Friedheim rushed by, aghast. On another occasion, he met Dr. Ludtz in the lavatory. He folded his arm over Ludtz’s shoulder. “They say human blood cannot be washed from the skin,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but I have found a lye compound that will do it.” Dr. Ludtz stared at Langhof for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then he simply smiled and walked away.
For a time, as you might imagine, Langhof’s sardonic remarks were regarded with great concern by the other doctors in the Institute. There was talk of his name being mentioned to those authorities whose task it was to handle such matters. But the smile on Langhof’s face, the jaunty carriage of his body, and the wink that invariably accompanied his remarks assured the nervous staff that he was quite a good fellow, an excellent fellow, in fact; one who had a far better attitude about the situation than certain other colleagues who seemed to carry themselves in a perpetual crouch. God only knew what was on
And so the catastrophic I moved through the Institute of Hygiene as if at one with all that surrounded him — with the vials of acid, the skeleton displays, the books and journals, the shelves of chemicals, the reams of paper, the stacks of tin cans smelling vaguely acrid that seemed to pile up by the hundreds in the rear alleyway. At one, humorously at one, with all of this, the good doctor joked and japed, learning the rhythm of his routine like a standup comic in some cheap nightclub: “It’s cold. How cold is it? Cold enough for a freezing experiment.” “It’s hot. How hot is it? Hot enough to incinerate — what?” A socialist, a gypsy, a Jew, a homosexual, a communist, or any of a million other designated vermin. For the rhythm of the line, for the best laugh, what would be the funniest reply?
By this process, Langhof held to his moorings. He wrapped himself in the armor of ridicule, his old staple, but which was given added charm now by what passed in those sullen corridors for wit.
And yet, there were times when he felt a sudden, awesome dread, the sense of being propelled into the volcano’s mouth on a wave of gasoline. And there were moments, later, when he wondered what might have happened to him if he had pursued these dark intimations rather than dismissing them with a mocking smile. Long after those first weeks in the Institute, Langhof walked with Ginzburg as they made their way from the main camp to the factory works. Ginzburg was chewing on a sliver of rubber band and his almost jaunty step made Langhof remember his own days at the Institute. For a moment he stopped, gently turned Ginzburg toward him, and asked: “Would it be better, do you think, if we — I mean as a species — if we had never evolved the capacity to laugh?”
HERE IN THE REPUBLIC, night falls like the collapsing of a tunnel. From my verandah I can see lights in Dr. Ludtz’s cottage. It is time for my visit. I rise and as I make my way down the stairs, I can feel the bones in my joints grind against each other, sticks of dried wood making fire. At the bottom of the stairs, I hear the night birds in their revelry and I feel — I can still feel — the richness of the natural world, its miraculous abundance. In the Camp — I am coming to the Camp — this plenitude passed through a terrible crucible: greenery reduced to mud and shit; animal to louse and rat and man. And it will always seem odd to the benevolent spirit that while the smoke tumbled from the chimneytops in that near world, here in El Caliz the parrots sang above the flowers, the great kingfishers sliced the water, and the night birds flew in a world carved out of moonlight.
I tap lightly at Dr. Ludtz’s door. I hear the sound of the bedsprings beneath him.
“Come in, please.”
I open the door slowly. Dr. Ludtz is sitting on the bed, propped up by three pillows. His hands are under the covers.
“Good evening, Dr. Ludtz.”
Dr. Ludtz smiles faintly, then takes the pistol from beneath the covers. He lays it on the nightstand. “Sorry,” he says, slightly embarrassed.
“How are you? Feeling better, I hope.”
Dr. Ludtz shakes his head. A ring of sweat glistens on his bald pate. “The fever has worsened, I’m afraid,” he says softly.
I pull a chair over beside the bed and sit down. “Are you taking antibiotics?”
“Yes.”
“Liquids?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’m sure the fever will break shortly.”
Dr. Ludtz stares at me mournfully.
“Really, Doctor, I don’t think there’s anything to be alarmed about.”
He folds his hands over the covers and squeezes them together rhythmically. “When is El Presidente due to visit us?”
“In a few days.”
Dr. Ludtz glances worriedly at the ceiling. His lips tremble slightly. “I’m sure I’ll be ill when he comes,” he says.
“There is nothing wrong with being ill, Dr. Ludtz.”
“But what if he should be offended?”
“You have nothing to fear, Doctor. You must believe me.”
He does not believe me. He has lived in an atmosphere of betrayal too long to believe in anything but God and pistols.
I glance toward the windows, but they are tightly shuttered. He never allows them to be opened. “You should take a look outside,” I say. “It’s a lovely night.”
Dr. Ludtz turns his eyes from mine. “Do you believe in hell, Dr. Langhof?”
“No. Nor heaven, either.”
Dr. Ludtz looks at me with astonishment. “Really? You mean, you believe that after death there’s nothing. Just oblivion?”
I smile. “Dr. Ludtz, why so morbid? Why these ridicubus questions? Surely you haven’t got it into your mind that you’re dying?”
“One never knows. I’m not a young man.”
“You have a slight fever. Father Martinez says this same fever is spread all over the province. It is nothing to worry about. It will pass.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” Dr. Ludtz says. Fear is in his face. I can see it like a gray web over his features, spiders crawling in his eyes.
“You’re going to be fine, Dr. Ludtz. You need rest, that’s all.”
“Forgive me, Doctor. Forgive my morbidity. But may I ask another favor?”
“Of course.”
“I do not want to be cremated.”
I try to smile. “Dr. Ludtz, really, this is unnecessary. You are upsetting yourself.”
He stares at me imploringly. “Please, Dr. Langhof, promise me.”
“All right. You will not be cremated.”
Dr. Ludtz nods toward the closed door. “I have built a little structure, as you know. Out there. I wish to be buried near it.”
“As you wish, Dr. Ludtz. But the likelihood is that you will bury me first.”
“Still, at my age it pays to make plans.”
“All right. I will do as you wish.”
Dr. Ludtz smiles. “I suppose I’m a poor patient, Dr. Langhof. They say doctors always are.”
“It’s understandable.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble, Dr. Ludtz. I only wish that you would not alarm yourself.”
Dr. Ludtz waves his hand wearily. “Even without the fever, there would be things to worry about.” He looks at me sadly. “I suppose you’ve heard how things are going in the northern provinces.”
“Things?”
“The rebels, Doctor.”
