The Orchids

IF YOU HAD BEEN there you would know the historical dimensions of the I. You would know that teleology begins with satisfaction and crumbles as it crumbles, that it is built upon the swollen hump of a full stomach and that need sucks it down like a collapsing bellows. You would know that the tailor will not forsake his shop, nor the actor his role; that the dentist will not give up his practice, nor the teacher his classes, nor the architect his plans, nor the writer his latest work of art; that the farmer will not avoid his fields, nor the painter his canvas; that the musician will not unstring his violin, the policeman forget his keys, or the shopkeeper lay waste his goods; that these and millions of others will not skip a beat in the maintenance of their quotidian affairs merely because the world is going up in smoke.

This is the catastrophe of the I, that through it we are rooted in place, nailed to professions and careers. Imprisoned in the I, we clothe ourselves in the robes of predictability, cling to our routine like insects on a floating leaf, hold with battered claws to whatever is familiar, and, above all, refuse to see the world even for one moment through a wall of flame.

And so it was the I, the ambitious medical student bent upon the road of science — anxious for his laboratory and his appointment, made whole by a thousand acquisitions, and immersed in the glories of hygiene — who pondered the generous words of the illustrious Dr. Trottman.

In the world beyond his little room a million torches flickered in parade, while drums and bugles swelled in the chorus of the Coming Order. All was to be made clean. All was to be made pure. This was the voice of the future. And yet, the anxious hygienist remained curiously impervious to the rhetoric that roared around him. Having gained some sense of the bestial from his mother’s mutterings and his stepfather’s oily fingers, the fervent student held back from final commitment. Although he listened carefully to the speeches of the Minister of Light and even felt a little tingle of nationalist pride from time to time, still the raging voice and hysterical gesticulation of the Minister struck our hero as insufferably melodramatic. Even worse were the ravings of the Minister of Biology, with his ridiculous, medieval calculations of the width of vermin noses. This was not science. This was politics. And it was between these two huge stones that the ambitious student felt himself to be inescapably wedged. Without politics there could be no opportunity for science. In order to hold forth the pure light of inquiry, he would have to pass through the net of political conformity.

And so our hero stood by the window and watched the world go by. He saw the fat little burghers strap on sleek black pistols and march out into the storm. He saw the red-robed judges bend to the new dimensions of the law. He saw writers reorient their words and poets transform their songs. He saw bakers make cakes in the shape of the Leader’s twisted symbol, and painters regenerate their canvases with flags. In this arena, the little gladiator made his choice.

“Please come in, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sit down, won’t you?”

The first-year medical student sat down and crossed his legs primly.

“What can I do for you?” Dr. Trottman asked.

“I’ve been thinking about things for the past few months.”

“Really? What things?”

“Our first conversation. The one we had before I was admitted. I’ve been thinking quite a lot about that.”

Dr. Trottman nodded. “Yes, I remember. And have you come to some decision?”

“I think that you were right, Dr. Trottman,” Langhof said. “One cannot divorce himself from the great things happening around him.”

Dr. Trottman smiled amiably. “Quite true, Herr Langhof.”

Langhof shifted slightly in his seat. “My point, Dr. Trottman, is that now I would like to ally myself more closely to Nation and People.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I don’t agree with every aspect of the new regime.”

“No one does, of course.”

“Yes. Quite right.”

“How would you like this alliance to be made, Herr Langhof?”

“I think my best position would be in the Special Section,” Langhof said boldly.

Dr. Trottman’s eyes widened. “Special Section? That is somewhat more than mere alliance.”

“I am aware of that.”

“The Special Section is a very elite organization, Herr Langhof. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t doubt the seriousness of your commitment. Believe me, I don’t doubt it. But you see, Herr Langhof, you were never in the Youth Group, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, in most cases only former members of the Youth Group can be considered for the Special Section.”

“I had hoped that you might recommend me, Dr. Trottman. I realize that I have been somewhat negligent in the past. I admit that politics up until now has played only a peripheral part in my life. But now I wish to correct that lapse.”

“I see.”

“Do you think it possible for me to find a place in the Special Section?”

Dr. Trottman stared thoughtfully over the upper rim of his glasses. “Perhaps.”

“That is all I can ask.”

“It is quite a lot,” Dr. Trottman said curtly.

“I don’t mean to be arrogant in my request, Doctor. It’s simply that I am anxious to perform what I now see clearly to be my duty.”

“I’m not offended by your arrogance,” Dr. Trottman said. He smiled. “You are a man of great ability. And you know it. You also know that small matters should not stand in the way of your advancement. That is not arrogance, my dear Langhof, that is virtue.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Dr. Trottman stood up. “Be assured that I will do what I can for you.”

The man of great ability rose quickly to his feet. “I am greatly in your debt, Dr. Trottman.”

Dr. Trottman shook his head resolutely. “You are in no one’s debt, Herr Langhof,” he said. “The world is changing. There is no place for false modesty, for slave moralities. Most certainly, you will learn this in the Special Section.”

“I look forward to it.”

“The eyes of the world are upon us,” Dr. Trottman said stentoriously. “But our eyes are on the stars.”

“You will never have cause to regret doing this for me,” Langhof said.

“I never expect to, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said. He rose from behind his desk, stepped back slightly, and raised his arm rigidly in salute.

Langhof stood transfixed, not with wonder or admiration, but with astonishment. For the gesture, so melodramatic, so ridiculously perfervid, so quintessentially burlesque, was made with such complete seriousness by Dr. Trottman that it was all the ambitious student could do to keep from laughing.

But Dr. Trottman stood completely still, his eyes staring hotly at Langhof. Finally our hero grasped what was expected of him. He brought himself to his full height, clicked his heels together and, as he had seen the others do, raised his arm. They stood for a moment facing each other, the tips of their fingers stretched out to make a triumphal arch over Dr. Trottman’s littered desk.

“You will be hearing from me, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said as he let his arm fall slowly to his side. “I trust the news, when it comes, will be favorable.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good day.”

“Good day, sir.”

And then Langhof, our hero, turned smartly toward the door and marched out, closing it behind him. In the hallway he did not tremble as he had that evening in the park when Anna fled away. Nor did he hear music, martial or otherwise. He did not see a vision of perfect order or fall upon his knees, a stricken, sweating Saul of Tarsus. He did not goose-step down the hall, but merely turned slowly, strolling past the darkened professorial offices with a little smile playing on his lips. And if any thought came to him at all, it was of the laughable gullibility of people, even quite intelligent people like Dr. Trottman. How easy it seemed to charm and beguile them, to use the insufferable silliness of the times and yet rise above it all, trip lightly over it — even as he now tripped down the hall with perfect insouciance.