The Hotel New Hampshire Part 37

'This is not an emotional situation,' Ernst said. 'This is a matter of technique,' he said, ignoring my father. 'Although I'm sure you could do a good job of driving the car, Franny, Schw.a.n.ger has asked us that each of you children be spared.'

'Even the weight lifter?' Arbeiter asked.

'Yes, he's a dear to me, too,' Schw.a.n.ger said, beaming at me - with her gun.

'If you make my father drive that car, I'll kill kill you!' Franny screamed at Ernst, suddenly. And Wrench moved near to her, with his tool; if he had touched her, something would have happened, but he just stood near her. Freud's baseball bat kept time. My father had his eyes closed; he had such trouble following German. He must have been dreaming of hard ground b.a.l.l.s spanked cleanly through the infield. you!' Franny screamed at Ernst, suddenly. And Wrench moved near to her, with his tool; if he had touched her, something would have happened, but he just stood near her. Freud's baseball bat kept time. My father had his eyes closed; he had such trouble following German. He must have been dreaming of hard ground b.a.l.l.s spanked cleanly through the infield.

'Schw.a.n.ger has asked us, Franny,' Ernst said, patiently, 'not to make you children motherless and and fatherless, too. We don't want to hurt your father, Franny. And we fatherless, too. We don't want to hurt your father, Franny. And we won't won't hurt him,' Ernst said, 'as long as hurt him,' Ernst said, 'as long as someone else someone else does a good job of driving the car.' does a good job of driving the car.'

There was a puzzled silence in the lobby of the Hotel New Hamps.h.i.+re. If we children were exempt, if Father was to be spared, and Susie the bear wasn't to be trusted, did Ernst mean he would use one of the wh.o.r.es wh.o.r.es for a driver? for a driver? They They couldn't be trusted - for sure. They were only concerned with themselves. While Ernst the p.o.r.nographer had been preaching his dialectic to us, the wh.o.r.es had been slipping past us in the lobby - the wh.o.r.es were checking out of the Hotel New Hamps.h.i.+re. A wordless team - friends in any crisis, thick as the thieves they were - they were helping Old Billig move her china bears. They were bearing their salves, their toothbrushes, their pills, perfumes, and prophylactics couldn't be trusted - for sure. They were only concerned with themselves. While Ernst the p.o.r.nographer had been preaching his dialectic to us, the wh.o.r.es had been slipping past us in the lobby - the wh.o.r.es were checking out of the Hotel New Hamps.h.i.+re. A wordless team - friends in any crisis, thick as the thieves they were - they were helping Old Billig move her china bears. They were bearing their salves, their toothbrushes, their pills, perfumes, and prophylactics away away.

'They were the rats abandoning the sinking s.h.i.+p,' as Frank would say, later. They were not touched with Fehlgeburt's romanticism; they were never anything larger than wh.o.r.es. They left us without saying good-bye.

'So who's the driver, you super s.h.i.+t?' Susie the bear asked Ernst. 'Who the h.e.l.l's left left?'

Ernst smiled; it was a smile full of disgust, and he was smiling at Freud. Although Freud could not see this, Freud suddenly figured it out. 'It's me me!' he cried, as if he'd won a prize; he was so excited, the baseball bat tapped double time. 'I'm the driver!' Freud cried. the driver!' Freud cried.

'Yes, you are,' said Ernst, awfully pleased.

'Brilliant!' Freud cried. 'The perfect job for a blind man!' he shouted, the baseball bat like a baton, conducting, leading the orchestra - Freud's Vienna State Opera Band!

'And you love Win Berry, don't you, Freud?' Schw.a.n.ger asked the old man, gently.

'Of course I do!' Freud cried. 'Like my own son!' Freud yelled, wrapping his arms around my father, the baseball bat snug between his knees.

'So if you drive the car properly,' Ernst said to Freud, 'no harm will come to Win Berry.'

'If you f.u.c.k it up,' Arbeiter said, 'we'll kill them all.'

'One at a time,' Schraubenschlussel added.

'How can a blind man drive the car, you morons morons?' screamed Susie the bear.

'Explain how it works, Schraubenschlussel,' Ernst said, calmly. And now it was Wrench's big moment, the moment he'd been living for - to describe describe every loving detail of his heart's desire. Arbeiter looked a little jealous. Schw.a.n.ger and Ernst listened with the most benign expressions, like teachers proud of their prize pupil. My father, of course, didn't understand the language well enough to get all of it. every loving detail of his heart's desire. Arbeiter looked a little jealous. Schw.a.n.ger and Ernst listened with the most benign expressions, like teachers proud of their prize pupil. My father, of course, didn't understand the language well enough to get all of it.

