The Symmetry Teacher (35 page)

Bartholomew reached out for the trump card, the sacred folder … Suddenly, instead of the ace he was counting on, he pulled something else out of the deck—a fresh joker. Someone in a red leotard, a regular jester. Illustrating the article on ARLEQUIN.

He examined it. Something was not quite right. Instead of a cap with bells, it had horns; instead of pointed elfin shoes, there were little hooves. “Ugh!” he exclaimed. What a blunder! He had pulled out the wrong card,
D
instead of
A
. Or maybe even
S
? But who believes in him anymore, anyway, dressed up in that red leotard? Now he wears a three-piece suit … Adams!

“Ugh!” said Bartholomew again, starting to get worked up. “The devil’s on the loose!”

He looked up. Outside it was dark, and the building was suspiciously quiet. Was he burning the midnight oil again? His watch had stopped. “I wonder what time it is?” Bartholomew thought, alarmed, and straightaway his royal cares beset him again. They thronged around, grimaced and pulled faces, winked at him and nudged him, then scattered, like a deck made up entirely of jokers. Bartholomew spasmodically stuffed the one in the red leotard back under
S
and started to hurry, shuffling things in his hands, juggling his umbrella and his galoshes, and headed downstairs. The glass elevator was stuck between floors, and it shed the only light there was on the dark stairwell.

“You’re the last one here,” the doorkeeper mumbled with kindly disapproval, sweeping Bartholomew out together with the sawdust from the lobby. “Telegram for you. Have a good holiday!”

“What kind of telegram? What holiday?”

“Christmas, of course.”

“Christmas!?”

BARTIE HURT. HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. CALL SURGEON.

“For Christ’s sake!” A sluggish wave of cold washed over Bartholomew. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What kind of nonsense is this, you dunderhead?” Bartholomew exploded. “How is that possible—tomorrow?”

“It just is,” the doorkeeper said indignantly. “Tomorrow is Christmas.”

“I’m talking about the telegram!”

“Today, of course.”

“Yes, yes, the telegram came today, but when are they arriving?”

Bartholomew turned around and left with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Bartholomew was, of course, a great military commander. But, what with the disarray on the front lines …

For some reason we don’t allow great people to give in to weakness or fall into despair. Yet that’s their right, too. In depriving them of this most paltry and basic of rights, we don’t notice that we are also depriving them of sensibility and humanity; and we are the ones to suffer the consequences. We should assume that the great ones of the world experience both great despair and boundless weakness. For where is the guarantee of victory, if not at the bottom of the abyss? We assume that Napoleon lost a single battle because he happened to have a cold. We cannot even begin to imagine
how
he could have contracted the cold, however.

Fear for little Bartie threw a pall over everything. How could such a heap of misfortune land upon the poor king all at once? This king, who raised mountains, swept away islands, and scattered stars, was, after all, just an unlucky son and an unlucky father, no greater than us. The despair that gripped King Bartholomew defied the ordinary meaning of the term—it was infinite. Wet snow mixed with rain lashed his face, and his whole body was racked with a vile, hungry, feverish shivering. Everything in his head became a jumble: micro and macro. Bartie—the Christmas tree; the Thief—Adams; the surgeon—a wheelchair; the devil—the non-devil …

How had he so miscalculated? He thought that he would have time for everything tomorrow, and suddenly today morphed into yesterday. That was all he needed …

He had no Christmas tree, no wheelchair, and, worst of all, no surgeon. And what was wrong with little Bartie? Poor Bartholomew, horrified, pictured the Duchess rushing home, carrying a bleeding child in her arms. What could it be? His hand? His leg? His eye, God forbid? His ear? The thought of the ear comforted the unhappy king somewhat: without an ear one could still live. Forceps! It suddenly dawned on Bartholomew. But of course—Forceps! How could he have forgotten? Forceps, the brilliant Forceps, famous throughout the world for sewing back torn-off fingers, detached hands, feet, not to mention ears …

He dashed over to a pay phone. Forceps was at home, and he was happy as always to hear from Bartholomew. Bartholomew had to come by this instant! Ears, fingers—that was all nonsense, easy as pie. Put it in a cellophane bag and stuff it in the freezer. Tomorrow we’ll sew everything back on … Scary to
you
, but to us doctors it’s not at all scary. What’s scary is taking a knife out of someone’s heart, if the man is still alive; but if he’s already a corpse, no, that’s not scary anymore …

“A knife? A heart? What are you talking about!” Bartholomew was horror-struck once more and broke out in a cold sweat.

