's wrong with me and why I have to undergo an examination? I really must get back to my work. My company must be looking for me everywhere."
"Your company was notified last night. Mr. Clayton," he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and read off the name of the American producer for whom I was working, "will be coming to see you at about five. If you like, you can call him at his office. He said to wish you all the best and to beg you not to worry. Everything is in order."
A pretty blonde nurse came into the room. She brought me a glass filled with an amber hquid and greeted me in a friendly fashion. "Drink it," said Eulenglas. "It tastes good."
I drank. It really did taste good. It was cold, refreshing and felt prickly to the tongue.
"What would you like for lunch, Mr. Chandler?" the pretty nurse asked.
"Good heavens," I said, "I seem to have landed in a hotel."
"You could caU it that, Mr. Chandler. This is a private
hospital. We want to make your stay as pleasant as pos-' sible."
"Are you hungry?" asked Eulenglas.
I thought it over for a while. "Very," I said then.
"Good," said the doctor.
"What have you got to offer?"
The blonde nurse told me and I ordered an enormous lunch.
"So?" I asked, after she had closed the door behind her. I had already fallen into Yolanda's technique of the interrupted conversation, but Eulenglas proved equal to it.
"We don't know yet what's wrong with you, Mr. Chandler. A first superficial examination revealed the symptoms of a typical nervous breakdown with all the side effects. Your wife says you have been working very hard recently."
"True."
"So there you are! However, over and beyond that..."
He was silent, raising his hand in a vague gesture.
"Over and beyond that—^what?'^
He started to speak, seemed to think better of it, and what he finally said was undoubtedly not what he had intended to say first. "These headaches, Mr. Chandler. Could you describe them precisely?"
I did so.
"Hm," he said. "I understand you have already consulted several doctors in the United States."
"Yes. And all of them came to the same conclusion."
"Namely?"
"Nothing. They diagnosed it as an anxiety neurosis."
"Aha." He smiled. "And that's what it will probably turn out to be. You take only pills for the pain?"
"That's aU."
"What do you take?"
I told him. He nodded again. "Mr. Chandler, did they ever x-ray you? I mean your head?"
"No. Never." I looked at him, alarmed. "Why? Do you think "
"We don't think anything, Mr. Chandler. It's much too
early to think anything." He hesitated, then, smiling gently, '*I want to be candid with you."
"Please."
**Your wife is very upset. She seems to have heard that symptoms like yours may, under certain circumstances—I repeat—^under certain circumstances, indicate serious changes in the—^hm—^brain, which is why she begged us to give you a thorough examination."
"Changes? What sort of changes?"
"It doesn't have to be, Mr. Chandler, I assure you. In most cases the examination shows the absolute harmless-ness of the symptoms."
"Yes, yes, yes," I said. "What changes?"
"And even if things turn out to be not so harmless, modern surgery makes it simple. . . ."
"Dear God in heaven— what changesT^
"A growth," said Dr. Eulenglas.
"You mean—a tumor?"
He nodded. "Yes, Mr. Chandler, that's what I mean.**
For a while it was quiet in the room. Eulenglas was watching me closely. "You wanted to know, Mr. Chandler," he said at last, "and I have told you. I want to say again—it could be; it doesn't have to be. In most cases of this kind . .."
"All right, all right...."
"It really is nothing but a precautionary measure," he went on, as if I hadn't interrupted him, "// you agree to the examination, a matter of personal assurance.'*
"Yes, yes," I said.
^TNfow that we have talked about it, I would advise the examination, which should give you certainty. So that you don't carry all sorts of dire possibilities around with you in your subconscious."
"My wife, you said, asked for the examination?'*
"Yes. She is very worried."
"How long does it take?"
"You'll have to stay with us three or four days."
"Does it hurt? I'm a coward."
"It doesn't hurt, Mr. Chandler. It is a complicated examination but you will feel no pain. We want to take an encephalogram."
I had heard the word somewhere. I couldn't connect anything good with it.
"Encephalogram?"
"An electro-encephalogram," he said soothingly, stressing the first syllables.
"What's the difference?"
"Years ago an encephalogram was made by blowing air into the patient's brain and drawing certain conclusions from that."
"Horrible!"
"I must admit it was a very unpleasant and by no means always safe procedure. On the other hand, with an electro-encephalogram, the examination is innocuous and no danger to the patient at all."
"You're a good psychologist."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because you want to calm my fears of the second method by denigrating the first."
He smiled and replied that he was not exaggerating. The new method was painless and purely routine. Then he asked me if I was agreed to the examination.
