Tough, Tough Toys for Tough, Tough Boys (7 page)

Nor, according to Philip, was Humpy in any way retarded: ‘He's using two or more coloured pencils in that drawing, and he's already forming recognisable shapes. I think I can tell you with some authority that, if anything, this represents advanced, rather than retarded, ability for a child of his age. If there is a real problem here, Mr and Mrs Green, I suspect it may be to do with a gift rather than a deficiency.’

After twenty minutes or so of chatting and quietly observing Humpy, who continued to make use of Philip Weston's superb collection of toys and diversions, the child psychologist turned his attention directly to him. He picked up a small tray full of outsized marbles from his desk and called to the toddler, ‘Humpy, come and look at these.’ Humpy came jogging across the room, smiling broadly. In his cute, Osh-Kosh bib ‘n’ braces, his brown curls framing his chubby face, he looked a picture of health and radiance.

Philip Weston selected one of the marbles and gave it to Humpy. ‘Now, Humpy,’ he said, ‘if I give you two of these marbles’ – he rattled the tray – ‘will you give me that marble back?’ Without even needing to give this exchange any thought Humpy thrust the first marble in the child psychologist's face. Philip took it, put it in the tray, selected two other shiny marbles and gave them to him. Humpy grinned broadly. Philip turned to Miriam and Daniel saying, ‘This is really quite exceptional comprehension for a child Humpy's age – ‘ He turned back to Humpy.

‘Now, Humpy, if I give you two of these remaining marbles, will you give me those two marbles back?’

Humpy stared at Philip for some seconds, while storm clouds gathered in his blue, blue eyes. The little boy's brow furrowed, and his fist closed tightly around his two marbles.
’Besserwessi!’
he spat at Philip, and then,
’Grundgesetz!‘

It was to Philip's credit, and a fantastic exemplar of his clinical skills, that he didn't react at all adversely to these bits of high-pitched nonsense, but merely put the question again: ‘These two marbles, Humpy, for your two, what do you say?’

Humpy opened his hand and looked at the two blue marbles he had in his possession. Philip selected two equally shiny blue marbles from the tray and proffered them. There was silence for some moments while the two parties eyed one another's merchandise. Then Humpy summoned himself. He put one marble very carefully in the side pocket of his overalls, and the other in the bib pocket. This accomplished, he said to Philip with great seriousness,
’Finanzausgleichgesetz,’
turned neatly on his heels, and went back to the scribbling he'd been doing before the child psychologist called him over.

Daniel Green sighed heavily, and passed a hand through his hair. ‘Well, now you've seen it, Philip – that's the Humpy we deal with most of the time. He talks this . . . this . . . I know I shouldn't say it, but it's gibberish, isn't it?’

‘Hmmm . . .’ Philip was clearly giving the matter some thought before replying. ‘We-ell, I agree, it doesn't sound like anything recognisably meaningful, but there is definitely something going on here, Humpy is communicating
something,
something that he thinks we might comprehend. There's great deliberation in what he's saying . . . I don't know, I don't know . . .’ He shook his head.

‘What?’ Miriam was sitting forward on the edge of her chair; she was trying to remain calm, but her troubled expression betrayed her. ‘What do you think? Please, don't hold anything back from us.’

‘It could be pure speculation. It's something I've never seen before. I tell you, if I didn't know any better I'd be prepared to hazard the idea that young Humpy was originating some kind of idiolect, you know, a private language. His cognitive skills are, as I said, quite remarkably developed for his age. If you don't mind, I'd like to get a second opinion here.’

‘What would that entail?’ asked Miriam. She was clearly appalled by this turn of events, but Daniel, by contrast, was leaning forward, engaged, intrigued.

‘Well, it just so happens that we have a Dr Grauerholtz visiting us here at the Gruton at the moment. This is a marvellous opportunity. He's a former director of the clinic, now based at the Bettelheim Institute in Chicago,
and
he's without doubt the foremost expert on human-language acquisition in either Europe or the USA. If he's available I'd like him to pop in right away and have a chat with Humpy as well. See if we can get to the bottom of this young man's verbal antics. What do you say?’

‘What is the basis of assessment?’

‘The same as it's always been.’

‘Meaning . . .?’

‘Meaning that they did have an open order book, that they did have a capital fund – of some sort. Meaning that both have been subject to the one-on-one conversion rate, and those monies remain in escrow. Meaning that precisely, Herr Doktor.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, I know all of that. I know all of that.’

