"I can't let you have it today, Hem."
"The jackal?"
"Yes. I'm in bed."
"Too much booze?"
"Much too much. Too many cigarettes. Can't write a line today."
"You're going to do yourself in," Hem said to me, lying in bed with my jackal.
"Nonsense! All I need is some sleep. I'll take twenty milligrams of Valium and sleep it off."
"Okay, my boy. Do your best."
"You know, Hem, it's an absolute miracle that I can still write this series. I could vomit every time I think of it."
"I can understand that. But what the hell! You've got to produce."
It was a stock phrase of this highly intellectual man. "What the hell! You've got to produce." How often Hem, grown wise and humble in our profession, had said that. Once he had wanted to be a composer. He didn't make it. He couldn't make a living with his compositions, so he played piano in bars. Then came the war. In 1946 he came home from a prisoner-of-war camp, tried
composing again, again with no success. Friends helped him get a job as music editor; soon he was promoted to executive editor in charge of all copy. That was a big experiment, but in those days Blitz still experimented. And it worked. The man who had failed as a composer became a first-rate executive editor, who was recognized and admired in the entire profession.
"Yes, yes, I know. What the hell!" I said to Hem.
"They re going to foam at the mouth—"
"Let them! The assholes! Or let them write it themselves."
"But I'll cover up for you."
"Thanks, Hem."
"Not at all. Just being practical. If I bawled you out now and forced you to write, you'd send in some supershit, you and your jackal. When youVe recovered, may I hope to have something usable?"
"I have the whole weekend."
"Don't promise anything. I know you, Walter. But Monday morning at 9:00 a.m., it's got to be on my desk or it's curtains."
My jackal was with me all Friday and Saturday, only worse. I had difficulty breathing, but it never occurred to me to call a doctor. It would pass. Sunday morning things were no better. Finally I pulled myself together, forced myself to go to a restaurant and eat, quite a lot, and just managed to get home in time to throw it all up. Which was what I had expected. But now my stomach was sensitive again, and the Chivas could help. I began to drink at three and drank all afternoon and could sense that the jackal was leaving me. Then I went out and wandered from one nightclub to the other, seven or eight in all—can't remember exactly, except that all of them had "my" bottle of Chivas. And in some stable or other I must have picked up two girls who were lying beside me Monday morning at 4:30 a.m. —a redhead on my left, a black-haired girl on my right, both of them naked and looking innocent as they slept.
I got up carefully. I didn't want to wake them. I took one last look at their beautiful bodies, then I covered them. The black-haired one was snoring softly. I noticed that I was naked, too, and looked around me, saw the girls' things scattered all over the place, the records still on the stereo, the Light still on. Then I remembered everything.
I turned off the stereo. The Path6tique. Tchaikovsky. My favorite composer. I had listened to it last night while the two girls had danced a wild striptease for me. I had sat there, drinking
Chivas and watching the girls. I had paid them in advance, much too much as usual. And they had put on a great show and made love convulsively on my super-size bed, moaning and groaning and overdoing it for my benefit.
I don't have to write what the three of us did after that. Nobody'd print it anyway. But I made out with both of them until in the end they were whimpering, I should stop, please I And I was just as drunk as they were. But my cock was always in great shape when I was drunk. That's why I wasn't afraid of the jackal at moments like this, unless he happened to be present, and I wasn't afraid of illness or death. Death was meaningless for someone who could work like a dog and take on two girls when dead drunk and only get more and more horny. No. I was not the right type for death. Whenever the jackal had come and gone, I took two girls home with me. It was something I was doing more and more frequently lately. Always when I had had the jackal. Then I slept beautifully between their warm, firm young flesh.
