by Morris West
“It’s a hell of a price to pay for a bomb shelter.” Johann was thoughtful. “Not to mention the development costs. But, yes, it bears thinking on. Mother could come there and Franz and Katrin. We need labour anyway.”
“Tell him the other thing, Carl!” Lotte cut into the talk. “This can wait.”
“What other thing, Father?”
“There are people who want to kill me, son. So long as we are here together in Tübingen we are all in danger. That’s why I think we should disperse for a while. Your mother’s going to Paris to get Katrin settled. If you take up my offer on this property that gets you out of the way.”
“And you, Father? Who takes care of you?”
“I do,” said Lotte, “and I’ve changed my mind about Paris. If Katrin’s old enough to take a lover instead of a husband, she’s old enough to find and furnish her own lodgings. You and I will stay here, Carl… Johann can make his own decisions.”
“Frankly, son, I’d much rather you were out of the University.” Mendelius was suddenly eager to persuade him. “Things are going to get rough. There’s a move to have security dossiers on all students. Faculty members will be required to contribute information. I’ve refused to go along. That means sooner or later—if I survive the assassins—I’m under fire from the security boys.”
“It seems to me,” said Johann deliberately, “all this is predicated on a belief that war is inevitable—global war!”
“That’s right. It is.”
“And do you truly believe mankind will commit to that monstrosity?”
“Mankind will have very little to do or to say about it,” said Mendelius. “According to Jean Marie’s vision war is already written into our futures. That’s why I found myself at odds with him in Rome. On the other hand, everything I see and hear tells me that the nations are hell-bent on a confrontation over fuel and resources, and that the risk of conflict grows greater every day. So, what can I say to my adult children? Your mother and I have lived the best part of our lives. We’d like to offer you free choice about the disposition of your own.”
“You are part of our lives. We can’t just go about our own affairs as if you both didn’t exist.… I’m very grateful for your offer, Father, but I want to think about it very carefully. I want to talk with you, too, little sister. There are things I have to arrange with your Franz!”
“Franz is my business.” Katrin was instantly defensive. “I don’t want a fight between you two.”
“There’ll be no fight,” said Johann calmly. “But I want to be sure Franz knows what he’s getting into—and what he’ll have to share by way of a family responsibility.… It would be good, for instance, if we could recruit some sort of bodyguard for Father and Mother, from within the student body.”
“Absolutely not!” Mendelius was very emphatic. “That’s an immediate gain for the terrorist. He has disrupted our lives, forced us to take public precautions. Therefore he is important, potent and to be feared. No! No! No! Your mother and I—and you, too, so long as you are here—will protect each other. The handbook the police gave us is very good. I want you both to read it and…”
The doorbell rang. Mendelius went to answer it Johann followed him. Mendelius recited the simple drill.
“… Always use the spyhole in the door. If you cannot identify the caller, leave the chain bolt on when you open the door. If you receive a package you are not expecting, or an especially bulky letter, call the Kriminalamt and ask for a bomb expert to examine them. You may feel foolish if the packages are harmless but it’s better than opening a booby trap which will blow your face off.…”
This time the caller and his package were both harmless. Alvin Dolman had come to deliver the framed prints. While Mendelius poured his drink he displayed them proudly to Lotte and the family.
“… They look good, eh? I had a fellow in my studio yesterday who offered three times the price you paid. You see, you do get favoured-nation treatment, Professor!”
“With this family, I need it, Alvin.”
“Be glad of this family, Professor. I wish I had one like it. I’m getting too old for hunting in the wildwood! Which reminds me, I was at a party last night in honour of the mime troupe. Your name came up. The leading man said they had performed for you and some journalist fellow at a party in the Hölderlinhaus.”
“That’s right. It turned into a long night.”
“Anyway, I mentioned that I knew you and your family. Everybody seemed to know about your adventure in Rome. Then this girl buttonholed me and started asking questions.”
“What girl?” Mendelius frowned. “What sort of questions?”