“Remember how we sailed on
The King of Something
? I was just a humble ship’s doctor, can you believe it? Relax, everything will be A-okay! Remember how you and I cleaned out the whole ship’s pharmacy? And by the end of the journey I was treating everything with kerosene. And we didn’t lose a single crew member, nobody got seriously ill. They were all in the pink of health when they went ashore. True, they were inedible … Why? Because they all stank of kerosene!”

Forceps roared with laughter. “Get over here this instant! What do you mean, your mother, what are you going on about? A fracture? We’ll put
her
on her feet, too. Tomorrow we’ll do it … Wheelchair? What do you mean, a wheelchair? I’ve got thousands of them, they’re all yours, take as many as you want! What, do you think I’d begrudge someone that kind of crap? Listen, I never thought you were such a fusspot. You’ll get your Christmas tree. From where? I’ll cut it down on my grounds here. Just settle down—it’s my land, I can do whatever I want with it.”

Forceps was completely drunk. Bartholomew was trying to wrest away the ax, which Forceps kept aiming at his leg. “Listen, why did you ever marry?” Forceps said, brandishing the ax. “To save you,” Bartholomew said, still not managing to liberate the ax. “I wasn’t ever really in love, was I?” “Yes, you were.” “How lucky I am that I never married, and especially not for love…” And thus, while aiming at Bartholomew’s leg, with one stroke, professionally, at one fell swoop, Forceps removed a splendid fir tree from the grounds in front of his splendid house built in the Elizabethan style—a little island of Great Britain in the land of frogs’ legs. “My home is my castle,” he announced to his valet, who wore a slight frown underneath his impenetrable mask of equanimity. “I can burn it down, if I want to. See if I can’t. Show His Majesty to the telephone so he can call his residence.”

And—oh, joy!—the widowed Queen Mother sounded very pleased about everything: Maggie was back! You can’t imagine how wonderful our Maggie is! She washed and set my hair. Charming!… No, my voice is fine, it’s just inconvenient for me to talk … No, they haven’t returned. Were they supposed to? I assure you, it’s only Maggie … It’s just inconvenient to talk with a mirror in my hand. No, no telegram, and no one has arrived. Are we having more guests for Christmas, then? Splendid! Come home as soon as you can, you’ll never recognize me! Do you want to speak to Maggie?

The situation with Maggie was a bit unclear; or, rather, almost clear. She had found out that the Duchess wouldn’t be home for Christmas. The Duchess couldn’t bear her, and Bartholomew couldn’t understand why. She was by far the loveliest of all the prince’s favorites. The Queen Mother adored her, however; and Bartholomew was of one mind with his mother. The Duchess couldn’t understand what they all saw in her. Bartholomew, in his turn, couldn’t understand something either: What did Maggie see in his son? Such rare disinterestedness! She came just at the right moment, as always; she knew just what to do, as always; as always, she rescued them. Sweet Maggie, Bartholomew thought fondly. But were she and that rascal up to some other kind of monkey business, Bartholomew wondered all of a sudden. No, she’s not that type …

Bartholomew and Maggie didn’t speak over the phone. He left the number of Forceps, just in case, and calmly (only bad news travels fast; and the Duchess was still on the way) proceeded from the telephone to the dining room, where Forceps had concocted a most improbable pick-me-up for the king—the
Limb Resection of the Day
.

*   *   *

The next morning, the ground was covered with frost, and the air was filled with light flurries of snow—Christmas weather. Forceps, upon whom the king had conferred the title of Admiral, pushed Bartholomew in a splendid state-of-the-art wheelchair, its spokes glittering expensively and its multitude of nickel-plated parts, the purposes of which were not immediately clear, gleaming. Across his lap the king clutched yesterday’s Christmas tree and the surgeon’s bag, with its heavy instruments, some of metal, some of glass, that clattered and clinked. Clean-shaven, with the order of the Legion of Honor in his buttonhole, Admiral Forceps followed on the footboard. Excited subjects the age of children chased after them, hooting and tossing confetti. The policeman on the corner gave a salute.