'I call it a sympathy bomb,' Wrench began.

'Oh, that's brilliant!' Freud cried out; then he giggled. 'A sympathy sympathy bomb! Jesus G.o.d!' bomb! Jesus G.o.d!'

'Shut up,' Arbeiter said.

'There are actually two two bombs,' Schraubenschlussel said. 'The first bomb is the car. The whole car,' he said, smiling slyly. 'The car simply has to be detonated within a certain range of the Opera - quite close to the Opera, actually. If the car explodes within this range, the bomb in the Opera will explode, too - you might say "in sympathy" with the first explosion. Which is why I call it a sympathy bomb,' Wrench added, moronically. Even Father could have followed this part. 'First the car blows, and if it blows close enough to the Opera, then the bombs,' Schraubenschlussel said. 'The first bomb is the car. The whole car,' he said, smiling slyly. 'The car simply has to be detonated within a certain range of the Opera - quite close to the Opera, actually. If the car explodes within this range, the bomb in the Opera will explode, too - you might say "in sympathy" with the first explosion. Which is why I call it a sympathy bomb,' Wrench added, moronically. Even Father could have followed this part. 'First the car blows, and if it blows close enough to the Opera, then the big big bomb - the one in the Opera - then bomb - the one in the Opera - then it it blows. The bomb in the car is what I call a blows. The bomb in the car is what I call a contact contact bomb. The contact is the front license plate. When the front license plate is depressed, the whole car blows sky-high. Several people in its vicinity will be blown sky-high, too,' Schraubenschlussel added. bomb. The contact is the front license plate. When the front license plate is depressed, the whole car blows sky-high. Several people in its vicinity will be blown sky-high, too,' Schraubenschlussel added.

'That's unavoidable,' Arbeiter said.

'The bomb in the Opera,' said Schraubenschlussel, lovingly, 'is much more complicated than a contact bomb. The bomb in the Opera is a chemical bomb, but a very delicate kind of electrical impulse is required to start start it. The fuse to the bomb in the Opera - in a quite remarkably sensitive way - it. The fuse to the bomb in the Opera - in a quite remarkably sensitive way - responds responds to a very particular explosion within its range. It's almost as if the bomb in the Opera has to a very particular explosion within its range. It's almost as if the bomb in the Opera has ears ears,' Wrench said, laughing at himself. It was the first time we had heard Wrench laugh; it was a disgusting laugh. Lilly started to gag, as if she was going to be sick.

'You won't be hurt, dear,' Schw.a.n.ger soothed her. won't be hurt, dear,' Schw.a.n.ger soothed her.

'All I have to do is drive the car, with Freud in it, right down the Ringstra.s.se to the Opera,' Schraubenschlussel said. 'Of course, I have to be careful not to run into anything, I have to find a safe place to pull off to the side of the street - and then I get out,' Schraubenschlussel said. 'When I'm out, Freud gets behind the wheel. n.o.body will ask us to move on before we're ready; n.o.body in Vienna questions a streetcar conductor.'

'We know you know how to drive, Freud,' Ernst said to the old man. 'You used to be a mechanic, right?'

'Right,' said Freud; he was fascinated.

'I stand right next to Freud, speaking to him through the driver's side window,' said Wrench. 'I wait until I see Arbeiter come out of the Opera and cross the Karntnerstra.s.se - to the other side.'

'To the safe safe side!' Arbeiter added. side!' Arbeiter added.

'And then I just tell Freud to count to ten and floor it!' Schraubenschlussel said. 'I'll already have aimed the car in the right direction. Freud will simply floor it - he'll get up to as fast a speed as he can. He'll run smack into something - almost right away, no matter which way he turns. He's blind blind!' Wrench cried, enthusiastically. 'He has to hit something. And when he does, there goes the Opera. The sympathy bomb will respond.'

'The sympathy sympathy bomb,' my father said, ironically. Even Father understood the sympathy part. bomb,' my father said, ironically. Even Father understood the sympathy part.

'It's in a perfect place,' Arbeiter said. 'It's been there a long time, so we know no one knows where it is. It's very big but it's impossible to find,' he added.

'It's under the stage,' Arbeiter said.

'It's built into built into the stage,' Schraubenschlussel said. the stage,' Schraubenschlussel said.

