The Orchids

THE BOW of the canoe gently skirts the bank, bumping it slightly, and I take the rope and tie it to the tree beside the water. Across the river I can see the first hint of dawn, a soft, bluish light that fades into blackness above the mountain ridges. Far to the south, El Presidente squirms beneath his silken sheets, his mind tumbling through kingdoms of moist thighs. And only a few meters distant, Dr. Ludtz wheezes into the white light of his room, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips muttering softly in the forbidden tongue.

The clay gives slightly under my feet as I make my way up the embankment from the water’s edge. All day the river seeps indifferently into the surrounding earth, licking at it, eating it away. A thousand years from now, the hill upon which my compound rests will be nothing more than a million pebbles whirling in the waves where the river meets the sea.

At the stairs to my verandah, I pause and draw in a long, slow breath. Someday I will climb them for a final time. I will look out from the heights, my hands squeezing the railing, and watch the thunderclouds tumble over the ridges or the flamingoes glide over the green, reedy plain. And I will say, “Enough,” and close my eyes.

During all his years in the Camp, Langhof thought that he would find that point where men would say, “Enough.” He saw them inject blue dye into the irises of children’s eyes, and he thought: This is the limit. Beyond this, they will not go. Then he saw them time castrations with a stopwatch, madly ripping at the testicles with scalpels and surgical scissors, and he thought: This is the limit. They will not do more than this. Then he saw them tie the ankles of pregnant women together and watch them go into the agony of labor, writhing on the floor until they died. And so he came to know that there was no limit and that that was why Ginzburg did not willingly take his little book of recorded horrors. The little comedian knew that everything he had recorded there was little more than introduction to man’s possibilities.

And yet Langhof continued to believe that something had to be said about the Camp and that perhaps the accumulation of detail was the best way of saying it. In his little black book there would be no editorialization. The prose would be simple and direct, an empiricist’s worksheet. In his foolishness he hoped that Ginzburg would be able to understand what he was attempting to do, and he was insanely curious as to how the little comedian had received his work. Consequently, when he was instructed to go to the railway station to pick up a package of incoming medical supplies, he chose Ginzburg to go along. The gates of the Camp opened for them and they passed through, riding together in a battered jeep.

Ginzburg twisted himself around and looked back at the closing gate, then straightened himself in the seat. “How did you manage to arrange this?” he asked.

Langhof watched the road, the fingers of his hands drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I told Kessler I might need some help in case we ran into partisans on the road.”

Ginzburg smiled. “I have acted my part brilliantly,” he said. “Kessler thinks that if we ran into partisans I would fight for you.”

“Yes,” Langhof said. He took his cap from his head and placed it on the seat between them. “That book I gave you,” he asked nervously, “did you read it?”

“Yes,” Ginzburg replied. He kept his eyes on the road.

Langhof waited a moment, but Ginzburg added nothing. “Well, what did you think?” he asked finally.

Ginzburg turned to look at Langhof. “You are a curious man, Langhof,” he said. “What could you possibly expect me to think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you expect to accomplish by jotting down all these details about the Camp?”

“Someone has to do it,” Langhof said defensively.

“Why?”

“The world has to know what happened,” Langhof said. “All the details, I mean.”

Ginzburg laughed. “The world will know the details, my dear doctor,” he said. “You may be sure of that. I think you have another idea in mind.”

Langhof looked at Ginzburg curiously. “Other idea?”

“You are trying to redeem yourself,” Ginzburg said. “It’s quite clear. You want the world to know that you suffered great agonies of conscience, and that these agonies were every bit as horrible as the physical suffering in the Camp.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely it,” Langhof said weakly.

“Perhaps not,” Ginzburg said. “But just in case, let me tell you something about the agonies of conscience, Langhof. They are a joke. No one would trade the worst of them for a toothache.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Do you think I don’t have these so-called agonies? I do. Every time Kessler slips his cock up my ass, my conscience recoils. But as much as he revolts me, as much as I revolt myself, I wouldn’t trade my place with anyone in the general Camp population.” He leaned forward, his eyes burning into Langhof. “Would you, Doctor?”

“No,” Langhof said quietly.

“So let’s just drop the nobility, if you please,” Ginzburg said. He leaned back in his seat. “I’d rather just enjoy the day, if you don’t mind.”

Farther down the road, Langhof brought the jeep to a halt and waited while a farmer herded a group of cows across their path. He turned to Ginzburg. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Ginzburg watched as the farmer slapped the cattle with a long rod.

“For a long time I lost touch with everything,” Langhof began. “I mean everything in the Camp. It was as though it didn’t exist for me. I was there, but I wasn’t there. Do you know what I mean?”

