Lou Bihl - Y's Revenge

Whereas mine remained on strike. So much for Freud’s theory of eros being a force of life. Deeply frustrated, I undressed and removed the makeup and nail polish.

Switching back into my Kris-mode was not the usual painful self-eviction from paradise; instead, I felt desolate emptiness,with just a cemetery occupying the space between me and the intrinsic life I would fail to live.

When I closed the drawer, the key was trembling in my hand. My heart was racing, as if the ritual had been excitingly successful. Cold sweat trickled down, finding its way through my eyebrows. A claustrophobic oppression gripped my chest. As the palpitations of my heart continued, I thought of calling the emergency ward but then decided for Noah’s Mill instead.

The old bourbon succeeded in bringing the regular heartbeat back, but the chaos in my head remained.

Later that night, sleeplessness sucked me into black swirls of sickness, frailty, and old age, followed by the merciless question of whether old age should be cherished as a gift, a present that I could, by no means, be certain of. Later, in my unrestful sleep, I got lost in icy dream deserts whose vastness had no horizon, and I was wandering aimlessly in panic and desperation. The cold made the blood in my vessels freeze and my lungs burn.

Only by dawn did I regain orientation. At half past seven, I called Alex.

She sounded empathic but not concerned. “Typical panic attack. Happens mainly to those who play it cool. It will happen again, but it will pass the same way. Like nightmares. At night, you are defenseless against the anxiety you’ve drowned in sarcasm during the day. Whiskey can fight the panic in the short term, but it doesn’t help with anxiety.”

“In that case, I prefer panic.”

“Sure you do. Attacks can be parried, and panic is transient. And, as we have all learned, anxiety is the basic mental state of humans.”

“In my mental state, I can’t bear Heidegger citations, much less in the morning before eight o’clock! Besides, a pathologist is not supposed to be afraid of death.”

“ Mais non ! Just as a priest is not supposed to attend a whore house.”

We made an appointment for dinner.

Swinging the door open, I could literally sense it: everybody knew about me and my cancer. Berger and Martens, both of them residents, were chatting by the copier. Catching sight of me, they fell silent, hastily gathered their copies, waved at me hectically, and mumbled, “Hello, Professor,” before retreating to their rooms.

“As a matter of course, we will take care of your request immediately,” I heard Leo’s voice from n the secretary’s office. With her unfaltering charm, Ms. Leonhard could tame even the most notorious nags.

When I came closer, she hung up. “Professor,” she said. “Good to see you. I went to Aldi’s. The champagne is in the fridge, the finger food is due in ten minutes, and on your desk are two folders waiting for your signature.”

It was an unusual tirade, and she was not even looking at me. Her eyes were blue as cobalt, and they usually radiated accordingly. Today, they did not, and her unsteady gaze indicated that she was keeping a secret or simply modifying the presentation of facts in a mollifying way.

“Thank you, Leo,” I said. “Please send Henning in. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

Her brief glance revealed embarrassment. “With pleasure,” she replied, “but only if you want to. It’s such a load of shit how people are gossiping. There is this rumor you’ve got cancer and that your sabbatical is just a trick to keep your position, and you might not come back to work at all. Nobody speaks frankly, and I don’tthink anybody will dare ask you directly.” Now her eyes were shimmering ominously.

“Leo, you didn’t really say shit did you?”

She nodded. “Well, now you can guess how confused I am.”

Having Leo as a personal secretary was the only privilege I envied about my boss’s job. Otherwise, I was quite content with my position as a deputy, since it provided maximum leeway with less administrative tasks and no financial responsibilities. When I had decided to abstain from striving for a chief position after several halfhearted applications, Irmgard had maliciously remarked that I had failed to be an alpha person. My wife found that all the more inappropriate, as she claimed to have forgone her own carrier for family reasons . Alex’s comment had not been much kinder—as she had pointed out that the alpha gene was associated with the Y chromosome, so confining myself to second place would match the feminine part of my personality. Remarkably, Alex had always scrutinized the attribution of a certain behavior to be typically male or female as a mere conventional prejudice.

“We’ll talk later,” I repeated to Leo and headed for my office.

Henning seemed somewhat embarrassed as well. I had promised this most ambitious of my postgraduates that I would go through his next experiments with him before I left on sabbatical. He asked if he could consult Kalkofen during my absence. I folded Henning’s data sheets into a neat pile and handed the stack across the table.

“Do whatever you find appropriate,” I answered, getting up from my chair.

“Just in case I should not get along …” Henning stammered.

Alone again, I checked my emails, signed various documents, approved an application—and then stared at my screen saver, where butterflyfish bubbled in a blue reef. Although I knew it was just a temporary absence, it felt more like leaving something behind that might be irretrievably lost. My quandary still remained: to disclose the disease or not? Since everybody seemed to know already, I was tempted to spare myself.

At 5:00 p.m., our assembly was complete except for the boss, who had a meeting in Tokyo. His absence was not bemoaned, as he often failed to inspire a cheerful atmosphere.

After welcoming the team, I popped the first cork and opened up the buffet. Appetizers first; Job’s news afterward.

Our merry team. Except for Kalkofen, who was a scientific Windhund and a social pit bull, they were all kinky individualists until the effect of Aldi’s champagne awakened their corporate identity and turned them into a conspiring squad of jokers.

Today, their voices were low, laughter ebbed away before it could build momentum, and I missed the habitual innuendos. The atmosphere resembled the mood of a funeral party before alcohol gets a chance to convert grief into goofiness. I decided to end the calamity with a little speech.

Just as I was about to knock on my glass, I saw Ms. Schröder, the senior resident, disappear and then return a moment later. She cleared her throat, but before she could speak, Kalkofen intervened.

Kalkofen took the present off her hands and mumbled, “Leave that to me!” Once more, he was behaving according to his reputation: a lightweight in science and a heavyweight boxer in social behavior. He was the senior-ranking third person on the institute’s totem pole and was keen to take over my position. My cancer now probably fostered his hopes.

“Dear colleague, Mr. Starck,” Kalkofen began, chummy as usual. “We are all happy this is not a farewell present, and we hope to see you again soon, safe and sound.”

The hypocrisy in his voice was as sticky as artificial honey.

“As you had a preference for the third world in your youth,” he continued, “and we don’t know where your travel will lead you next, we wanted to ensure that you are well prepared. Therefore, I bought this present for you on behalf of the team.”

He handed the parcel to me, and I overheard Berger whisper, “I bet the miser purchased it cheap on eBay.”