Tours of the Black Clock

116

I WON’T CHANCE SUBVERSION on Petyr’s part. I’m present when he translates the single sentence to the client. Immediately Petyr knows something is up. He translates the sentence precisely. It’s impossible at first to know if the old man understands. “Do you understand?” I ask him, in German. Petyr protests. “You can’t speak to him this way,” he says in English, “I’m the only one who speaks to him. You speak to him through me.” I ask Z again if he understands. “It’s a child,” I tell him, “wonderful news.” Petyr protests again, loudly, in German. The old man looks back and forth from Petyr to me in confusion; I keep trying to talk and Petyr gets louder and louder. Now I turn from the client and answer Petyr in English. “Please,” I say to him, “he’s confused. The guards will hear you, and it’ll be worse for all of us.” Petyr answers, “Worse for you, you mean,” and I say, “Certainly not. Certainly it’s clear how superfluous you are in this matter. I’ll have them take you away if you don’t be quiet.” He glares at me hot and silent. We just sit there watching each other for a minute before I turn back to Z. Z is still rattled, frightened by the way this afternoon is unlike other afternoons. “It’s your child,” I tell him now. Petyr still glares at me, bursting with outrage, but saying nothing. “Do you understand?” I ask the old man. “Your child and Geli’s. The child you were always meant to have. She’s quite beside herself with joy. She’s honored to carry your glorious germ in her. Someday you’ll take this son — and I can tell you with complete confidence that it’ll surely be a son — and groom him to rule the world after you. In such a way, the idea of a world after you becomes bearable, doesn’t it?” When he hears this, the old man’s face begins to shine with a small radiant smile. The ancient eyes light up exactly as I supposed they might, and I can already well imagine the dark shattered desolation they’ll show when I finish my revenge nine months from now. He begins to consider, even in his dim fog, how beautiful the child will be, beautiful like his mother; and life that seemed rather purposeless now finds a final way to matter. He’s linked to immortality forever, linked in flesh and not just the world’s memory. It’s at the same time evidence of both his godness and humanness. Dim and fogged as he is, he begins to cry a little; I could beat him if I wanted and he’d still be happy for what I’ve given him this afternoon. After a while he moves from his chair for the first time I’ve ever seen him do it, and lowers himself on his cot in emotional exhaustion. In his old strangled language he cries out to her with thanks. In his sleep he’s calm and ecstatic at the same time, and I can only hope that, in all his peace and excitement, he doesn’t die on me before I’m done with him.