The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  I could not stand to look at Shirley's picture any longer. Turning away I saw Joan's photograph, also on the mantel. Obviously it had been necessary to display a photo of my wife as well. The public relations department sold me to the news media as a happy family man.

  Joan hardly showed her forty-seven years. First I loved my mother and then a woman so much older than I. Analysts make much of that.

  Joan's figure was still that of a young girl. She had had her face lifted and the skin was smooth and without wrinkles—^but only the skin of her face. The operation had been responsible for that. I always thought of it whenever I touched Shirley's skin.

  Joan wears her brown hair close to her head, tips pulled forward over her temples, two soft waves rise from her forehead. One could still see that she had been very beautiful. She was apparently still desirable—^I sometimes noticed at parties how other men looked at her. She smiled at me from the photograph. I stepped to one side. The brown eyes followed me. I had never noticed that be-

  fore. I took another step and still my wife's eyes followed, smiling and guileless.

  Smiling innocently?

  Were these eyes unsuspecting? Was my wife without suspicion? What if she already knew and was just biding her time until she could revenge herself for the hurt I had caused her? Joan's eyes were ... Were they merely laughing or were they mocking me?

  "If only she could get along a little better with my husband . .."

  "So innocent, so untouched ..."

  "God does not love us. How, then, could we be happy?"

  My eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room. Shirley's eyes. Joan's eyes. The prints on the walls. Windows. Shirley. Joan. The evil eyes of the dead seagull. Suddenly everything was revolving around me, and then an invisible giant fist seemed to strike the pit of my stomach.

  Without warning, from one breath to the next, burning hot and yet icy cold it struck with brutal force. So strong was the impact I folded like a pocketknife and collapsing, fell sideways into a chair standing near the fireplace. Now one overpowering thought was in my mind which made me panic, shook me as I collapsed. I thought, no, I knew: I was dying.

  I died of a coronary. Now the end had come.

  What I felt was my dying; this thing rising in my body was my death. The terrifying giant fist began to climb higher and higher, closer to the heart.

  "Arr . . . Arr.. . ." From far away I could hear myself groan, gasping for air, in vain. I pressed my two hands to my body to prevent the deadly effect of this fist.

  But it rose.

  The room was swimming, out of focus. My wife, Shirley, looked at me, disappeared, looked at me again.

  The fist had reached the first pair of ribs. It continued rising, without haste, without pity. It had already left behind a partial corpse! Feet, thighs, hips, abdomen. Ahead of it, it forced the little life which remained in my body, breath, veins, blood: Blood which now began to throb violently in my fingers, in my temples, in my ears.

  I was panting. Fighting for air, my body was horribly contorted. The heels were dug into the carpeting, the shoulder blades into the chair.

  "Fm ... dying ..."

  I heard myself babble. At that moment this terrible giant fist, which did not exist but nevertheless was killing me, reached my heart. Like a flood fear enveloped my brain and paralyzed it.

  Fear!

  I had never known such fear. Fear such as this had evaded my imagination.

  I knew what it was to be afraid when a film studio went up in flames and I had been trapped by the grid and the flood and spotlights. I thought it was fear I felt when, at fifteen, I saw my poor mother suffocate in minutes from the tumor in her throat. Near Aachen one of our B-52's mistakenly bombed us when the wind shifted and blew away the demarcation smoke signals. A jet taking me to Mexico, through a malfunctioning of its automatic pilot, fell thirty thousand feet before the pilot could control it. In all those moments I was convinced no one in this world could have ever felt greater fear.

  Fear?

  I had not really known fear. Now I knew. Now true, real fear spread over me, paralyzed my limbs, robbed me of my ability to see and hear.

  The fist opened. Its fingers closed around my heart and squeezed. I screamed in despair but surely no one could

  hear me; the storm raged and would drown out all screams.

  Now. Now. Now.

  Now came death.

  But death did not come. Not yet.

  The fist released my heart; I could feel it slowly sinking below the ribs and coming to rest in the pit of my stomach. There it stayed, insidious, certain of me.

  I felt my heart beating furiously. I felt its beat in my back, my toes, my tongue.

