Mohr Page 12

  “You were in Soochow yesterday, Doctor.”

  Startled, Mohr puts the strudel on a side table and sits down behind his desk. “I was, yes.”

  The policeman smiles, fingers his trim mustache. There are traces of sadness in the man’s red-ringed eyes, something that has been driven assiduously away by regular habits and membership in a club.

  “Visiting friends?”

  Zappe lets out a sudden squawk and begins to peck at the bars of his cage. “No.” Mohr shakes his head. “Just tourism.” How forthcoming should he be? “And a picnic.” He gestures to the chair across the desk. “Please, sit down.”

  The policeman pulls out the chair, sits down. “A pretty little town, Soochow. Used to go there quite often myself.”

  Mohr take out his cigarettes, offers them.

  Stubbings accepts with a polite nod, and produces a shiny silver cigarette lighter. He leans across the desk, lights Mohr’s, then his own. “Let me get right to the point, Doctor.” He plucks a fleck of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. “How well do you know Konrad Granich?”

  Once again, Mohr is startled. “My neighbor from downstairs?”

  The policeman nods.

  “Whom are you following? Me or him?”

  The policeman gives a slight smirk. “I am merely curious to know how well you know him.”

  “Not well at all.”

  “Would you call him a friend?”

  “Not exactly, no. But he’s a likable enough fellow.”

  “So, your little picnic together—” Stubbings picks another fleck of tobacco from his tongue. “It wasn’t a friendly affair?”

  “We met by coincidence, and I invited him to share my lunch.”

  “I understand.” The policeman nods graciously.

  “I’m happy to tell you everything I know about Herr Granich. But I’m afraid it won’t be of much interest.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “A few weeks ago I patched him up. He’d been fairly badly beaten. His nose was broken.”

  “Did he tell you what happened?”

  “He was robbed.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. And I don’t imagine that is why you are interested in him.”

  The policeman squints. “Can you tell me anything else? How he came to you? How you left him?”

  Mohr repeats the story, crushing his cigarette into the ashtray as he finishes.

  “And you didn’t see him again until yesterday in Soochow?”

  “That’s correct. It was pure coincidence.”

  “And you asked him to join you on a picnic?”

  “Correct.”

  “Just like that? May I ask what you talked about during your picnic together?”

  Mohr folds his hands on the desktop. “I can assure you that it was quite banal and uninteresting.”

  “Perhaps, Dr. Mohr. But banalities are precisely what I am most interested in. Did he tell you where he was going? Did he say what he was doing in Soochow?”

  “No.”

  “Did you discuss politics?”

  “Not in the sense you are thinking, no.”

  “Oh, and what sense would that be, Dr. Mohr?”

  “In the police sense, of course. Conspiracies, plots. I’m afraid I can’t tantalize you with anything of the sort, Officer.”

  “So. You talked as fellow countrymen together.” Stubbings smirks again. “The Fatherland, that kind of thing.”

  Mohr does not rise to the bait, and smiles pleasantly. “Let’s say, we spoke as citizens of the world, grateful to be living in the International Settlement under the benevolent protection of the Municipal Council.”

  “Very nicely said, Doctor. I will make a note of your loyal sentiments.”

  “Thank you, Officer Stubbings. Now, if you will excuse me. It has been a long day.”

  The bird squawks. The policeman remains in place. “You know that Granich is a communist, then? A Moscow-trained agent?”

  “I don’t bother with politics or ideologies. I find it all too confusing.”

  “Well, perhaps I can unconfuse you. Have you ever seen a magazine called Voice of China?”

  “No.”

  “It’s printed right here in this building. Downstairs. By Mr. Granich himself, as a matter of fact. Do you remember the Canton uprising in 1927?”

  Mohr shakes his head, a little surprised by the thought of young Granich covertly churning out pamphlets and manifestos just one floor below. “In 1927, Canton could not have been further from my thoughts.” He pries another cigarette from the tin on the desk.

  Stubbings produces his lighter again, fixes Mohr with an appraising look. “I wonder, Dr. Mohr, if we aren’t working at cross-purposes here.”

