I Confess (16 page)

Margaret carried the white rose in her hand as we left the restaurant, and I kept my wig on. We drove to the theatre where festively dressed men and women were prepared for an exceptional evening. We found the Baxters; they had the tickets, and it turned out we had a box to ourselves. The Courvoisier had warmed my stomach, I was slightly drunk and very pleased with myself when I looked down at the packed, brilliantly lit house. It had been an absolutely delightful day in every respect.

The lights were dimmed; the curtain went up on a Lon-

don street scene. In the dark I felt for Margaret's hand and clung to it. I sat back. Werner Krauss as Gloucester was on stage. I heard him say, "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York; and all the clouds that lour'd upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried...."

30

Not so, Mr. Krauss, Mr. Gloucester, Mr. Shakespeare. Not so, gentlemen. They're still there, the clouds; the deep bosom of the ocean has not yet buried them. Not my clouds. Not those that lour upon my house. On the contrary—the storm still lies ahead. My stage has only just been set.

"But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks. . • .'*

That's more Uke it.

"Nor made to court an amorous looking glass; I that am rudely stamped and want love's majesty...."

And want love's majesty... Bulls Eye!

Werner Krauss, representing Richard, Duke of Gloucester, later to be Richard III of England, stomped up and down in front of the footlights. And suddenly this ugly son of Edward IV began to arouse my sympathy as he spoke on, "I that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, cheated of feature by dissembUng nature, deformed, unfinished, sent before my time into this breathing world, scarce half made up, and that so lamely and unfashionable that dogs bark at me as I halt by them "

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ... a lot of dogs are barking .. . Joe Clayton is barking; my friends in Hollywood are barking; my friends in Munich.... And

cheated, deformed, unfinished—^I'm all of that. In fact a little more than that, now that we're mentioning it. I am doomed to die.

How pathetic that sounds. Death is pathetic. Did Richard III have a tumor? Did he know that he was soon to die? No. Yet he had the effrontery to talk to himself with such self-pity.

"And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain those fair, well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain...."

A villain? Just because no one loves him? Now certainly nobody's going to love him. But perhaps that doesn't worry him. In the last analysis I don't give a damn whether anybody loves me or not. Or do I? No. I don't care. In that I differ from Richard III. Also in that he doesn't have to die. Actually, if I remember correctly, he does die. But he doesn't know he's going to die. I do. And that makes aU the difference.

What does a man do who knows he's going to die? Is he prepared right away to become a villain? I'm not sure. Ih the year that is left him he could do quite a few useful and constructive things. I could still do quite a few things.

Yes?

Why of course!

For instance?

I could kill a despot, a political despot. There are plenty of them around. I could steal into his palace, win his confidence, and kill him. Then I would be a hero and an oppressed people would breathe free again. There were a lot of oppressed people. In Europe and elsewhere. The only trouble was, I didn't know much about them and cared even less. Why the hell should I kill a despot? Plenty of them had already been killed and we had more than enough monuments. And what if my assassination failed? I'd be arrested and shot. And the fact that I had a tumor wouldn't do a damn thing for me. They wouldn't let me wait for the end, they'd move it forward a little. The idea of being shot wasn't pleasant. Maybe they'd hang

me. And the people didn't even want to be freed. Most people had been freed too often. It was no fun any more.

Of course I could offer myself to a researcher, as a guinea pig. He could try out a dangerous experiment on me. With some new serum. Against cancer. My picture would be in all the papers. "American film writer hero. Risks life to save humanity." Newsreel cameras at my bedside. "How do you feel, Mr. Chandler? Please give us a rundown of your impressions. Are you going to vote for Eisenhower if you recover?"

KI recover!

But let's say I do. The experiment is a success. The researcher gets the Nobel Prize. I get a medal. And a few months later I'm dead. If I'm lucky I don't take off my pants when they're giving me the medal because I have meanwhile become an exhibitionist. Maybe I do take them off. And create a scandal. And am institutionalized. Back to Dr. Kletterhohn, who'd be pleased to see me.