  When would the fist attack again? When would the fear return? Both of them were inside me, terrifying intruders. I was still alive. For how long? Who could bear waiting for death like this? No one. No one on this earth.

  A doctor. I had to have a doctor.

  I had hardly thought that when I heard myself groan, "No..."

  Whatever happened, no doctor must see me in this condition. No doctor. Not now. Shirley's green eyes were looking at me, hypnotizing me, imploring me.

  All would be finished if a doctor were to examine me now, our love damned and my opportunity lost: my last chance, here in Germany, here, in this storm-whipped city.

  No, Shirley, no.

  No doctor.

  Whisky.

  The word rekindled life in me. Choking greed for alcohol filled me. I needed whisky, good blessed Scotch, as my saviour. I could smell it, taste it, feel it flowing down my throat, smoky and wonderful, dissolving the giant fist, making it disappear.

  -^ Whisky!

  My legs felt unsteady. I staggered to the bedroom.

  Whisky, yes.

  It was just Shirley's call. The scare. Too much alcohol the night before. The storm. The early morning. Everything else but not death. I didn't need a doctor. I would make that film. I could play my part. I would play my part.

  The key!

  I had already thrown open the door of the closet and grabbed the black leather travel bag when I remembered the key. The bag had a lock. The key was in my tuxedo.

  I dragged myself, still terribly weak, to the chair where the evening before I had carelessly thrown my clothes. The trousers fell on the carpet, the jacket, too. I had to bend down. Blood shot to my head. The key, damn it, where was the key? My shaking hands emptied the pockets, coins, bills, cigarettes. There was the key. I staggered back to the bag.

  There had been a time (fortunately it had passed), when it was said of me in Hollywood that I was a drunkard. What was said then was that I had been drinking for twenty years, since I could not get any work.

  The talk had died down during the past two years. No one now could say I was drinking. No one had ever seen me drink, not even Joan, not even Shirley. I had been drinking more than ever these last two years—^but secretly, only secretly. I hid the bottles so well no one could find them. I knew Joan and Shirley mistrusted me, had been searching for my whisky for years, simply because they could not believe my abstinence. They were not looking any more. Now they were proud of me for having broken this habit.

  Whenever I traveled I carried my black bag. A store in Boston had made it for me according to my design. There were partitions on either side which could be locked. Whisky and soda bottles fitted into those partitions pre-

  venting the bottles from moving, rattling, breaking. The bag had as well a large thermos bottle which I filled with ice cubes. Even if I ordered only one single drink I could always get sufi&cient water and ice.

  I was always well supphed: on trains and planes, cars, motor boats, hotels. This way I could drink more than ever.

  The bag was an integral part of me, and it never left me. I always had to keep it locked, especially in hotels. The employees were always rummaging through everything. But not through my bag. No, Peter Jordan did not drink any more.

  I opened the zipper. Tw
o empty soda bottles, an empty thermos, an empty whisky bottle. During the night I had drunk everything.

  6

  Immediately I felt the fist again. If I didn't get any whisky—^whamm!!!

  I was freezing, my teeth were chattering. It seemed to me as if the storm was becoming louder, terribly loud. No one could bear this, this awful storm, the terrible fist, this empty bottle of Scotch.

  There was still a half-filled glass on the bedside table.

  I left the open bag and walked to the bed, yes, I could walk now, and gulped down the warm flat whisky. It stayed with me only a few seconds. I just reached the bathroom.

  Gasping, I stood before the mirror, rinsed with mouthwash and, trying to splash Eau de Cologne on my face, dropped the bottle. It broke in the washbasin. I saw myself in the mirror. The black hair soaked with perspiration stuck to my head. The face was a dark purpUsh color; brownish rings circled the eyes. Breathing heavily, I sud-

  denly turned deathly white and patchy. The lips remained black. Sweat ran into the eyes, the mouth gaped, the tongue was blue. No imagination could conceive of a worse face than this face, which belonged to me: me, once the Sunny Boy of the New World, the most celebrated and famous child star of all times.

