Solimeos, page 26
We had tried to help him, but he refused. I was astonished that he had come to his brother’s birthday celebration.
Uncle Wolf removed a silver lid from a serving bowl on the steam table. He covered his eyes with his great spade hands, standing straight over the steaming spaetzle, then, overcome with emotion, wept in mucousy gulps.
Guests near him tried not to notice the war hero crying over the smell of spaetzle. They understood he was weeping not over innocent noodles but for Germany.
I watched with pain, wishing I wasn’t there.
Trapped at the edges of civilization, the Germans, with their unrequited passion for the past, ate and danced their deaths away. Do you know, Germans, that dancing is swimming? That you are celebrating a far older past, a Sirius past? The church didn’t allow dancing because it was a pagan ritual, calling on the stars, an amphibian ritual.
Words flowed in my head, others on my periphery.
“What are you up to these days, Axel?” Someone caught my arm. “You know, Axel, we thought you might be our next leader. We thought…” I turned away. “We’ve formed an anti-communist military operation right here that could spread across the world. We’re already in Spain. Very powerful potential, of course.”
I approached the Queen of the Amazon, still perched on the piano. “How are you doing, Luba?” I asked quietly.
She grinned her neon grin and took my hand. “Dear Axel, do you remember when we first came here? The horrible luncheon with the smiling pig on a platter? And the first Mrs. Dr. Hermann had a pale-green water bottle with water she saved after she’d touched Hitler’s hand?”
Uncle Wolf suddenly dipped, disappearing under the steam table. The white linen moved slightly as he breathed. Still crying, he didn’t want to be seen.
“I’ll get him.” I moved to the back of the steam tables, pressed myself into a small space between them and the kitchen door, slid under, wrapping my frail uncle in my arms.
“A moment of privacy, Venerable Nephew.” He buried his head in my shoulder, pointed at two pairs of boots sticking under the hem of the tablecloth, pressed his forefinger on my lips. We listened.
“Look, Manfred, weinerschnitzel. Ach.” Memories were pain. Raven’s buffet table steamed with pain. “Nothing I have ever eaten since has ever been this good.”
“Take your finger out of it, Horst,” said Dr. Hermann. “Someone will see.”
“How much longer?”
“A year, maybe two.” Dr. Hermann’s voice dropped. “I’m worried the Baron might…mmmm…defect. Ultimately, our timing depends on his work.”
I placed my hand tightly over Uncle Wolf’s mouth.
“We watch him carefully. He’s not one of us.”
“I had a power outage last week, Manfred, at the washing machine factory. That was very close.”
“You should have backup generators. Willi promised.”
“He promised, but we don’t have them. Do you think the Baron’s alphabet will work?”
“Oh, yes, I know it does, but we could use more letters.”
I placed my hands under Uncle Wolf’s armpits and slid him out backwards toward the wall. Together we crawled through the tunnel of tablecloths into the kitchen until we could stand upright without being seen. I made a cup of tea for Uncle Wolf.
He drank it with shaking hands.
“What were they talking about, Uncle Wolf? What goes on at the washing machine factory?”
“You would be better off not asking.” His fingers were long and graceful and tinged with yellow. “I’m better off.” He was no longer a part of the Occult Bureau.
“You go sit in the sunroom. I’ll send Margaret out to you.”
Uncle Wolf wove through the clusters of guests toward the sunroom. I remembered him in his black leather coat with the red fox lining. I remember him carrying my mother up the stairs. I remember him whistling as he counted Jews.
After I spoke to Margaret, Bebe jerked playfully on the hair at the back of my head and asked me to waltz. She reached up to my face and tickled my upper lip. “There, how handsome you would be with a mustache.”
“I’d look too much like Dietrich.” Even though my leg throbbed, I wouldn’t refuse the dancing. She was lovely to hold, chubby and sweet. Her solid breasts poked into my ribcage just above my cummerbund.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Bebe?”
“Oh, yes, Axel. Isn’t that Miss Nazi ugly? And all those stupid blonde curls. Who in the world would want to be Miss Nazi? Except Margaret, who wants to be your Mrs. Nazi and make lots of little Nazis. You know, Mr. Hermann will never die, but if he ever does, I’m going to capture you.”
