Mother Night

36: Everything But the Squeals ...

'If only it weren't illustrated!' I said to Wirtanen angrily.

'That makes a difference?' he said.

'It's a mutilation!' I said. 'The pictures are bound to mutilate the words. Those words weren't meant to have pictures with them! With pictures, they aren't the same words!'

He shrugged. 'It's pretty much out of your control, I'm afraid,' he said, 'unless you want to declare war on Russia.'

I closed my eyes windingly. 'What is it they say in the Chicago Stockyards about what they do to a pig?'

'I don't know,' said Wirtanen.

'They boast that they find a use for everything about a pig but his squeal,' I said.

'So?' said Wirtanen.

'That's how I feel right now — ' I said, 'Take a pig that's been taken apart, who's had experts find a use for every part. By God — I think they even found a use for my squeal! The part of me that wanted to tell the truth got turned into an expert liar! The lover in me got turned into a pornographer, The artist in me got turned into ugliness such as the world has rarely seen before.'

'Even my most cherished memories have now been converted into catfood, glue and liverwurst!' I said.

'Which memories are those?' said Wirtanen. 'Of Helga — my Helga.' I said, and I wept 'Resi killed those, in the interests of the Soviet Union. She made me faithless to those memories, and they can never be the same again.'

I opened my eyes. 'F — all,' I said quietly. 'I suppose the pigs and I should feel honored by those who proved our usefulness. I'm glad about one thing — '

'Oh?' said Wirtanen.

'I'm glad about Bodovskov,' I said. 'I'm glad somebody got to live like an artist with what I once had. You said he was arrested and tried?'

'And shot,' said Wirtanen.

'For plagiarism?' I said.

'For originality,' said Wirtanen. 'Plagiarism is the silliest of misdemeanors. What harm is there in writing what's already been written? Real originality is a capital crime, often calling for cruel and unusual punishment in advance of the coup de gr?ce.'

'I don't understand,' I said.

'Your friend, Kraft-Potapov, realized that you were the author of a lot of things Bodovskov claimed to have written,' said Wirtanen. 'He reported the facts to Moscow. Bodovskov's villa was raided. The magic trunk containing your writings was discovered under straw in the loft in his stable.'

'So?' I said.

'Every word by you in that trunk had been published,' said Wirtanen.

'And — ?' I said.

'Bodovskov had begun to replenish the trunk with magic of his own,' said Wirtanen. 'The police found a two-thousand-page satire on the Red Army, written in a style distinctly un-Bodovskovian. For that un-Bodovskovian behavior, Bodovskov was shot.

'But enough of the past!' said Wirtanen. 'Listen to what I've got to tell you about the future. In about half an hour,' he said, looking at his watch, 'Jones' house is going to be raided. The place is surrounded now. I wanted you out of there, since it's going to be a complicated enough mess as it is.'

'Where do you suggest I go?' I said.

'Don't go back to your flat,' he said. 'Patriots have taken the place apart. They'd probably take you apart, too, if they caught you there.'

'What's going to happen to Resi?' I said.

'Deportation is all,' said Wirtanen. 'She hasn't committed any crimes.'

'And Kraft?' I said.

'A good long stretch in prison,' he said. 'That's no shame. I think he'd rather go to prison than home anyway.'

'The Reverend Lionel J. D. Jones, D.D.S., D.D.,' said Wirtanen, 'will go back to prison for illegal possession of firearms and whatever else of a straightforward criminal nature we can pin on him. Nothing is planned for Father Keeley, so I imagine he'll drift back to Skid Row again. The Black Fuehrer will be set adrift again, too.'

'And the Iron Guardsmen?' I said.

'The Iron Guardsmen of the White Sons of the American Constitution,' said Wirtanen, 'are going to get an impressive lecture on the illegality in this country of private armies, murder, mayhem, riots, treason, and violent overthrow of the government. They'll be sent home to educate their parents, if such a thing is possible.'

He looked at his watch again. 'You'd better go now get clear out of the neighborhood.'

'Can I ask who your agent in Jones house is?' I said. 'Who was it that slipped the note into my pocket, telling me to come here?'

'You can ask,' said Wirtanen, 'but you must surely know I won't tell you.'

'You don't trust me to that extent?' I said.

'How could I ever trust a man who's been as good a spy as you have?' said Wirtanen. 'Hmm?'