by John Irving
“I like it, too!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“We have patients with schizophrenic or schizo-affective manifestations,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe told Jack. “I mean those who are in a relatively stable remission phase, the ones who have sufficient ability to concentrate. Well, you’d be surprised—the schizophrenics like listening to your father play the piano in the dark, too.”
“And the piano-playing seems to soothe our patients who suffer from panic attacks,” Dr. Berger said.
“Except for those who suffer from panic attacks in the dark,” Dr. von Rohr pointed out. (Jack saw that she was conscious of the light from the windows catching the silver streak in her hair.)
“Are there other patients in Kilchberg who have been committed by a family member—I mean for life?” Jack asked.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter sighed.
“It’s highly unusual for a private patient to stay here for a number of years,” Dr. Berger said.
“We are expensive,” Dr. von Rohr cut in.
“But worth it!” Dr. Horvath bellowed. “And William loves it here!”
“I’m not concerned about the cost,” Jack said. “I was wondering about the long-term effect.”
“Hospitalism, do you mean?” Dr. von Rohr asked in her just-asking way.
“What exactly is hospitalism?” Jack asked.
“The disease of being in a hospital—a condition in addition to your reason for being here, a second disease,” Dr. Berger stated, but in such a way that he didn’t seem to believe it—as if hospitalism were a speculative illness of the kind Dr. von Rohr was just asking about, an almost dreamy disease, which a fact man, like Dr. Berger, generally ruled out.
“There’s no medication for hospitalism,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said—as if the disease didn’t really exist for her, either.
“But William is happy here!” Dr. Horvath insisted.
“He’s happier in St. Peter,” Dr. von Rohr corrected Dr. Horvath. “Die Kirche St. Peter—the church,” she explained to Jack. “Your father plays the organ there—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, at eight o’clock.”
“Jack can hear him play tomorrow morning!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“That should be worth the trip—even all the way from Los Angeles,” Dr. Berger told Jack.
“One of us should go with Jack—he shouldn’t go with William alone,” Professor Ritter said.
“William never goes to St. Peter alone!” Dr. von Rohr exclaimed.
“They shouldn’t go with Hugo, either,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe suggested. “One of us should go with Jack and William.”
“That’s what I meant!” Professor Ritter said in an exasperated voice.
“I can take them!” Dr. Horvath shouted. “Your father will be excited to play for you!” he told Jack.
“Too excited, maybe,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “I should go, too—just in case there’s a need for medication. A sedative might be in order.”
“Too excited can be a trigger,” Dr. Berger explained.
“Can be, usually isn’t,” Dr. von Rohr told Jack.
“Anna-Elisabeth and I will both go to St. Peter with them. Nothing can happen that we’re not prepared for!” Dr. Horvath said assertively.
“Your father is special to us, Jack. It’s a privilege to take care of him,” Professor Ritter said.
“It is an honor to protect him,” Dr. von Rohr countered—in her hair-splitting way.
“And what does he do with Hugo, when they go to town?” Jack asked the team.
Dr. Horvath jumped on the floor of the exercise hall. Professor Ritter restrained himself from saying “Ah, well . . .” for once. Dr. Krauer-Poppe emphatically folded her arms across the chest of her lab coat, as if to say there was no medication for what William and Hugo did in town. Dr. von Rohr uncharacteristically covered her face with her hands, as if she momentarily thought she were Dr. Krauer-Poppe.
“Sometimes they just go to a coffeehouse—” Professor Ritter started to say.
“They go to look at women, but they just look,” Dr. Horvath maintained.
“Is my father seeing someone?” Jack asked.
“He’s not oblivious to women,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “And he’s very attractive to women; that hasn’t changed. Not a few of our patients here are attracted to him, but we discourage relationships of that kind in the clinic—of course.”
“Is he still sexually interested or active?” Jack asked.
“Not here, we hope!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“I meant in town,” Jack said.
“On occasion,” Dr. Berger began, in his factual way, “Hugo takes your father to see a prostitute.”
“Is that safe?” Jack asked Dr. Krauer-Poppe, who (he imagined) might have prescribed some medication for it.
