Orbit 11 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Night

  “Monkeyshines. Simiantics.” He used the flame to light an Upmann cigar. “Speaking of simiantics, what means this? Seven of you—and only six passports.”

  Ben started. Grepo was wrong—but out of the corner of his eye he took tale: Carol Applegate, here; Liza Ballester, right on; Frank Boguslaw, check; Martin Sartorius, present; Sue Chen, yo; himself. He smiled at Grepo.

  “I beg your pardon, but there are just six of us.”

  “Oh? You think I can’t count? Everyone counts in the DDR.” Grepo turned to Trapo, Kripo, and Vopo. “Go ahead, count.”

  Kripo and Vopo each bonged six noses and said, “Seven.” Trapo closed his eyes and heehawed his horn seven times.

  “You see?” Grepo drew a bottle of Spez from under the counter and pulled his teeth with the cork. Cooly putting his teeth back in after freeing them from the cork, he worked the cork loose with his hands. He rubbed the cork against the side of the bottle; this twittering conjured up in the group’s mind a squeaky baby carriage. The image of a chirping bird quickly wiped that out as Grepo took a throbbing swallow, peeled off his mustache, wrung it out over the monkey’s waiting mouth, and stuck it back on. He handed Ben the passports without stamping.

  Ben tried matching them one-to-one with his group —but not only the photos, the faces had blurred; he gave up. He knew there were six passports and six tourists, yet he felt the others share his rush of guilt. Was there a seventh among them? If so, where? And who? Grepo leered.

  “Not so sure now, hey? One last straw and we’re over the hump.” Grepo ducked under the counter flap and slouched shiftily to the door. He turned and knocked a long ash off Ms Upmann. “Last one out’s a monkey’s uncle.”

  Trapo, Kripo, and Vopo vaulted the counter and shot toward the doorway, which Grepo cleared barely in time; the tourists followed, sedately jockeying for position; the monkey brought up the tail. Grepo pointed: monkey, head down, went back in.

  Grepo circled the group’s VW, hands behind bent back, while Trapo, Kripo, and Vopo darted in and out of it, opening and closing the VW’s doors and hood on each other. The tourists traded looks. If Grepo and his henchmen found a seventh hiding in or under the VW—

  Kripo and Trapo dueted on the VW’s horn and Trapo’s, took bows, then rejoined Vopo in the search. They turned up only each other. Grepo scowled at the rental agency’s device on the VW.

  “Hertz, eh? My advice is to put it out of its misery.”

  Trapo spat on his hands, eyed them in disgust, and wiped them on Vopo’s shirt tail. He, Vopo, and Kripo fell to with wrench, sledgehammer, and acetylene torch. Though they got in each other’s way, they soon stripped the VW. Grepo shook his head at the pile of junk.

  “Don’t make ‘em like they used to, and never did.” He dusted his palms, then held them out to the tourists with a shrug. “We get tips, you see.” He waited, then dropped them with another shrug. “Sometimes the tips don’t pan out. All the same, we believe there is a seventh among you. And if you want out you’ll have to produce him.”

  The tourists stared blankly at each other, then at a blank stretch of Wall. Kicking nuts and bolts aside, Grepo slouched shiftily into the customs shed. Kripo, Vopo, and Trapo followed. A heehaw drifted out.

  The group walked away, stopped to look back. The Wall of Shame blushed in the evening sun. They turned a corner.

  Two men blocked the walk. One’s Hitleresque mustache, the other’s Stalinesque, were their only unlikeness. Frank leading, the group started to file between the two. Frank halted abruptly, the line accordioning. Word whispered back and each felt an inner kick in the stomach. “Siamese twins.” The twins stiffened.

  “Two hundred percent Aryan, we assure you.”

  They wore one pair of gloves between them, open umbrella in gloved right hand, portable TV in gloved left, a pack of cards.

  “Take a card. Any one.”

  Fast trick? Portnoygraphy? Ambivalence chaser? Frank Boguslaw hesitated, then grabbed a card. The others huddled with him to study squiggly lines on a scrap of graph paper. The twins clicked the inner pair of heels and bowed.