“These men live forever. Dietrich’s in great health.”
Bebe giggled. “I think they take something from monkeys.”
Everyone sat after the Baron took his seat. He beckoned me closer. “Wolf is gone. Find him. Probably setting my house on fire. Runs in the family.”
Uncle Wolf was in the sunroom. Box of tissues in hand, blossoms of used tissues on the floor, he lay with his head in the sequined lap of Margaret, who sang to him. She stopped short as I approached, blushed brightly.
Uncle Wolf went to wash.
I smiled at her. “You’re a decent sort, Margaret. Perhaps you should find someone to care for. Maybe even Uncle Wolf. God knows he needs help.”
“God knows. I was being kind.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Remember that, Axel. That I can be kind.”
We, the three of us, made our way to the tables for dinner.
The Baron stood, cleared his throat. The men sprung from their chairs, clicked their heels, thrust their arms into the air, shouted, “Heil Hitler!”
My father raised his glass, and his world cheered for him.
Wriggling like snakes in heat, Benjy’s Flower Boys carried in cases of Krug and filled countless glasses. There were eight guests at each table, perhaps two hundred celebrants. Uncle Wolf sat dour, sullen. Benjy, bubbling, on Raven’s left; Bebe and Dr. Hermann completed the uneasy circle. The Baron held Raven’s hand, now and then releasing it to pat it and stroke it, then held it again, in a demonstration I felt was for the benefit of his guests.
The Baron’s friends toasted him, giving sloppy, drunken speeches.
Weirdly enough, I had never seen Dietrich so clearly. The shield of a face, the wide brow, the little ears flat against his head. He seemed to struggle to hold the great head up, to stand straight. A great and towering tree, I thought, rotting from the inside.
I imagined a young and hungry vine strangling him.
“Thank you for coming,” said Dietrich to the assembled diners. “And to my own brother, Wolf von Pappendorf. Please, Wolf, please stand for a special welcome.”
Uncle Wolf struggled to his feet and held his glass up to his brother but did not break a smile.
Raven elbowed me. “Your turn, Axel.”
I lifted Raven’s chin with a forefinger. She offered me her frantic neon smile.
On my feet, I lifted my glass. “To Dietrich, who saved the loveliest of them all: the Queen of the Amazon.” Oh, God, what had I said?
As a group, the men stood, saluting Raven with their glasses. It seemed no one had noticed my use of the word “saved.” Was I trying to liberate Raven’s soul, or throw her into deeper isolation? I may have endangered her, exposing her to her enemies. I momentarily wondered if something within me was reminding her she was a Jew, and she should escape this hideous Colony.
Her face flashed fury, which disappeared just as quickly. Putting on a show, Raven pulled me down to kiss my cheek.
Dr. Hermann was leaning into Miss Nazi, smiling and enthusiastically nodding his head. He hadn’t heard.
Dietrich complained, “The guests are sloshed, Raven. Stop the champagne and bring out the schnapps.” He pulled his chair nearer mine, wearily holding his head in his hands. “Depressing, isn’t it, growing old? If I don’t find Solomon, if the Israelis don’t forgive me, how will I ever be heard? Pride of my loins, you will become my memory. You become my reincarnation, my memory worm.”
“God forbid. Is this belief or knowledge?”
“There is no room in my mind for belief. With you, believing is seeing. With me, seeing is believing.”
Raven gave orders to Benjy, who nodded, examined his watch, clapped his hands.
The waiters retreated to the kitchen and reappeared in long black kaftans embroidered in gold thread: hem, neck, and cuffs. The room hushed as they assembled before the piano, near the musicians.
A trombone player stepped forward and sang—in an unrelentingly chicken’s cackle—“The Blue Danube”: Buck buck buck buck. This was Benjy’s Black Forest.
The guests guffawed, slapping their thighs and pounding the tables. They cackled along, kept time with their silverware. Maria watched through the kitchen doors, shaking her head disapprovingly.
