I Confess (32 page)

I fetched a bottle of cognac and drank it empty. Then, very drunk, I looked for my morphine ampules. I would take a huge overdose and see to it that I didn't wake up. Everything seemed readied for it—the bed was made up, the fire still burned—but I couldn't find the syringe. I looked for it everywhere, with the clumsiness of a man who is drunk, but it was nowhere to be found. I wept, I

swore, I bumped into furniture, I tripped over rugs. The syringe was gone. I pulled off several table covers, broke several glasses and was just about ready, in a senseless attack of vandalism, to smash my desk, when the doorbell rang.

I staggered against the wall for support and licked my lips. The bell rang again.

I decided not to open. But then I saw that the curtains weren't drawn. My visitor therefore had to know I was at home. The bell rang again, a long time now.

I pulled myself together, went to the door and opened it quickly. Outside stood a man of about fifty, short, round and friendly. He spoke in a soft gentle voice and had a kindly face dominated by a pair of rimless spectacles. He doffed his stiff black bowler hat and revealed a thin ash blonde head of hair as he bowed. "Please forgive the disturbance," he said, "but could I possibly speak to your wife?"

I clung to the doorjamb. "What about?"

"Am I speaking to Mr. Frank?"

"Yes."

The little man smiled. "My pleasure," he said. "My name is Freund. Dr. Freund."

I didn't move.

"Your wife," he began again.

"... isn't here," I said gruffly.

"When will she be back?"

"I have no idea."

"Would it be possible to wait for her?"

"Hardly," I said and burped loudly.

"I have called several times," said Dr. Freund, "but unfortunately there was no answer."

"We weren't here."

"But this evening...."

He was still smiling, and he was making me terribly nervous. Who was this Dr. Freund? Did he have any connection with the police?

"What do you want?"

"As I have already said—I want to speak to your wife."

"And as I have already said—she isn't here."

"And when will she be back?"

"I don't know. She's in Germany.'*

"Oh." He seemed surprised. "And where in Germany?"

"I have no address. She's traveling."

"But surely you can reach her. . .."

"No!" I cried. "I can't reach her. And now get out! I'm tired," and I tried to close the door in his face. But he was quicker and stuck his foot in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frank," he said, "but this won't do," and he pushed the door open which caused me to stagger back. He was very strong, this fat little Dr. Freund. "If your wife isn't here, then I must talk to you."

"What about?" I stared at him as he walked past me into the foyer, closing the door behind him.

"About a lot of things. I have waited as long as I could, but now we must come to a decision. Your wife unfortunately neglected to talk to me about it, and I regret this deeply." He looked around, saw the coat rack and hung his ridiculous hat on it. Then he began to take off his coat.

"But what's all this about?" I stammered helplessly.

Dr. Freund was smiling again. "It concerns your son, Mr. Frank," he said.

BOOK THREE

The streetcar snaked through the dreary streets on the outskirts of Vienna into the industrial area. By the lights of the cars passing us I could see the silhouettes of factories, warehouses, smokestacks. Somewhere in the distance a locomotive whistled shrilly. Thick drops of rain ran down the window panes.

The car was almost empty. A few tired women, wearing kerchiefs on their heads and carrying big inarket baskets, dozed restlessly, a young man wearing glasses looked absorbed as he read his fat book, and on the rear platform a drunk was arguing with the conductor. Dr. Freund was sitting opposite me. He was silent. He had talked enough during the past hour.

After having hung up his hat, he had walked past me into the Uving room. "Come on," he had said, "and I'll explain why I'm here." I looked after him, then I noticed that my legs were following him.

From the first moment I realized that Dr. Freund was an extraordinary man. My head was swimming and I was still very drunk when I sat down opposite him. He looked with interest at the empty cognac bottle, the disorder in the room, then at me. His expression was friendly, but I didn't trust him. Watch it! I told myself. If you betray yourself now, you're lost. And you could betray yourself easily because you're drunk. What does this man know about you? What do you know about him? Be cautious, for God's sake, be cautious! Think before you speak!

"Herr Frank," said Dr. Freund, "I think I'd better begin by telling you who I am."