In November 1958,1, Walter Roland, alias Curt Corell, was at the height of my career. I lived in a penthouse which belonged to the firm, didn't cost me a cent. A six-room apartment with every convenience known to man, on the top floor of an elegant high-rise apartment house on the Gregor-Mendel Allee, in the prestigious residential section of Lerchesberg, south of the Main River. Ultramodern decor, priceless lacquered furniture in various colors—red, orange, blue, white, lilac—because in every room the walls were painted a different color and the furniture matched. Shell chairs that swiveled; in the white bedroom a huge brown leather bed. Indirect lighting and floor lamps with colored shades. Wall-to-wall carpeting with a design of oriental bridges. A whole wall for books, the TV built in. Every room led through a glass door out onto the roof terrace, where flowers and plants bloomed in the summer; and you could bask on chaise longues or under sun umbrellas. At night you could sit outdoors and look across the entire city of Frankfurt. And all this was mine through my writing! Like the white Lamborghini 400 CT. I had brought the whores home in it. However drunk I was, I could always drive and fuck. I had money to burn, and I burned it.
In spite of my colossal salary I was constantly in debt. Two hundred thousand marks in the red. So what? They were happy to give me anything I asked for; they practically came to me, their arms open wide—take, oh, take whatever you need! (So that I wouldn't go to one of the rival houses from whom I got at least one offer a month.)
I had arrived! But I had to assure myself of it constantly. That was why I drove like a lunatic in a crazily expensive car, appeared at parties with the prettiest starlets, gave knock-out parties of my own, and stayed only in the best hotels.
I walked softly into the kitchen and put on water for coffee. I needed a lot of coffee, because now I had to work, work hard, and I was still drunk. I staggered into the black-tiled bathroom and showered for a long time, hot and cold. That helped. I could think clearly again. While I shaved, I listened to the radio. A UKW station was broadcasting the news. Bitter fighting in the Mekong Delta. A purge in Czechoslovakia, Dubcek out. An American plane hijacked to Cuba, an Israeli plane to Athens. Heavy fighting on the Israel-Jordan border, a commando raid in Syria. Bloody fighting between Protestants and Catholics in Ireland. Racial unrest in the U.S.A. Inflation, strikes, catastrophes. Nothing new. I always heard the news first thing in the morning. I had to be informed.
I left the bathroom and walked into the dressing room with its off-white closets, each with its own mirror. I put on a gray flannel suit, a white pongee shirt, a black tie, socks, low shoes. In the kitchen I made the coffee strong and drank slowly. I wasn't hungry. I looked at the sleeping girls once more, took four hundred-mark bills out of my wallet, and shoved them partway under the lamp on the bedside table. With a red felt pen I wrote on a piece of paper, "Ctao, my pets. This is for you. Lock the door when you leave and drop the key in the mailbox." No signature. Not even my initials. No point in getting intimate; we would never meet again.
Get on with it! Get on with it! Now I was in a hurry. I knew all the detours where they were building the subway; I drove fast through the cool, empty city streets, and I got to the office via the delivery entrance in the rear of the building. I drove my Lamborghini into the underground garage and walked upstairs to the lobby. No elevator for the few stairs. One had to do something for one's health!
A tall doorman in a blue gold-braided uniform opened the door to the lobby after I had rung the bell. Like everyone else who moved a finger for me, he got a lavish tip. "Good morning, Herr Kluge."
"Good morning, Herr Roland. Thank you very much."
My attache case was full of books, papers, and notes for the article I had to write. Right now. This minute* Just then a
big burly man in a creased suit, unshaven and obviously hung over,
carrying a flight bag full to bursting, appeared in the enormous lobby with its marble floor, marble walls, and leather armchairs and tables. He came in through the high glass door that was controlled by an electric eye. A dirty white bandage was wound around his forehead. I recognized my friend Engelhardt.
"Hi, Walter!"
"Hello, Bertie. So they got you this time."
"Nothing to it. Hit by a stone." He was smiling as usual.
Three days ago a famous Negro leader had been shot in Chicago, with resulting racial unrest. "When did you get in?"
"Half an hour ago. The others are taking the noon plane." Blitz had sent a whole crew to the U.S.A. "Boy, oh, boy, they're slaughtering each other in Chicago! And I've got the pictures!"
"And you're getting plenty of advertising, in all the papers."
"And space? Are we going to have enough space?"
