The Second Victory, page 24
Some day—soon, please God—I’d like to be able to sign myself
Your loving wife,
Lynn.
He laid the letter down on the desk and covered it with his hands. Then he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes This was the final irony.
This was the love he had pleaded for, wept for, tried to fire with anger and nurse with patience through all the bleak years. This was the love whose denial had driven him out, a wanderer, into the arms of other women, to the barren pursuit of power. Now it was being offered, freely and with humility—and he did not want it.
It was meaningless to him: a script in a forgotten tongue, a score jumbled into a hopeless dissonance. Once upon a time the mystery had piqued him—to passion, to tenderness, to the thousand labours of a lover, to a sense of guilt for his own inadequacy. Now he understood that there was no mystery. There was just a woman’s body, priced too high; a heart too shallow; a mind bent back too long upon itself and suddenly terrified by the first lonely glimpse of reality.
The children? Yes. They were his other selves, his promise of continuity. They gave love and took it, thoughtlessly. They were the supplement, the annotation, without which the record of life was incomplete. But they were not the full text. They were the third aspect of the human trinity—man, woman, child. They proceeded from both, were independent of either. They could neither supplant nor supply the intimate relationship of body and spirit which is the beginning, the middle and the end of love.
There was still a bond between himself and Lynn; but the bond was a legality. It had nothing to do now with the body or the spirit. Long ago they had ceased to be one flesh. His body now belonged by affinity, if not by law, to Anna Kunzli. His spirit would always be restless without hers to voyage with him.
What could one rebuild out of a situation like that? A home for the children? But where there is no harmony, there is no home. Affection, respect, mutual trust? Impossible, unless both hearts surrender and each accepts the repentance of the other.
He picked up the letter and read it through again, slowly. He was moved by the pity of it. But he resented bitterly the new burden of decision it imposed upon him.
In this small divided kingdom, as in Bad Quellenberg itself, he was being called upon to give judgment, on a cause involving his own happiness, his own peace. The scales were weighted against him but conscience still demanded a meticulous equity.
Other men, he knew, shrugged off such responsibilities. Equity, they said, was a small thing compared with the fundamental need to survive and to find some safe harbour to do it in. If you could not live inside the law, then the law must be wrenched, little or much, to make room. Marriage was a contract, but if the contract proved inequitable, then to hell with it.
The rub was that such practical fellows were more often right in the outcome than men like himself, who clung to the creaky machinery of justice, long after it had seized and lurched to a standstill.
Once again he was face to face with the fundamental problem of his character and education. He needed love, he needed peace. He was not ruthless enough to destroy them in others to guarantee his own attainment.
A word, a visit, a letter, might bring Anna back to him in defiance of Father Albertus, but he would not have her on these terms. A reunion with Lynn would give her security and make a home for the children. It would leave him for ever empty and solitary. Still he could not bring himself to deny her.
For a long time he sat, head on his hands, pondering his situation. Then he drew pen and paper towards him and began to write. It was a long letter, sober, gentle, kind, and it said quite simply: ‘Come first and we will talk. The children can follow, later.’
When he scrawled his name at the foot of the page, it was as if he were signing his own death warrant. He folded the letter, sealed it and tossed it into the posting tray. Then he put on his cap and greatcoat and went out to walk in the grey, cool dusk that gathered under the pine trees.
CHAPTER 18
IN THE bare, shadowy room that looked out to the twilight sky and the black humps of the mountains, Father Albertus was taking supper with Johann Wikivill. Their food was almost untouched. They sipped sparingly at their wine and for a long time they did not speak at all. The peace of the moment was precious to them. The wine was like a viaticum—a sacramental preparation for the journey of the pupil and the lonely vigil of the master.
Wikivill’s face was in shadow, but the face of the priest still retained its rare luminous quality and his eyes were full of compassion. For him there was a strangeness in the moment. This was his son whom he was sending out to meet that other son who had left him many years since to walk the crooked paths of passion and ambition.
What would happen at their meeting he could not guess. Each in his own fashion had fallen under the harsh disciplines of the Almighty. Each had reacted differently, the one by rebellion, the other by slow submission of the will. One had come to peace, the other was still in torment. He loved them both. He was bound to each by the same paternity of the spirit, yet they might destroy each other under his eyes. He could do nothing but commit them to a common Mercy and wait with resignation on the outcome.
At last he spoke, his voice deep toned in the vesper silence.
“You should go very soon, my son.”
Wikivill raised his head, so that the old man saw the calm, distant eyes and the firm set of his mouth.
“I’m ready to go.”
“You don’t regret it?”
“No. I’ve always known it must end like this.”
“You must not hate this man.”
“The only man I have ever hated was myself.”
“You must not do that either.”
“I know. That is a thing you’ve taught me—to live at peace with myself.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes.”
The old man got up, walked to the window and stood a long time looking over the misty valley towards the shoulder of the mountain and the first faint stars pricking out in the soft sky. Then slowly he turned, a black silhouette against the window, and began to speak:
“Let me explain Mark Hanlon to you. If you understand him, you will not be afraid. If you come to him without fear, you may be able to help him.”