“Not if he has sex with the prostitute, but he doesn’t,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
“These visits are unofficial—that is, we don’t officially approve of them,” Professor Ritter told Jack.
“We just unofficially approve of them,” Dr. von Rohr said; she was back to her head-of-department self, sarcastic and on-the-other-hand to her core.
“He’s a physically healthy man!” Dr. Horvath cried. “He needs to have sex! Naturally, he shouldn’t have sex with anyone here—certainly not with another patient or with someone on the staff.”
“But you said he doesn’t have sex,” Jack said to Dr. Krauer-Poppe.
“He masturbates when he’s with the prostitute,” she told Jack. “There’s no medication required for that.”
“Like a picture of a woman in a magazine, I suppose—only she’s a real woman instead of a photograph,” Dr. Berger said.
“Like pornography?” Jack asked.
“Ah, well . . .” Professor Ritter said again.
“William has those magazines, too,” Dr. von Rohr announced disapprovingly.
“The magazines are safe sex, aren’t they?” Dr. Krauer-Poppe asked. “And the prostitute is safe, too—the way he sees her.”
“I get the picture,” Jack told them. “I’m okay about it.”
“We believe your sister is okay about it, too,” Professor Ritter said. “We’re just not officially okay about it.”
“Is there a logic I’m missing in being unofficially okay about it?” Dr. von Rohr asked.
Dr. Horvath was doing lunges across the exercise hall, the floor creaking. “Bitte, Klaus,” Professor Ritter said.
“Does my dad always see the same prostitute, or is it a different woman every time?” Jack asked.
“For those details, perhaps you should ask Hugo,” Dr. Berger told him.
“Must he meet Hugo? I’m just asking,” Dr. von Rohr said. (Dr. Berger was shaking his head.)
“Whether here, in Kilchberg, or in the outside world, we all eventually must meet a Hugo,” Professor Ritter said.
“There’s no medication for a Hugo,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
“Leider nicht,” Dr. von Rohr remarked. (“Unfortunately not.”)
“Well, unless it’s a bad time, I think I’d like to meet my father now,” Jack told the team.
“It’s a good time, actually!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“It’s our reading hour. William is a good reader,” Dr. Berger said.
“It’s our quiet time,” Dr. von Rohr said.
“I believe he’s reading a biography of Brahms,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
“Brahms isn’t a trigger?” Jack asked.
“Reading about him isn’t,” Dr. Berger said matter-of-factly.
“Your father has two rooms, plus a bath, in the private section,” Professor Ritter told Jack.
“Hence expensive,” Dr. von Rohr said.
“I made a dinner reservation for tonight,” Jack told them. “I don’t know who else wants to come along, but I booked a table for four at the Kronenhalle.”
“The Kronenhalle!” Dr. Horvath boomed. “You must have the Wiener schnitzel or the bratwurst!”
“There are mir
rors at the Kronenhalle,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “One by each entrance, and another one over the sideboard.”
“Surely they are avoidable,” Professor Ritter said to her.
“The one in the men’s room isn’t!” Dr. Horvath said.
“Who’s going to go with them?” Dr. Berger asked. “I can’t—not this evening.”
“I can go,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “I had a date, but I can break it.”
“That would be best, Anna-Elisabeth—in case William needs some medication,” Professor Ritter said.
“I’m sure that Hugo is also available,” Dr. von Rohr suggested.
“I’d rather not go with Hugo, Ruth,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “The Kronenhalle isn’t exactly Hugo’s sort of place.”
“I can’t go to the Kronenhalle tonight and to St. Peter tomorrow morning!” Dr. Horvath exclaimed.
“Maybe I can go—I’ll check my schedule,” Professor Ritter said. “Or perhaps Dr. Huber can go.”
“It makes sense to go to a restaurant with an internist,” Dr. Berger remarked. “In case anyone gets sick.”
“No one gets sick at the Kronenhalle!” Dr. Horvath cried.
“Dr. Huber has too many emergencies,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “If she gets called away, I’m alone with William and Jack—and the mirrors. Besides, there should be another man—in case William wants to go to the men’s room.”