  “Servus. Graf Emil und Franz von und zu Zwim.” Each had a regular tic in his dueling scar. “We are with Das Reisebüro.” The twinkle in Emil’s monocle said he meant an underground travel bureau offering Fluchthilfe for a price. “Do you mind if we turn on the Fernsehen”—they glanced at Ben Copeland—”or, as you might put it, the telavivzion. Two cannot be too careful.”

  Franz switched the set on and raised the volume as if to over talk, but neither twin said more. The tourists shot gazes to the screen as a voice-over told them they were watching a documentary on the design of the Defense Wall.

  A section of Wall by night. A man amoebaed out of darkness, crept toward the Wall, climbed the first fence, made for the second. Touching the second fence set off an alarm that froze him a moment, then he took the fence. He crossed the dog run before the German shepherds got there, but tripped a flare that brought him under searchlights and machine guns. He raced across asphalt as armored cars sped down from both ends. He left a stagger of footprints in plowed earth that came next, jumped the anti-facist tank ditch, and dashed over a hundred-foot strip of cinders under mercury-vapor lamps that almost bleached him out of being. A hidden six-inch steel spike pierced his foot but he tore free and limped to the Wall. He gathered himself, sprang. His hands reached, curved over, but slid off the too-big, too-smooth pipe coping the Wall. His dead flesh still twitched to machine-gun bullets and voice-over. “This is how we save our people from the clutches of the capitalist imperialists.” Franz switched the set off.

  “See what you’re up against? You need our help. But we can’t stand here talking.” Emil pointed to children of the Freie Deutsche Jugend patrolling the street looking for TV antennas oriented to pull in the Western signal. “Meet us at Des Pudels Kern. We’ll take a taxi now. Wait five minutes and follow.”

  Des Pudels Kern proved aRestaurant zur Forelle; through plate glass they saw a large tank of live trout in the main room; through the tank the Graf’s monocles swam in come-hither.

  The lettering swam on Ben’s menu. He ordered what came to mind, a Schmarren; he felt unsatisfied but unhungry on finishing it. The rest gave in to the frowning monocles and ordered trout. The twins had already ordered and each ate enough Rindfleisch mit Ananas und Kirschen for two. Carol shared her fried potatoes with Martin; she and Martin were both watching her figure.

  As napkins came into play, Franz gripped his handlebar mustache and steered his head in a sweep of the table, keenly monocling Ben and Carol and Frank and Sue and Martin and Liza and, with a start, Emil. The Venus flytrap in Franz’s lapel spat out the husk of an olive-colored bug.

  “We can talk now. Due to the nature of our business, we can’t show you references, but we serve a worldwide clientele. We’ve been around. We’ve seen the River Dodder meander and the River Meander dodder. We’ve woven irenics in Poland and polemics in Ireland. No false modesty. We know our jobs. You want out: here’s your chance. We’ll guarantee to spirit you out of East Germany. The fee’s a measly thousand dollars or West German measly equivalent. Half now, half on delivery.”

  The twins looked away, both ways, boredly. The tourists eyed one another, then nodded and got up five hundred dollars, which the twins pocketed absently.

  “Stay put another quarter hour, when it will be midnight, then slip out the back. A Lastkraftwagen will be waiting, license plate JWD. Got that? Good.”

  The Graf rose, clicked, and left. The waiter appeared and handed the tourists the tab. He was long time coming back with their change and they saw through the trout tank Grepo, Vopo, Trapo, and Kripo pull up out front in the resurrected Hertz VW. Pretending to head forHerren and Damen, the tourists made a controlled run to the rear.

  An LKW idled out back in the parallel street, license plate JWD. Red flags jutted fore and aft and “SPRENGSTOFF” blazed in luminous paint on the tarpaulin. The LKW started without them. Ben runningboarded t
he cab, found the Graf there, monocleless, bereted, and with Che Guevara beards that hid the dueling scars. The van braked. Franz was a bit behindhand concealing a button on the dashboard. The lettering, Torschlusspanikknopf, meant nothing to Ben at the moment. Emil tapped the crystal of his wristwatch.

