The Hotel New Hampshire (55 page)

“Fuck off!” Arbeiter cried at her. “Get going. Walk up there,
fast
! We’ll give you ten minutes. Then Freud and Schraubenschlüssel are on their way.”

Schwanger stood there as if she were trying to decide whether to write another pregnancy or another abortion book.

“Get going, you cunt!” Arbeiter yelled at her. “Remember to cross the Kärntnerstrasse. And look for our car before you cross the street.”

Schwanger left the Hotel New Hampshire, composing herself—actually arranging her face in as motherly an expression as she could muster for the occasion. We would never see her again. I suppose she went to Germany; she might author a whole new book of symbols, one day. She might mother a new movement, somewhere else.

“You don’t have to do this, Freud,” my father whispered.

“Of
course
I have to do it, Win Berry!” Freud said, cheerfully. He got up; he tapped his way with the baseball bat toward the door. He knew his way around pretty well, considering his total darkness.

“Sit down, you old fool,” Arbeiter told him. “We’ve got ten minutes. Don’t forget to get out of the car, you idiot,” Arbeiter told Schraubenschlüssel, but Wrench was still staring at the dead quarterback on the floor. I stared at him, too. For ten minutes. I realized what a terrorist is. A terrorist, I think, is simply another kind of pornographer. The pornographer pretends he is disgusted by his work; the terrorist pretends he is uninterested in the
means
. The
ends
, they say, are what they care about. But they are both lying. Ernst loved his pornography; Ernst worshiped the means. It is never the ends that matter—it is
only
the means that matter. The terrorist and the pornographer are in it for the means. The means is everything to them. The blast of the bomb, the elephant position, the
Schlagobers
and blood—they love it all. Their intellectual detachment is a fraud; their indifference is feigned. They both tell lies about having “higher purposes.” A terrorist
is
a pornographer.

For ten minutes Frank tried to change Arbeiter’s mind, but Arbeiter didn’t have enough of a mind to experience a change. I think Frank only succeeded in confusing Arbeiter.

Frank was certainly confusing to
me
.

“You know what’s at the Opera tonight, Arbeiter?” Frank asked.

“Music,” Arbeiter said, “music and singing.”

“But it matters—
which
opera,” Frank lied. “I mean, it’s not exactly a full-house performance tonight—I hope you know that. It’s not as if the Viennese have come in
droves
. It’s not as if it’s Mozart, or Strauss. It’s not even Wagner,” Frank said.

“I don’t care what it is,” Arbeiter said. “The front rows will be full. The front rows are always full. And the dumb singers will be onstage. And the orchestra has to show up.”

“It’s
Lucia
,” Frank said. “Practically an empty house. You don’t have to be a Wagnerian to know that Donizetti’s not worth listening to. I confess to being something of a Wagnerian,” Frank confessed, “but you don’t have to share the Germanic opinion of Italian opera to know that Donizetti is simply insipid. Stale harmonies, lack of any dramatism appropriate to the music,” Frank said.

“Shut up,” Arbeiter said.

“Organ-grinder tunes!” Frank said. “God, I wonder if
anyone
will show up.”

“They’ll show up,” Arbeiter said.

“Better to wait for a big shot,” Frank said. “Blow the place another night. Wait for an
important
opera. If you blow up
Lucia
,” Frank reasoned, “the Viennese will
applaud
! They’ll think your target was Donizetti, or, even better—
Italian
opera! You’ll be a kind of cultural hero,” Frank argued, “not the villain you want to be.”

“And when you get your audience,” Susie the bear told Arbeiter, “who’s going to do the talking?”

“Your talker is dead,” Franny said to Arbeiter.

“You don’t think
you
can hold an audience, do you, Arbeiter?” Susie the bear asked him.

“Shut Up,” Arbeiter said. “It’s possible to have a bear ride in the car with Freud. Everyone knows Freud’s got a thing for bears. It might be a nice idea to have a bear ride with him—on his last trip.”

“No change in the plan, not now,” said Schraubenschlüssel, nervously. “According to plan,” he said, looking at his watch. “Two minutes.”

“Go now,” Arbeiter said. “It will take a while to get the blind man out the door and in. the car.”

“Not me!” Freud cried. “I know the way! It’s my hotel, I know where the door is,” the old man said, hobbling on the baseball bat toward the door. “And you’ve parked that damn car in the same place for years!”

