John Hawkes - The Cannibal

The world was growing dimmer for Jutta, the crisis was at hand, her hold on her knees was precarious and sharp. Whether or not she was responsible, she had her weakness, physical and perhaps beyond control, and it made her guilty of disease while the calcium continued to dribble away from the cold, well-bred bones. And despite her praiseworthy nature, her determination, she did fear Superior. Behind all her plotted good intentions, behind her adoration of the East and worship of people in the abstract, the fear always remained, fear of mother, fear of being nursed, fear of Superior. The light was flowing out of the bunker , there was nothing more to do except wait for the final unadmitted illusion to disappear, nothing to think of, no one to dislike, no one she needed to love. The little stone-like bumps were hard and rough under her fingers, the hair was straight into her eyes.

“I didn’t really want to do it, Superior,” the voices were drawing closer with short unpleasant sobs, “I never really wanted to, it was all a mistake, I’m sorry, truly sorry, sorry,” and Jutta heard them falling in terror into the slovenly captivity of forgiveness, heard the voices folding into submission. Superior would cross each name, that night, off from the human list. What was it? Yes, she scorned the heroes on die Heldenstrasse , they were forgiven, blessed and posed. She would not put on her Sunday shoes to walk that street. But she could not see Superior, she could not, and surely the grey waters of hell would drown her for that treachery, that fear.

The shadows were cold, her hands were unfeeling with numbness. The Oberleutnant , warm and restless, tossed off the covers, thought of silken hair and fiery eyes.

Suddenly the light vanished, faster than the moon could be covered with clouds, and the dark angel stood in the doorway cutting off the candlelight from the outside world. The waters opened at the feet of the girl, Superior opened her warm heart, ready to receive the remnants of another mortal. The throat tightened, pulled, and at that moment she heard the General calling, calling from the great room of feasting, “Where is the railroad station, the railroad station?” and he was laughing.

“Child,” the woman stayed in the doorway, half in the hall, half inside, “are you ready to open your heart to the Heavenly Father? Are you ready to be insured of safe flight from the pit of everlasting day and weariness? Now is the time to atone.” Superior’s voice was loud, was always the same whether she was talking to the well or ill, was always clear and harsh. “Now is the time to abandon the wicked man of your soul, now you may come to my arms.” She remained rigidly blocking the light. “Child, have you prepared your confession?”

Surely if she lived she would end up a civil official after all, entrusted and forced to take down, patiently, Superior’s documents of condemnation. She felt a small, cold throbbing under her arm.

“No.” She did not think, but answered dumbly, out of the deathbed. “No. I have nothing to confess, absolutely nothing, nothing.” She was talking back to Gerta, telling her brothers to leave her alone, for she was cold and tired. “Nothing to say to you, Superior,” and relaxing her grasp, she slipped from the cot, a rude, black, invalidated heap.

The Oberleutnant , disturbed by the voices, threw on his trousers and trudged angrily upstairs. This sort of thing had to stop.

Ernie was so small now, propped helplessly in bed, fever and chill making his face now comical, now cruel and saintlike. He was a puppet with two masks and it was up to Stella, weary, to change them as he bid. He had become as bothersome and old as all unhealthy people, but he loved, in the agonizing undramatic last moments of his life, to swallow the thick medicine and make bitter faces. Stella heard from the sentry, who was still posted at the door of the General’s empty estate, that the illness was spreading all through the city. He told her rumors of deaths, widespread prostitution, and of imminent victory. “At least,” she thought to herself, “dear Ernst is not the only one.” The valises were still unpacked and lay crookedly, uncertainly, at the foot of his bed. “He looks,” thought Stella, “as if he had a toothache,” and indeed the patient’s cheeks were swollen and inflamed at the sides of his thin white face. His coat collar was turned up about his throat, it was better to put him straight to bed, even fully dressed. Everywhere Stella moved, he still called, and though his face was turned away, the voice in the depths of his chest, she felt him holding on to her with his last breath of grace. She hadn’t even time to wash, the windows were still boarded up, the furniture, except the pile he lay upon, was still in the basement. For the first time since her love on the mountain, she began to realize that he was a fencer in the clouds, stuck through, finally, with a microscopic flu. The room was dark and close as sickrooms are, but the evening chill and ageless year round dampness made it more like an underground aid station. Holding her breath she leaned over the averted face, pulled it to position, pushed the sugar-grimed spoon between the lips, and straightened with a long sigh.

Stella didn’t know what she would do with him when he died. All at once the problem was overwhelming, his remains would hang around for weeks. The idea of disposal seemed so remote and impossible. Surely the man who took care of such things would be long out of business, where could she turn? If only the body would fly away with the soul, but, no, it would linger on, linger on here in this very room. “He doesn’t look at all,” she thought, “like the man I married in the garden.” Where is the railroad station? She helped him through each physical minute, becoming more impatient as he coughed and turned. Suddenly it struck her that this was not old Herman’s son, and now she was nursing a stranger, not even a ward of the State. “Dear Ernst,” she thought, “you look just like Father.”

Every time he opened his eyes, he saw her there, warm, beautiful, efficient. The very breath of the flowers on her shoulder brought new life. When she sat on the bed, one soft dark knee upon the other, one thin elbow pushing gently against her bosom, holding the lovely head, all lofty desire was his, he was in the presence of the white lady of the other world. Ah, to die no longer with the fire but with the dove. The first stages of death took energy, the last mere confidence. The closer she bent with the spoon in her hand, the warmer he felt, the farther he flew.

“Stella?”

“Yes, Ernst?”

“Isn’t it time for the black pills?”

Immediately she brought the bottle.

“Herman, stay away,” he thought. “The old man must not come back, the wonderful peace of being waited on must not be broken. The corrupter’s prime agent should not be allowed out of the war, but should stay forever and ever in some black hole away from the gracious light of Heaven. The maiden voyage of the star, all hands accounted for, safely arrived into the sky. At last to be able to do something alone, without old Snow there to beat the other fellow’s back.” The dreams arose more vividly, he forgot the star. “Those were fearful times with the old man filled with wrath. Oh, no, that demon could not possibly come back to plague my end, to expect to be welcomed home at such a precarious, serious time.” Ernst channeled himself once more into the soft light, the medicine smelled as sweet as the valorpetals, without the demon’s horned masterful voice intruding.

“He flicked his eyes open and shut once,” Stella later told the guard.

“Stella.” He called again, “Stella, in the carpetbag, he’s there, somewhere near the bottom, get him, please.”