“Help him?” Wikivill’s voice was sharp with surprise. “He wants my head. I’ll give it to him. After that I’ve got nothing left.”
The deep voice admonished him firmly: “You are a man who has walked, like Lazarus, in the valley of the shadow of death. You have endured the wreck of manhood and the destruction of hope. You have survived to a new hope. In that you are rich. You have strength to spend on this man who walks, as you walked, in the place of the dead, in the abyss of desolation. At core, he is a good man, because there is much love in him and no one is lost until he shuts love out of his life and hardens his will against it. Those he has loved have been taken away from him, so he turns to revenge himself on you. He thinks he hates you, but he has no satisfaction in it. He despises the impulse even as he yields to it. He is empty, lost, solitary, yet his pride will not let him confess his need. Even such a pride is not wholly bad, because it will not allow him to take advantage of a man helpless in his hands. Don’t fight him. Don’t despise him. Don’t set your own pride against his. He is poorer than he knows, and you, for all your loss, are singularly blessed. Remember that, my son.”
“But what do I say to him?”
‘What your heart tells you.”
“I am still afraid.”
“If you were not, there would be no merit in what you do. There would be no sacrifice if there were no risk.”
“But I risk the only thing left—my liberty.” Wikivill’s voice rose in urgent pleading. “Don’t you see that? It’s the walls that frighten me, the stones that hem me in. I killed to escape them. Now I must go back to them, freely, on my own two feet. I’m afraid I may lose courage halfway there.”
“There are no walls any more, my son.” Father Albertus moved towards him across the dim room. “When you accepted the prison of a maimed body, you came at one stride to freedom. No walls can contain you now. No bars can keep you back from the pastures of contentment. Believe that, in the name of God.”
“I believe,” said Johann Wikivill softly. “God help my unbelief.”
With an odd, pathetic gesture, he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands while the old priest stood towering over him, praying desperately for the infusion of strength in this critical moment. Finally Wikivill raised his head. His eyes were calm again, his face was peaceful. He pushed back his chair and slipped down on his knees at the feet of the old priest.
“Bless me, Father.”
Father Albertus raised his broken hands in the ritual gesture of benediction: “Vade, mi fili.…Go, my son! In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, go in peace.”
Mark Hanlon sat, chilled to the bone, on the small stone bench where once he had watched Anna feeding the birds, and thought about his situation.
It was plain to him now. He had reached the limit of living. All he had loved was lost to him. All he had built was founded on sand. His hopes were folly fires, his achievements a blown dust on the desert of the past. The future was a wailing emptiness. He could not go back and there was nothing to beckon him forward. The progression of life had been halted and he was caught in the syncope—a timeless, motionless state of naked disillusion.
He was incapable of consecutive thought. All that was left was a series of pictures, a wild kaleidoscope of people and places, unreal, fantastic, strangely terrifying: Willis lying on the roadway; the wolf mask of the man behind the gun; Anna’s face, ecstatic in the moment of love; the claw hands of Father Albertus; the cold, obsidian eyes of Sepp Kunzli; the obscene secrets in Fischer’s black book; Traudl in his arms and the movement of her body against his own; Holzinger’s weak, handsome face, and behind it the faded, featureless face of his own wife.
The pictures spun dizzily faster and faster until he cried out with the terror of it and buried his face in his hands to shut them out. His body ached as if he had been beaten with rods; his face twitched and his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. He was deathly cold.
He stood up and began to walk slowly along the promenade in the direction of the town. The trees hung black and motionless in the still air. The sound of running water troubled him like nightmare voices, and when he looked up at the sky he saw only the bleak mockery of the starlight.
When he reached the town it seemed to him that its aspect had changed. The walls were high cliffs; its yellow windows were caves peopled by monsters who mocked him silently. The shop fronts mirrored his stooped, shambling figure so that he looked like a shadowy dwarf.
There were ghosts under the black archways. Goat masks stared at him from behind the chimney pots and Anna’s despairing scream rang in his ears over the pounding feet of her attacker. He walked faster and faster until his body was streaming with sweat and an iron band clamped itself round his rib case.
At the entrance to the Sonnblick the guard stared at his wild, yellow face and put out a hand to support him, but he brushed past and hurried into the lift, slamming the steel gates and jabbing the button in a frantic effort to reach the safety of his room.
Gasping and retching, he hung over the basin until the nausea had left him; then he stripped off his tunic, douched his face and hands and walked unsteadily back into the office to pour himself a drink. The raw spirit took hold of him quickly; and he drank another glass and another, then sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. He choked on the first mouthful of smoke and stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.
Then, shrill and shattering, the telephone rang.
Instinctively he reached out and lifted the receiver. Habit and not will dictated the familiar words:
“Hanlon here.”
Sergeant Jenning’s voice answered him.
“There’s a man to see you sir. Name Johann Wikivill. He says you sent for him.”
“Send him up—alone.”
“Yes sir.”
He replaced the receiver and sat down at the desk. The comedy wasn’t quite finished. There was still the antistrophe, the sour epilogue.
A few moments later the door opened and Johann Wikivill stepped into the room.