'It's right where they come out to take their f.u.c.king final bows!' Arbeiter said.

'Of course, it won't kill everyone,' Ernst said, simply. 'Everyone onstage will die, and probably most of the orchestra, and most of the audience in the first few rows of seats. And to those sitting safely back from the stage it will be truly operatic operatic,' Ernst said. 'It will provide a very definite spectacle,' said Ernst.

'Schlagobers and blood,' Arbeiter teased Schw.a.n.ger, but she just smiled - with her gun. and blood,' Arbeiter teased Schw.a.n.ger, but she just smiled - with her gun.

Lilly threw up. When Schw.a.n.ger bent over to soothe her, I might might have had an opportunity to grab the gun. But I wasn't thinking well enough. Arbeiter took the gun from Schw.a.n.ger, as if - to my shame - he was thinking more clearly than I was. Lilly kept throwing up, and Franny tried to soothe her too, but Ernst went right on talking. have had an opportunity to grab the gun. But I wasn't thinking well enough. Arbeiter took the gun from Schw.a.n.ger, as if - to my shame - he was thinking more clearly than I was. Lilly kept throwing up, and Franny tried to soothe her too, but Ernst went right on talking.

'When Arbeiter and Schraubenschlussel come back here, and report on our success, then we'll know we won't have to harm this wonderful American family,' Ernst said.

'The American family,' Arbeiter said, 'is an inst.i.tution that Americans dote on to the sentimental extreme that they dote on sports heroes and movie stars; they lavish as much attention on the family the family as they lavish on unhealthy food. Americans are simply as they lavish on unhealthy food. Americans are simply crazy crazy about the idea of the family.' about the idea of the family.'

'And after we blow up the Opera,' Ernst said, 'after we destroy an inst.i.tution that the Viennese wors.h.i.+p to the disgusting disgusting extreme that they wors.h.i.+p their coffeehouses - that they wors.h.i.+p the extreme that they wors.h.i.+p their coffeehouses - that they wors.h.i.+p the past past - well ... after we blow up the Opera, we'll have possession of an American family. We'll have an American family as hostage. And a - well ... after we blow up the Opera, we'll have possession of an American family. We'll have an American family as hostage. And a tragic tragic American family, too. The mother and the youngest child already the victims of an accident. Americans love accidents. They think disasters are American family, too. The mother and the youngest child already the victims of an accident. Americans love accidents. They think disasters are neat neat. And here we have a father struggling to raise his four surviving children, and we'll have them all captured captured.'

Father didn't follow this very well, and Franny asked Ernst, 'What are your demands demands? If we're hostages, what are the demands?'

'No demands, dear,' Schw.a.n.ger said.

'We demand nothing,' said Ernst, patiently - ever patiently. 'We'll already have what we want. When we blow up the Opera and we have you as our prisoners prisoners, we'll already have what we want.'

'An audience,' Schw.a.n.ger said, almost in a whisper.

'Quite a wide audience,' Ernst said. 'An international audience. Not just a European audience, not just the Schlagobers Schlagobers and blood audience, but an and blood audience, but an American American audience, too. The whole world will listen to what we have to say.' audience, too. The whole world will listen to what we have to say.'

'About what what?' Freud asked. He was whispering, too.

'About everything,' Ernst said, so logically. 'We'll have an audience for everything we've got to say - about everything.'

'About the new world,' Frank murmured.

'Yes!' Arbeiter said.

'Most terrorists fail,' Ernst reasoned, 'because they take the hostages and threaten threaten violence. But we're beginning with the violence. It is already established that we are capable of it. violence. But we're beginning with the violence. It is already established that we are capable of it. Then Then we take the hostages. That way everybody listens.' we take the hostages. That way everybody listens.'

Everyone looked at Ernst, which - of course - Ernst loved. He was a p.o.r.nographer willing to murder and maim - not for a cause cause, which would be stupid enough, but for an audience audience.

'You're absolutely crazy,' Franny said to Ernst.

'You disappoint me,' Ernst said to her.

'What's that?' Father cried to him. 'What did you say to her?'

'He said I disappointed him, Pop,' Franny said.

'She disappoints disappoints you!' Father cried. 'My daughter disappoints you!' Father cried. 'My daughter disappoints you you!' Father shouted at Ernst.

'Calm down,' Ernst said to Father, calmly.

'You f.u.c.k my daughter and then tell her she disappoints disappoints you!' Father said. you!' Father said.