Or a book.

I could write a book. A good book. The book of the century. A book that would shake the world. The book for which millions of desperate people have been waiting. Yes, I could do that, // I could do it. But I can't. Because I'm nothing but a pitiful little man who is desperate, believes in nothing and is afraid, and can therefore write nothing but a desperate, fearful book. No. I don't think that's the solution.

Then, of course, there was always the church. Some people I know consulted a priest and found out a lot of interesting things, after which they felt much calmer and happier. At least that's what they told me. But I don't know whether to believe what they told me; The dear Lord never did too well by me. Of course I could try it in spite of that. It might help. Perhaps I could find peace and still experience a beautiful white winter with Margaret at my side and with faith in God and his boundless mercy. But for the fact that I didn't want to spend another winter at Margaret's side. I didn't want to when my

problem was not acute. Now it was acute. Now every day counted.

So what did I really want? To live with someone else? Yolanda, for instance? I gave it some serious thought and recalled all the things I had done with Yolanda—the ecstasy, the crazy hours, but then other times—quarrels and cold implacable hatred. Hours that had been dull, empty, shallow. Hours when I couldn't stand her. To spend this last year with Yolanda? How did I know if she could take it? Perhaps she would disappear one day, as she had just done, after having told me she would kiU herself if I died. No, Yolanda wasn't the answer.

Nothing was right. Nobody was right

The lights went on and everybody was applauding wildly. The first act was over. I applauded too, roused a little out of my lethargy, but not very much. I never did wake up completely during the entire evening. I spoke to Margaret, to the Baxters; in the intermission I even walked in the foyer with them, but actually I remained seated in the dark recess of our box, thinking—what should I do next? I noticed Margaret looking at me anxiously several times. Every time she did so, I gave her a comforting smile. But as soon as the Kghts were turned down again and the play about the villainous villain went on, I sank once more into a dreamlike state, with a comforting sense of relief, just as sometimes, at night, or in trains, or in front of the fireplace in winter when it grows dark early, one recalls with nostalgia and almost pleasurable grief, the girls of long ago and things that happened in flowering meadows or silent gardens or cafes where they play soft miisic....

I thought of home. I would have liked to go home in this last year, to the home of my youth and my parents. We had a beautiful large house and I was happy in it. But my parents were dead and the house was sold. Home. Where was home? In hotel rooms, at the studio, in a plane? With Yolanda? Or with Margaret? Or by myself? Wherever I was, I always longed to be somewhere else,

and when I got there I longed to be back where I came from.

To go somewhere else. To go alone. And if things didn't turn out the way I wanted, to try another place. There were plenty of places, if one had enough money.

Did I have enough money?

Not very much, really. I wished there were more. But I really couldn't count on getting any more. At least not honestly. Dishonestly? Yes. Perhaps. If I was willing to become a villain.

If I was wilhng to become a villain, then I could go wherever I wanted, to any place, to any country. If I had enough money, everything in this last year that lay ahead would be simple. And it had to be simple. I couldn't stand a last year with difficulties. But it would be difficult without money. A man in my position needed money. For all sorts of things. In time, for morphine. I would need a lot of money for morphine. I hadn't really come to grips yet with my last months, but that I'd need a lot of money was clear. Especially if I wasn't going to be mentally sound.

If I had money, everything would be easier. I would be free to be here today, somewhere else tomorrow, and nowhere long enough to be found and caught. And if one day I were to notice that I was molesting httle children or couldn't eat properly any more, then there was always morphine. Morphine would always be handy. The only thing I still needed was money.

I opened my eyes.

Margaret was staring at me strangely. I had the feeling she had been looking at me like this for quite some time. I smiled; she smiled back. The Baxters were watching the stage. The play was almost over. At Tamworth the sleeping king was being visited by the ghosts of his betrayed and murdered friends. They rose around.his tent, one after the other, in the fallow light of the room and whispered their curses. Buckingham's ghost leaned over Richard. "Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death: fainting, despair, despahring, yield thy breath!"