"Nine pages!"
"Ye gods!"
"I saw the proofs of the ads. Terrific! And of course you get your credit line." I could still recall the text, in fat caps: 'The Death of the Black Jesus! In order to be able to give you a nine-page report of the murder of the Negro leader, Jesus Maria Albermore, 3,562 negatives were developed, 298 pictures were received by radio, 414 telephone calls were made between Frankfurt and the U.S.A., 231 cables were exchanged, and 67,000 miles were flown. Blitz ace photographer Bert Engelhardt and seven reporters flew to Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, New York, Baltimore, and Boston. The head of the photo department interrupted his vacation in Tenerife and flew to Chicago for an exclusive interview with the widow of the murdered leader." All this when no one had any idea how many negatives had been developed, how many wires exchanged, and how many kilometers flown.
Bertie was running. "Where are you going?" I cried.
"To the darkroom. I have to develop three films!"
"I thought you'd sent it all ahead."
"Wait till you see what the boys are bringing back!"
I walked over to the two elevators. There were always people waiting in front of one of the elevators; it was for the use of minor employees and visitors. A second one, rarely used, was for the heads of departments—general manager, head of advertising and circulation, chairman of the board, president, editor-in-chief, executive editor, and, of course, the publisher. Each of
these important gentlemen had his own key to this particular VIP elevator. There was no key to the other one—the Plebian Cage, as it was called—but it was never on the floor when you wanted it. The common man had to wait.
Fourteen years before, when I had had to interrupt my study of law because of lack of funds and had got a job with Blitz and had seen this fine system for the first time, I had wondered seriously whether I should work in such a firm. I had been highly indignant. But my indignation faded and I took the job. Six years later I was top writer and at Christmas they had festively handed me a key to the VIP elevator. I felt sick with fury and for four more years ostentatiously went right on using the Plebian Cage, which was always full and never there when you wanted it. But one day I'd had it. I'd just hit the jackpot with my sex stories and bought the Lamborghini. The goddam Plebian Cage didn't come and didn't come. So I took my pristine key out of my wallet and used the VIP elevator. The hell with it!
In the VIP elevator it smelled of perfume, and during office hours soft music played from a muted loudspeaker. At this early hour there was no music, but the perfume was there.
Seventh floor. I got out, walked to my glass office, taking three bottles of Coke out of the refrigerator on the way because I was thirsty as hell. In my office I emptied everything out of my attache case, rolled up my sleeves, and loosened my tie and collar. Cigarette. There—all set. I inserted paper and carbon in my typewriter and looked at my wristwatch. 6:12. I began to type. The article almost wrote itself. Thus I produced my weekly ration of substitute sex for the millions who wanted it. Let them have it!
"Under the stars, under the moon I am alone, and not alone. Past and future are always with me... in the vastness of time and
space "
At midnight, November 12, when Fraulein Louise, her eyes smarting with the tears she had shed, was whispering these words as she walked along the narrow path on the moor, hurrying to see
her friends, I reached the bridge over the Elbe at autobahn exit Veddel, Irina and Bertie at my side. I was driving fast, 230 kilometers an hour. The car slithered from side to side on the deserted autobahn because an ice-cold gale had blown up from the northwest. It hit the Lamborghini head-on and the car shook. I held the steering wheel firmly and watched the road like a hawk. At this speed a head wind could sweep us off the highway, but I knew my car.
It was storming in Hamburg. Moored boats were dancing on the water, slates were blowing off roofs, there was the sound of metal clattering, and the wind howled. I drove along Heiden-kampsweg, through the dark suburbs of Klostertor and Borgf elde, to the Berliner-Tor-Damm. Not a soul on the streets. I knew my way around Hamburg: north across Biierweide, Steinhauerdamm, and Muhlendamm to Armgartstrasse. Then I turned left and began to drive west on Mundsburgerdamm to Schwanenwik, which was on the Aussenalster. Even that little inland sea was restless, and the lights of the big hotels on both sides of the Lombardsbrucke—the new one is called the Kennedy Bridge—sparkled in the water. Wisps of clouds flew overhead. Adolfstrasse was a crazy street, one way in different directions at different times of the day. I turned into it and stopped the car in front of No. 22A, an old, white building standing in a small garden. Several families lived in it. It was very quiet.
