Kurt Vonnegut - Mother Night

'You are a professional writer?' he said.

'Some say so,' I said.

'Tell me — ' he said, 'do you set a certain time of day aside for writing, whether you feel like it or not — or do you wait for inspiration to strike, night or day?'

'A schedule,' I said, remembering back so many years.

I got some of his respect back. 'Yes, yes — ' he said, nodding, 'a schedule. That's what I've found, too. Sometimes I simply stare at a blank sheet of paper, but I still sit here and stare at it for the whole period I've set aside for work. Does alcohol help?'

'I think it only seems to — and only seems to for about half an hour,' I said. This, too, was an opinion from my youth.

Eichmann made a joke. 'Listen — ' he said, 'about those six million — '

'Yes?' I said.

'I could spare you a few for your book,' he said. 'I don't think I really need them all.'

I offer this joke to history, on the assumption that no tape recorder was around. This was one of the memorable quips of the bureaucratic Genghis Khan.

It's possible that Eichmann wanted me to recognize that I had killed a lot of people, too, by the exercise of my fat mouth. But I doubt that he was that subtle a man, man of as many parts as he was. I think, if we ever got right down to it, that, out of the six million murders generally regarded as his, he wouldn't lend me so much as one. If he were to start farming out all those murders, after all, Eichmann as Eichmann's idea of Eichmann would disappear.

The guards took me away, and the only other encounter I had with the Man of the Century was in the form of a note, smuggled mysteriously from his prison in Tel Aviv to mine in Jerusalem. The note was dropped at my feet by a person unknown in the exercise yard here. I picked it up, read it, and this is what it said:

'Do you think a literary agent is absolutely necessary?' The note was signed by Eichmann.

My reply was this: 'For book club and movie sales in the United States of America, absolutely.'

We would fly to Mexico City — Kraft, Resi, and I. That became the plan. Dr. Jones would not only provide us with transportation, he would provide us with a reception committee in Mexico City as well

From Mexico City we would go exploring by automobile, would seek some secret village in which to spend the rest of our days.

The plan was surely as charming a daydream as I had had in many a day. And it seemed not only possible but certain that I would write again.

Shyly, I told Resi so.

She wept for joy. For real joy? Who knows. I can only guarantee that her tears were wet and salty.

'Did I have anything to do with this lovely, this heavenly miracle?' she said.

'Everything,' I said, holding her close.

'No, no — very little — ' she said, 'but some — thank God, some. The big miracle is the talent you were born with.'

'The big miracle,' I said, 'is your power to raise the dead.'

'Love does that,' she said. 'And it raised me, too. How alive do you think I was — before?'

'Shall I write about it?' I said. 'In our village there in Mexico, on the rim of the Pacific — is that what I should write first?'

'Yes — yes, oh yes — darling, darling,' she said. 'I'll take such good care of you while you do it. Will — will you have any time for me?'

'The afternoons and the evenings and the nights,' I said. 'That's all the time I'll be able to give you.'

'Have you decided on a name yet?' she said.

'Name?' I said.

'Your new name — the name of the new writer whose beautiful works come mysteriously out of Mexico,' she said. 'I will be Mrs — .'

'Se?ora' I said.

'Se?ora who?' she said. 'Se?or and Se?ora who?'

'Christen us,' I said.

'It's too important for me to decide right away,' she said.

Kraft came in at this point

Resi asked him to suggest a pseudonym for me.

'What about Don Quixote?' he said. 'That,' he said to Resi, 'would make you Dulcinea del Toboso, and I would sign my paintings Sancho Panza.'

Dr. Jones now came in with Father Keeley. 'The plane will be ready tomorrow morning,' he said. 'You're sure you'll be well enough to travel?'

'I'm well enough right now,' I said.

'The man who will meet you in Mexico City is Arndt Klopfer,' said Jones. 'Can you remember that?'

'The photographer?' I said.

'You know him?' said Jones.

'He took my official photograph in Berlin,' I said.

'He's the biggest brewer in Mexico now,' said Jones.

'For God's sake,' I said. 'The last I heard, his studio got hit with a five-hundred-pound bomb.'

'You can't keep a good man down,' said Jones. 'Now then — Father Keeley and I have a special request to make of you.'

'Oh?' I said.

'Tonight is the weekly meeting of the Iron Guard of the White Sons of the Constitution,' said Jones. 'Father Keeley and I want to stage some sort of memorial service for August Krapptauer.'

'I see,' I said.

'Father Keeley and I don't think we could deliver the eulogy without breaking down,' said Jones. 'It would be a terrible emotional ordeal for either one of us. We wonder if you, a very famous speaker, a man with a golden tongue, if I may say so — we were wondering if you would accept the honor of saying a few words.'

I could hardly refuse. 'Thank you, gentlemen,' I said. 'A eulogy?'

'Father Keeley thought up a general theme, if that would help,' said Jones.

'It would help a lot, a general theme would,' I said. 'I could certainly use one.'

Father Keeley cleared his throat. 'I think the theme should be,' that addled old cleric said, 'His Truth Goes Marching On'

The Iron Guard of the White Sons of the American Constitution assembled on ranks of folding chairs in the furnace room of Dr. Jones' basement. The guardsmen were twenty in number, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty. They were all blond. They were all over six feet tall.

They were neatly dressed, wore suits and white shirts and neckties. All that identified them as guardsmen was a little piece of gold ribbon run through the buttonhole of the right lapel of each.

I would not have noticed this odd detail of buttonholes on the right lapels, lapels that conventionally have no buttonholes, if Dr. Jones hadn't pointed it out to me.

'It's a way they have of identifying each other, even though the ribbon isn't worn,' he said. 'They can see their ranks growing,' he said, 'without anybody else noticing it.'

'They all have to take their coats to tailors and insist on buttonholes in the right lapel?' I said.

'The mothers do it,' said Father Keeley.

Keeley, Jones, Resi, and I were sitting on a raised platform facing the guardsmen, our backs to the furnace. Resi was on the platform because she had agreed to say a few words to the boys about her firsthand experiences with communism behind the Iron Curtain.

'Most tailors are Jews,' said Dr. Jones. 'We don't want to tip our hand.'

'Besides — ' said Father Keeley, 'it's good for the mothers to participate.'

Jones chauffeur, The Black Fuehrer of Harlem, was now on the platform with us, hanging a big canvas sign behind us, tying its grommeted ends to steam pipes.

This is what it said:

'Get plenty of education. Lead your class in all things. Keep your body clean and strong. Keep your opinions to yourself.'

'These are neighborhood kids?' I asked Jones.

'Oh, no,' said Jones, 'Only eight of them are even from New York City. Nine are from New Jersey, two are from Peekskill — the twins — and one comes all the way from Philadelphia.'

'Every week he comes from Philadelphia?' I said.

'Where else can he get what August Krapptauer was offering here?' said Jones.