The Berlin Connection (2 page)

The dead guU's eyes looked at me as if to say: blasphemer, liar, scoundrel.

I looked away quickly.

Passing the desk I walked to the fireplace. A photograph of Shirley stood on the mantel. The desk was heaped high with coins, paper money, bills, paper and a script.

JORKOS PRODUCTIONS

presents

PETER JORDAN IN

COME BACK

The drawing-room walls were decorated with faintly shimmering silk in cardmal red and gold stripes. The fragile baroque chairs were upholstered with the same honey-colored damask which had been used for the drapes. A single Chinese rug lay on the cardinal red carpeting. Old prints decorated the walls.

The color photograph in the silver frame was Shirley's portrait. Her skin a golden tan, flawless, so smooth, so young! The shining auburn hair, pulled back into a ponytail and forward over her right shoulder. The nose was narrow, the mouth generous. The green eyes below

black brows. Her womanly appearance belied that little-girl voice.

Nineteen years old!

I was almost twice her age. What I had done, what I was still intending to do was not only a criminal offense in the eyes of the lawmakers, it was pure insanity. My wife's friends spoke of Shirley with admiration, mixed with envy.

"You have such a grown-up daughter—-and still so innocent, so untouched."

"I have watched her. She never flirts. She doesn't take any interest in men."

"You are so lucky, Joan. My Ramona is only fifteen. I dare not even think what she does."

"Mary ran away from home when she was seventeen, you know. Youth today is spoiled rotten. Shirley seems like a miracle. You really are very fortunate, Joan."

And then my wife would say, "If only she would get along a Uttle better with my husband. She still loves her father. She just can't forgive me for marrying again ..."

I stood motionless before Shirley's picture. And silently I said to her, "You cannot have this child. It is the last sacrifice I ask you to make. Soon I wiU be free. Soon aU the world can know that we love each other. Then we shall have a child, a child bom of love, I promise. And we shall live in peace, you and I."

"No," I heard her say suddenly. Through the raging of the storm the high voice held a note of infinite sadness. In my growing confusion I heard the same words she had spoken on that hot summer day in my bungalow, in my arms, naked, drained of passion yet aware of guilt, "We win never be at peace because we do nothing to end this sin. God does not forgive that."

"God! God! Must you always talk about Him?"

"It's easy for you, you don't beUeve in Him."

That was correct. From what I could see it must be pretty awful to beUeve in Him. Poor Shirley. Incensed, I

said, "You said if two people love each other He forgives them everything!" "

"Not if they do not repent. .."

"Shirley!"

"God won't forgive us because He doesn't love us, He can't love us any more . . ."

Now, how about Shirley's God? I heard her voice, "Paddy, I'm going to have a child . . ."

And this child was not permitted to live.

Dimly I heard Shirley say those words I had forbidden her to speak. "It is murder. If I do that I'm a murderess."

A murderess who believed in God and suffered—did she not live in the heart of Christianity? Who could know more about sin? Who could suffer greater pangs of conscience than a murderess who was a pious Christian? Didn't God have to forgive her before all others?

I could not stand to look at Shirley's picture any longer. Turning away I saw Joan's photograph, also on the mantel. Obviously it had been necessary to display a photo of my wife as well. The public relations department sold me to the news media as a happy family man.

Joan hardly showed her forty-seven years. First I loved my mother and then a woman so much older than I. Analysts make much of that.

Joan's figure was still that of a young girl. She had had her face lifted and the skin was smooth and without wrinkles—^but only the skin of her face. The operation had been responsible for that. I always thought of it whenever I touched Shirley's skin.

Joan wears her brown hair close to her head, tips pulled forward over her temples, two soft waves rise from her forehead. One could still see that she had been very beautiful. She was apparently still desirable—^I sometimes noticed at parties how other men looked at her. She smiled at me from the photograph. I stepped to one side. The brown eyes followed me. I had never noticed that be-

fore. I took another step and still my wife's eyes followed, smiling and guileless.

Smiling innocently?

Were these eyes unsuspecting? Was my wife without suspicion? What if she already knew and was just biding her time until she could revenge herself for the hurt I had caused her? Joan's eyes were ... Were they merely laughing or were they mocking me?

