The Angel Maker

by Brijs, Stefan

  Irma Nüssbaum had even been on the verge of asking the police to break down the door, but the others warned her not to because, they said, the doctor was probably keeping vigil by his children’s deathbed. Irma wasn’t reassured, however, and when she hadn’t detected any sign of life at the doctor’s house all day, she rang Vera Weber on the pretext of asking her how she was feeling. Casually, as if in passing, she asked Vera if she had any more appointments with Dr Hoppe.

  ‘Yes, tomorrow or Saturday,’ Vera told her, after some hesitation. ‘He was going to phone me first.’

  ‘I wonder if he will,’ Irma said. ‘I’m really starting to worry.’

  She didn’t probe any further as to the reason for the appointment, because she didn’t want to cause Vera any embarrassment. Besides, she’d been told all she needed to know for now and decided to wait until Saturday night before taking any further action. If no one had heard from the doctor by then, she would call the police.

  But she did not have to wait that long. Finally, on Friday evening came the sign of life she had been hoping for. That was when Father Kaisergruber made his third attempt. He had been too busy to call on the doctor the previous two days because he’d been preparing for the following Sunday’s annual pilgrimage up to Calvary Hill at La Chapelle, an event that was always held around 22 May, the birthday of St Rita, patroness of Wolfheim.

  That evening the priest pressed the bell twice, and was already, with some measure of relief, turning to go when the doctor suddenly appeared. From the kitchen window of the house across the street Irma Nüssbaum was happy to see it. Two minutes later, as soon as the priest had followed the doctor inside, she began calling all her friends to tell them the good news.

  Father Kaisergruber felt rather ill at ease. Dr Hoppe had greeted him in his customary businesslike manner. The priest had not announced his mission, but was immediately led into the doctor’s office, as if he had come to be treated for some ailment or other. As the doctor took a seat at his desk, the priest dug his hand into his coat pocket to make sure the flask of oil was still there. It had been two years since he had traded in his old cassock for a dark suit. The Church had to go with the times, but he was still having trouble adjusting, especially with all these pockets.

  Now that he and Dr Hoppe were seated across from each other, he couldn’t help being reminded of years past. Of Victor’s father. His son looked very much like the Karl Hoppe he remembered towards the end of the old doctor’s life: the narrow, rather gaunt face, the unkempt red beard and the scar, the flattened nose and the blue eyes. It was almost exactly the same face. Except that Victor wore his hair differently, longer, much longer than the priest had ever seen him wear it, in fact. It was almost down to his shoulders.

  The priest, coughing, decided to break the ice. He instinctively put his hand on the bottle in his pocket, as if to draw courage from it.

  ‘The reason I came—’ he began.

  ‘Why did Jesus die on the cross?’ Dr Hoppe interrupted him.

  Father Kaisergruber was startled, but then he saw that the doctor was looking at the little silver cross he always wore pinned to the collar of his jacket. He did initially find it an odd question to ask, especially for Victor; but then he surmised that, as the death of his sons drew near, the doctor might yet be turning to the Faith for comfort.

  He replied the way he always did: ‘To redeem our sins. He sacrificed himself for mankind.’

  ‘But then did He choose to die?’

  The priest raised his eyebrows, immediately on his guard. The way Victor’s father had died came back to him all of a sudden. The doctor was probably trying to get him to say that suicide was a good thing.

  ‘No, Jesus was sentenced to death. A great injustice, to be sure. But He did not resist. He submitted to his punishment with resignation, to show that He bore no malice - that He had only good intentions.’

  He wanted to find a way to put an end to this discussion, but the doctor went on pressing him, still staring at the little cross. ‘But in that case why was he condemned?’

  ‘He was not understood. The people did not believe Him.’

  Now the doctor was nodding his head. He leaned back in his chair and put a hand to his side.

  The priest took advantage of the silence to change the subject. ‘But how are you—’

  ‘But why the cross?’ the doctor broke in again. ‘Why did He have to die on the cross?’

