The Berlin Connection

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "Actually," I said, "then everybody should drink. It seems impossible that there are people who have no en-grams of an unpleasant nature."

  "There are no such human beings. People are of stable or unstable personaUty. Artists are generally considered to belong to the latter group. Some people are broken by conflicts which others handle easUy."

  "And, I assume, there are many such conflicts."

  "No," said Pontevivo. "There are only a few. According to the known mental diseases there are only about four or five basic types. Each one of us believes himself to be unique, different from others. But that is an erroneous idea. All of us are similar in our reaction and in our conduct."

  "What are some of the conflicts?"

  "Politics. Money. Work. Disease. The desire to dominate. Relating to the opposite sex ... I could name a few. Not many."

  "That is why you want me to talk about my life. You hope to find the conflict I cannot master and which made me an alcoholic."

  "That's right, Mr. Jordan."

  "Have you found it?"

  "On one of your tapes you once mentioned a girl. You said your stepdaughter bore a great resemblance to her."

  "Once I mentioned her! Only once!"

  "Precisely. And I believe you will not yet talk about her—or will you?"

  Wanda.

  Wanda. Wanda. Wanda.

  I felt great admiration for the professor.

  Wanda. I shook my head.

  "Take your time."

  Bianca jumped back onto my knee. "You see, now she returned to you."

  "Professor, you said the human mind develops until its twenty-fifth year..." "

  "That's right. Up to that time the prognosis for recovery is very good. Cures can be effected through psychotherapy by the use of electric shock, medications, or possibly group therapy."

  "Professor," I was afraid to ask the question, "I am thirty-seven years old. I have been drinking for almost twenty years. Don't you think—"

  "That your brain cells have been destroyed? No. You need not worry about that."

  "But is there still a treatment which would help me? Or is it too late ..."

  "There is a way to help you. But I think it is a little too early to tell you about it. You must learn more about the mind and, for my part, I must know a little more about you. You think it is a little too soon to talk about this obscure Wanda. We both need more time. And patience. We must not be hasty. All I am going to say is: there is a

  __: ._._ 311

  method, an absolute effective method to cure you of your alcoholism—if you are prepared to help."

  "I am."

  "Good," said Pontevivo. "This was our third lecture. Just look at that cat! She really seems to be very attracted to you. Would you like to take Bianca to your room sometimes?"

  "I'd enjoy that It would remind me of my youth. It would—" I broke off. "That's why you suggested it, didn't you, Professor?"

  He smiled and nodded. He appeared to "be very satisfied.

  6

  The first thing I heard when I awakened from my second death were faint, light, chiming bells. I was lying on a wide couch in an antique furnished room. Dark woods, blue candles in silver candelabras, an icon near the window, a small triangular, carved cupboard beneath it. On it stood an old clock which had just chimed six.

  I got up and took a deep breath. I felt relaxed, strong, confident, fearless. I did not have to look at my turned-up sleeve and the small patch on my arm to know I had received the injection I needed. From the adjacent room came Russian, melancholy music.

  Natasha's furniture had arrived and the apartment was now comfortable. I felt at home in this room, its walls lined with Russian, French, German and English books. Asters in an old samovar. Several pipes and ornate chma containers for tobacco on a shelf.

  A door opened. Natasha, in black, silk, gold-embroidered lounging pajamas entered. Her beautiful face was serene and friendly as always.

  "You are on your feet again," said Natasha.

  "I thank you," I said. "I was afraid you would not be at home, I rang and no one opened."

  "Misha and I were listening to records."

  "But he can't hear the music!"

  "He feels the vibrations when he places a hand on the record player. By the way, it was Misha who heard you first."

  "Heard me?"

  "Sensed then. He sensed you at the door and drew my attention to it. I opened the door. There you were."

  "Unconscious?"

  "Yes. You are rather heavy, Mr. Jordan."

  "Whisky and water. Twenty pounds of edema." It was not a very wise remark; she turned away from me.