“I envy you,” Ginzburg said lightly.

“Please listen,” Langhof said. “It’s important to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Ginzburg said, turning to Langhof. “Go ahead.”

“Some months ago Kessler came into my room and said there was something he wanted me to see,” Langhof began again. “I followed him outside to the courtyard behind the medical compound. There were a lot of people, naked people, sitting in the snow, freezing. It was a freezing experiment.”

Ginzburg casually returned his eyes to the cattle. “People freeze all the time.”

“It wasn’t that,” Langhof added quickly. “I really don’t know what it was. I may never know. But something broke through to me. The Camp broke through, somehow. So I started walking around, taking notes, recording everything in that little notebook you seem to find so ridiculous.”

“I don’t find the notebook ridiculous,” Ginzburg said. “Only useless.”

The last cow made its way across the road, and Langhof leaned forward and started the engine. The farmer smiled gently and waved to them as the jeep passed.

“Friendly fellow,” Ginzburg said, watching the farmer’s face. “The sturdy peasant, the backbone of Europe.” He turned to Langhof. “How far to the railway station?”

“Only a few kilometers,” Langhof said. “But what I was saying. You know, about the Camp, about watching those people. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Perhaps a nice soufflé,” Ginzburg said with a wink.

“Please don’t joke,” Langhof pleaded.

Ginzburg turned back to face the road. “So serious, Doctor,” he said. “It’s not good for the heart.” He looked at Langhof. “Have you ever been to London?”

“No,” Langhof said dully.

“Beautiful city. Lots of nightclubs, that sort of thing. Plenty of places for a comedian to try out new material.”

Langhof pressed the accelerator. “I’m trying to learn something,” he said, “about this place.”

“Perhaps there’s nothing to learn. Have you ever thought of that?” Ginzburg asked. He took a deep breath. “It happened. It’s still happening. No need to chase your tail endlessly about it.”

Langhof shook his head despairingly. “I don’t believe you mean that.”

“I’m tired of talk,” Ginzburg said. “By the time you talk about something, it has already happened, so what’s the point?”

Langhof pulled a packet of cigarettes from his coat and offered them to Ginzburg.

Ginzburg withdrew a single cigarette and put it in his mouth.

“Take the pack,” Langhof said.

Ginzburg laughed. “The pack? Don’t be so charitable, Doctor. I probably have more cigarettes in my room than you do.”

Langhof returned the pack to his pocket.

“Don’t treat me like your personal object of guilt, Langhof,” Ginzburg said. “I don’t like that. In fact, I loathe it. Your problem is with yourself, not me.” He lit the cigarette and took in a long draw. “What are we picking up in the village, anyway?”

“General medical supplies,” Langhof replied.

“Do you know what kind?”

Langhof shrugged. “Antibiotics. Aspirin.”

Ginzburg grinned. “Phenol?”

Langhof’s lips tightened. “Yes.”

Ginzburg blew a shaft of white smoke into the rushing air. “You’re depending upon the Allies, aren’t you?”

Langhof looked at him. “For what?”

“To get you out of the Camp.”

Langhof nodded. “Of course. Aren’t you?”

Ginzburg flicked the cigarette from his fingers. “The Camp is a rumor mill. We hear that Paris is in flames, that there is nothing still standing in London. What is left of Europe, I wonder?”

Langhof swerved to avoid a large puddle of icy water. “How long did you live in London?”

“Only a few months. A brief engagement at a small club in South Kensington.”

“Did you like it there?”

“The audiences are dull,” Ginzburg said. “Too much warm beer and tasteless food. They have the worst food in the world. Everything tastes like gruel.”

“You prefer Paris?” Langhof asked.

Ginzburg smiled. “I was almost married in Paris.” He turned to Langhof and winked again. “I may have relatives there.”

“Really?” Langhof asked. “Uncles, aunts?”

The corners of Ginzburg’s mouth crinkled mischievously. “No,” he said, “but perhaps a little boy or girl with a rather odd sense of humor.”

They arrived in the village a few moments later. The train was puffing at the station, white steam billowing from the engine.

“You won’t try to escape, will you?” Langhof asked almost playfully, as he stepped from the jeep.

“To where, Doctor?”

Langhof nodded and walked into the station. He returned with a large package and dropped it behind the front seat.

Ginzburg glanced at the box. “Well, I suppose we’ve done our assignment for the day,” he said.

Langhof shrugged and pulled himself in behind the wheel. “I wish it could have taken longer.”

“It was a pleasant excursion,” Ginzburg said.

Langhof started the engine, backed the jeep slowly into the road, and began to drive back toward the Camp.

After they had left the village, Ginzburg shifted around and looked back at it in the distance. “Pretty in the snow,” he said.