"If only she could get along a little better with my husband . .."

"So innocent, so untouched ..."

"God does not love us. How, then, could we be happy?"

My eyes were wandering aimlessly around the room. Shirley's eyes. Joan's eyes. The prints on the walls. Windows. Shirley. Joan. The evil eyes of the dead seagull. Suddenly everything was revolving around me, and then an invisible giant fist seemed to strike the pit of my stomach.

Without warning, from one breath to the next, burning hot and yet icy cold it struck with brutal force. So strong was the impact I folded like a pocketknife and collapsing, fell sideways into a chair standing near the fireplace. Now one overpowering thought was in my mind which made me panic, shook me as I collapsed. I thought, no, I knew: I was dying.

I died of a coronary. Now the end had come.

What I felt was my dying; this thing rising in my body was my death. The terrifying giant fist began to climb higher and higher, closer to the heart.

"Arr . . . Arr.. . ." From far away I could hear myself groan, gasping for air, in vain. I pressed my two hands to my body to prevent the deadly effect of this fist.

But it rose.

The room was swimming, out of focus. My wife, Shirley, looked at me, disappeared, looked at me again.

The fist had reached the first pair of ribs. It continued rising, without haste, without pity. It had already left behind a partial corpse! Feet, thighs, hips, abdomen. Ahead of it, it forced the little life which remained in my body, breath, veins, blood: Blood which now began to throb violently in my fingers, in my temples, in my ears.

I was panting. Fighting for air, my body was horribly contorted. The heels were dug into the carpeting, the shoulder blades into the chair.

"Fm ... dying ..."

I heard myself babble. At that moment this terrible giant fist, which did not exist but nevertheless was killing me, reached my heart. Like a flood fear enveloped my brain and paralyzed it.

Fear!

I had never known such fear. Fear such as this had evaded my imagination.

I knew what it was to be afraid when a film studio went up in flames and I had been trapped by the grid and the flood and spotlights. I thought it was fear I felt when, at fifteen, I saw my poor mother suffocate in minutes from the tumor in her throat. Near Aachen one of our B-52's mistakenly bombed us when the wind shifted and blew away the demarcation smoke signals. A jet taking me to Mexico, through a malfunctioning of its automatic pilot, fell thirty thousand feet before the pilot could control it. In all those moments I was convinced no one in this world could have ever felt greater fear.

Fear?

I had not really known fear. Now I knew. Now true, real fear spread over me, paralyzed my limbs, robbed me of my ability to see and hear.

The fist opened. Its fingers closed around my heart and squeezed. I screamed in despair but surely no one could

hear me; the storm raged and would drown out all screams.

Now. Now. Now.

Now came death.

But death did not come. Not yet.

The fist released my heart; I could feel it slowly sinking below the ribs and coming to rest in the pit of my stomach. There it stayed, insidious, certain of me.

I felt my heart beating furiously. I felt its beat in my back, my toes, my tongue.

When would the fist attack again? When would the fear return? Both of them were inside me, terrifying intruders. I was still alive. For how long? Who could bear waiting for death like this? No one. No one on this earth.

A doctor. I had to have a doctor.

I had hardly thought that when I heard myself groan, "No..."

Whatever happened, no doctor must see me in this condition. No doctor. Not now. Shirley's green eyes were looking at me, hypnotizing me, imploring me.

All would be finished if a doctor were to examine me now, our love damned and my opportunity lost: my last chance, here in Germany, here, in this storm-whipped city.

No, Shirley, no.

No doctor.

Whisky.

The word rekindled life in me. Choking greed for alcohol filled me. I needed whisky, good blessed Scotch, as my saviour. I could smell it, taste it, feel it flowing down my throat, smoky and wonderful, dissolving the giant fist, making it disappear.

-^ Whisky!

My legs felt unsteady. I staggered to the bedroom.

Whisky, yes.

It was just Shirley's call. The scare. Too much alcohol the night before. The storm. The early morning. Everything else but not death. I didn't need a doctor. I would make that film. I could play my part. I would play my part.

The key!