“Go with him, Schraubenschlüssel,” Arbeiter told Wrench. “Hold the old fucker’s arm.”

“I don’t need any assistance,” Freud said, cheerfully. “Good-bye, Lilly dear!” Freud cried. “Don’t throw up, dear,” he urged her. “And keep growing!”

Lilly gagged again, and shook; Arbeiter moved the gun about two inches away from her ear. He was apparently disgusted with her puking, though it was only a very small puddle that Lilly had managed; she was not even a big vomiter.

“Hang in there, Frank!” Freud called—to the entire lobby. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re queer! You’re a
prince
, Frank!” Freud cried. “You’re better than Rudolf!” Freud yelled to Frank. “You’re more majestic than all the Hapsburgs, Frank!” Freud encouraged him. Frank couldn’t speak, he was crying so hard.

“You’re lovely, Franny my dear, Franny my sweetheart,” said Freud softly. “One doesn’t have to see to know how beautiful you are,” he said.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
, Freud,” Franny said.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
, weight lifter!” Freud cried to me. “Give me a hug,” he asked me, holding out his arms, the Louisville Slugger like a sword in one hand. “Let me feel how strong you are,” Freud said to me, and I went up to him and hugged him. That was when he whispered in my ear.

“When you hear the explosion,” Freud whispered, “
kill
Arbeiter.”

“Come on!” Schraubenschlüssel said, nervously. He grabbed Freud’s arm.

“I love you, Win Berry!” Freud cried, but my father had his head in his hands; he would not look up from where he sat, sunk in the couch. “I’m sorry I got you in the hotel business,” Freud said to my father. “And the bear business,” Freud added. “Good-bye, Susie!” Freud said.

Susie started to cry. Schraubenschlüssel steered Freud through the door. We could see the car, the Mercedes that was a bomb; it was parked against the curb almost in front of the door to the Hotel New Hampshire. It was a revolving door, and Freud and Schraubenschlüssel revolved through it.

“I don’t need your assistance!” Freud was complaining to Wrench. “Just let me
feel
the car, just get me to the fender,” Freud complained. “I can find the door by myself, you idiot,” Freud was saying. “Just let me touch the fender.”

Arbeiter was getting a stiff back, leaning over Lilly. He straightened up a little; he glanced at me, checking on where I was. He glanced at Franny. His gun wandered around.

“There it is, I’ve got it!” we heard Freud crying, cheerfully, outside. “That’s the headlight, right?” he asked Schraubenschlüssel. My father raised his head from his hands and looked at me.

“Of
course
that’s the headlight, you old fool!” Schraubenschlüssel yelled at Freud. “Get
in
, will you?”

“Freud!” Father screamed. He must have known, then. He ran to the revolving door. “
Auf Wiedersehen
, Freud!” Father cried. At the revolving door, Father saw the whole thing very clearly. Freud, with his hand feeling along the headlight, slipped toward the grille of the Mercedes instead of toward the door.

“The other way, you moron!” Schraubenschlüssel advised. But Freud knew exactly where he was. He tore his arm out of Wrench’s grasp; he leveled the Louisville Slugger and started swinging. He was looking for the front license plate, of course. Blind people have a knack for knowing exactly where things that have always been are. It took Freud only three swings to locate the license plate, my father would always remember. The first swing was a little high-off the grille.

“Lower!” Father screamed, through the revolving door. “
Auf Wiedersehen
!”

The second swing hit the front bumper a little to the left of the license plate, and my father yelled, “To your right!
Auf Wiedersehen
, Freud!” Schraubenschlüssel, Father said later, was already running away. He never got far enough away, however. Freud’s third swing was on the money; Freud’s third swing was the grand slam. What a lot for that baseball bat to go through in one night! That Louisville Slugger was never found. Freud was never entirely found, either, and Schraubenschlüssel’s own mother would fail to identify him. My father was blasted back from the revolving door, the white light and glass flying in his face. Franny and Frank ran to help him, and I got my arms around Arbeiter just as the bomb blew—just as Freud had told me to do.