And so, with a surgeon’s bag and a Christmas tree in his lap like his orb and scepter, and a groom with the rank of admiral on the footboard, King Bartholomew rolled into the narrow courtyard of his own residence. Leaving the king’s equipage by the elevator door, supporting each other and leaning now on the Christmas tree, now on the surgeon’s bag, they made their way upstairs. But the key wouldn’t fit into the keyhole. It was from a completely different lock—this was a French one, but the key was, of course, from an English one. It was possible the key was even from another door altogether—perhaps from Bartholomew’s study. He had no other key. And Forceps never brought any keys with him, as he had a steward for that. No one answered when they rang the bell. Nor did anyone respond to their knock.

A wave of anxiety, accompanied by the aftertaste of yesterday’s “recipe,” gripped the king. He went downstairs again to call on the telephone, but no one picked up, and then he discovered that the wheelchair was no longer by the elevator. Bartholomew trudged back upstairs in despair. On the landing there was no Forceps, and there was no Christmas tree leaning against the door. Bartholomew clawed at the door piteously; from the other side he heard only the mewing of Basil the Dark.

The king started banging on the door and shouting at the top of his lungs: “Hey, is anybody there?!” To his great relief he heard, muffled by distance but recognizable at an instant, the cry of the Queen Mother—either “Bartels, my little king!” or “Where the hell have you been?”

“Why didn’t you answer the phone, Mother?” cried Bartholomew, pressing himself against the door.

“Why didn’t you call?” his mother answered.

“I left my keys at home!” Bartholomew shouted.

“I don’t know where your son has gone,” his mother answered.

“And where is your Maggie?”

“Madeleine couldn’t come today, her grandsons are visiting her!”

“Did a telegram arrive?”

“Someone brought over some sort of bundle!”

“With what? What’s inside?”

“Let me look for your keys … I’m going to find your keys, I said!”

“Just don’t go crawling around the apartment again!” Bartholomew yelled.

“Your Asian brought it over!”

“What did that scoundrel steal this time?”

“What happened?” his mother yelled. “What did he hurt?”

“In the name of God, don’t get out of bed!”

“Is he alive?”

“How will you give them to me? I’m on the other side!”

*   *   *

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Forceps grumbled at him, yanking him away from the door. “Stop shouting. Nothing’s the matter, I just commandeered a truck.”

From the window on the landing, Bartholomew saw the long metal arm of a truck crane rising into the air. A worker was seated in the winch and aiming straight for the balcony of Bartholomew’s apartment.

“You didn’t happen to see the wheelchair downstairs, did you?” Bartholomew asked on the off chance.

“Nope. Someone swiped it. Never mind, I’ll get you another one. But where’s my Christmas tree?”

“That’s gone, too,” Bartholomew said.

“My, my, you’ve got your crown on backward, Your Majesty!” Forceps laughed out loud, unfastened his surgeon’s bag, and took a swig from it. “That’s why I never let this thing out of my hands.” With these words he spread a sterile surgeon’s napkin out on the floor in front of the door and took out some tweezers, a lancet, a surgeon’s handsaw, and a pair of tongs, all wrapped up in an improbable amount of cotton gauze. After he had arranged all of this on the napkin, he took his wallet out of his pocket and rummaged through it until he found what he needed. He tapped lightly all around the lock, bending his ear to it as if to a patient’s chest, and inserted a coin into the opening. Then, with a deft movement of the lancet, he removed a superfluous object from the lock like a tumor. Next, he turned the coin, and
voilà
!—the lock clicked obediently and the door flew open.

A frosty draft rushed through the corridor of the apartment, and a triumphant man in a hard hat strode toward them. They were like two mining brigades who had been hollowing out a tunnel from opposite ends and had finally reached the middle. They met in the heart of the apartment, mutually satisfied with their respective efforts and their precision, like people who had been working at a single task but had never seen each other face-to-face.

“It’s all right,” the Brigadier reported to Forceps. “I had to remove the window frame. Now I’ll open your door.”

“Please do,” Forceps said.

And the Brigadier made his way to the door, an expression of indignation slowly suffusing his face, with which he greeted the Duchess and little Bartie in her arms when he opened it.

It was the foot, after all. Thank God. The little one’s leg had been wrapped in scarves and stuffed into a hat with earflaps, and the strings were tied up in a bow at the top, as though his leg were on upside down …