"Yes," I said. (Good answer.)

"I am the director of a Vienna school.'*

"A school?" (Watch it! No astonishment. Maybe you should know who he is?)

Dr. Freund nodded. "It is not an ordinary school, just as I—^hm—am not what you would call an ordinary teacher."

"No?"

"No. Actually I am an educator in the broadest sense. I have worked with Alfred Adler, the psychologist. I didn't begin teaching until later. The school was handed over to me as a sort of laboratory."

What was the man talking about? Of what concern was all this to me? Had I gone crazy at last? Or was I dreaming? Had he or hadn't he said all this concerned my son?

"You said something about my son . . ." (Careful. Maybe he didn't say anything of the sort Why is he smiling Uke that? Have you already given something away? Damn the cognac!)

"Right away, Herr Frank. Fm getting around to that But first I must give you some information."

"Please do." (Good answer.)

"My school is an experiment."

"With children?"

"Yes. With all kinds of children. Normal ones, but also with cretins, inhibited children. It is an experimental school."

"Aha!"

"Aside from that," the little man went on, *T have air office in a neurological clinic, for consultations. Parents and children may come to me there if they're in trouble. We—my colleagues and I, do what we can for them."

"Aha!"

"You should have come to us."

"I?"

"Yes. Your wife came, but only once." He looked at the empty bottle. "Unfortunately." He sighed, then he looked at me sharply. "Did you know that, Herr Frank?"

"I . . .*' I began and stopped. His sharp look had confused me. I realized I would simply have to take certain risks if we were ever to get on with it. "No," I said, "I didn't know."

"That's what I thought."

"What?"

"That your wife didn't tell you about her consultation with me."

There are moments when alcohol can have a liberating effect. One overcomes one's inhibitions and anxieties, one becomes courageous, life no longer seems so terribly important, one takes risks, plays va banque,

"Dr. Freund, what did my wife want from you?"

He looked down at his hands, firm, bony hands with square-cut nails, the hands of a sculptor.

"Your wife," he said, "came to me after visiting the home where she had placed her son. They sent her to me. I had been treating him for some time."

So Yolanda had had a son. She never told me, so I couldn't know it. But why had I never had an inkling of it? Dear God, it was all so ridiculous!

"Why are you laughing?" asked Dr. Freund. By the way he looked 4t me, I could see I had upset him.

"I didn't laugh. I coughed."

He rose and came over to me and asked softly, as if no one beside ourselves should hear, "Herr Frank, did you know of this child's existence?"

I didn't answer. I was thinking. But Dr. Freund knew the answer before I slowly shook my head. "Of course not," he said in that same cautious tone. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you about it."

"Don't be sorry," I said. Suddenly I was sober again; my head was clear, I felt calm. "Please tell me everything."

He nodded and began to pace up and down the room. "What I know," he said, "I found out from the home and out of the boy's papers. His name, by the way, is Martin."

Martin. Why not? He had to have a name and Martm was as good as any other. "Go on, Doctor."

He resumed his pacing. "Martin," he said, "is your wife's son by her first marriage. When she was divorced, four years ago, she placed the child in the home I have just mentioned. She visited him occasionally, not lately though." Now he was standing in front of me. "Herr Frank," he said, "please believe that I don't enjoy breaking into your private life Uke this."

"So why are you doing it?"

Suddenly his voice was harsh. "Because right now it is not a question of your private life, but of the child."

"Please go on," I said.

"Your wife used to pay all the expenses at the home regularly," he began again, but I interrupted him. "How could she do that? She was living in Germany?"

"A friend in Vienna paid the bill for her, a certain •. .'*

"Jacob Lauterbach."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I thought it must be he." The circle was closed again. I wasn't crazy. It was all very logical and simple. "Please go on," I said.

"When Martin was six, his mother l^ded over the direction of his education to the management of the home. Martin was sent to a school." Dr. Freund lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Please understand, Herr Frank, I am simply reporting events and not in any way criticizing your wife's behavior although it had a lot to do with what happened next."

"What happened next?"