That wasn't very nice. And King Richard didn't go on dreaming. He leapt to his feet and looked about him wildly. The ghosts were gone. Nothing moved, not on the stage, not in the audience. This was the big scene: "O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! The lights bum blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by."

I leaned forward, fascinated, and recalled that we had read the play once in school, each one of us taking diflEer-ent parts. I had read Ratcliff, but I could remember the king's words. They crowded into my consciousness and I spoke them softly right along with Krauss, "Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why: lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself? Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good that I myself have done unto myself?"

"Psst!" said two furious voices. I started. Indignant faces were staring at me from the box next to ours. I was silent and leaned back. I closed my eyes and heard the king's words, "I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; and if I die, no soul shall pity me: Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself find in myself no pity for myself?"

The voice was silent. The blood was throbbing in my head, strong and warm. My blood. I was still aUve, and my blood said: Go away.

Incessantly: Go away.

The words intoxicated me.

On the stage, Werner Krauss was screaming for a horse for which he was prepared to sacrifice his kingdom, and the blood coursing through my head, streaming around the glioblastoma, spilling over it, was saying: away. Far away.

The curtain came down. T saw it as through a veil. Again wild applause. The lights went on, people were shouting themselves hoarse for the great actor who had

played Richard. He came up to the footlights and bowed over and over again. The applause would ndt die down. I was one of those who shouted loudest.

"Wonderful!" yelled Ted Baxter. "Isn't he just wonderful?"

"Yeah," I cried, clapping like mad. "He's great!" I looked down at the footlights. There was Werner Krauss, still bowing. Everybody saw him, only I didn't. In his place I saw someone else, saw him quite clearly and applauded him loudly. I saw myself. And I bowed before myself, who was applauding myself.

31

After that evening, things followed pretty fast. Next afternoon the doorbell rang. It was Dr. Kletterhohn. Dr. Eulenglas was with him. It hadn't been difficult for Dr. Kletterhohn to find out, by way of Dr. Eulenglas' clinic, where I Uved.

At first both of them were very excited and worried about me, but I managed to calm them down with my controlled, almost blithe behavior. I promised not to do anything rash (as Eulenglas put it) and to come for my first x-ray treatment in a few days. I had no intention of keeping my promise because I had quite different plans, but it seemed to reassure both of them. Margaret, too, calmed down. I told Kletterhohn that I was sincerely sorry to have deceived him, and he accepted my apology. When I promised to get the picture with Alan Ladd's autograph for his colleague, he looked at me almost fearfully. He seemed to find my behavior weird.

lii the afternoon I called a certain number. I had to try

again. Again I was connected with the service. Yolanda had disappeared.

My second call was not in vain. I made both calls from a booth near the streetcar stop Grosslesselohe. I had my car; Margaret had calmed down suflBiciently to let me drive into the city alone.

"Hello," said a voice, after I had dialed the second number.

"Hello. Chandler speaking.'*

A short silence, then Mordstem said softly, "Yes, Mr, Chandler?" I had the feeling that I was disturbing him.

"May I come by for a moment?"

"Yes, of course," he said, hesitantly. "What do you want to see me about?"

"You made me an offer the other day," I began, but he interrupted me.

"Aha," he said with animation now. "You have reached the point?"

"That's what I'd Uke to talk to you about."

"All right. When would you like to come?"

"May I come now?"

Again he hesitated, then he said, "How long will it take you?"

"I can be there in ten minutes."

"Very good."

He lived in the Schwanthalerstrasse, near the main station. I had his address. It was a beautiful, sunny, autumn day and the warmth made me feel good. I took the elevator to the fifth floor and rang the doorbell -under the name Mordstein.

He opened the door himself. He was elegant, as usual, and was wearing a red and blue striped robe. "Come in," he said and led me into a pleasantly furnished bachelor apartment. A window was open and the street noises could be heard softly from below. I looked around me.