“Yes.”

Ginzburg continued to watch the village. “I’ve played a few little towns like that,” he said. He turned to face the road. “The worst ones are in Switzerland. The Swiss always make a bad audience for a comedian.”

Langhof continued to watch the road. “No sense of humor?”

Ginzburg glanced at Langhof. “None whatever. There’s a saying in the trade. ‘The Swiss only laugh for comedians who hand out money.’”

Langhof smiled slightly. “Well, I’m not much better. I never had much of a sense of humor.”

“It’s something you’re born with,” Ginzburg said. “You either have it or you don’t.”

“Were you always … well … a comic?”

“It’s the only thing I ever wanted to be,” Ginzburg said. “It’s quite an honored profession, you know, being a fool. Shakespeare loved us, of course, and Chaucer was a comic to the bone.”

Langhof buttoned the top button of his overcoat. “It’s getting colder.”

Ginzburg did not seem to notice. “It’s an aphrodisiac, you know.”

Langhof glanced at him. “What? Comedy?”

“Laughter,” Ginzburg said. “Really, it is. Get a woman laughing, and you’re halfway there.”

“Perhaps that explains my lack of success in that area,” Langhof said, trying to bring a certain lightness to his voice.

“Haven’t had much of a love life, Doctor?” Ginzburg asked.

Langhof shook his head. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

“Have you missed it?”

Langhof nodded. “Yes, I think I have.”

“Too bad,” Ginzburg said airily. He tossed his head to the right and watched the landscape flow past.

“I suppose you’ve always been covered with women,” Langhof said after a moment.

“Up to the eyebrows.”

“That must have been pleasant for you,” Langhof said and, to his surprise, felt a small jolt of envy.

“Very pleasant, as you might imagine,” Ginzburg said.

“Always kept them laughing, I suppose.”

“At least until they were naked,” Ginzburg said, “then I gave them what they wanted.”

“And I can guess what that was.”

“Not sex alone, if that’s what you mean, Doctor,” Ginzburg said.

“Really? What, then?”

Ginzburg turned toward Langhof. “Well, just to be taken seriously,” he said, “just to be taken very seriously for one moment in their lives.”

“That’s all?” Langhof said, smiling. “I should be able to master that.”

“Perhaps,” Ginzburg said. He suddenly seemed indifferent to the whole question.

For a long time they rode in silence. Ginzburg watched the snow-covered countryside with an expression of almost childlike longing, while Langhof allowed his mind to toy with ideas of miraculous escape.

“I once heard Piaf sing,” Ginzburg said finally. “My God, it was the saddest voice.”

“That woman in Paris,” Langhof said. “The one you almost married. What was she like?”

Ginzburg scratched his chin. “She was a teacher.”

“In the university?”

“Nothing so exalted. Just a public school teacher. An American, as a matter of fact.”

“Did you meet her in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Where? I mean, under what circumstances?”

Ginzburg looked closely at Langhof. “Does it matter, Doctor?”

“I was just curious.”

Ginzburg turned back toward the road. “She saw my act at one of those little cabarets. She was a tourist, that’s all. She came back to tell me how much she enjoyed it.”

“And you kept her laughing the whole time.”

“Laughing until she had to stop to catch her breath,” Ginzburg said. He smiled softly. “I used up all my best material on her.”

Slowly the Camp gate came into view, and Langhof saw Ginzburg’s face harden.

“Have you ever been to America?” Langhof asked quickly.

“No,” Ginzburg said. He shifted his eyes away from the Camp and looked at Langhof. “I’ve always liked Americans. They seem to laugh a lot. I think I would have been a hit there.”

“Probably so,” Langhof said.

“They make good audiences, the Americans.”

“What about the woman? The American? What happened?”

“She went back home. What would you expect?”

“But surely this great love between you should have endured,” Langhof said, jokingly.

“Never overestimate the power of ‘great love,’” Ginzburg said. He allowed a smile to play briefly on his lips. “Have you ever had a ‘great love,’ Doctor?”

“Just an adolescent infatuation,” Langhof said.

“Consummated?”

“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you mean,” Langhof said.

“That’s always good to hear.”

“But I’m interested in this American woman of yours,” Langhof said. “Did you ever see her again?”

Ginzburg shrugged. “Of course not. She went back to the United States. I saw her off at Marseilles. She gave me lots of kisses, I can tell you. ‘You should come with me, Ira,’ she said. ‘In New York, you’d be all the rage.’”

“Langhof smiled. “So that’s your first name. Ira. May I call you that?”

For a moment Ginzburg’s eyes seemed to lock on the Camp gate, then they drifted toward Langhof’s face. “No,” he said. “You may not.”