Little Hands Clapping Page 14

  Hulda looked at the card. Herr Friedleben had written an address, a date and a time. She turned it over, and on the other side were the words that had become so familiar:

  Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never be forgiven; he is guilty of an eternal sin.

  Mark 3:29

  ‘I leave them lying around here and there,’ he said. ‘You never know, maybe one day somebody will see one and be saved. It’s just a little idea of mine.’ With the help of his stick, he rose to his feet. ‘Please do come along. And remember – bring biscuits.’

  Hulda watched him walk away. She thought he was a lovely man. She only wished he wasn’t going to Hell. She knew it was selfish to think this way, but she also wished he had given her better news. Still, the sky was blue. That was something.

  Biscuits aside, she had no idea what to expect. She worried that the meeting would be all candles, robes and incantations, but when she arrived at the address on the card she found a very ordinary suburban home. A dozen people were sitting on sofas and dining chairs, making light conversation about any subject but perpetual suffering. Herr Friedleben greeted her warmly, and called the meeting to order.

  Each member took a turn to speak. The first admitted that since their last get-together he had fallen prey to thoughts of how unfair it seemed that murderers could be granted forgiveness, while good people who had made a single mistake would remain beyond hope of redemption. He said he had felt angry with God for refusing to accept his heartfelt apologies, and had even come close to repeating his fateful transgression. This was greeted with words of understanding, and Hulda was comforted to find it was a familiar problem. She had fought this anger too, and there had been times when she had felt a sense of injustice at the knowledge that her stepfather, the man who had pushed her into the arms of the Devil, would have the opportunity to make his peace and spend eternity in heaven. The next man to speak told everybody he had been having difficulty sleeping for fear of what awaited him, and she empathised with this as well. Next, an attractive young woman confessed that she had been facing a battle to remain faithful to the Lord. She had been wondering why, when nothing she could do would ever change her destiny, she should not sink into a life of sin. She explained that she had sinned a lot in the past – predominantly fornication – and had found it very enjoyable. ‘Every day opportunities arise,’ she said, ‘often with very handsome men, and sometimes the temptation is almost too much to resist.’

  Such opportunities never arose in Hulda’s life, but even though she couldn’t empathise with the woman’s situation she thought it was nice that nobody rushed to condemn her for having had these urges; instead they congratulated her for having been strong enough to keep her resolve.

  Hulda’s turn came, and for only the second time she told the story of her darkest night. When she was finished she received many kind words, and she smiled at Herr Friedleben, grateful to him for having introduced her to such pleasant people.

  After a short biscuit break the mood of the meeting changed, and they began discussing the good things they had done since their last meeting, things which, when the time came, would help them to look the Devil in the eye. One of the men had raised money for charity by running a half marathon, another had accompanied a group of disadvantaged children on a kayaking trip, and the attractive woman received a very warm response to her announcement that she would soon be leaving her bank job to start training as a paramedic. Hulda was very impressed with all these tales of human decency, and for a moment she wondered whether only the damned could be truly good, knowing that there would be no reward beyond the passing satisfaction of having scored a small victory against their future tormentor. She stamped on this thought, knowing she must never consider herself to be in any way superior to people who had not taken the same wrong turning as her.

  Not long after this meeting she was offered the job at the museum, and she accepted it without hesitation, delighted to know that she would be playing a small role in an establishment that brought hope and comfort to the wretched. She told her fellow members of the Union of the Damned how thankful she was to them for having guided her in the right direction.

  One evening she turned up to find no sign of Herr Friedleben. There was no discussion that meeting, they just sat in quiet contemplation. There were tears and there were sobs, but most of all there were biscuits. The plates kept going around, and they ate and ate and ate. They knew he would have wanted it that way.

  For all her participation in these sessions, Hulda never found the right moment to talk about her plan to vanquish the Devil. Night after night, as she waited to fall asleep, she nurtured the idea of marrying, and of having at least two children and raising them, from their very first day, not to do as she had done. Satan would be getting her soul, but if she could provide at least two servants for the Lord, then she will have added to the overall stock of good in the world, and as her life slips away she will know that for all her wailing and gnashing of teeth, she had been the true victor. What she needed to set this plan in motion was to find somebody to love, and who loved her in return. Her thoughts kept returning to Pavarotti, and the possibility of him having a brother who was like him in every way. She hoped that one day she would find the courage to ask.

  In the meantime she would keep on smiling.

  VI

  When the finer points of the doctor’s activities are revealed, only one person from his life will be prepared to speak out in his defence. In a long letter to a newspaper, Ute’s mother will write that anybody who had truly known her daughter would understand how this poor man had come to lose his mind. She will beg all those who are condemning him to transfer the blame to her own shoulders, saying that the moment the child was pulled from a slit in her belly and dangled before her she had known that she would leave only misery in her wake. The dread only intensified with time, but her love for her daughter was so overwhelming it had left her weak, helpless even, and she had not known what she could do except hope that one day the girl would stop being the way she was. She will go on to say that she should have heeded her misgivings and stopped the wedding, or after the funeral she should have stayed in contact with the doctor, maybe even marrying him herself so she could monitor him and make sure his suffering was not manifesting itself in destructive ways. She should have done something, then all this would never have happened. But it had happened, and she will finish by declaring that she wishes with all her heart that she had wrestled the child from the midwife’s hands, and dashed her brains out on the hospital wall.