Father grabbed the baseball bat from Freud. He did this very quickly. He picked up that Louisville Slugger as if it had lived a lifetime in his hands, and he swung it levelly, getting his shoulders and hips into the swing, and following through with the swing - it was a perfect line drive sort of swing, a level low liner that would still have been rising when it cleared the infield. And Ernst the p.o.r.nographer, who ducked too slowly, put his head in the position of a perfect letter-high fast ball to my father's fine swing of the bat. Crack Crack! Harder than any ground ball Franny or I could have handled. My father caught Ernst the p.o.r.nographer with the Louisville Slugger flat on the forehead and smack between the eyes. The first thing to strike the floor was the back of Ernst's head, his heels plopping down one at a time; it seemed like a full second after the head had hit the floor that Ernst's body settled down. A purple swelling the size of a baseball rose up between Ernst's eyes, and a little blood ran out of one of his ears, as if something vital but small - like his brain, like his heart - had exploded inside him. His eyes were open wide, and we knew that Ernst the p.o.r.nographer could now see everything that Freud could see. He had gone out the open window with one swift crack of the bat.

'Is he dead?' Freud cried. I think if Freud hadn't cried out, Arbeiter would have pulled the trigger and killed my father; Freud's cry seemed to change Arbeiter's slow-moving mind. He stuck the barrel of the gun in my little sister Lilly's ear; Lilly trembled - she had nothing more to throw up.

'Please don't,' Franny whispered to Arbeiter. Father held the baseball bat tightly, but he held it still. Arbeiter had the big weapon now, and my father had to wait for the right pitch.

'Everyone stay calm,' Arbeiter said. Schraubenschlussel could not take his eyes off the purple baseball on Ernst's forehead, but Schw.a.n.ger kept smiling - at everyone.

'Calm, calm,' she crooned. 'Let's stay calm.'

'What are you going to do now now?' Father asked Arbeiter, calmly. He asked him in English; Frank had to translate.

For the next few minutes, Frank would be kept busy as a translator because Father wanted to know everything everything that was going on. He was a hero; he was on the dock at the old Arbuthnot-by-the-Sea, except that was going on. He was a hero; he was on the dock at the old Arbuthnot-by-the-Sea, except he he was the man in the white dinner jacket - he was in charge. was the man in the white dinner jacket - he was in charge.

'Give the bat back to Freud,' Arbeiter told my father.

'Freud needs his bat back,' Schw.a.n.ger said to my father, stupidly.

'Give the bat up, Pop,' said Frank.

Father gave the Louisville Slugger back to Freud and sat down beside him; he put his arm around Freud and said to him, 'You don't have have to drive that car.' to drive that car.'

'Schraubenschlussel,' Schw.a.n.ger said. 'You're going to do it just the way we planned. Take Freud with you and get going,' she said.

'But I'm not at the Opera!' Arbeiter said, in a panic. 'I'm not there yet - to see if it's intermission, or to make sure it's not not. Schraubenschlussel has to see me walk out of the Opera so he knows it's okay, so he knows it's the right time.'

The radicals stared at their dead leader as if he would tell them what to do; they needed him.

'You go to the Opera,' Arbeiter told Schw.a.n.ger. ' go to the Opera,' Arbeiter told Schw.a.n.ger. 'I'm better with the gun,' he said. 'I'll stay here, and better with the gun,' he said. 'I'll stay here, and you you go to the Opera,' Arbeiter advised her. 'When you're sure it's not intermission, walk out of the Opera and let Schraubenschlussel see go to the Opera,' Arbeiter advised her. 'When you're sure it's not intermission, walk out of the Opera and let Schraubenschlussel see you you.'

'But I'm not dressed for the Opera,' Schw.a.n.ger said. 'You're dressed for it,' she told Arbeiter. dressed for it,' she told Arbeiter.

'You don't have to be dressed for it to ask someone if it's intermission!' Arbeiter yelled at her. 'You look good enough to get in the door, and you can see for yourself if it's intermission. You're just an old lady - n.o.body ha.s.sles an old lady for how she's dressed, for Christ's sake.'

'Stay calm,' Schraubenschlussel advised, mechanically.

'Well,' our gentle Schw.a.n.ger said, 'I'm not exactly an "old lady." '

'f.u.c.k off!' Arbeiter cried at her. 'Get going. Walk up there, fast fast! We'll give you ten minutes. Then Freud and Schraubenschlussel are on their way.'

