John Irving - Until I Find You

The waiter—that timely, bouncing fat man—was back to take their orders. Jack’s father unhesitatingly ordered the Wiener schnitzel.

“William, I know how you eat—you can’t possibly eat half of it,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said to him.

“I’m just like Jack with his one beer,” William said. “I don’t have to finish it. And I didn’t order the pommes frites that come with it—just the green salad. Und noch ein Mineralwasser, bitte, ” he told the waiter. Jack was surprised to see that the liter bottle was empty.

“Slow down, William,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said, touching the back of his black-gloved hand. William pulled his hand away from her.

The restaurant was lively, but not too crowded; their reservation was on the early side of when things get really busy at the Kronenhalle, or so the concierge had told Jack. But everyone in the restaurant had recognized Jack Burns. “Look around you, William,” said Dr. von Rohr—her voice as commanding as the silver-gray, lightning-bolt streak in her hair. “Be proud of your famous son.” But William wouldn’t look.

“And all these strangers who recognize Jack can’t help but see that you are his father—they are recognizing you, too, William,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said.

“And what must they be thinking?” William asked. “ ‘There is Jack Burns’s old man with what must be his second or third wife’—that would be you, Ruth,” William said to Dr. von Rohr, “because you’re obviously the older of the two lovely ladies at this table, but you’re clearly not old enough to be Jack’s mother.”

“William, don’t—” Dr. Krauer-Poppe began.

“And what must they be thinking about you, Anna-Elisabeth?” William asked. “ ‘Who is that pretty young woman with the wedding ring? She must be Jack Burns’s date !’ They haven’t figured out the part about Ruth’s overnight bag.”

“Dad—”

“ ‘Pop’!” his father corrected him.

“Let’s just have a normal conversation, Pop.”

“Would that be the sex-with-prostitutes or the Hugo conversation?” William asked. Dr. Krauer-Poppe opened her purse with a snap. “Okay, I’ll stop. I’m sorry, Anna-Elisabeth,” Jack’s dad said.

“I was looking for a tissue, William. I have something in my eye,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “I wasn’t even thinking about your medication; not yet.” She opened a small compact—it held a tiny mirror, no doubt, although Jack’s father couldn’t see it—and dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue.

“Perhaps we could talk about the time we all woke up at two in the morning and watched Jack win the Oscar!” Dr. von Rohr said, taking William’s gloved hand. He looked at her hand holding his as if she were a leper.

“You mean Emma’s Oscar, Ruth?” William asked her. “That screenplay had Emma written all over it. Didn’t it, Jack?”

Jack didn’t respond; he just watched Dr. von Rohr let go of his father’s hand. “When the food comes, William, I’ll help you take those gloves off,” she told him. “It’s better not to eat with them.”

“ Ich muss bald pinkeln, ” Jack’s dad announced. (“I have to pee soon.”)

“I’ll take him,” Jack told the two doctors.

“I think I should come with you,” Dr. von Rohr said.

“ Nein, ” William told her. “We’re boys. We’re going to the boys’ room.”

“Just behave yourself, William,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe warned him. Jack’s dad stuck his tongue out at her as he stood up from the table.

“If you’re not back in a few minutes, I’ll come check on you,” Dr. von Rohr said, touching Jack’s hand.

“Jack, your father cried when you won the Oscar—he cried and he cheered,” Dr. Krauer-Poppe said. “He was so proud of you—he is so proud of you.”

“I just meant that Emma must have helped him,” William said; he was indignant.

“You cried and cheered, William—we all did,” Dr. von Rohr replied.

It slowly registered with Jack, when he was walking with his father to the men’s room—that if they’d watched Jack Burns at the Academy Awards in 2000, his father had been in the Sanatorium Kilchberg for more than three years. No one, not even Heather, had told Jack how long William had been there.

“Of course Emma helped me, Pop,” Jack admitted. “She helped me a lot. ”

“I didn’t mean I wasn’t proud of you, Jack. Of course I’m proud of you!”

“I know you are, Pop.”

In the men’s room, Jack tried to block his father’s view of the mirror, but William planted himself in front of the sink, not the urinal. They did a little dance. William tried to look over Jack’s shoulder at the mirror; when Jack stood on his toes to block his dad’s view, William ducked his head and peered around his son. They danced from side to side. It was impossible to prevent William from seeing himself in the mirror.

If mirrors were triggers, they didn’t affect Jack’s father in quite the same way as the word skin had. This time, he didn’t try to take off his clothes. But with every glimpse he caught of himself, his expression changed.

“Do you see that man?” Jack’s dad asked, when he saw himself. It was as if a third man were in the men’s room with them. “Things have happened to him,” his father said. “Some terrible things.”

Jack gave up trying to shield his dad and looked in the mirror, too. The third man’s face kept changing. Jack saw his father as William might have looked when he first caught sight of Jack as an infant, before the boy’s mother had whisked him away—a kind of expectancy giving way to wonder on William’s suddenly boyish-looking face. Jack saw what his father must have seen in a mirror that day in Copenhagen, when they pulled Niels Ringhof’s body from the Kastelsgraven—or when William learned that Alice had slept with the boy, and then abandoned him.

His dad was slumping in Jack’s arms, as if William wanted to kneel on the men’s room floor—the way he’d dropped to his knees at the waterfront in Rotterdam, when Els had to carry him to Femke’s car. Or when the policeman had brought Heather home—and the cop told William the story of how they’d mistaken Barbara, his dead wife, for a German tourist who looked the wrong way crossing the street at Charlotte Square.

“That man’s body is a map,” William said, pointing at the slumping man in the mirror. “Should we look at the map together, Jack?”

“Maybe later, Pop. Not now.”

“ Nicht jetzt, ” his father agreed.

“You said you had to pee, Pop,” Jack reminded him.

“Oh,” Jack’s father said, stepping away from his son. “I think I have.”

They both looked at his pants. William was wearing khaki trousers with the same pleats and sharply pressed pant legs that Professor Ritter favored, but William’s were stained dark; his feet were standing in a puddle of urine on the floor.

“I hate it when this happens,” his dad said. Jack didn’t know what to do. “Don’t worry, Jack. Dr. von Rohr will be coming to the rescue. What did you think her overnight bag was really for?” William turned abruptly away from the mirror—as if the third man in the mirror had insulted him, or made him feel ashamed.

Seemingly part of his father’s daily schedule, there came a head-of-department knock on the men’s room door. “ Herein! ” William called. (“Come in!”)

Dr. von Rohr’s long arm reached into the men’s room; she was offering Jack her oversize handbag without showing them her face. “ Danke, ” Jack said, taking the bag from her hand.