  The trainee who opens this letter will assume it had been written by a crank, and put it in the no pile.

  Doctor Fröhlicher was eking things out. He was nearing the end of his penultimate body, and had less meat than usual on his plate. He wondered whether in going to the museum he had crossed a line. As he ate on, he reassured himself that he needn’t worry, that with his good work, his charitable donations, his ethical shopping choices and his decision to bequeath all his possessions to the poor, he had built up so much moral credit that he could afford to allow his behaviour to drift into a grey area every once in a while. And besides, he told himself, this area was only a very pale grey; all he had done was suggest that the old man might wish to encourage people to end their lives in the comfort of the museum rather than elsewhere. As a place to spend final moments it was certainly preferable to a bridge, or a garage, or a railway line, and he supposed this was why it was such a popular spot. These were unhappy people whose minds were already made up; if they were to lose courage and carry on living they would only continue to be unhappy. The old man would be doing them a favour by helping them to leave their misery behind sooner rather than later.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it is a terrible shame that these people do what they do, but they will have exhausted every other avenue, and it is helpful for all concerned when they do it in the museum. This way they have not died in vain. You see, Hans, if our supply was to dry up, who knows how
downhearted it would make me? Maybe I would even become too despondent to cure people.’ He threw a small fatty chunk in the air, and the dog leapt up and caught it. ‘If you look at it that way, these poor souls are just like you and I – servants of Hippocrates.’

  The doctor was feeling more optimistic than he had for a long time. With the nights drawing in, and people’s thoughts turning ever darker, he was sure it wouldn’t be long before somebody was to arrive at the museum in search of release from their troubles. And in the meantime he had a whole body waiting for him.

  When his plate was clean he went through to the garage and opened the freezer. There it was, naked and ready, crystals of ice brilliant white against the skin. The doctor had eaten a Vietnamese woman before, and a Turkish man, but this would be his first taste of such dark brown, almost black, flesh. He felt a little embarrassed about having been so wary of it, and for the last time he reminded himself that he was a doctor, that his training and experience told him the flavour would be much the same as if it had been any other colour. ‘Even at very low temperatures,’ he called through to Hans, who had stayed in the kitchen, ‘food cannot be frozen indefinitely.’ It was time to get on with it. He assembled his equipment and started getting the body ready.

  By the time the job was finished the man was in pieces: some parts were defrosting on trays in the refrigerator, and others were hanging from hooks. A few bits had been set aside for Hans, and anything unsalvageable had been thrown into a black plastic sack. The doctor swabbed the floor, and all that was left to do was clean himself up and change into a fresh pair of pyjamas, then he would be able to unwind in bed with a glass of water and a leaf through one of his photograph albums.

  As he turned off the light he saw that a small red indicator was shining from the empty freezer where the body had lain curled up for such a long time. He walked over to the socket on the wall and was about to pull out the plug when he stopped. He decided to leave it on. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be empty for long. Somewhere somebody would be on their way.

  PART FOUR

  I

  By the time the sun came up and she could see out of the window, Madalena’s train had left the city and was passing through countryside. She felt numb. Then she felt sick. Then came a raging pain, as if insects were trapped inside her body and struggling to scrape their way out through her skin. One by one these insects gave up, and she felt numb again. She hoped this would last, but soon the nausea returned, and the scraping. Her eyeballs throbbed.

  The train slowed to a halt. She had taken the first one going in the right direction, and it seemed to be stopping at every station along the way. There would be three changes before she reached her destination. It was going to be a long journey. She looked up to see that somebody had sat down in the seat across from hers. She knew she mustn’t draw attention to herself, that she had to get there without anybody finding out what was happening to her.

  She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

  II

  Not far from Doctor Fröhlicher’s house was a large park where people would go to walk their dogs. Often the doctor would take Hans there, and for a while he would merge with his surroundings, the complications of his life ebbing away as he became just another man taking a stroll with his dog.

  In the clear light of the Sunday morning he stood on the path in his coat and scarf, and watched Hans run across the grass, his paws marking green tracks through the frost as he hurried to play with a familiar Afghan hound. For a few minutes he lost himself in the serenity of the scene, happy just to watch his dog. His heart sank as he heard a pair of feet scrape to a halt beside him. He knew what this meant: one of his patients had seen him, and had decided to pass the time with a little light conversation. As always this conversation would begin with some mild observations about the weather and the glossiness of Hans’ coat, followed by some words of admiration for men of medicine. Then, lost for what to say next, the patient would start making small talk about anything medical that entered their mind. He reminded himself that this was one of the hazards of the job. On his first day at medical college he and his fellow students had been taught that everybody feels the need to make polite conversation with doctors, but very few people know how to go about it, and once the civilities are over they flounder. Before they were taught anything about healing the sick they learned a number of techniques for coping with the tedium of such encounters. Remembering his training, he readied himself for this familiar ordeal. He turned in the direction of the sound, and it was just as he had supposed: his patient Irmgard Klopstock was smiling up at him, her short, grey hair peeping out from her woolly hat. He returned her smile.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor Fröhlicher,’ she said, her voice quavering, as if it was on the edge of nervous laughter.