To Hanlon’s heated imagination he looked like a man ten feet tall. He was dressed in the same uniform which he had worn on the day of their first meeting—square, peaked’ cap, tight jacket, baggy trousers, and the long, theatrical cloak that reached almost to his ankles. The peak of the cap threw a shadow over his forehead, and out of the shadow his distant eyes shone strangely.
It was the cloak that gave him height, but it was the face that lent him the look of an unearthly visitor. One side of it was rough and stubbled, and darkened by shadow. The other was smooth, new and shining. ‘Like Lazarus,’ thought Hanlon inconsequently, ‘caught halfway between death and the renewal of the resurrection.’
The thought amused him. He embellished it, smiling to himself, while Johann Wikivill stood tall and immobile, watching him. ‘At the resurrection there shall be neither marriage nor giving in marriage, but we shall all be’ like angels of God.…The eunuchs will come into their own, the celibates, the barren ones. They’ll all have mild, mystical eyes and baby skin like this fellow. They’d be dull company for us poor devils who are content with three meals a day and a little honest loving at night—if we can get it.’
Johann Wikivill announced himself formally.
“I am Johann Wikivill, Colonel. You wanted me.”
“I’ve been wanting you a long time, “said Hanlon. “Tell me…Why did you kill Willis?”
“Because I hated myself.”
“That’s it!” Hanlon’s voice rose. “Good! It’s always that way, isn’t it? I know how you felt, man! I’m feeling it myself now! Tell me, what do you see from your end? What do I look like?”
“Like myself.” There was warmth in the voice now, a haunting pity. “You look weary, hunted, sick…”
Hanlon looked up sharply. “Of course! You’re a doctor. I remember now. What’s your prescription?”
“There’s only one.”
“Name it.”
“Hope, “said Johann Wikivill softly.
Hanlon’s mouth drew back into a tight, cheerless grin.
“Father Albertus taught you that, didn’t he? I know…he taught me, too. But there’s a catch in it—a big catch,. You know what it is? To hope, you must have something to hope for, a goal, an end! What do you hope for, Wikivill?”
“To be free one day. To practise medicine again. To spend some skill and kindness on poor devils like myself.”
“They won’t thank you for it,” said Hanlon with cold irony. “They never do.”
“I’ll be paying a debt. There’s no question of thanks.”
“You owe me a debt.” Hanlon’s smile was bitter. “A life for a life.”
“I’m here to pay it,” Wikivill told him calmly.
“You can’t!” Hanlon picked up the letter from Klagenfurt and held it out to him. “Here, read it.”
Wikivill stepped forward and took the letter. The approach diminished him to human size. The shadows fell away from his face so that it became symmetrical again. He read the letter carefully, then handed it back to Hanlon. His eyes were mild; his lips were parted in a smile of great gentleness.
“It seems I owe you a double debt, Colonel.”
Hanlon waved a contemptuous dismissal. “You owe me nothing. Get out!”
Wikivill did not move. For a long moment he stared at Hanlon, groping for words to convey his gratitude. Then, very quietly:
“I’ll look after Anna for you, Colonel. When her time comes, I’ll deliver her myself, and care for the child, too. They’ll be safe in my hands, I promise!”
Hanlon’s head jerked back as if he had been struck in the mouth. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry,” said Johann Wikivill gravely. “I thought you knew. Anna Kunzli is going to have your child.”
For one disbelieving moment Hanlon stared at him; then all the pain of the years was wrenched out of him in one despairing cry:
“Dear God in Heaven! No!”
Then he buried his face in his hands and wept like a child.
Johann Wikivill took off his cap and his cloak and stood beside him, patting his shoulder and murmuring small words of comfort, as if they were two brothers, united by a common grief.
“You should go to her,” Wikivill told him firmly. “No matter what she has said, go to her. Tell her how it is with you and your wife. Tell her you love her and what you want to do for her and the child. That way there will be no bitterness, no regret.…”
They were sitting together in the big room where once Hanlon had planned the capture of the man behind the gun. There were drinks between them and the slow, friendly curl of cigarette smoke. Hanlon was still numb with shock, but slowly life seemed to be flowing back to him from the tall, lean man with the calm eyes and gentle voice.
This was not the surrender he had planned, but if there was no triumph in it, there was also no regret. Now they were men together, conscious of mutual deeds, of common debts. There was no shame between them. The shame of victory was wiped out by the dignity of defeat. The shadow of the lictor’s axe was replaced by the shadow of a common cross.
Hanlon leaned forward, questioning awkwardly. “I’m worried about the child. What happens to him? He has no name, no father. How can Anna still live here and…”
Wikivill cut him short with a gesture. “You forget how it is with our people. They have respect for life—however it comes. The child will be welcomed, and loved, too. Besides, there will be many like it in this land of ours, where the men are dead and the women are lonely. We shall be grateful, all of us, for this new promise of the future. You will see. The women will make clothes, and the woodcutters will bring toys, and there will be flowers and candles for the baptism, so that it will be like the corning of the Christkind. I will see that she has a good delivery. If they are sick I will care for them.”