“Her name is Alicia Benedictus. She works for the Schwabisches Tagblatt. She said she was writing a profile on you for the paper.”
“Did she offer any identification?”
“Why should she? We were both guests at the same party. I took her at face value—and the value was pretty good, believe me!”
In spite of his concern, Mendelius laughed. The light of lechery in Alvin Dolman’s eyes was beacon-bright. Mendelius repeated his query. “What sort of questions did she ask?”
“Oh, the usual stuff: what sort of man you are; how were you regarded in the town; who were your most important friends… that sort of thing.”
“Strange! If she works for the Tagblatt, she has a file full of that material. I think I’d like to check her out.”
“Why, for God’s sake?” Dolman was completely at a loss. “This was cocktail talk. I just thought you’d be interested that someone was doing a piece on you.”
“I’m very interested, Alvin. Let’s call the paper now.”
He leafed through the directory and made the call, while Dolman and the family looked on. The call was brief; the information negative. There was no one on the staff called Alicia Benedictus. No one had been assigned to do a feature on Carl Mendelius. Mendelius put down the receiver and told them the news. Dolman gaped at him.
“Well, how do you like that?”
“I don’t like it at all, Alvin. I’m calling Inspector Dieter Lorenz in the Kriminalamt. He’ll want to see us both.”
“The police? Hell, Professor! I live a nice quiet life here. I’d like to keep it that way till I go home. Why do you need the police?”
“Because there’s a contract out on my life, Alvin. I was a key witness to a shooting in Rome. We know the terrorists have spotters covering me and my family in Tübingen. This girl could be one of them.”
Alvin Dolman shook his head as if he were trying to clear it of cobwebs. He swore softly, “Christ! Who’d have believed it? They’re gunning for academics now—and in Tübingen yet! O.K., Professor, let’s call the cops and get it over with.”
Fifteen minutes later they were in the office of Dieter Lorenz at the Landeskriminalamt. Lorenz put Dolman through a lengthy interrogation, then settled him in an interview room with a cup of coffee, a sketch pad and an instruction to produce a likeness of the girl who called herself Alicia Benedictus. Then, back in his own office, he asked Mendelius:
“How close are you to this Dolman?”
Mendelius shrugged. “Not that close; but I’ve known him for years. I’ve had him to drinks many times but rarely to dinner. I buy prints from him. I drop in at his studio sometimes for a glass of wine and a chat. I find him an agreeable jester. Why do you ask? Do you have anything against him?”
“Nothing.” Lorenz was frank about it. “But he’s one of those characters who always bother a policeman in a provincial town like this. A criminal you can deal with. You can ship home a guest-worker who gets into trouble. But this type is different. You can see no good reason why he stays. He’s an American. He’s divorced from a local girl. He’s gainfully employed but there’s no way he can make a reputation or a fortune. Also he’s a raffish type. When he gets bored, you find him in the boozy bars and the wilder student nightclubs. His house parties make a lot of noise, and we get complaints from neighbours. So, because he’s popula
r and a bit rowdy and a high spender, we wonder if he’s got any sidelines like hash or heroin or receiving stolen goods. To this point he’s clean.… But I still have to ask whether he could be spotting for the group that is out to get you or whether he’s connected with these mysterious folk who, you told me, were supposed to be shadowing Mr. Rainer.…”
“It sounds a little far-fetched to me,” said Mendelius.
“It probably is,” Lorenz agreed patiently. “But sometimes in this business you get nasty surprises. Dolman’s an artist. We’ve found a sketch of you in the pocket of a dead man. Wouldn’t it be odd if it were done by Alvin Dolman?”
“Impossible! I’ve known the man for years!”
Lorenz shrugged off the objection. “It’s the impossible that happens every day. Anyway, he’s making another sketch now. It will be instructive to compare the two.”
Mendelius was suddenly edgy and irritable. “You’ve put me in an intolerable position, Inspector. I can’t continue to be friendly with Dolman and not tell him what you’ve told me.”