The lost boys were having a good time. Here we were, rich, fat, drunk, and alive. Alive. Maybe we didn’t lose the war. Maybe we won. Maybe we’ll win again. Just wait. Yes, it had all happened. But how to erase the past and go on? Flatulence filled the air, belching, burping, laughter, catcalls. The guests were taking great pleasure in each other. They were like frogs calling in the night. Are you there? Isn’t it wonderful to be here and drunk on the night and the music and the food and each other and everything German?
Isn’t life grand? Inexplicably these people, these murdering peasants whom last week I had despised, reached into my heart. I made an error then, for I sought out Margaret, throwing my arms around her.
“I’m sorry, Margaret, that I can’t love you. That you love me and I can’t love you.”
“What?” She burst into tears.
“I’m drunk. Never mind.” I couldn’t get away fast enough. I damned Okok and Rainflower. I would pay for opening my heart to the universe, segments of which were not quite ready to receive this new communion.
A dozen of Benjy’s waiters stood in a chorus line and sang “Happy Birthday.” Dietrich stood to acknowledge them. At the final, drawn-out “to you,” the waiters bowed in perfect unison. Then they turned and bowed to the musicians.
I was looking down at my watch when I heard the room’s collective sharp intake of breath.
The Flower Boys had cut round holes in their kaftans to show their behinds. The holes were trimmed with the same gold embroidery as on the rest of their kaftans. The Baron shot out of his chair, his face paled in anger. Except for Dr. Hermann, who was dozing in his chair, the other partygoers laughed uproariously, coarsely, shouting in German. “Ach du liebe!”
Raven clapped her hands, laughing too. Tiara or not, there was a clear streak of crudity running in the Queen of the Amazon.
The Baron hissed at her to stop the boys, but Raven continued clapping. “Look, Dietrich, someone just stuck a gold medal in that boy’s behind.”
The band played Strauss louder and faster. The bare-assed boys pulled women on the floor to dance. Dietrich dropped to his seat, and Uncle Wolf slumped next to him, his head into his chest, snoring, farting.
Disgusted, Dietrich punched him awake. Uncle Wolf staggered to the floor, grabbed a boy, and danced off.
Raven left and returned with shears, which she handed to Margaret. Benjy pulled Raven to the floor. She had indeed cut a hole in her gown, exposing her triumphant little ass as he spun her round and round.
Margaret appeared, bare-assed. They were destroying three- and four-thousand-dollar gowns. The shears were passed from table to table. Dr. Hermann danced with Bebe. Both bared their behinds; Dr. Hermann’s was flat and withered, without flesh, Bebe’s peachlike. Mobile gas units in the Ukraine, eh, Dr. Hermann? How much had he needed to drink in order to dance out there, exposing himself?
I saw Maria’s face at the kitchen door, saw the shame.
Dietrich tossed his schnapps glass to the floor, then tottered to the dance floor, to his whirling wife. To everyone’s vast and loud amusement, as Raven’s behind was exposed to him, he spanked her.
She stopped for a moment, grinning, and said to Benjy, “We must do this again.” She caught her husband in her arms and danced with him until he shoved her off and walked away, ramrod stiff as he took a seat alone across the room.
His handprint bloomed on her flesh. Indefatigable, Raven was soon on the dance floor again, this time with Uncle Wolf, who kept a stiff and straight-armed distance.
Dr. Hermann dismissed the three musicians, waving them off with the back of his hand. “Enough, enough. No more music. Out. Go to bed.”
Expressionless, they shook the spit from their instruments, folded their stands, and quickly decamped. Someone had brought a record player, and the first heavy-footed notes of “Bottoms Up Polka” shook the forest night.
Peasants, all, with great guttural shouts of pleasure and hoots, they took to the floor. The house rocked with foot-stomping, shouts, laughter. The serene Brazilian wives didn’t polka. The old men of the club took each other’s arms and danced with each other. “Jägermeister! Jägermeister!” they yelled, calling for Dietrich.
Dr. Hermann grappled with Dietrich, pulled him from his chair, and twirled him around the room. Dr. Hermann was a great mass. I moved in to free my father from Dr. Hermann and heard Dietrich say breathlessly, “Let me go, Manfred. For God’s sake, let me go.”