  The priest sat back and sighed. ‘Why the cross?’ he said, echoing the doctor’s words. ‘Because back in those days that was the way they executed criminals. That’s why.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be done that way today.’

  ‘No, thank God.’

  The doctor looked up at him briefly.

  ‘Today, He would have been incarcerated,’ the priest went on, avoiding the doctor’s eyes. ‘Or else exonerated, in a court of law.’

  ‘And then He wouldn’t have died.’

  ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘In which case He would no longer be able to absolve us of our sins.’

  ‘Possibly,’ the priest said, nodding.

  ‘And Jesus being resurrected, being risen from the dead - wasn’t that for the sake of mankind, too?’

  He is definitely searching, thought the priest. Perhaps I was wrong about him. Perhaps he has decided to repent, after all.

  ‘It was Jesus’ way of showing that He would always be there for all mankind,’ he explained. ‘He exists above life or death.’

  He was getting the sense that he was being asked to initiate someone into the Christian faith - even though Victor had spent years at the monastery school in Eupen. All the religious instruction and all the prayers must have bounced off him like a spear bouncing off a shield. Or perhaps he had turned his back on religion at school because he had not been receptive to it back then - not mature enough.

  ‘Oh, now I get it,’ said Victor, for all the world like a student at the end of a lesson.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Father Kaisergruber, and he meant it too. ‘But now tell me, how are the children, Doctor?’

  ‘Fine,’ the doctor answered curtly.

  ‘So everything’s all . . .’

  Dr Hoppe nodded.

  The priest was relieved. ‘Then there is no need administer the last rites? Because that’s why I came, actually.’ He tapped his finger lightly on the little flask in his pocket.

  ‘No, certainly not,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Well! That is good news, Doctor,’ said Father Kaisergruber, getting up, ready to leave. ‘That is good news indeed. Now we’ll know what to thank Jesus for next Sunday. On our pilgrimage to La Chapelle. There . . .’

  The priest did not finish his sentence. It had occurred to him, too late, that the name of that village might well stir up unpleasant memories for Victor. But the doctor showed no reaction whatsoever. He probably remembered very little of his time at the convent of the Clare Sisters. How could it be otherwise? He had been less than five years old when his father had removed him from the asylum. And yet those years must have had some effect, the priest decided. The evil had finally been driven out, it seemed.

  And they shall look on him, whom they have pierced.

  Victor had been keeping the wound open for days. As soon as it started to heal over, he would scratch the scab away and then stick first one, then two and finally three fingers deep into the cut, as far as the middle joint.

  When the wound was still fresh, even he had found it hard to believe. But he had looked, and he had felt. The wound in his side was real.

  It had set something in motion.

  It happened shortly after he’d vanquished the evil.

  It wasn’t until Saturday night that Lothar and Vera Weber finally received the phone call they had been anxiously awaiting: ‘I’ll be expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.’

  ‘Did it work?’ Lothar asked enthusiastically.

  ‘It worked. I have three embryos.’

  ‘Three?
Isn’t that too many?’

  ‘We can’t be sure that all three will continue to develop. We do have to take that eventuality into consideration.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  Then he asked how long it would take, and if his wife would have to rest afterwards, because they would like to take part in the pilgrimage to La Chapelle that afternoon. This year Lothar had been chosen to carry the church pennant. The doctor told him that it would only take a few minutes. It was a simple procedure. Vera wouldn’t even feel it, and he didn’t expect there to be any after-effects.

  That night they lit a candle next to the portrait of their son Gunther.

  The following morning they rang the bell on the doctor’s gate at five minutes to nine. It was Sunday, 21 May 1989 - a special day. They were both nervous and tired. The heat had been oppressive that night in the bedroom, which had made it even more difficult for them to fall asleep. Over the past few days the temperature had been rising steadily and the heat had filtered into every corner of the house. That Sunday was promising to be a summery day too, but according to the forecast the spell of good weather would be over after that.