  “Fourteen past twelve.”

  “I know, but we couldn’t help it.”

  “A bad job. We don’t like the smell of it.”

  “They were trying to hold us back but we got away.”

  “That doesn’t make the odor nicer. Well, all right, but we’ve got to hurry.”

  Ben jumped down and joined the others at the rear. After a tug of war the twins fell out Emil’s side, hurried to the back, unlashed tarp, and lowered tailgate. Ben and Martin joined hands, the women mounted the Spitzbubenleiter, the men climbed aboard. The twins upped tailgate, lashed tarp, and ran to the cab. The LKW pulled away.

  Heehaw heehaw.

  “Stephen bleiben!” Grepo’s voice.

  Slugs tore through the tarp and ricocheted off metal. The tourists tensed against no future, but the firing stopped as the LKW drew away. Through the bullet holes they saw Grepo, Kripo, Trapo, and Vopo jump and wave to commandeer a car.

  The LKW sped on. After a kilometer it slowed for a sharp turn; the passengers stumbled backward toward the front, their calves striking metal. Six steel boxes formed a bench across the floor. They sat bouncily on the boxes as the LKW picked up speed. Suddenly remembering the words Sprengstoff and Torschlusspanikknopf, Ben got up and felt around; welds held the box to the floor, a padlock secured the lid. He sat down gingerly. The others knew what had crossed his mind; they were sitting on TNT: if the police caught up, the Graf had only to press the button to do away with the evidence.

  Franz intercommed. “There’s a picnic hamper if you’re hungry.”

  They made out the hamper in a corner. “Thanks.”

  Silence but for the slick sound of the road underwheel, then, “They are tailing us, Emil.”

  “Karambolage is in order, Franz.”

  The passengers shot to their feet and peered through the bullet holes. Grepo, Kripo, Vopo, and Trapo hung out of a PKW that wove in and out of traffic to the notes of Trapo’s Martinshorn. The heehawing grew louder. The fugitives saw a window in the cab crank open and heard two shots crack out.

  Behind them and ahead of the pursuing car a truck hauling hundreds of pigs slewed and struck a tank truck full of salvaged crankcase oil; both trucks overturned. Oil purled around independent pigs, slithered vehicles into a massive pileup, then the autobahn stretched out empty behind the LKW. Horns, squeals, grunts, curses, screams faded in a dying heehaw.

  The LKW took the next exit. The cab spotlight picked out chalkings on gateposts and utility poles and these Zinken drew the LKW along trafficless back roads, with only an occasional “Darf! darf!” from some farmyard. The LKW pulled up without warning. The twins unlashed tarp and lowered tailgate. The tourists climbed out onto a dark byroad in the shelter of trees.

  “Are we out of East Germany?”

  The Graf shook their heads. It was a stop for einer Tankfüllung und Entwässerung. While the twins emptied jerricans into the tank, the tourists emptied bladders. The twins were on the last gurgles of the first jerrican when Liza danced toward a fairy ring of mushrooms.

  Wait: hold it.

  Streamers of visual purple filled the night sky, the yellow spot of moon solarized; the universe alligatored like a bad paint job, breaking up into test patterns on their retinas.

  Ben’s right, Liza. Better not wander from the truck. They might try to ditch us here.

  Not before we fork over the rest of the payoff, they won’t.

  No sweat anyway. It’s only a dream.

  That’s just it: its lasting too long for only a dream.

  How do you know? You can’t time a dream from within.

  We can make a guess. Things take as long to happen in dream as in real time. Look at all’s been happening. Even with jump cuts, at least twenty-four hours’ worth. How many times have we dreamed together? A dozen? Never before went over eight hours.

  Alarmist. We’ll wake when it’s time.

  Just try and wake up now.

  I still say it’s only a dream. Maybe getting nightmarish, but still only a dream.

  (A warm nourishing darkness.)

  But why aren’t we picking up sensory cues from outside?