  "Your box with ampoules is over there," she said.

  "You want me to leave."

  "Yes."

  "I would not have come here. I could not reach the man who is treating me."

  "The man who is treating you is a criminal."

  "Natasha, I must finish that movie! Then I'll go to a clinic right away."

  "If you are still alive then."

  "It's not that bad."

  "It is. You could die any day. Any time."

  "Something upsetting happened today. That's all."

  "You must leave, Mr. Jordan. We agreed not to see each other any more."

  Her eyes were artless, incapable of lies or pretense. Fleetingly I thought of Jerome, Kostasch, Shirley, Joan and the detectives in Los Angeles. A sudden, burning, agonizing longing overcame me to be with this woman, just to be near her. Always.

  "Couldn't I stay just for a few minutes?"

  "No."

  "Do you despise me that much?"

  "Don't say things like that."

  "You don't despise me?"

  "You know that you must go. You know as well as T."

  "All I know is that I want to stay with you. Just for a little while."

  "I don't want to see you. I cannot see you any more. I—" She averted her head and pushed back her glasses in a typical gesture. "Don't you understand me?"

  I picked up my yellow box with the green spot and said, "Good-by Natasha." She did not reply. The door was flung open and Misha, in a red gym suit and stockinged feet, his blond hair dishevelled, ran to me. He threw his arms around my neck and kissed me. H& made hoarse, happy-sounding noises and 'talked' with his mother, it was as pathetic as it was touching. Finally Natasha said, "He asks you to stay."

  "then I may?"

  "Misha wants you to have tea with us and listen to some records. In his room. I told him that you had to leave. He asked for half an hour." Abruptly she said, "What we are doing is wrong and bad. It will have serious consequences."

  "Thank you," I said to the little boy. "Thank you, Misha."

  The record player was on the carpet of Misha's brieht, cheerfully furnished room. We drank tea and listened to melancholy Russian records.

  It w^s growing late. Misha sat between us on the carpet and above his head Natasha's and my eyes met aeain and again. At last it grew so dark in the room her face was visible only as a pale patch.

  The half hour had passed a long time ago. Kostasch and Wilson were surely looking for me. Shirley and Joan

  probably too. After all, I had stumbled out of Wilson's suite like a madman ....

  I did not care. The injection had freed me of worry and responsibility.

  Misha held his left hand to the record player. He sat motionless, his eyes closed, his face serene.

  Natasha pulled matches from her pocket. She was getting up but I took the matches and lighted the candles in a candelabra on Misha's bedside table. There were many beautiful candelabra in the apartment. In Misha's room alone were three. When I lighted the candles in the third candelabra Natasha quickly extinguished the third candle. She smiled apologetically.

  "An old superstition."

  "Three burning candles are bad luck?"

  She nodded embarrassed. "Three in one room."

  "Why?"

  "In my country it is said that a loved one dies.
Naturally that is nonsense. But if one has been brought up like that ..."

  Schauberg would have said, "AU the nonsense in the world is perpetuated through the centuries." Schauberg! Right now I did not even care that he was still in jail.

  Misha made some excited noises. Laughing silently, his hand still pressed to the record player, he pointed to the record.

  "It's his favorite song," said Natasha. "Even though he can't hear the music he recognizes each song. This is called The Crimson Silk Scarf.' "

  The candles flickered. The record circled. A woman sang a love song.

  When the record had stopped spinning Natasha said firmly, "Good-by."

  I bent down to Misha who embraced me again and left the room. He came running after me, a paper in his hand. His gestures made it plain: he had almost forgotten to give me his present.

  It was the drawing he had promised me. A little boy holding the hands of a woman and a man in a red boat. There were many other boats. A black bag stood in front of the man and he held a glass in his hand. The man was much taller than the woman, larger than the entire boat. Misha, it was obvious to see, longed for his father who had gone on a long trip.

  Misha pointed to the boy and then to himself, to the man with the glass and to me, and to the woman. He turned and I saw Natasha standing in the doorway of his room. He pointed to his mother. He was very serious now.