Schw.a.n.ger stood there as if she were trying to decide whether to write another pregnancy or another abortion book.

'Get going, you c.u.n.t!' Arbeiter yelled at her. 'Remember to cross the Karntnerstra.s.se. And look for our car before you cross the street.'

Schw.a.n.ger left the Hotel New Hamps.h.i.+re, composing herself - actually arranging her face in as motherly an expression as she could muster for the occasion. We would never see her again. I suppose she went to Germany; she might author a whole new book of symbols, one day. She might mother a new movement, somewhere else.

'You don't have to do this, Freud,' my father whispered.

'Of course course I have to do it, Win Berry!' Freud said, cheerfully. He got up; he tapped his way with the baseball bat toward the door. He knew his way around pretty well, considering his total darkness. I have to do it, Win Berry!' Freud said, cheerfully. He got up; he tapped his way with the baseball bat toward the door. He knew his way around pretty well, considering his total darkness.

'Sit down, you old fool,' Arbeiter told him. 'We've got ten minutes. Don't forget to get out of the car, you idiot,' Arbeiter told Schraubenschlussel, but Wrench was still staring at the dead quarterback on the floor. I stared at him, too. For ten minutes. I realized what a terrorist is. A terrorist, I think, is simply another kind of p.o.r.nographer. The p.o.r.nographer pretends he is disgusted by his work; the terrorist pretends he is uninterested in the means means. The ends ends, they say, are what they care about. But they are both lying. Ernst loved his p.o.r.nography; Ernst wors.h.i.+ped the means. It is never the ends that matter - it is only only the means that matter. The terrorist and the p.o.r.nographer are in it for the means. The means is everything to them. The blast of the bomb, the elephant position, the the means that matter. The terrorist and the p.o.r.nographer are in it for the means. The means is everything to them. The blast of the bomb, the elephant position, the Schlagobers Schlagobers and blood - they love it all. Their intellectual detachment is a fraud; their indifference is feigned. They both tell lies about having 'higher purposes.' A terrorist and blood - they love it all. Their intellectual detachment is a fraud; their indifference is feigned. They both tell lies about having 'higher purposes.' A terrorist is is a p.o.r.nographer. a p.o.r.nographer.

For ten minutes Frank tried to change Arbeiter's mind, but Arbeiter didn't have enough of a mind to experience a change. I think Frank only succeeded in confusing Arbeiter.

Frank was certainly confusing to me me.

'You know what's at the Opera tonight, Arbeiter?' Frank asked.

'Music,' Arbeiter said, 'music and singing.'

'But it matters - which which opera,' Frank lied. 'I mean, it's not exactly a full-house performance tonight - I hope you know that. It's not as if the Viennese have come in opera,' Frank lied. 'I mean, it's not exactly a full-house performance tonight - I hope you know that. It's not as if the Viennese have come in droves droves. It's not as if it's Mozart, or Strauss. It's not even Wagner,' Frank said.

'I don't care what it is,' Arbeiter said. 'The front rows will be full. The front rows are always full. And the dumb singers will be onstage. And the orchestra has to show up.'

'It's Lucia Lucia,' Frank said. 'Practically an empty house. You don't have to be a Wagnerian to know that Donizetti's not worth listening to. I confess to being something of a Wagnerian,' Frank confessed, 'but you don't have to share the Germanic opinion of Italian opera to know that Donizetti is simply insipid. Stale harmonies, lack of any dramatism appropriate to the music,' Frank said.

'Shut up,' Arbeiter said.

'Organ-grinder tunes!' Frank said. 'G.o.d, I wonder if anyone anyone will show up.' will show up.'

'They'll show up,' Arbeiter said.

'Better to wait for a big shot,' Frank said. 'Blow the place another night. Wait for an important important opera. If you blow up opera. If you blow up Lucia Lucia,' Frank reasoned, 'the Viennese will applaud applaud! They'll think your target was Donizetti, or, even better - Italian Italian opera! You'll be a kind of cultural hero,' Frank argued, 'not the villain you want to be.' opera! You'll be a kind of cultural hero,' Frank argued, 'not the villain you want to be.'

'And when you get your audience,' Susie the bear told Arbeiter, 'who's going to do the talking?'

'Your talker is dead,' Franny said to Arbeiter.

'You don't think you you can hold an audience, do you, Arbeiter?' Susie the bear asked him. can hold an audience, do you, Arbeiter?' Susie the bear asked him.