"Martin," Dr. Freund continued, "who had never known his father and scarcely knew his mother, was expelled from the school after spending only a year there."

"Why?"

"He was expelled from two further schools," Dr. Freund went on. "Why? Because, according to his teachers, he is an absolute devil. He terrorizes his classmates; he beats the girls bloody; he destroys property. He is un-

teachable. In short, he is a perfect example of the pathological child. The director of the home brought him to my clinic. I have known your son for years now. He comes to see me every Thursday. I have managed to establish a contact of sorts with him; I can't say, however, that he trusts me. But if there is anyone he likes to talk to or with whom he can reach a rapport, I am that person. And there were signs of improvement. . . ." Dr. Freund nodded thoughtfully, his cigarette between his fingers.

He was an old man, it occurred to me suddenly—^I hadn't noticed it before—an old man whose age was noticeable only when he was dejected, who was otherwise able to hide it behind a facade of strength and serenity. "Yes," he mumbled, "signs of improvement . . . definitely." He looked up and his age slipped from him like a veil; his face was young again. "And that," he went on, 'Vas why I was pleased when your wife came to see me a few weeks ago and told me she had married again."

"Yola ..." I corrected myself, "Valery told you that?"

"Yes, Herr Frank. She also told me that you had adopted the child."

"That I had . . ."

"She showed me a document to that effect." He looked at me searchingly. "Was it a . . ."

"Was it what?"

"Was it a false document?"

Oh Yolanda, what have you done? What sort of a person were you? You are dead, I killed you, yet you live on. I am still made aware of your existence. Will you never die? Am I never to lose track of you? What else have you initiated of which I know nothing yet? Where are your old secrets scattered, where have you set traps into which I shall stumble, dug pits into which I shall fall?

"It was a legal document," I said heavily. "I adopted the boy."

"But you didn't even know of his existence!"

"We mentioned it briefly, my wife and I, and I agreed

to the adoption. I signed the necessary papers without reading them. .. ."

"... and without even knowing the child's name?" He stared at me, baffled.

I couldn't face him. I turned my head away.

"And without even wanting to see the child?"

This was insanity. The situation was hopeless. Nobody could possibly believe what I was saying. I groaned. Gone was the carefree blitheness of my plans, the somnambulistic calm with which I had committed my crimes, gone, all of it gone! I was a wreck, ready to break down and weep in front of this man whom I didn't know and who knew nothing about me, who wasn't even a lawman!

"Dr. Freund," I said, "I realize it's no use. I wanted to protect my wife, but I can see that you don't believe me. So I shall have to betray her. I didn't know Valery had a child and I didn't adopt it."

"Of course not, Herr Frank. Thank you for trusting me. It makes a great many things easier. One day you' would have had to find out."

"Yes. One day I would have had to find out."

"Martin bears youFname.'*

I said nothing.

"Martin Frank," said Dr. Freund. "That's his name."

My name? But my name wasn't Frank. My name was Chandler. And Martin, who had no father or mother now also had no name. He was already traveling under false papers.

"Has he ..." I said, and had to swallow, "has he ever asked for me?"

"Never."

"Or after his mother?"

"Also never, Herr Frank. And her last visit did not have a good effect on him. It was a very exciting reunion for him after such a long time. She promised him that they would soon be reunited for good."

Reunited for good . . . poor Yolanda. Had she really come to Vienna in the hope of a respectable haven and

peace? It was almost as if she had reached her goal now,

after her death, because now we were reunited. Forever. I couldn't gainsay her, nor could I flee from her. Nor could her son. Dr. Freund wouldn't permit it.

I could hear his voice as if through a wall of fog. 'TJn-fortunately yoiir wife didn't keep her promise, Herr Frank. We never saw her again. And now, according to you, she is traveling and her whereabouts are unknown."

"She had an appointment to keep in Germany."

"Well, all I can say is, I regret what she promised him."

"I regret it too.''

"The shock of her broken promise has already had catastrophic results. All the boy's aggressions have come back. He has done something which even I can't condone. The director of the home called me up and told me Mar-tiQ has to leave. Today. Right now he is in solitary confinement."