“But I’ll be there,” Jack reminded her.
“I mean another man who knows your father,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.
“I’ll check my schedule,” Professor Ritter said again.
Dr. von Rohr had a head-of-department look on her face, but she was smiling. The smile was something new to Jack, but the others seemed familiar with it.
“What is it, Ruth?” Dr. Krauer-Poppe asked her colleague.
“You couldn’t keep me away from a trip to the Kronenhalle with William and Jack Burns—not in a million years!” she said. “You couldn’t keep me out of the men’s room, not if William went there—not if you tried!”
Dr. Krauer-Poppe covered her face with her hands; there was no medication that could keep Dr. von Rohr away from the Kronenhalle, apparently. (Dr. Berger was shaking his head again.)
“Okay, that settles it,” Professor Ritter said uncertainly.
“Anyone but Hugo, I guess,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe, who had recovered herself, said philosophically. “Ruth and I will go with them, then.”
“I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to it, Anna-Elisabeth,” Dr. von Rohr said.
“I think I’d like to go home and get ready for dinner,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe announced to Professor Ritter.
“Of course!” the professor said. They all watched Dr. Krauer-Poppe leave the room. She was so beautifully dressed; not even her lab coat looked out of place.
“I can’t wait to see what Anna-Elisabeth will wear tonight,” Dr. von Rohr said, after her colleague had gone. “She’s going home to get dressed, and I don’t mean to change her lab coat!”
“She had a date with her husband tonight,” Dr. Berger told everyone. “She’s probably going home to break her date, in a nice way.”
Jack felt sorry that he’d caused Dr. Krauer-Poppe to change her plans. (Dr. von Rohr, on the other hand, seemed pleased to have changed hers.)
“Don’t worry!” Dr. Horvath told Jack, pounding his shoulder. “Whatever else happens tonight, you’re going to the Kronenhalle!”
“I just want to see my father. That’s why I came,” Jack reminded them.
“We just want to prepare you for seeing him,” Dr. Berger stated.
Dr. Horvath had stopped pounding Jack’s shoulder, but he was massaging the back of Jack’s neck with his big, strong hand. “I have a favor to ask you, if you’ll indulge me,” the Austrian said.
“Of course. What is it?” Jack asked him.
“If you could say something—I mean the way Billy Rainbow says it. I know you can do it!” Dr. Horvath urged him.
“No doubt about it,” Jack-as-Billy said. (After the episode in the Edinburgh airport, he was relieved he could still act.)
“Wunderschön!” Dr. Horvath cried. (“Beautiful!”)
“How embarrassing, Klaus,” Dr. von Rohr said. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said to Jack, “but Billy Rainbow gives me the creeps.”
“He’s supposed to,” Jack told her.
“I must tell you, Jack,” Professor Ritter said, “William says that line the exact same way you say it!”
“Your father has made quite a study of you,” Dr. Berger told him.
“You should prepare yourself, Jack—William knows more about you than you may think,” Dr. von Rohr said. (Dr. Horvath had stopped massaging Jack’s neck, but Dr. von Rohr had put her arm around Jack’s shoulders in a comradely way.)
“Yes, Heather told me—he’s memorized all my lines,” Jack said.
“I didn’t mean only your movies, Jack,” Dr. von Rohr cautioned him.
“I think that’s enough preparation, Ruth,” Dr. Berger stated.
“Ja, der Musiker!” Dr. Horvath shouted to Jack. (“Yes, the musician!”) “It’s time for you to meet the musician!”
39
The Musician
There was a serenity to the private section of the Sanatorium Kilchberg, which Jack may have underappreciated on his first visit. (He was not in a serene state of mind.) The building itself, which was white stucco with shutters the same gray-blue color as the lake, looked more like a small hotel than a hospital. His father’s third-floor, corner rooms—overlooking the rooftops of Kilchberg—faced the eastern shore of Lake Zurich. The Alps rose in the hazy distance to the south of the lake.