Dr. Hermann laughed. “Go where? Make me an offer, Herr Baron, a nice offer.”
I pulled Dietrich away. Dr. Hermann continued to laugh, falling back into a chair.
Steins and a beer barrel arrived from the kitchen on cue.
Raven had orchestrated each moment. Taking up her piano perch once more, swinging her legs, clapping her hands, she had brought Brueghel to life in her living room.
“Make me an offer, Herr Baron. What do you have to trade?”
Oh my God, Dr. Hermann still needed a Jew. No, I was being paranoid. I tried to erase the thought. Too improbable.
Finally, the party calmed down. I sat with Dietrich and Dr. Hermann as they reminisced about childhoods in Germany, school days and circuses. They spoke of gold, the price of coffee, crocodiles on Cinnamon Island, and Miss Nazi l960.
Dietrich leaned into Dr. Hermann’s ear. “I want to leave soon, Manfred.”
Dr. Hermann smiled, laughed, slugged a beer, belched, pressed his forehead onto Dietrich’s. “There is unrest in Chile. Chile is impatient.”
“Chile is not my concern. My work is my concern.”
The hair rose at the back of my neck. I sensed something in the room, an odd sensation at a molecular level.
Awa stood framed in the light of the door to the terrace.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Spectacular, dangerous, of course, but weaponless, painted, his jaundiced eyes black-rimmed with warrior paint, his body black, gleaming, Awa carried a package that he held out in front of himself, an offering wrapped in cloth.
As if a spell had been cast over them, the guests fell silent. Mrs. Putz fainted. Others backed out, trying to leave. Awa had no weapons. Hopefully, he did not have his ancestors with him.
The record player skidded to an end.
Benjy whistled between his teeth. “God, he’s gorgeous. Look at the muscles. Who is he?”
“What on earth?” Raven exclaimed. Trying to save her party, she walked up to Awa. “I said no gifts!”
He didn’t move. Awa’s weird yellow eyes looked through her, searching the room.
The screen door to the garden slammed. The servants were running away.
Before I could prevent it, Raven pirouetted before Awa, inviting him to dance.
He stood immobile, not a nerve twitching.
I knew she wasn’t that drunk. She put her hands on her hips and said again, “I said no gifts,” then laughed at her joke.
Stupidly, Benjy reached out and touched Awa’s naked ass. With an almost imperceptible movement, Awa threw him to the ground.
Benjy yelped, crawling slowly to the front door. Those of the guests who were able shrunk backwards toward the walls, toward the doors.
I stood between Awa and Raven, pushed Raven backwards, out of his way. Taking a deep breath, knees shaking, I spoke gently, “Awa.”
He stared down at what he knew must be my still-painful leg, then his gaze darted around the room. His eyes were frightened and sincere, yellow and unfocused. He squinted into the lights.
Even as I could not hear what he was thinking, I announced to the guests: “He is not going to harm us. Be still.”
Awa lay his cloth-wrapped package onto the table in front of me. The gift was for me.
“Don’t open it,” Raven said.
But I sat and took it in hand. Under the linen, banana leaves wrapped another object. Without realizing it, I had agreed to a trade.
Awa moved swiftly, grabbing Miss Nazi 1960, pulling her toward the front door.
Some brave guests held onto her as she screamed. Others scrambled into the kitchen. Horst, to no avail, broke a chair over Awa’s head.
With an elbow movement, Awa tossed Horst to the floor. Then he held the blonde Miss Nazi 1960 in front of him. Looking into her face, he realized his mistake. This was not Rainflower. Shaking his head in confusion, he released her and loped out of the house.
Dr. Hermann was gone.
Dietrich was the first to speak into the vacuum of fear. “What’s this about, Axel?”
“He’s looking for the girl. He thought he could trade.”
“What’s the matter with his eyes?” asked Raven. “Is he blind?” She touched my shoulder. “Are you all right, Axel? What did he give you?”
“I’m fine. Just another shrunken head for Dietrich.” Awa’s package was a battered shrunken head, painted gold and filled with Pepsi Cola bottlecaps.
