The Hotel New Hampshire

our car before you cross the street.”

Schwanger left the Hotel New Hampshire, 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 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 Schraubenschlüssel, 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 pornographer. The pornographer pretends he is disgusted by his work; the terrorist pretends he is uninterested in the means. The ends, they say, are what they care about. But they are both lying. Ernst loved his pornography; Ernst worshiped the means. It is never the ends that matter—it is only the means that matter. The terrorist and the pornographer are in it for the means. The means is everything to them. The blast of the bomb, the elephant position, the 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 is a pornographer.

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.

“You know what’s at the Opera tonight, Arbeiter?” Frank asked.

“Music,” Arbeiter said, “music and singing.”

“But it matters—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 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,” 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. “God, I wonder if anyone 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 opera. If you blow up Lucia,” Frank reasoned, “the Viennese will applaud! They’ll think your target was Donizetti, or, even better— Italian 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 can hold an audience, do you, Arbeiter?” Susie the bear asked him.

“Shut Up,” Arbeiter said. “It’s possible to have a bear ride in the car with Freud. Everyone knows Freud’s got a thing for bears. It might be a nice idea to have a bear ride with him—on his last trip.”

“No change in the plan, not now,” said Schraubenschlüssel, nervously. “According to plan,” he said, looking at his watch. “Two minutes.”

“Go now,” Arbeiter said. “It will take a while to get the blind man out the door and in the car.”

“Not me!” Freud cried. “I know the way! It’s my hotel, I know where the door is,” the old man said, hobbling on the baseball bat toward the door. “And you’ve parked that damn car in the same place for years!”

“Go with him, Schraubenschlüssel,” Arbeiter told Wrench. “Hold the old fucker’s arm.”

“I don’t need any assistance,” Freud said, cheerfully. “Good-bye, Lilly dear!” Freud cried. “Don’t throw up, dear,” he urged her. “And keep growing!”

Lilly gagged again, and shook; Arbeiter moved the gun about two inches away from her ear. He was apparently disgusted with her puking, though it was only a very small puddle that Lilly had managed; she was not even a big vomiter.

“Hang in there, Frank!” Freud called—to the entire lobby. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re queer! You’re a prince, Frank!” Freud cried. “You’re better than Rudolf!” Freud yelled to Frank. “You’re more majestic than all the Hapsburgs, Frank!” Freud encouraged him. Frank couldn’t speak, he was crying so hard.

“You’re lovely, Franny my dear, Franny my sweetheart,” said Freud softly. “One doesn’t have to see to know how beautiful you are,” he said.

“Auf Wiedersehen, Freud,” Franny said.

“Auf Wiedersehen, weight lifter!” Freud cried to me. “Give me a hug,” he asked me, holding out his arms, the Louisville Slugger like a sword in one hand. “Let me feel how strong you are,” Freud said to me, and I went up to him and hugged him. That was when he whispered in my ear.

“When you hear the explosion,” Freud whispered, “kill Arbeiter.”

“Come on!” Schraubenschlüssel said, nervously. He grabbed Freud’s arm.

“I love you, Win Berry!” Freud cried, but my father had his head in his hands; he would not look up from where he sat, sunk in the couch. “I’m sorry I got you in the hotel business,” Freud said to my father. “And the bear business,” Freud added. “Good-bye, Susie!” Freud said.

Susie started to cry. Schraubenschlüssel steered Freud through the door. We could see the car, the Mercedes that was a bomb; it was parked against the curb almost in front of the door to the Hotel New Hampshire. It was a revolving door, and Freud and Schraubenschlüssel revolved through it.

“I don’t need your assistance!” Freud was complaining to Wrench. “Just let me feel the car, just get me to the fender,” Freud complained. “I can find the door by myself, you idiot,” Freud was saying. “Just let me touch the fender.”

Arbeiter was getting a stiff back, leaning over Lilly. He straightened up a little; he glanced at me, checking on where I was. He glanced at Franny. His gun wandered around.

“There it is, I’ve got it!” we heard Freud crying, cheerfully, outside. “That’s the headlight, right?” he asked Schraubenschlüssel. My father raised his head from his hands and looked at me.

“Of course that’s the headlight, you old fool!” Schraubenschlüssel yelled at Freud. “Get in, will you?”

“Freud!” Father screamed. He must have known, then. He ran to the revolving door. “Auf Wiedersehen, Freud!” Father cried. At the revolving door, Father saw the whole thing very clearly. Freud, with his hand feeling along the headlight, slipped toward the grille of the Mercedes instead of toward the door.

“The other way, you moron!” Schraubenschlüssel advised. But Freud knew exactly where he was. He tore his arm out of Wrench’s grasp; he leveled the Louisville Slugger and started swinging. He was looking for the front license plate, of course. Blind people have a knack for knowing exactly where things that have always been are. It took Freud only three swings to locate the license plate, my father would always remember. The first swing was a little high-off the grille.

“Lower!” Father screamed, through the revolving door. “Auf Wiedersehen!”

The second swing hit the front bumper a little to the left of the license plate, and my father yelled, “To your right! Auf Wiedersehen, Freud!” Schraubenschlüssel, Father said later, was already running away. He never got far enough away, however. Freud’s third swing was on the money; Freud’s third swing