Arbeiter in his black tuxedo, dressed for the Opera, was a little taller than I was, and a little heavier; my chin rested firmly between his shoulder blades, my arms went around his chest, pinning his arms to his side. He fired the gun once, into the floor. I thought for a moment that he might be able to shoot my foot with it, but I knew I’d never let him raise the gun any higher. I knew Lilly was out of Arbeiter’s range. He fired two more shots into the floor. I held him so tightly that he couldn’t even locate my foot, which was right behind his foot. His next shot hit his own foot and he started screaming. He dropped the gun. I heard it hit the floor and saw Lilly grab it, but I wasn’t paying much attention to the gun. I was concentrating on squeezing Arbeiter. For someone who’d shot himself in the foot, he stopped screaming pretty soon. Frank would tell me, later, that Arbeiter stopped screaming because he couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t paying much attention to Arbeiter’s screaming, either. I concentrated on the squeezing. I imagined the biggest barbell in the world. I don’t know, exactly, what I imagined I was doing to the barbell—curling it, bench-pressing it, dead-lifting it, or simply hugging it to my own chest. It didn’t matter; I was just concentrating on its
weight
. I really concentrated. I made my arms believe in themselves. If I had hugged Jolanta this hard, she would have broken in two. If I had hugged Screaming Annie this hard, she would have been quiet. Once I had dreamed of holding Franny this tightly. I had been lifting weights since Franny was raped, since Iowa Bob showed me how; with Arbeiter in my arms, I was the strongest man in the world.

“A
sympathy
bomb!” I heard Father yelling. I knew he was in pain. “Jesus God! Can you believe it? A fucking
sympathy
bomb!”

Franny later said that she knew, immediately: Father was blind. It was not just because of where he was standing when the car blew up, or the glass that was blasted into his face as he stood at the revolving door; it was not all the blood in his eyes that Franny saw when she wiped his face enough to
see
what was wrong with him. “I knew somehow,” she said. “I mean,
before
I saw his eyes. I always knew he was as blind as Freud, or he would be. I knew he
would
be,” Franny said.

“
Auf Wiedersehen
, Freud!” Father was crying.

“Hold still, Daddy,” I heard Lilly saying to Father.

“Yes, hold still, Pop,” Franny said.

Frank had run up the Krugerstrasse to the Kärntnerstrasse, and around the corner up to the Opera. He had to see, of course, if the
sympathy
bomb had responded—but Freud had possessed the vision to see that the Mercedes parked in front of the Hotel New Hampshire was too far from sympathy to make the Opera respond. And Schwanger must have just kept walking. Or maybe she decided simply to stay and watch the end of the opera; maybe it was one she liked. Maybe she wanted to be there, watching them all at the curtain call, taking their last bows above the unexploded bomb.

Frank said later that when he ran out of the Hotel New Hampshire to go see if the Opera was safe, he noticed that Arbeiter was a very vivid magenta color, that his fingers were still moving—or perhaps just twitching—and that he seemed to be kicking his feet. Lilly told me later that while Frank was gone—Arbeiter turned from magenta to blue. “A slate-blue color,” Lilly, the writer, said. “The color of the ocean on a cloudy day.” And by the time Frank got back from seeing if the Opera was safe, Franny told me that Arbeiter was completely motionless and a dead-white color—the color was all gone from his face. “He was the color of a pearl,” Lilly said. He was dead. I had crushed him.

“You can let him go now,” Franny finally had to tell me. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay,” she whispered to me, because she knew how I liked whispering. She kissed my face, and then I let Arbeiter go.

I have not felt the same about weight lifting since. I still do it, but I’m very low-key about the lifting now; I don’t like to push myself. A little light lifting, just enough to make me start feeling good; I don’t like to strain, not anymore.

The authorities told us that Schraubenschlüssel’s “sympathy bomb” might even have worked if the car had been closer. The bomb authorities also implied that
any
explosion in the area might have set the sympathy bomb off at
any
time; I guess old Schraubenschlüssel hadn’t been as exact as he thought he was. A lot of nonsense was written about what the radicals had
meant
. An unbelievable amount of garbage would be written about the “statement” they had been trying to make. And there wasn’t enough about Freud. His blindness was noted, in passing; and that he had been in one of the camps. There was absolutely nothing about the summer of 1939, about State o’ Maine and the Arbuthnot-by-the-Sea, about
dreaming
—or about the
other
Freud, and what
he
might have had to say about all this. There was a lot of idiocy about the
politics
of what had happened.