I said, "Of course." What else could I say? If I didn't get a clear opinion now from an expert in the field, it would be an end to my peace of mind.
"Very good," he said, and rose. "Then I'll inform your wife of your de
cision and I'll come to see you this after-
noon with Professor Vogt." He nodded and left the room. Ten minutes later the pretty nurse brought in the huge luncheon I had ordered. I ate very little of it. My appetite was gone. I rang and let the nurse take away the tray. Then I called Clayton at the office.
"Hello, hello, hello!" he cried jovially.
"Morning, Joe," I said.
Clayton couldn't speak a word of German. The only thing he had learned were the various forms of greeting. He was a fat, rosy-cheeked businessman who had had something to do with the steel industry during the war in the course of which he had won the confidence of several corporations that had profited hugely in the early forties. At war's end he had formed an independent film company in Hollywood and was one of the first to have the idea of working in Europe where you could shoot a film for a fraction of what it cost in the States. His old wartime business friends provided the money. Clayton was smart but didn't possess an iota of artistic comprehension; the nicest thing about him was that he never pretended to. His naivety however also had its disadvantages when, in artistic matters, he always adopted the opinion of the person he had spoken to last. This sometimes made things difficult for him.
"I'm terribly sorry to be causing you all this trouble," I said, but he interrupted me at once. "Shut up, Jimmy! What are you talking about? No trouble. No trouble at all. Everything's going fine. You did your job and did it beautifully. Now you stay put in your little bed and flirt with the nurses, hahaha!"
"It'll only take a few days."
"I don't care how long it takes—just don't let anything worry you. I'm coming to see you this afternoon, and I bring good news. Taschenstadt has read your first draft and is crazy about it."
"Good," I said. Taschenstadt was the president of the German company that was going to distribute the film.
"A cable came today. From the USA," Clayton went
on. *'The money's on its way."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. You see, Jimmy, things keep cracking even without you. Do you need anything? Can I do anything for you?"
"Not a thing."
"I'll bring a bottle of Scotch."
"Okay."
"And as I said, take it easy. You have it coming to you, old boy."
I said goodbye and hung up. Clayton had sounded so damn cheerful was all I could think. One almost got the impression he was dehghted to have me in the hospital. Strange. Very strange. But then I shrugged. What did I want anyway? Would I have preferred it if he'd been furious?
The sun was shining directly on my bed. I felt warm^ comfortable and sleepy. Somewhere a radio was playing softly. A woman's dark voice was singing: "I'm gonna take a sentimental journey...." I knew the song.
The telephone rang. I answered. "Call for you, Mr. Chandler," said a woman's voice.
"Thank you." A crackling in the line. "Hello?"
"HeUo," said a voice. It was Yolanda. I was lying on my back, holding the receiver to my ear. I didn't answer.
"Jimmy? Are you t|jere?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Are you feeling better?"
"Yes."
"I was scared to death, Jimmy."
I said nothing.
"It was my fault. You got all excited. It was horrid, what I said. I'm sorry, Jimmy. Can you forgive me?"
". .. sentimental journey home," sang the woman's voice.
"Jimmy, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
". . . seven, that's the time we leave, at seven...."
"Yes."
"You forgive me?"
"Of course."
". ... counting every mile of railroad track.. . .*'
"I only wanted to make you mad. There isn't a word of truth in what I said. I swear there isn't."
". . . that takes me back, that takes me back... .**
"It's all right, Yolanda."
"It's not all right. I can tell by your voice."
". . . never tliought, my heart could be so yearning... •"
"It doesn't make any difference, Yolanda."
"Jimmy!"
"I may have a tumor.**
"Jimmy!"
"In my head. A growth. I don't know yet."
". . . why did I decide to roam. . . ."
"My God! Oh my God! That's terrible! Who said so? How do you know? Will they operate?" . "Nobody has said so. I don't know anything yet."
". .. gonna take a sentimental journey.. .."
"Jimmy, Jimmy, let me come to you. Now. Right away, m get a taxi."
"No you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want it."
"Because your wife is coming?"
"Oh for God's sake, Yolanda "
". . . sentimental journey home. . . ."
"But I have to come. I have to see you. I love you."
"Goodbye," I said, and hung up.
Outside the woman's voice sang the song to the end. Then a loudspeaker announced: "On the last tone of the time signal it will be three o'clock."
I lay flat on my back and stared up at the white ceiling. There was a knock on the door. I said, "Come in."
It was Margaret.