  PETER JORDAN, AMERICA'S UNFORGETTABLE CHILD STAR.

  No, there was nothing now to link me with this laughing character on the magazine frontpage, with this handsome dashing man and his cheesecake smile, his playboy beauty. To think that the face in the mirror had made millions, untold millions a quarter of a century ago!

  The fist rose. It stopped at the second pair of ribs.

  I went back to the drawing room. I opened the door and pressed the bell for the floor waiter. Then I closed the drapes in the bedroom. He must not see how I looked. I switched off the lamps, too. The light in the drawing room and bathroom was sufficient. I pulled the covers up to my neck. There he was already.

  "Come in."

  He entered the drawing room, smiling and young, the best trained employee of a luxury hotel. He stayed by the door, didn't look at me, looking into space, spoke politely without emphasis, "Good morning, Mr. Jordan. Would you like to order breakfast now?"

  Third pair of ribs. Second pair of ribs. Third pair of ribs. I could not talk. But I had to. "Breakfast.. . yes . . ."

  "Tea or coffee?"

  Second pair of ribs. Third. Second.

  "Cof . . . coffee ..."

  "A five-minute egg?"

  "Yes . . ." No one must know that I was ill. My secret. Or I would not get this film.

  "Thank you, Mr. Jordan."

  In my agitation, I reached for the little cross of gold on the bedside table. I pressed it and turned it in my hands.

  up to my departure from Los Angeles this cross, hanging from a thin chain, had been resting between Shirley's warm, firm breasts. After saying good-by (my wife stood aside crying) Shirley secretly pressed the amulet into my hand as I was already passing the gate. Since then I had been carrying it around with me, holding it in my hand at negotiations, production conferences, at the first screen test. This little cross had always inspired me with courage even though as a symbol it held no significance for me, since I did not believe in Shirley's God. But to me it seemed to be a part of her; she had worn it for a long time; it seemed as if I touched her velvety young skin, her young firm body, and every time I touched the cross it gave me courage, as it did now.

  "Wait ..." He stopped. I didn't care what this waiter would think.

  "There are one hundred marks on the desk. Take the money and do me a favor ..." -- ■

  "Surely, Mr. Jordan."

  This storm. This storm drove me crazy.

  "In a minute my ..." I stopped; the fist prodded my heart and the terrifying fear returned.

  "Don't you feel well, sir?"

  "Just. . . just swallowed some air .. ."

  There he stood in the light and smiled patiently. There I was, writhing in the darkness, feeling death reach out for me, yes, death. And managed to squeeze out these words, "My production . . . manager will arrive any minute. I promised him ... a bottle of whisky . . . and forgot to get it. Would you . .."

  "I'll send a busboy."

  "But. . . right away ..."

  "Certainly."

  "Before . . . breakfast . . ." Did not matter. Did not matter what he thought.

  The fear. The fear.

  "I'll take care of it right away. Would you like Canadian whisky or Scotch?"

  "Scotch ..." The fist. It reached my heart. It opened. Now it would close.

  "A particular brand?"

  "Any ... Scotch."

  "Would you like it gift-wrapped?"

  "What?"

  "I mean, it is a present."

  "No . . . yes ... I don't care . . . just. *. . bring . . . it."

  He bowed. Was his smile ironical? No matter. He left. The door closed. Simultaneously the giant fist closed. It had been too much.

  I was violently pulled upright, felt my head hitting the wall and screamed for the second time. My brain stUl registered how I fell sideways out of bed, puUing the telephone, ashtray and the Uttle lamp with me.

  I plunged into flaming red fog. The tiny cross of gold was in my hand and I had a ridiculous, absurd feeling of triumph as I thought: No doctor came near me, Shirley.

  And then I died.

  I remember the moment precisely. Hamburg. October twenty-seventh, 1959..

  I am a wicked, corrupted man. The story I am relating here will be bad and wicked.

  I am telling this story to two people: my doctor and my judge. My doctor must know the truth to be able to help me. My judge must know the truth to judge me.