  “Cross-purposes?”

  “What I mean to say is that, perhaps, our interests are not quite so far apart as you might think.” The policeman stands up and crosses the room to the window, then turns and folds his arms over his narrow chest. “Did you read about the rioting in Chapai yesterday?”

  Mohr shrugs, says nothing, conscious now of lying. In fact, he not only read about the riots but had treated some of the injured who turned up at the hospital.

  “Communist agitators,” Stubbings pronounces. “At the American–Far Eastern Match Company. The riot squad finally restored order. I’m sure I don’t need to get into details. The situation in the city is bad. Very tense. Let’s just say that your picnic yesterday. It’s the timing of it, that’s all.” He stops, as if to let everything settle. “Fourteen people were killed. Many more wounded, Dr. Mohr. Your picnicking friend belongs to a group of terrorists who are planning riots, a whole series, in commemoration of the uprising at Canton in 1927. Not just strikes but military operations, coordinated and supported by the communists.”

  Stubbings jingles his keys in his trouser pockets.

  “Why are you telling me this? Are you looking for an informant?”

  Stubbings laughs. Rash, a little frightening. “So! You are a fan of the cinema, Doctor! I must say, I enjoy a good picture, too.” He shakes his head in mock indulgence. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong. It doesn’t quite work that way. Sorry to disappoint.”

  At last, Mohr loses patience. “What do you want from me?”

  Stubbings flaps his arms. “Nothing at all, Doctor. What you have told me has been quite enough. Very helpful. I appreciate your candor.”

  “Then I’ll see you out. I’m afraid that is all the time I have now. It has been a long day. I still have work to do.”

  “Patients? At this hour?”

  “Just paperwork.”

  As he escorts Stubbings to the door, Wong appears. “Master catchee chow?”

  “Chow? Ah, yes, Wong, yes. Chop chop.”

  “Number One?” Stubbings asks.

  Mohr nods.

  “Working late as well, I see.”

  Mohr lets the remark pass, opens the front door. Stubbings pauses on the threshold. “Keeping up with all the various elements pitching up here in the Settlement is quite an impossible job.” His glance lingers just long enough for Mohr to catch the drift. He offers his card.

  Mohr slides the card into his pocket. “I am sure you are doing your best,” he says, and shuts the door.

  AT THE JAPANESE silk factories in Pootung, children work plucking silk cocoons from boiling vats with their bare hands, and Chen Siu-fang had three burned children in her car with her this morning. She pulled up to the hospital entrance just as Mohr arrived. He helped them out of the car. All three were under ten years old and in various states of shock. One was burned up to the elbow. Agnes was waiting in the emergency room with rolls of tea-soaked lint. For nearly a month now Chen Siu-fang has been driving to Pootung to pick up burned children (and their mothers, if they can be located) and delivering them to the hospital in her car. Agnes explained it to him as they began their rounds together.

  “She fetches them on her way in to work.”

  “Every day?”

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nbsp; Agnes nodded. “Her father gave her a car. He owns hotels.”

  “I wish I had known,” Mohr said under his breath, remembering the wrong impression he’d had of the young woman, a spoiled rich girl.

  Now, back home and reading the newspaper all these hours later, he is still distracted by the events of the day and suddenly recalls the visit from the SMP the night before. Will the police begin following Chen Siu-fang now? It hadn’t occurred to him to make the connection. Should he say something? As much as a desire to help, it was to undo his mistaken judgment that he went looking for Chen-Siu late that afternoon. She was surprised by his offer. “You’re offering me your car?” She looked at Mohr dubiously. “That’s very kind of you. But what I really need is a driver.”

  “You may have my driver, too, of course.” He felt her sizing him up. Even in her nurse’s uniform, she exuded an air of privilege. He extended his hand, and only when she shook it—letting go at once—did he realize how young she was. Once again, he realized how unfairly he’d judged her.

  Shortly after nine o’clock the telephone rings. Mohr hesitates, then picks it up. It is Agnes. “I’m calling to thank you,” she says.