She was wearing an English suit of a shiny black material, a white silk blouse and a little round black hat with a veil. She'd put on some rouge and looked tired. I sat up in bed and she kissed me fleetingly. "Hello, stranger," she said. Then she looked at me and smiled.
I knew that smile, knew it from innumerable occasions, all of them having one thing in common—something was going on that Margaret didn't want to face. When Margaret didn't want to face anything, it was nonexistent. Her smile did away with it as if it had never happened. It was a smile of cool superiority, a forgiving smile, a smile of sympathy and understanding. There was something regal about it, and it was particularly effective in profile. I knew this smile from first nights, from interviews with critics, from alcoholic nights and marital quarrels. I knew it well.
"I've spoken to the doctors," said Margaret. "You're getting the best possible care, and I know it will be a load off both our minds to know you're all right. Don't you agree, Roy?" She always called me Roy. It was the second syllable of my middle name. I lay back and looked at her. She talked fast.
"You know, the Baxters made me nervous." The Baxters were her friends in Chiemsee. "It was Ted who thought of calling the hospitals when you didn't come to pick me up. My God, Roy, you can't imagine what I felt when they told me where you were. I thought I was going to pass out. Ted was sweet. He drove me into the city, the whole way, a hundred miles, bless him. And we talked about your symptoms. He told me what they could mean. He had an uncle—that's how it started with him. In the end they had to operate and he was blind in one eye. Oh . . . I'm sorry, Roy. That was stupid of me, but you know how I meant it, don't you? It's only because he got me all nervous, and because both of us want to know for sure, don't we?"
She looked at me pleadingly. Her smile was free of guile and full of compassion.
"Margaret," I said, "you know, don't you, where they found me?"
"Of course I know, Roy." She fished magazines and newspapers out of her voluminous handbag. "I've brought you something to read. The New Yorker. There are some terribly funny cartoons this time."
"127 Romanstrasse," I said. "You know who lives there?"
"Of course I do, darling." She smiled. "And I've brought your mail. The Ezzards are off to Miami again. It's beyond me how they can do it." She was still digging around in her bag. Now she laid a few envelopes on the bed. "Robby's with Warners now, working for Siodmak. Not bad, is it?"
"Margaret . . ."
"And here are a few reviews of your last film. Some of them are great. I only brought the good ones. I threw the others away. They were stupid."
"Yolanda," I said. "Yolanda Caspari. My secretary. I spent the weekend with her."
"Yes, yes, Roy. I know." She took off her hat and
laid it on the table. Her hair was black, parted in the middle and smooth as glass. She crossed her legs. She had long, goodlooking legs. She was wearing light nylons. "I take it the heliotrope is from her."
"Yes."
She smelled them.
"They don't smeU," I said.
"But they're pretty."
"Yolanda and I are having an affair."
She stroked my cheek with her cool, beautifully groomed hand. I wasn't shaved. Her hand smelled of Elizabeth Arden Orange Skin Cream.
"Yes, Roy. I know. Do we have to talk about it?"
"I'd like to."
"It's very sweet of you."
'Whaf s sweet of me?"
"To want to apologize."
"I don't want to apologize. I want to talk about it."
She smiled. "But I don't. Why should we? I've known all about it."
"So..."
"Yes."
"And?"
"I also knew you'd handle the situation as tactfully as possible. So that nobody would notice. So that I wouldn't be hurt. As you always have done. I understand perfectly that you're not happy about having put me in such a position. . . ."
"In what sort of a po . . . po . . . po . . ." I began, and bit my lip in fury and shame. There it was again.
"What's the matter, Roy?" She looked startled.
"The doctor calls it literal paraphasia," I explained. "He says it will pass." I drew a deep breath. "What were you saying?"
"Of course people are going to talk."
"I'm sorry about that."
"I know you are, Roy. But I'm not reproaching you. It wasn't your fault that you had to pass out just in the yard where that little whore lives. It was jorce majeure.''^
"That's right."
"You didn't do it on purpose. You didn't intend to hurt me. We won't talk about it any more."
"Oh yes we will!"
"Well, I won't, darling." Her smile broadened. "Are you eoing to end the affair?"
"f don't know."
"Of course. You've got to give it more thought. Take your time. Right now all you have to do is rest. Professor Vogt said that was the most important thing. Don't let anything worry you. It would be bad for the examination. And for your work. I wish we could eo to the Riviera for a while, when you're through here. What do you think?"
"I hate the Riviera."
"Then go somewhere alone. Fve promised the Baxters to fly to Paris with them. They've rented a darling house in Saint Cloud. I've seen the pictures."
I Confess Page 3