  "Go away," said Natasha. "Go away quickly. And don't ever, ever come back."

  8

  They were waiting wide-eyed for me in my suite. Joan flanked by Kostasch and Jerome.

  They were composed and I was out of breath after climbing six flights of stairs. I had a sense of the ridiculous. No doubt it was the effect of this damn, wonderful injection. The ampoules were once more in the green box in the trunk of my car with Misha's drawing.

  "Good evening," I said.

  Silence.

  "It's all right," I said. "That's right, Jerome, I'm alive. You're out of luck. I'm not a ghost."

  "Where ... where ..."

  "I think now you could stand a drink." I picked up the telephone and ordered. An hour ago I had thought I was dying. Now I felt like superman.

  The movie? Finished. Discontinued. So what?

  Joan? The detectives had talked to her. She knew of

  Shirley's pregnancy. Perhaps she knew more than that And even if she did, what did I care?

  Joan said, "We were terribly worried about you."

  Kostasch said, "WeVe looked for you all over town. Peter, are you out of your mind? Why didn't you tell us before?"

  Jerome, with an obsequious bow, said, "I would like to apologize to you. I must apologize! We've said some terrible things. You accused me—^unjustly—of some dirty work. I'm sorry that I became upset and lost my head. I did not want to insult you. Please forgive an old, sick man. I am happy, very happy, that everything worked out so well in the end."

  "What worked out well? How?"

  Kostasch was staring at me. Instead of answering me he repeated, "Why didn't you tell us before? Why did you leave it to your wife to tell us?"

  "Yes, why?" cried Jerome. "I just don't understand you, Peter!"

  Disconcerted, I looked at Wilson, then Kostasch, then Joan. She was not smiling. Were her eyes cold? She rose. ' "Come," she said to me. "I'm sure the gentlemen will excuse us."

  I followed her to the bedroom, her bedroom. She was pale and, as always, perfectly groomed. As sentimental as she had been during the past few days, now she was cool and matter-of-fact.

  All right, I thought, so you know everything. Or a great deal anyway. Now you are going to settle accounts. Did you plan it this way? Had you planned it with Jerome?

  Let's get it over with. As long as the injection is effective, as long as t too am as cool and calm.

  Joan was walking up and down. Her silence was unnerving me. She obviously wanted to savor her triumph.

  Yet, was she not entitled to that?

  I could not stand it any longer.

  "You know everything?"

  "Yes."

  "Just tell me one thing: how?"

  "Where were you all this time, darling?"

  "First, tell me who told you, how you found out!"

  "Kostasch told me."

  I felt weak. I sat down.

  "Kostasch?"

  "Of course. Kostasch."

  "But how . . . what ..." I swallowed hard. Nausea was rising in me. It could not be. Could it?

  She was acting.

  She wanted to torture me.

  "Don't look so thunderstruck. After you disappeared Kostasch and Jerome came here. Kostasch told me when Jerome went downstairs to take care of something."

  "Told you what?"

  "Why are you shouting? He told me about the hundred fifty thousand dollars you need to checkmate Jerome's plan to get rid of the two of you. And now tell me where you have been all this time!"

  I could not believe it. Automatically I answered, "I've been walking around."

  "But why?"

  "Joan! One hundred fifty thousand dollars! We're finished! This goddamn son-of-a-bitch took care of us with his plan! I couldn't stand to look at him! That's why I ran out. Can't you understand that?"

  "No, I can't. If Kostasch can't come up with his share of the money right away you will pay it for him. He will give you a few percent of his share of the profit. That much even I understand about business."

  We were looking at each other. A cat-and-mouse game? A few hundred yards away. Natasha.

  "That's what you told Kostasch?"

  "I told him and that little sneaky rat that v-ou have the money. I had vto teU him that half of all I own belongs to

  you. You should have seen their faces!" She laughed out loud.

  "Joan..."

  "I understand, darling. You must have been very upset about Jerome's dirty trick."