“I don’t mind your telling him.” Lorenz seemed mildly surprised. “It helps me. If he’s innocent, he’ll go out of his way to cooperate and he’s got a lot of useful contacts in town. If he’s guilty, then he’ll get restless and begin making mistakes.”
“Don’t you ever get sick of this game, Inspector?”
“I like the game, Professor; I dislike the people with whom I have to play it.… Excuse me, I’ll see how Dolman’s coming along with his art work.”
As they left the police station and strolled homewards through the warm summer air, Dolman seemed philosophic about his situation. He brushed aside Mendelius’ apologies with weary humour.
“… Don’t fret about it, Professor! I understand Lorenz and his kind. I’m a fringe operator, always have been, even in the Army. The only time I’m surprised is when someone drops a coin in the blind man’s hat instead of kicking him in the teeth.… However, just between you and me, I have no interest in getting you knocked off and no connection with any group. I’m strictly a loner—and I’m sure Lorenz is bright enough to see it. What he figures is that because I get around and meet a lot of oddballs, I might stumble on some useful information.… Because it’s you that’s involved, I’m prepared to cooperate. Also, I don’t like being played for a sucker—which is what Miss Alicia Benedictus tried to do.… All in all, Professor, this has been one lousy day! This used to be a nice cozy town. You could wrap it round yourself like strudel pastry. Now… ? I don’t like it anymore. I think I’ll start packing very soon.… You go on home, Professor. I know a girl who keeps a bottle of brandy warm just for Alvin Dolman!”
He turned away and strode across the bridge, a big aggressive man thrusting heedless through the shoppers and the loiterers. Mendelius turned down the path that led to the gardens. He did not want to go home yet. He needed time and quiet to set his thoughts in order. The family needed privacy to discuss the radical proposals he had made to them.
It was a warm, bright day and the burghers of Tübingen were sunning themselves on the lawns. Down by the lake a small crowd had gathered to watch the theatrical troupe working with a group of very young schoolchildren. It was a charming scene—the youngsters wide-eyed and wondering, totally absorbed in the tale of a sad clown who blew beautiful bubbles but could never coax one of them to rest on his hand. The clown was the cadaverous fellow who had entertained them at the Hölderlinhaus. The rest of the troupe played the bubbles who mocked his efforts to catch them.…
Mendelius sat on the grass and watched the small, innocent opera, fascinated to see how the children, timid at first, were drawn to participate in the mimicry. After the grim and grandiose debates in which he had been engaged, this simple experience was a matter of strange joy. Unconsciously he found himself aping their smirks and bows and fluttering gestures. The clown noticed him and, a few moments later, began to mime a new story. He summoned the other players and their attendant children and conveyed to them in dumb show that new, strange creature was in their midst. Was it a dog? No. A rabbit? No. A tiger, an elephant, a pig? No. Then they must inspect it—but very, very cautiously. Finger to lips, walking on tiptoe, he led them, single file, to examine this extraordinary animal.…
The audience chuckled when they saw that the butt of the joke was a middle-aged fellow running to fat. Mendelius, after a moment of uncertainty, decided to join the comedy. As the actors and the children circled him he played back to them as he had once played charades with his own children. Finally, he revealed himself as a big stork standing on one leg and looking down his long beak. The audience applauded. The children laughed excitedly at their triumph. The clown and his troupe mimed their thanks. A tiny girl caught at his hand and told him:
“I knew before anybody. I really knew you were a stork!”
“I’m sure you did, liebchen.”
And as he bent to talk to the little mite, Mendelius had a sudden sickening thought of what she would look like after the first blast of radiation, or a lethal infection of anthrax.
That evening at supper Katrin and Johann dominated the talk, reading an unexpected lesson to their parents. Katrin’s argument was very simple.