  Vera Weber wasn’t feeling at all sure as they rang the bell. Should she not have abided by God’s will, after all? Wasn’t she risking her own health? As well as that of her child-to-be? Such thoughts had been plaguing her over the past few days. Her nerves were largely to blame, naturally. She did realise that. But she also knew that there was still time to change her mind. Maybe they ought to wait. A month or so. To be absolutely sure.

  ‘Lothar . . .’ she began. But then the doctor appeared. ‘Oh, nothing. Tell you later.’

  Dr Hoppe looked pale. He always looked pale, but this time he was even paler. White. As white as chalk.

  ‘Are you OK, Doctor?’ asked Lothar, as soon as they were inside.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, but to Lothar he didn’t sound very convincing. The doctor was probably nervous himself. Naturally: the occasion must be just as momentous to him as it was to them.

  ‘I heard the good news about the boys,’ said Lothar to ease the tension, swatting at a fly that was buzzing round his head.

  The doctor nodded. ‘It was high time,’ he said. ‘God took his time over it. They were just skin and bone. If you like, I’ll go fetch them for you. Then you can see for yourselves.’

  Lothar shook his head. ‘Another time perhaps. Let them rest.’

  He did understand the doctor’s relief that the worst was over, and that he was anxious to show everyone how well his boys were doing, but what Lothar wanted now was for the procedure to be over as quickly as possible. Besides, his wife was already half undressed.

  ‘The evil has been vanquished, anyway,’ said Dr Hoppe. ‘That task is done.’

  Lothar nodded. It was reassuring to think that the doctor had both sought and found solace in faith. He has God on his side right now, he thought; so perhaps God will also smile on us. ‘I am happy for you,’ he said, and he meant it.

  He saw the doctor pressing his hand to his side. His white doctor’s coat had brown stains there, and there was a fly crawling across it. Another fly was perched on the doctor’s hand. Suddenly it struck Lothar that there were quite a few flies in the room. There was also a strange smell that he couldn’t place.

  His wife had climbed onto the table and placed her legs in the stirrups. He turned his gaze to Dr Hoppe, who went and sat down at a little table, where he bent over a large microscope and slid a Petri dish under the lens.

  There’s life in there, thought Lothar, and in a minute he’ll put it inside my wife. Immaculate conception. He could still hear Jacques Meekers shouting it, that time, in the Terminus.

  Shortly thereafter Dr Hoppe got up again and walked over to Vera, carrying an instrument that seemed to consist mainly of a long, thin metal rod.

  ‘Doctor?’ Lothar suddenly heard his wife say in a pinched voice. He looked at her, frowning. She was lying down, her head resting on a pillow, her eyes staring up at the ceiling. Again came her voice: ‘Doctor, couldn’t we postpone this for a while? Until next month, maybe?’

  Lothar was startled. Had she lost her nerve, all of a sudden? He looked at the doctor wide-eyed; but the doctor lost no time in responding.

  ‘No, we can’t. It isn’t possible. It has to be done now.’

  ‘But is everything really ready to go?’ she asked. ‘I’m so worried that something could still go wrong.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the doctor. ‘I will do good by you. And you are blessed.’

  Lothar had no idea what the doctor meant, but his wife didn’t bother to pursue it. She wanted to know something else.

  ‘But the child, Doctor? Will the child be healthy?’

  ‘He’ll be healthy, Frau Weber. He will definitely be healthy.’

  ‘So he won’t be . . . deaf?’

  ‘No, he won’t be deaf.’

  Lothar heard his wife give a sigh. She seemed reassured and her head sank back further into the pillow. He still had questions, but he decided to keep them to himself. His wife was calm, and the doctor was ready to perform the procedure. What he would really have liked to know, however, was what would happen if two, or even three, of the embryos developed into babies? Would they look alike? Would all three have normal hearing? And what if his wife didn’t get pregnant after all? Would the doctor try again? But would they even want to? He and his wife had not discussed that eventuality. Perhaps, in that case, they would just have to abide by God’s will.

  ‘That’s it,’ he heard. Dr Hoppe leaned back and again placed his hand on his side.