  I was certain she didn't know anything.

  No woman could put on such a convincing act. After all it was her daughter!

  "It's your money ... I won't touch it . . ."

  "Now don't upset your little Joan. And anyway, everything is settled."

  "Settled?"

  "I called my cousin at the consulate. You must hurry now and change. He invited us tonight."

  "Your cousin?"

  "Darling, are you high? That's what I'm saying!"

  No. No. No.

  She could not know. She did not know. Or did she? What about those detectives? Gregory's call? She must know! How far was she willing to go?

  "Who is invited?"

  "Both of us, Kostasch and Wilson. Don't you feel all right? Poor darling." She opened the door. "Has the whisky arrived, Mr. Kostasch? Would you please fix a drink for Peter?"

  Kostasch's voice was breathless. "Right away, Mrs. Jordan. I'll fix him the largest drink he's ever had!"

  "I think he needs it, too," Joan said very softly, leaning against the doorframe. Her smile was wiped away for the fraction of a second and her eyes were hard and cold. They were the eyes of the dead seagull, the eyes of the elephant, they were scrutinizing me, without mercy, without pity, with hate. And seemed to say: Liar. Blasphemer. Scoundrel,

  She knew, I thought. It is worth a hundred fifty thousand dollars to her to torture me and get her revenge.

  The next moment her brown eyes reflected love and tenderness. She handed me the drink. She kissed me.

  "Cheers, darUng."

  Quite possibly this was one way to become mad.

  "I asked my cousin to invite us for tonight. I thought since you have to be at the studio tomorrow again, this matter should be settled quickly."

  "But I don't understand—"

  "It's pure formaUty. The banks don't have your signature as yet. I think of everything, don't I, darling? Tonight my cousin will witness your signature on the check and that's it."

  "On what check?"

  "You poor darling, you really are confused, aren't you? The check you are going to write for the hundred fifty th
ousand dollars of course," said Joan. "Have you noticed Jerome's consternation? He can take the check and give it to this nice president." She leaned forward, "pidn't I manage things beautifully?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Isn't it lucky I have all that money?"

  "It is," I said.

  "And a cousin at the consulate?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "And that I can help you, now that you could use some help?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "I always hoped that someday, somehow, when you needed help I could help you. It's been a very gratifying day for me! It's too bad Shirley won't be with us tonight."

  "Why . .. why can't she?"

  "She has gone out again. An hour ago. She told me she had a date. Isn't that sweet?"

  I emptied my glass. Was this her revenge? Was she trying to see how much further she could push me?

  "Just think, Peter, our little Shirley's first love. I wonder which of us will be the first to know who he is?"

  I did not see Shirley that evening.

  We, Joan, Kostasch, Jerome and I drove to Joan's cousin's. His villa in Blankenese had large grounds which fell steeply to the water of the Elbe.

  Joan's cousin had also invited another official of the consulate to witness my signature of the check. My hands were unsteady and I had to write very slowly. Wilson, who still did not seem to have recovered from the shock, wrote out a receipt. Kostasch wrote that I had paid for his part of the payment to the movie company and the changes which would be made in our contract.

  Business over, we spent a lovely evening talking and watching the ships pass on the Elbe.

  About midnight we took our leave and drove back to town. Wilson and Kostasch got out at the Carlton. Tears were in Kostasch's eyes when he shook my hand. 'Til never forget this, Peter. Never. You saved our movie."

  "Yes, yes," I said.

  Wilson kissed Joan's hand and offered me his. I didn't take it.

  "You're still angry with me."

  "No, I'm not," I replied. "Just the same I'd rather not shake your hand."

  "Peter, I swear—"

  "Yes, yes," I said. "Have a pleasant trip. Regards to George."

  The little man's lips moved, he was searching for words. Kostasch, trying to smooth over the situation, slapped his shoulder, "Let's forget the whole thing! You tried to gyp us and you didn't succeed. So let's end it right here. Are you tired, Jerome?"