"Is this Eppendorfer Baum?" Irina asked excitedly. "Is this the house?"
"No," I said. "Well drive to Eppendorfer Baum from here, but we had to come here first. This is where Conny Manners lives."
"Who?"
"Our Hamburg correspondent, remember? I called my office before you made your call and asked them to send him a teletype to get going and try to find your Jan Bilka."
"Oh, yes." But she was restless now, and impatient.
"Conny's girl friend is expecting us. She'll tell us what Conny's been able to find out, if anything. So come on."
I helped her out of the car. Bertie got out on the other side. "His friend Edith," he said, smiling. "Beautiful Edith."
The storm was howling, trees were groaning, limbs were snapping or bending low and waving back and forth, forming bizarre shadows on the asphalt. We walked through the little
front garden—the low gate was open—and I rang the bell beside Conny's name. He lived on the third floor. We waited for quite a long time. Then we heard the intercom click, and out of the loudspeaker, the voice of a woman, teary and afraid. "Who is it?"
"Roland," I said. "Roland and Engelhardt and somebody else."
"Who else?" said the woman's voice, and then we could hear her sobbing.
"For God's sake, Edith!" I cried. "Let us in! I'll tell you all about it when we get upstairs."
"I want to know who the other person is."
"A young lady."
"What sort of a young lady?"
"Edith, have you been drinking?"
She sobbed again, then she said, "So you won't tell me."
"No. Not like this. Let us in. We're in a hurry, so open the door, for God's sake!"
Edith's voice, asking, "What's that name—the name you call Herr Kramer?"
"Now listen—"
"You don't know?"
"Of course I know!"
"Then tell me the name or I won't unlock the door."
"Hem," I said. "Satisfied?"
"And how old is he?"
"Damn it—"
"How old?"
"Fifty-six."
There was a whirring sound in the lock. We hurried in. I found the switch for the electric light. There was no elevator in the high, narrow stairwell, and we walked up the stairs, which were steep. One tenant to each floor. The door to Conny Manners's apartment wa
s closed. I rang again. The door was opened a crack, as far as the chain would allow. I noticed that the front hall was dark. Then I saw the gun. A Colt .45, a small cannon! The American MPs used it. The barrel was pushed through the crack in the door. I knew Conny owned a Colt; now his girl apparently had it. We heard her trembling voice, "Go and stand by the window so I can see you. All three of you, or however many there are of you."
"Three, damn it," I said. "Edith, I've already told you that."
"Over to the window," said Edith.
The light in the hall went out. I put it on again. Then I looked at Bertie and Irina and shrugged. What else could we do? I was the first one at the window.
"All right," said Edith from behind the door. "That's you, Herr Roland. And now the others."
Irina and Bertie came and stood beside me.
"And that's Herr Engelhardt." The gun was still aimed at me. I had experienced a lot of crazy things during the last hours. Had Edith gone crazy, too? "Who is the girl?"
"Look here, Edith. This is idiotic! Open up or—"
She interrupted me. "Or what? Or nothing! I close the door and call the police."
"Edith, you're nuts!"
"I am perfectly sane," she sobbed. "Who is the girl?"
So I started to introduce them, but I couldn't remember Edith's last name. "Herwag," she said.
"Edith Herwag," I told Irina, who looked frightened. Then Edith wanted to know where Irina came from. Not until I had told the whole goddamned story—the light in the hall went out again, of course; we had to switch it on twice—was the gun barrel withdrawn, the chain removed, and the door opened. "Come in," said Edith Herwag.
She was really beautiful, a tall blond. She had worked as a model until she had moved in with Conny. He didn't want her to model anymore; he wanted to marry her. And they would marry soon, I was thinking, as I walked into the small entrance hall behind Irina and Bertie.
The Traitor Blitz Page 13