  “Thank me for what?”

  “For your generosity. Chen Siu-fang told me that you are giving her the use of your car and driver.”

  “I wish I had known earlier. I’d not have waited this long to help.” Mohr pauses. “Did she ask you to call me?”

  “No.”

  “You and she are friends?”

  “Yes.”

  There is a brief silence, almost as if she has her hand over the mouthpiece. Old friends? He is about to ask, but Agnes cuts him off. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me the other night. That you are impulsive.”

  Mohr laughs. “I told you that?”

  “I think I misunderstood you.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. I misunderstand myself.”

  “I’m serious.” The sudden tremor in her voice takes him by surprise. He presses the telephone to his ear. “You see, when Chen Siu-fang told me you wanted to help her, I could only think of the offer you made to me.”

  His vision narrows to the circle of lamplight on the cluttered desktop. “To come to Japan?”

  “Can you understand my difficulty?”

  He squeezes his eyes shut, says nothing.

  “I’m sorry. This is embarrassing. Perhaps we should talk another time.”

  “No. Please. Go on. I’m glad you’re telling me this.”

  “I feel stupid. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

  “About Japan. Your difficulty.”

  The sound of a match being struck, a cigarette being lit, relieves some tension. He reaches for his Chesterfields. “I don’t quite know how to say this.” She exhales. “When Chen Siu-fang told me you’d offered her the use of your car and driver, I suddenly realized something I hadn’t understood before.” A nervous puff. “It’s the occasion. That’s it. The occasion.”

  “I don’t follow. Which occasion?”

  “What I mean to say is, well, when you offer your car—or a steamship ticket to Japan—a person has a right to ask, why is he doing this? When it’s charity there’s no question. A person gives when they are moved by some reason to give. The occasion of the gift is irrelevant. Nobody thinks twice about it.”

  “And you want to know why I asked you to come to Japan with me.”

  “I think I have a right to ask.”

  Mohr taps his cigarette ash. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know or won’t say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A long exhale. He can see the great cloud of blue smoke rising into the air above her head, the telephone pressed to her ear. “I believe you, Dr. Mohr.”

  “It’s my honest answer.”

  “You know why I have to ask, don’t you?” Her voice is suddenly different, completely changed, a tone she has never used before.

  He is shaken by her nervous frankness, the dropped pretense. “Can you tell me?”

  “I have to know that there is a difference between the use of your car and an invitation to go away with you to Japan.”

  Mohr is ashamed, and rolls the ember of his cigarette in the little ashtray, searching for the right words. “It’s not all the same.” He hesitates, still caught short, then finishes in a rush. “My invitation was sincere. I’m sorry if it came across the wrong way. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking of you at all but only of myself.”

  A long pause. “I prefer to believe you didn’t know what you were doing.” There is a hint of humor in her voice now. She seems pleased to have arrived at a new level of intimacy.

  “I have embarrassed you, and I am very sorry.”

  “You have no idea how glad I am to know that, Doctor.”

  What’s this? She’s pleased? It’s an odd position he suddenly finds himself in; can’t say what it reminds him of. Being Chinese and English, she must be keenly sensitive to every slight and insult. As a German and a Jew, he has some insight into the self-negating nature of this odd dialectic, a potent admixture of inferiority and superiority complexes muddled and mixed together—not at all noble or easy to live down. He imagines her at the other end of the line smoking her cigarette, wrapped in something luxurious and silky, with the radio turned down and cosmetics strewn about the table. Now that she has him wondering, he is more drawn to her than ever. Her frank way of speaking, leaving him to make connections. He’s glad she is taking him to task, and feels suddenly pardoned for the anserine introversion that has kept him home night after night, burrowing into himself.

  For an hour after Agnes’s telephone call he paces his room, stands at the window with Zappe on his shoulder, smokes. He misses seeing the stars, makes do with the flickering, blinking neon of the city. Sleep has been difficult lately. Tonight there seems no chance of it at all. He returns to the desk, touches fingertips to the keys of his sturdy Remington—and waits. When nothing comes, he sits back and stares at the cluttered desk as if hidden there are clues to what is inaccessible in his thoughts.