  That’s so. I can’t feel or hear or smell a thing.

  I can’t open my eyes.

  Don’t panic. Dr. Embry will bring us out.

  The twins—they’re supposed to be getting us out from behind the Iron Curtain. Do you trust them? Did you notice who they look like without the shrubbery?

  Dr. Embry!

  Right. I think we’re trying to tell ourselves something’s wrong. Dr. Embry should’ve brought us out before now. Look, we know we’re not here—wherever here is. We know we’re dozing in the sleep-monitoring lab at the research center. We are, aren’t we? You’re each in a cubicle, same as me?

  Yeah / Check / Yes / Right on / Right on (A voice-print of laughter / Yep.

  Well— Hold it. Wasn’t that six yeses? Is that nutty Grepo right? Are we really seven?

  You must’ve counted wrong. Go on.

  Well, we know Dr. Embry taped electrodes all over us, hooked us up to an EEG brainwave machine and a computer. We know he shocked the thalamus in each of us to put us to sleep. The thalamus integrates stimuli into an awareness of everyday reality and forwards this awareness to the cortex. If we can’t sense anything, that means the thalamus is still in shock. If we’re cut off from our bodies we’re in danger of hypostatic congestion. Did we just now empty our bladders or only dream we did?

  A hypochondriac’s nightmare. I have faith in Dr. Embry. He can snap us out of this.

  Suppose he can’t.

  How, can’t?

  Maybe the world blew up. Maybe the good doctor dropped dead.

  Dead!

  I heard he has an artificial pacemaker in his heart. Interference from our alpha rhythms could’ve syncopated it, frozen him at the key of the thalamus-shocker.

  Ugh.

  But whatever happened we’re stuck in the dream. I don’t know about you other men—or the women—but one of Dr. Embry’s lab assistants stuck a hypodermic needle in my vein and taped it down to draw blood samples, shoved a tube into my stomach, wrapped a plethysmograph around my penis, belted a hose around my chest. I hate to think we’re lying here helpless, but I can’t feel any of it.

  Same here. Still, even if Embry’s dead, or just blacked out, someone’s bound to come along soon and—

  You’re forgetting. After the lab assistant looked me up, and before Embry hit the thalamus-shocker, I heard the guy wish Embry happy holiday and say, “See you next year.”

  Ouch. This is the eve of the Christmas-New year vacation.

  And Dr. Embry has no family to worry about him.

  We have families. At least I do.

  But ours don’t know we’re here, taking part in this. It’s all hush-hush, so we won’t meet in real life and compare notes and spoil the experiment. They think we’re at some cover address.

  Meanwhile, there’s no providing for us. Say the body functions without our knowing, say we don’t suffer hypostatic congestion; we can still starve.

  I don’t buy any of that. You’re just laying your death wish on Dr. Embry. There must be a reason. Let’s get back to the dream and find out.

  I hope you’re right, Liza;this sure isn’t getting us anywhere.

  The twins had stowed the empty jerricans. Franz tapped the crystal of Emil’s wristwatch. The tourists climbed aboard, the twins upped tailgate, lashed tarp, the LKW rolled on. Time lost meaning stretching in all dimensions. They grew aware of the engine again when it cut off.

  The bullet holes showed a railway siding belonging to some factory. The chimneys were dead but smudges of cloud floated like puffs of brown smoke the shape of fossil sal
amanders buried in lignite. Barracks. Watchtowers. Rows of neat red-brick buildings. They made out letters over the main gate: “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.”

  Birds twittered in the birches. The Graf unlashed tarp, dropped tailgate, and the escapees climbed down. The Graf upped tailgate.

  “Sorry if it seemed we took youvon Pontius zu Pilatus, but we had to detour, you understand.”

  “We understand.”

  They paid the remaining half of the Reisebüro fee.

  Just within the barbed wire enclosing the factory stood a skeletal scaffold with a heavy iron hook at the top. The birds fell still. A chill breeze came up and the dawngilt grass whispered muffled heehaws. Bray for us. It was all wrong, Ben whirled. Sweat broke out on him.