It was late in the morning and Zweijärig was feeling no better – perhaps worse. He'd groped his way through the Unterweig file and now was attempting to discuss its contents with Hassell, his capitalisation expert. At least he'd taken the leap and got Frau Schelling to cancel the meeting with Bocklin and Schiele. ‘The unheard-of must be spoken.’

‘I'm sorry, Herr Doktor?’ Hassell was looking curiously at his boss. Zweijärig noted, inconsequentially, how pink Hassell's forehead was. Pink fading to white at the hairline, just like a slice of ham.

‘Ah, um, well . . .’ I spoke aloud? Zweijärig fumbled the ball of thought. What is this – am I really losing my marbles? ‘I mean to say, the conversion rate, Hassell, it remains as stupid today as when Kohl proposed it. It's wrecked our chances of building the economy the way we might wish to. It doesn't reflect the constitution – such as it was; and it doesn't accord with the law governing redistribution of fiscal apportionments to the Länder.’

Hassell was staring hard at Zweijärig during this speech. It was about the closest he could remember his boss getting to discussing politics directly in the four years they'd worked together. He normally skated around such topics, avoiding them with something approaching flippancy. Hassell steepled his plump fingers on the edge of the desk, pursed his plump lips, and ventured a query. ‘So, Herr Doktor, would you have favoured Pohl's proposal? Do you think things would have gone that much smoother?’

‘Pohl-Kohl. Kohl-Pohl. It hardly matters which bloody joker we have sitting on top of the Reichstag. We're a nation of displaced people, Herr Hassell. We're displaced from our past, we're displaced from our land, we're displaced from each other. That's the European ideal for you, eh – we're closer to people in Marseilles or Manchester than we are to those in Magdeburg. It's an ideal of mass society rather than homeland, ach!’

Zweijärig was, Hassell noted, breathing heavily, panting almost. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. Hassell didn't wish to be intrusive, but he ought really to enquire. ‘Are you feeling all right, Herr Doktor?’

‘All right, yes, yes, Herr Hassell, I feel all right. I feel like the smart-aleck Westerner I've become, eh? Wouldn't you say?’

‘It's not my position, Herr Doktor –’

‘No, no, of course not, of course not. It's not your position. I'm sorry, Herr Hassell, I'm not myself today, I'm like Job on his dungheap – you know that one, d'you? It's in the Stadel, you should go and look at it.
Job on his Dungheap.
Except in
our
case the dungheap is built of glass and steel, hmm?’

‘Dungheap, Herr Doktor?’ said Hassell, trying to look unobtrusively over his shoulder, trying to see whether Frau Schelling was in the outer office.

‘Playing with shit, Herr Hassell, playing with shit. Have you ever heard the expression that money
is
shit, Herr Hassell?’

‘Herr Doktor?’

‘Money
is
shit. No, well, I suppose not. Y'know, there are ghosts here in Frankfurt, Herr Hassell, you can see them if you squint. You can see them walking about – the ghosts of the past. This city is built on money, so they say. Perhaps it's built on shit too, hmm?’

And with this gnomic – if not crazy – remark, Herr Doktor Martin Zweijärig stood up, passed a sweaty hand across his brow, and made for the door of his office, calling over his shoulder, ‘I'm going for a glass of stuff, Herr Hassell. If you would be so good, please tell Frau Schelling I'll be back in a couple of hours.’ Then he was gone.

Hassell sighed heavily. The old man was unwell, disturbed even. He was clearly disoriented; perhaps Hassell should stop him leaving the bank building? Ethics and propriety did battle in the arid processes of Hassell's mind for some seconds, until ethics won – narrowly.

Hassell got up and quit the office at a near-jog, the bunches of fat above his broad hips jigging like panniers on a donkey. But when he reached the lifts Zweijärig had gone. He turned back to the office and met Frau Schelling. ‘The Deputy Direktor, Frau Schelling, do you think –?’

‘I think he's ill, Herr Hassell– he's behaving very oddly. I called Frau Doktor Zweijärig just now. I hated going behind his back like that, but –’

‘You did the right thing, Frau Schelling. What did Frau Doktor Zweijärig say?’

‘Oh, she's noticed it as well. She's driving into town right now. She says she'll be here within the hour. But where has he gone?’

‘He said something about getting a glass of stuff. Do you think he's gone to Sachsenhausen?’