  Today is Thursday, March third, 1960. My watch shows eleven minutes past eleven. It is already very warm in Rome. From my window I see a deep blue and cloudless sky. My room is very comfortable. In contrast

  to many other windows in this house mine has no bars and there is a door with a knob. Professor Pontevivo says he trusts me.

  The Italian police have no such trust in me. It is not surprising if one considers all I have done since that storm-whipped October morning in Hamburg and this peaceful March morning in Rome.

  Since the German authorities appHed for my extradition the Italian poHce have been guarding me. Since I am very ill I will not be handed over—not yet. Professor Pontevivo has accomplished that. He is a famous physician and the authorities listened to Irim when he stated, "I refuse to be responsible if this man is removed from my care."

  A carabinier is walking up and down the lovely park of the hospital. By and by I know all those changing shifts every eight hours. Day and night. They are young, they are curious; I'm sure they know what I have done. That is why they are often looking up to my window. And I begin to know their faces.

  Magnolias, white, cream-colored and rose-red magnolias are flowering in the park. A sea of yellow forsythias is shining. Small, pink almond trees are bordering the drive. I can see a profusion of blue and salmon-colored crocuses, snowdrops and white and black pansies. There had been a gentle rain during the past night and now the new leaves of the olive trees, laurel stonepines, palms and eucalyptus bushes wear a bright fresh green full of new life. Full of life is this park with its high barbed-wire topped wall which encloses the park on all sides. Through the tops of old trees, behind the wall on the Viale Parco di Celio I can see the fourth and uppermost story of the Colosseum, its smooth outer wall, the flat Corinthian pilasters, and the rectangular windows through which the blue sky is visible.

  Yesterday I began to tell my story into a small, gleaming microphone. The day before and the day before that I tried, too. As soon as the green hght of the tape recorder

  was switched on and the tapes began to whirr I broke out in a cold sweat. My heart beat furiously and I became so dizzy I had to lie down and close my eyes.

  I panicked and thought, "I am not able to talk logically, I cannot form sentences. I am insane." Even if I forced myself to record my story it wou
ld be incomprehensible, because my brain is not able to think clearly and form sentences that would have meaning.

  During the last two days I repeatedly told Professor Pontevivo, "Why don't you give up? I am incurable. My brain is damaged."

  And he replied, "When you awoke from the deep narcosis you were eager to tell me all that had happened. You were not able to formulate your thoughts as quickly as the words left your mouth and that is why I could not understand you."

  "That proves Fm crazy."

  "You have received a great amount of medication. I can assure you that no patient has reacted any different than you following this treatment. Who suggested you tell your story to a tape recorder?"

  "I did."

  "And why?"

  "Because I believed I could talk more easily to a machine than to another person."

  "That was not the reason."

  "What was, then?"

  "You felt that your mind needed time to sort out your thoughts. It proves you are not insane. You said yourself another person made you irritable. So you chose a monologue. This tape recorder will be for you the ear of a silent priest at confession."

  Swiftly this recalled Shirley, Father Horace, the evening of the catastrophe. Fiercely I said, "I don't intend this to be a confession to a priest."

  "But something of a confession," he said. "And anyway, aren't we, physicians and judges, priests in a way?"

  I thought, "Oh! God, won't you ever leave me alone, in peace?"

  To the professor, I said, "I am afraid. Of the tape recorder too. What I have to say is too horrible."

  "To alleviate your fear I could—provided you agree— give you a little medication, just enough to enable you to talk readily and easily. You^will be under my supervision. You must never talk for more than two hours. Nothing can happen. But I need your permission anyway."

  I gave it.

  Today too, after breakfast, I received the injection. I feel relaxed, peaceful, without—

  I was going to say without fear. But I interrupted myself when a formation of jets raced across the sky above our quiet park. The noise would have drowned out every word. So I halted.

  Without fear.

  It seemed appropriate that I should be so abruptly interrupted particularly by these swifter-than-sound riders of the modern apocalypse, symbolic of an unusual fear that daily haunts mankind. In fair weather, jets rattle the skies of Rome. In Hamburg and Pacific Palisades too, they rose with the sun, ceaselessly tormenting the skies until the last light faded.