  ‘Is it done - already?’ asked Lothar.

  ‘It is done,’ said the doctor, but with scarcely any excitement in his voice, as if he had done no more than his duty. He had done his part. Now it was up to Vera.

  Lothar Weber watched his wife sit up slowly. There was life in her stomach now - new life. He could scarcely believe it. He felt himself becoming quite emotional at the thought. He hadn’t expected that. He couldn’t help thinking of Gunther, and had to steel himself not to burst into tears.

  10

  When Rex Cremer got to the top of the Vaalserberg, he was surprised to note that the Boudewijn Tower had vanished. He drove on a bit further, then stopped the car. The area where the tower had once stood had been transformed into an enormous building site enclosed inside a security fence. A huge hole had been dug there, so deep that Rex could not see the bottom, and massive cement blocks rose up from its depths with long metal rods sticking out of them. A rectangular sign on the fence showed a picture of the new tower, the legend written in four languages.

  ‘The new Boudewijn Tower being built on this site,’ he read, ‘will be fifty metres high, with a lift and a roofed platform at the top that will offer a unique panoramic view.’

  The drawing of the new tower showed a lofty structure with a series of stairs winding up around it. It made him think of a giant rendering of a DNA spiral, a double helix braided together in perfect harmony. The platform at the top of the tower was an octagonal structure with vertical glass walls and a metal-braced roof shaped like a pyramid, a flagpole at its peak.

  Fifty metres high. You can’t stop progress, thought Rex, thinking nostalgically of the old tower. A boyhood memory had been razed to the ground. The thought suddenly made him feel very old. It was a feeling he was having more frequently these days, as if time were slipping through his fingers. The years seemed to have turned into days. Case in point: he had last come this way six months ago, yet it felt like only an hour ago. The four years he’d been in Cologne, too, seemed scarcely to amount to anything. And, looking back, even those years at the university were condensed into just a few snapshot moments - snapshots in which Victor Hoppe, naturally, played a prominent role; but how could it be otherwise? Their first meeting had been nearly ten years ago. And the first occasion he had contacted Victor even earlier than that. He could still remember the exact date on which he had written the card that had started
the whole thing rolling: 9 April 1979.

  Sighing, he moved his foot from the brake to the accelerator. The car began to move forward again, driving at a slow crawl past the gaping hole that had been scooped out of the top of Mount Vaalserberg. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was five to eleven. The day was Sunday, 21 May 1989.

  Ever since the abruptly disconnected phone call from that woman, five days earlier, Cremer had been unable to relax. Part of it, of course, was not knowing what had happened, but the main reason for his anxiety was his own sense of guilt, which had suddenly returned with a vengeance. He just couldn’t shake the thought that he was partly responsible for everything that had happened, even if he did not yet know the full scope of the consequences. He should have stepped in from the very beginning. He shouldn’t have been such a chicken. That wasn’t the kind of man he was. He had never been that way before, though perhaps - and he fervently hoped this was true - perhaps he was getting himself all worked up over nothing. But if something terrible had indeed happened, if Victor Hoppe really had gone too far this time, then he, Rex Cremer, would have to accept the responsibility.

  It was with that mindset that he had left Cologne that Sunday morning at 10 a.m. Resolute. Determined. But, driving down the Route des Trois Bornes an hour later, all his resolve seemed to have evaporated and he was, more than anything, paralysed by anxiety.

  He rolled into the village just as the church bells began to toll. He saw a few people hurriedly crossing the street and running towards the church, where Sunday Mass was presumably about to begin. He slowed the car to a snail’s pace, driving on to Victor Hoppe’s house once everyone was off the street.

  Getting out of the car, he was struck by how oppressively hot it was. A thunderstorm was forecast, which was supposed to put an end to the heat of the past few days. He felt himself break out in a sweat. He wiped his forehead and began walking towards the gate. But before he could reach it the front door opened and Victor came out. Rex stopped and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if the doctor was coming to greet him, or if he just happened to be on his way out.