‘I doubt it, he can't stand the GIs there. No, there's a tavern near the station he often goes to. I'll bet he's gone there now.’ Frau Schelling shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Poor man, I do hope he's all right.’

‘Miriam and Daniel Green, this is Dr Grauerholtz . . . and this is Humpy.’ Philip Weston stood in the middle of his consulting room making the introductions. Dr Grauerholtz was a tiny little egg of a man, bald, bifocaled, and wearing a quite electric suit. The contrast between the two psychologists was straightforwardly comic, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Daniel and Miriam exchanged surreptitious grins and jointly raised their eyebrows.

‘Hello,’ said Dr Grauerholtz warmly. He had a thick but not unpleasant German accent. ‘Philip tells me that we have a most unusual young fellow with us today – you must be very proud of him.’

‘Proud?’ Miriam Green was becoming agitated again. Dr Grauerholtz and Philip Weston exchanged meaningful glances. Dr Grauerholtz indicated that they should all sit down. Then, with rapid, jerky movements he stripped off his funny jacket, threw it over a chair, reversed the chair, and sat down on it facing them with his elbows crossed on the back.

‘I don't think I will be in any way upsetting you, Mr and Mrs Green, if I tell you that my colleague has managed to do a rudimentary Stanford-Binet test on Master Humpy –’

‘Stanford-Binet?’ Miriam was becoming querulous.

‘I'm sorry, so-called intelligence test. Obviously such things are very speculative with such a young child, but we suspect that Humpy's IQ may be well up in the hundred and sixties. He is, we believe, an exceptionally bright young fellow. Now, if you don't mind . . .’

Dr Grauerholtz dropped backwards off the chair on to his knees and then crawled towards Humpy across the expanse of carpet. Humpy, who had paid no attention to Dr Grauerholtz's arrival, was playing with some building blocks in the corner of the room. He had managed to construct a sort of pyramid, or ziggurat, the top of which was level with the first shelf of a bookcase, and now he was running toy cars up the side of this edifice and parking them neatly by the spines of the books.

‘That's a good castle you've got there, Humpy,’ said Dr Grauerholtz. ‘Do you like castles?’

Humpy stopped what he was doing and regarded the semi-recumbent world authority on human-language acquisition with an expression that would have been called contemptuous in an older individual.
’Grundausbildung!’
he piped, scooting one of the toy cars along the shelf. Dr Grauerholtz appeared rather taken aback, and sat back on his heels. Daniel and Miriam gave each other weary looks.

’Grundausbildung?’
Dr Grauerholtz repeated the gibberish with an interrogative-sounding swoop at the end. Humpy stopped what he was doing, tensed, and turned to give the doctor his full attention.
’Ja,’
he said after a few moments,
’grundausbildung.’

’Grundausbildung für
. . .?’ gargled the doctor.

’Für bankkreise,’
Humpy replied, and smiled broadly.

The doctor scratched the few remaining hairs on his head, before saying, ‘Humpy,
verstehen sie Deutsch
?’

‘
Ja,’
Humpy came back, and giggled.
’Geschäft Deutsch.’
Then he resumed playing with the toy car, as if none of this bizarre exchange were of any account.

Dr Grauerholtz stood up and came back to where the adults were sitting. They were all staring at him with frank astonishment, none more so than Miriam Green. To look at her you might have thought she was in the presence of some prophet, or messiah. ‘Doc-Doctor Grau-Grauerholtz,’ she stuttered, ‘c-can you understand what Humpy is saying?’

‘Oh yes,’ the Doctor replied. He was now grinning as widely as Humpy. ‘Quite well, I think. You see, your son is speaking . . . How can I put it? He's speaking what you would call “business German”.’

‘ “Business German"?’ queried Philip Weston. ‘Isn't that a bit unusual for an English child of two and a half?’

Dr Grauerholtz had taken his bifocals off and was cleaning them with a small soft cloth that he'd taken from his trouser pocket. He looked at the three faces that gawped at him with watery, myopic eyes, and then said, ‘Yes, yes, I suppose a bit unusual, but hardly a handicap.’ He smiled, a small wry smile. ‘Some people might say it was a great asset – especially in today's European situation, yes?’

Humpy chose that moment to push over the pyramid of building blocks he'd made. They fell with a delightful local crash; and Humpy began to laugh. It was the happy, secure laugh of a well-loved child – if a tad on the guttural side.