  Before turning in for the night, Wong brings him a pitcher of water and a small bowl of rice, egg, and diced green onion. Mohr sips the water but can’t bring himself to touch the food. No appetite. On the desk is a collection of Lawrence’s writings called Phoenix, just published in America. He and Lawrence had often discussed the phoenix myth, and he’s been thinking of ways to make use of it in the novel he has just returned to. It’s been a slow return, and he has doubts. Can a novel called The Unicorn also have a phoenix? Would too many mythological creatures in the same book be overbearing? But why shouldn’t a book be overbearing? What should a book be, if not overbearing?

  “I don’t much care for it,” he can hear Lawrence saying. It is what Lawrence said of all his work; claimed it “too modern” and himself “too altmodish.” Everything Lawrence said to him has become grist for a counterturning millstone, his works in progress. After the conversation with Nagy, he decided to resume work on the book, and in spite of Lawrence breathing down his neck—he has gone ahead and done it, put a phoenix into his novel.

  How old-fashioned.

  He picks up the camera lying at the corner of the desk, recalling his little outburst in the photo shop; turns it over in his hands, wipes the lens with the end of his shirt. Does he think of Wolfsgrub only in pictures now? Views through the trees, the house far below. Unlike the resurrected phoenix—es scheint nicht wiederrufbar— appears beyond recall—there is so much to recall, and so many photographs to pick over, leftovers of long-forgotten moments.

  The clock on the wall is ticking, but he couldn’t be less concerned with the time. His thoughts always seem to run counterclockwise to events, to spin off in a different direction. That’s how it feels now—trying to write once again. There’s no hurry. Tomorrow always comes soon enough. Käthe always said that when he seemed in a rush—buzzing around, in Lawrence’s words—and usually suggested they go for a walk.
She would fetch the perambulator and wrap the baby up, tuck it in, and they’d set out on the usual route across the valley toward Angermaier, Käthe pushing the carriage. Along the way, Mohr would stop here and there to frame a photograph—then decide not to take it. The real buzzing years began in 1927, the year he met Lawrence, and five years after Improvisations in June. Money remained the big problem. Publishers blamed the economy, said they couldn’t advance, though they continued to publish. Theater producers claimed to be on the verge of bankruptcy, yet the theaters were full, night after night. Then came Ramper. Simultaneous openings in Hamburg, Mainz, Bochum, Karlsruhe. A hit! Now, suddenly, everybody wanted something from him. A radio play. A film script. A short article for the Berliner Börsen Courier. “Something short,” the editor suggested. “‘What Does the Public Want from the Theater?’”

  “I can tell you in two words. Free tickets!”

  People urged him, “Come to Berlin!”

  “I can’t come to Berlin.”

  “Mensch! Mohr! Are you crazy? You must come to Berlin. You’re completely out of touch. Now’s your big chance.”

  The words rang in his ears, appalling and appealing, in nearly equal measure. For a time he was able to ignore the temptation. The years in the country had done Käthe and him both good—physically, emotionally. He cut his own wood, mowed his own field, kept a cow and sheep. He delivered babies, treated ailments, vaccinated the neighbors and their animals. He helped pull broken machinery out of muddy fields and delivered intoxicated men home to their wives—had been brought home drunk himself once or twice with slaps on the back and much laughter. The war slipped into the past. Life was quiet and good. He wrote plays and they were produced. He wrote novels and somehow they got published.

  But then he began to feel restless. Difficult to say exactly when. The friendship with Lawrence accelerated it. He still doesn’t understand why, except to say that Lawrence acted on him like a leavening agent that made everything seem urgent, more vital. Lawrence even noticed it himself. “You must learn to be more peaceful inside yourself or one day you’ll just explode like a rocket and there will be nothing left but bits,” he wrote to Mohr. “My cough, like your restlessness, is a good deal psychological in its origin. A real change might cure us both.”