  ‘Good morning, Frau Klopstock.’

  ‘It’s very cold today – the first really cold day of the year.’

  Doctor Fröhlicher nodded, and returned his gaze to Hans. Together they watched him play.

  ‘Hans is such a lovely dog. And what a glossy coat he has – you must feed him only the finest food.’

  The doctor acknowledged this with a smile and a nod.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, doctor, but it is so reassuring to see you relaxing. You deserve it. I have nothing but admiration for you men of medicine. You all work so hard.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, impatient for her to continue her walk so he could go back to unwinding, ‘but it’s just a job like any other.’

  ‘No, no, you are being modest. You work very hard.’

  Although obliged to deny it with a shake of his head, he agreed with her. Doctors did indeed work exceptionally hard, and he knew he worked harder than most. Since Ute died he had only ever taken three days off each year, one on her birthday, one on their wedding anniversary and one on the date of her death, and only then if they fell on weekdays.

  ‘You are tireless,’ she said.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Frau Klopstock,’ he said, ‘I am rather tired at the moment.’ It was true. With so much on his mind he had been having some difficulty sleeping, and he hoped she would take the hint and carry on with her walk.

  Frau Klopstock mistook the comment for a joke. ‘Oh, Doctor Fröhlicher, I have always admired your sunny way. I will never forget your wonderful bedside manner when I had that problem with my . . .’

  She stopped, and Doctor Fröhlicher carried on looking at Hans.

  ‘Oh, I’m being silly. You are, after all, a man of medicine. There’s no need for me to be bashful with you . . . When I had that problem with my anus, Doctor Fröhlicher, and you were so patient with me. You went out of your way to put me at my ease.’

  The doctor recalled the problem. He had indeed been patient with her, but he was always especially patient with people who came to him with such troubles. Every doctor has an area of particular interest, and this area interested him greatly, so much so that the probing and the observations could almost count as a hobby. He would take investigatory photographs which, strictly speaking, did not need to be taken, and which, once taken, ought really to have remained among confidential files; they really shouldn’t have found their way into a series of albums that he kept on top of his wardrobe, and which he would sometimes leaf through last thing at night. He smiled at the memory of Frau Klopstock’s difficulty, and told himself that at some point over the weekend he would make himself a mug of hot chocolate and have another look at the pictures.

  ‘And then there was the time I had that terrible pain in my shoulder. It just wouldn’t go away, and, doctor, I came to you . . .’ And thus continued a full summary of her recent medical history. With the highlight over so early, the remainder was quite unexceptional. There were aches, rashes, viruses and a toe that was not broken after all, just badly bruised. The only moment of drama came when she recounted the difficulty she and her husband Franz had experienced in their attempts to conceive a child. Marrying late in life they had known it w
as likely to be difficult, but, as she explained, it was still very saddening to find that it was a biological impossibility. When her exhaustive account of his prescription of a mild topical fungicide for an easily combated skin complaint ended with a sigh, it was clear that she had finished, and Doctor Fröhlicher supposed he should say something.

  ‘But you are well now?’

  ‘Oh yes, doctor. Although I have lately been suffering from an occasional very slight toothache.’

  ‘I suggest you see your dentist about that.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I was just mentioning it, since you asked. After all, I’m sure you’re interested in medical difficulties no matter where they occur in the body, aren’t you, doctor? Oh look, here comes Hans.’

  The Afghan hound had been called away, and the Labrador ran up to his master and rubbed against his legs.

  ‘It has been very nice talking to you, Frau Klopstock,’ said the doctor, ‘but we really must be off now.’ He put Hans on his lead, and began to walk away. After a few paces Hans stopped, and began to choke. Nothing came up. The doctor could feel Frau Klopstock’s eyes following them, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before she said something.

  ‘Poor Hans,’ she said, as she glided towards them.

  ‘He will be fine. I expect he has just been eating twigs or fallen leaves.’ Doctor Fröhlicher patted Hans’ rump, and they made it a few more paces before the dog started to choke again. This time whatever it was that had been bothering him came up and lay on the ground, steaming in the cold air. Doctor Fröhlicher led Hans along, but they had only gone a few paces when his patient’s voice called from behind.

  ‘Doctor Fröhlicher,’ she said.

  He turned to see her bent over, staring down at the pile of vomit.

  ‘Oh, Doctor Fröhlicher,’ her voice was quavering even more than usual, and her hand was pressed to her heart. ‘I think you should come here. Hans does indeed seem to have brought up some leaves and, I think, a very small twig. But it’s not only that, doctor – he also seems to have produced something else . . .’ She looked up. ‘Something rather extraordinary.’