“… Mother has said it. If I’m old enough to go off with a man, I’m old enough to manage my own affairs.… Franz and I have to improve our relationship before we can think of getting married. In spite of his success with the gallery he’s still very uncertain of himself… and I have to find a few pieces of me, too. I’m lucky. Thanks to Papa I’ve got financial security.… But for the rest I always do better if there’s no one holding my hand.…”
“But Franz wants to marry you,” Lotte objected. “He told me he’s asked you several times.”
“I know he does; but he wants a Hausfrau, someone to make him feel safe and well nourished—and reassure him that he’s a genius. I don’t want that role—and I don’t want him to get stuck in his dependence either. He has to learn that we’re partners as well as lovers.”
“And what will happen,” asked Johann with a grin, “if he doesn’t learn as fast as you’d like, little sister?”
“Then, big brother, I find someone else!”
Lotte and Mendelius exchanged the rueful looks of parents who find themselves left far behind in argument. Mendelius asked:
“And you, Johann? Have you given any thought to my proposal?”
“A lot of thought, Father—and I’m afraid the idea doesn’t work for me.”
“For any special reason?”
“One and one only. You’re offering to buy me out of a situation I have to handle for myself. I hate the idea of war. I see it as a vast, horrible futility. I don’t want to be conscripted for gun-fodder—but I’ve never felt special enough to… well, to be exempted from the destiny of my own peer group. I’ve got to stay with it, at least long enough to decide whether I belong there or in opposition.… I’m not explaining this very well. I appreciate your care for me; but in this case, it goes further than I want or need.”
“I’m glad you can be honest with us, son.” Mendelius was hard put to conceal his emotion. “We don’t want to run your life. The best gift we can give you is liberty and the conscience to use it.… So let me ask all my family a question. Does anybody object if I buy the valley?”
“What would you use it for?” Johann stared at him in surprise.
“Your father has a dream of his own.” Lotte reached out to touch Mendelius’ hand. “When he retires he’d like to found an academy for postgraduate studies—a place where senior scholars can meet and share the learning of a lifetime. If he wants to try it—then I support him.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea.” Katrin was full of enthusiasm. “I keep saying to Franz that everybody has to keep reaching out all the time. If you get too secure you go stale and fusty.”
“You’ve got my vote, Father.” Johann looked at Mendelius with a new respect. “If I can help to get the place started, count on me.… And if
things get too rough at the University, you can always opt for early retirement.”
“I’ll call the lawyers first thing in the morning. They should start negotiating with the Gräfin. Next week I’ll go down and look at the property. I’d like you to come with me, Johann.”
“Of course.”
“What about you, Lotte? Would you like to come?”
“Later, Carl. This time you and Johann should go together. Katrin and I have our own things to do.”
“I’m really excited.” Mendelius expounded his plan. “I’d like to talk to a good architect—a special kind of man with an interest in the ambience of living.…”
“We’re being very calm and logical,” said Lotte abruptly. “But I’ve got the terrible feeling life won’t turn out quite the way you expect.”
“Probably it won’t, liebchen; but we have to hope and act as if it will. In spite of Jean Marie’s prophecies I still believe we can influence the course of human events.”
“Enough and in time to prevent a war?”
There was a hint of hidden desperation in Lotte’s question. It was almost as if she expected her children to be snatched suddenly from the dinner table. Mendelius gave her a swift worried look and said, with more confidence than he felt:
“Enough and in time, yes. I’m even hopeful that the publication of our piece on Sunday will focus world attention on the urgency of new initiatives for peace.”
“But,” Johann objected, “half the world will never see what you’ve written, Father.”
“All the leaders will,” Mendelius persisted, if only to shake Lotte out of her black mood. “All the intelligence services will read and evaluate the material.… Never underrate the diffusion of even the simplest news item.… Now, why don’t we clear the table and get the wash-up done. They’re doing The Magic Flute on television. Your mother and I would like to watch it.…”
Halfway through the performance the telephone rang. Georg Rainer was on the line from Berlin.