The hospital bed where Jack’s father lay reading was cranked to a semireclined position. The bed and the fact that there were no carpets on the noiseless, rubberized floors were the only indications that this private suite was part of an institution—and that the man reading on the bed was in need of care. While the windows were open, and a warm breeze blew off the lake, William was dressed as if it were a brisk fall day—a thick flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, corduroy trousers, and white athletic socks. (If Jack had been dressed that way, he would have been sweating—although it instantly made him feel cold to look at his father.)
The bedroom, which opened into another room—with a couch, and a card table with a couple of straight-backed chairs—was not cluttered with furniture or mementoes. Jack saw only photographs—massive bulletin boards crammed with overlapping snapshots. There were also movie posters hung on the peach-colored walls of both rooms. They were posters of Jack Burns’s movies; at a glance, Jack thought that his dad had framed and hung all of them. Jack could see that the surrounding bookshelves displayed a more balanced collection of CDs and DVDs and videocassettes and actual books than he’d seen in his sister’s office, or in her bedroom.
The team of doctors, together with Professor Ritter and Jack, had entered his father’s attractive but modest quarters in the utmost silence. Jack first thought that his dad didn’t know they were there. (William had not looked up from his book.) But—as indicated by the door from the corridor, which had been ajar—living in a psychiatric clinic had made Jack’s father familiar with intrusions. William was accustomed to doctors and nurses who didn’t necessarily knock.
Jack’s dad was aware of their presence in his bedroom; he had deliberately not looked up from his book. Jack understood that his father was making a point about privacy. William Burns did indeed love the Sanatorium Kilchberg, as the hearty Dr. Horvath had maintained, but that didn’t mean he loved everything about it.
“Don’t tell me—let me guess,” Jack’s father said, staring stubbornly into his book. “You’ve had a meeting; remarkably, you’ve come to a decision. Oh, what joy—you’ve sent a committee to tell me your most interesting thoughts!” (William was still refusing to look at them—his copper bracelets glowing in the dull late-afternoon light.)
William Burns had spoken with no disc
ernible accent, as if those years in foreign cities and their churches had replaced whatever was once Scottish about him. He certainly didn’t sound American, but he didn’t sound British, either. It was a European English, spoken in Stockholm and Stuttgart, in Helsinki and Hamburg. It was the unaccented English of hymns, of all voices put to music—from the Citadel Church, the Kastelskirken in Frederikshavn, to the Oude Kerk in Amsterdam.
As for William’s sarcasm, Jack realized that his sister, Heather, might not have inherited hers from her German mother, as he’d first thought.
“Don’t be childish, William,” Dr. von Rohr said.
“You have a special visitor, William,” Dr. Berger said.
Jack’s father froze; he wasn’t reading, but he wouldn’t look up from his book.
“Your son, Jack, has come all this way to take you out to dinner!” Professor Ritter cried.
“To the Kronenhalle!” Dr. Horvath thundered.
William closed the book and his eyes; it was as if he could see or imagine his son better with his eyes shut. Jack couldn’t look at him that way; he looked instead at the photographs on the nearest bulletin board, waiting for his father to open his eyes or speak.
“We’ll leave you two alone,” Professor Ritter said reluctantly.
Jack had expected to see photographs of himself—chiefly the ones snipped from movie magazines, all the film premieres, the red-carpet crap, and the Academy Awards. But not the personal snapshots, of which there were many. (There were more of Jack than of Heather!)
There he was in one of Miss Wurtz’s many dramatizations at St. Hilda’s. Naturally, he recognized himself as a mail-order bride—that pivotal and blood-soaked performance in Mr. Ramsey’s histrionic production. Miss Wurtz and Mr. Ramsey must have taken the pictures. (Jack was pretty sure it was Caroline who had sent his dad the photographs.)
But that didn’t explain the photos of Jack with Emma—though Lottie must have taken the ones in Mrs. Wicksteed’s kitchen, there were more pictures of Jack with Emma in Mrs. Oastler’s house—or the ones of Jack with Chenko in the Bathurst Street gym, or the ones of Jack wrestling at Redding! Had Leslie Oastler sent William photographs? Had Jack’s mother relented, if only a little?