Charles Newman - In Partial Disgrace

But throughout these mood swings Wolf maintained for most of the day his old apathy, unassailably entrenched in his indifference to territory. He seemed happiest among strangers in the stairwell, where hierarchy was clearly marked by the steps. Finally, the Professor realized that painful as the consequences might be, something in him preferred the dog’s play for attention to his diffidence. Wolf ’s quieter and more contemplative moods seemed an affront. His patient’s sufferings had ceased prematurely, and the Professor preferred hypochondria to an impoverished ego. If nothing could be done for his nose, then something for his state of mind! The dog had come to him a megalomaniac, and now was entirely incapacitated and dependent upon others, unable even to feed himself or complete a defecation. Wolf had lost interest in his own history, or indeed what might become of him. His was a world which was perfectly adequate without lovers and loved ones, without hope and without fear.

“My dearest Friend,” the Professor wrote Felix:

There is a gap in our letters which is uncanny. Then came your letter today on the fundamentals of the soul, which with its meticulous refutations of my fantasies, typical of a doctor dilettante, I found so refreshing. If I may summarize your lengthy advice in professional language, it would be as follows:

1) Pay attention to the principles of loyalty, not to whatever system they are embedded in.

2) Never use the phrases “before,” “during,” or “after” to explain anything.

3) Hysteria is both a dead language and a new language.

4) Temperament has replaced metaphysics as the basis of philosophy.

Why is it, incidentally, that you never complain of your own health problems, with which I feel, in secret, such biological sympathy? I have noted for some time that you bear your suffering better and with more dignity than I. I have all sorts of doubts about my constitution and often cannot remember what I have found out about it that is new, since everything about it seems to be new. It is as if I am thrown out of the train at every station along the line, and every town is named “If I Can Stand It.” Well enough of that.

My question today is, Why do I admire your utter stoicism, even wish it for myself, yet am suspicious of it in Wolf? He no longer attempts to capture my favor by anything but the crudest attempts. I believe he is withdrawing from me as his unpleasure disappears from some imagined slight. He still has that conspicuous tic around the eyes, and occasionally he forces his lips into a snout — for sucking? Biting? All day long I try to be kind and witty, original and superior, congenial and conciliating, yet he maintains only a pitiable reserve as a reproach to my efforts, as if all of my insights are equally brilliant, and equally besides the point. A slow piece of work, indeed! Do you remember, in true suffering, his pace was wonderful! I even find myself hoping for a relapse, so I might eradicate every vestige of his precious illness. I dream he becomes miserable again so as to facilitate work, for at present he makes me feel that I have turned into a carcinoma to which nothing will adhere. I am entertaining the thought of applying “pitiless pressure” in the hope of breaking the impasse, of sketching out, as it were, an episode of finality.

Hoarse and breathless, I await your advice.

Your admiring and faithful Friend.

The next day, between dusks of snow flurries and noons of the sharpest brightest sun, the Professor and Wolf were sitting on a bench in the Augarten. The dog seemed uncharacteristically energetic, and the Professor unsnapped his leash to let him roam.

The dog was wearing his new signet collar, a gift from Semper Vero made from medallions awarded in competitions Wolf would not even have been allowed to watch, much less participate in. The Roman coins used as solder gave off a ginger glow, the pride of the Chetvorah, taking even its most worthless cousin into company.

Wolf ambled three-legged down the gravel path, every few steps holding up his damaged paw like a talisman. His was a determined yet relaxed pace, without checking back. He had never ventured farther from his master’s side. The Professor watched him approvingly all the way down the path, until he noticed at the end of the alleé , through the ornate gate, a huge new flag flapping with thundercracks against the facade of the Justizpalast . The government had apparently changed, and he had been so preoccupied with Wolf he hadn’t even noticed it. A military band had struck up. Music without words always made him nervous.

The dog continued down the path, worrying sparrows, who in turn were worrying horse apples, until at last he reached the street, where, persecuted by fate and abandoned by medicine, the beshitted Wolf leapt gracefully into the open rear of a passing van and disappeared.

That evening Father’s belated telegram arrived:

Intervene STOP But remember STOP The lion springs only once!

I spoke my own dead, rich language until I was three, when I abruptly forgot it and cried out in my sleep. Mother, surrounded by her bed curtains and hillocks of damask, could not hear. At dawn she would arrive for a brief moment, the cold-nosed Chetvorah beating their famous nail tango about the bed, and with a half-erotic, half-maternal muzzle, she would bring me into that dazed state where all the cells and little cilia are growing a millionth of an inch, putting a bit of her saliva in my nostrils to awaken me to the sweetness of the world, while leaving the devil unexorcised. But when, past midnight, I continued to yowl, Father came with a candle, put the flat of his cool hand upon my wet brow, carrying on imaginary conversations with innkeepers, coachmen, and ferrymen as counter-apparitions. However, my bed sweats remained severe. I was aware that I had a scent not unlike that of a dairy. And for the next seven years I did not sleep, a continuous vertiginous lucidity, both congenital and painful. The problem with not sleeping, of course, is all that time you have to spend with yourself. Everything in life is a preparation for a sleep which will not come, for life is only bearable with the discontinuity it provides. Sleep is the secret of life, and uninterrupted sleeplessness forced from me the inability to forget. Aged prematurely by this dark-circled nothingness, the negative alertness of those nuits blanches , future interrogations by even the most determined and devious institutions were mere child’s play. Indeed, I often went to sleep during them.

In my bedchamber, in the only closet, deep as the room was wide, the tyrant Voo held sway — an enormous well-formed stool, fanned with a bandolier of cartridges, strange drooping epaulets upon his shoulders, and on his helmet an insignia resembling a bolt of broken lightening. He carried a paraffin lamp and a riding crop. My father ignored him, yet acknowledged his presence by telling me not to show fear. The closet door was warped and would not close properly.

The Voo’s tactics were not those of surprise or concealment; indeed, at times he did not seem to know where he was. His drill was routine. Father would read me a final story, kiss me, plump the pillows up, and extinguish the gas jet. Shortly after his leave-taking, the closet door would slowly open and the Voo would emerge with his lamp, turn toward me with perfunctory acknowledgment, then move silently out of the room and down the hall, and I was left waiting, frozen with terror, until he returned from whatever business he was conducting. He generally hurried back in without looking up, returned at once to the closet, and slammed the door.

Needless to say, it took me a very long time to get to even half-asleep, a state which, like half-drunkenness, I came to loathe. Eventually, I learned how to rest without losing consciousness. I occupied myself by singing merrily through the night: ribald folk songs, my own transcriptions of symphonic works, American pop tunes, Christmas carols, and Astingi funeral marches. No song was too sentimental for me.