I had already thrown open the door of the closet and grabbed the black leather travel bag when I remembered the key. The bag had a lock. The key was in my tuxedo.

I dragged myself, still terribly weak, to the chair where the evening before I had carelessly thrown my clothes. The trousers fell on the carpet, the jacket, too. I had to bend down. Blood shot to my head. The key, damn it, where was the key? My shaking hands emptied the pockets, coins, bills, cigarettes. There was the key. I staggered back to the bag.

There had been a time (fortunately it had passed), when it was said of me in Hollywood that I was a drunkard. What was said then was that I had been drinking for twenty years, since I could not get any work.

The talk had died down during the past two years. No one now could say I was drinking. No one had ever seen me drink, not even Joan, not even Shirley. I had been drinking more than ever these last two years—^but secretly, only secretly. I hid the bottles so well no one could find them. I knew Joan and Shirley mistrusted me, had been searching for my whisky for years, simply because they could not believe my abstinence. They were not looking any more. Now they were proud of me for having broken this habit.

Whenever I traveled I carried my black bag. A store in Boston had made it for me according to my design. There were partitions on either side which could be locked. Whisky and soda bottles fitted into those partitions pre-

venting the bottles from moving, rattling, breaking. The bag had as well a large thermos bottle which I filled with ice cubes. Even if I ordered only one single drink I could always get sufi&cient water and ice.

I was always well supphed: on trains and planes, cars, motor boats, hotels. This way I could drink more than ever.

The bag was an integral part of me, and it never left me. I always had to keep it locked, especially in hotels. The employees were always rummaging through everything. But not through my bag. No, Peter Jordan did not drink any more.

I opened the zipper. Two empty soda bottles, an empty thermos, an empty whisky bottle. During the night I had drunk everything.

6

Immediately I felt the fist again. If I didn't get any whisky—^whamm!!!

I was freezing, my teeth were chattering. It seemed to me as if the storm was becoming louder, terribly loud. No one could bear this, this awful storm, the terrible fist, this empty bottle of Scotch.

There was still a half-filled glass on the bedside table.

I left the open bag and walked to the bed, yes, I could walk now, and gulped down the warm flat whisky. It stayed with me only a few seconds. I just reached the bathroom.

Gasping, I stood before the mirror, rinsed with mouthwash and, trying to splash Eau de Cologne on my face, dropped the bottle. It broke in the washbasin. I saw myself in the mirror. The black hair soaked with perspiration stuck to my head. The face was a dark purpUsh color; brownish rings circled the eyes. Breathing heavily, I sud-

denly turned deathly white and patchy. The lips remained black. Sweat ran into the eyes, the mouth gaped, the tongue was blue. No imagination could conceive of a worse face than this face, which belonged to me: me, once the Sunny Boy of the New World, the most celebrated and famous child star of all times.

PETER JORDAN, AMERICA'S UNFORGETTABLE CHILD STAR.

No, there was nothing now to link me with this laughing character on the magazine frontpage, with this handsome dashing man and his cheesecake smile, his playboy beauty. To think that the face in the mirror had made millions, untold millions a quarter of a century ago!

The fist rose. It stopped at the second pair of ribs.

I went back to the drawing room. I opened the door and pressed the bell for the floor waiter. Then I closed the drapes in the bedroom. He must not see how I looked. I switched off the lamps, too. The light in the drawing room and bathroom was sufficient. I pulled the covers up to my neck. There he was already.

"Come in."

He entered the drawing room, smiling and young, the best trained employee of a luxury hotel. He stayed by the door, didn't look at me, looking into space, spoke politely without emphasis, "Good morning, Mr. Jordan. Would you like to order breakfast now?"

Third pair of ribs. Second pair of ribs. Third pair of ribs. I could not talk. But I had to. "Breakfast.. . yes . . ."

"Tea or coffee?"

Second pair of ribs. Third. Second.

"Cof . . . coffee ..."

"A five-minute egg?"

"Yes . . ." No one must know that I was ill. My secret. Or I would not get this film.

"Thank you, Mr. Jordan."

In my agitation, I reached for the little cross of gold on the bedside table. I pressed it and turned it in my hands.