without giving them another glance.
The two men stood alone in the corridor for a moment.
“Doctor?” said Frederick.
“Yes, Herr Meisenheimer?”
“Where are we?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, what is the name of this town?”
A smile spread across the doctor’s face. “Didn’t you know? You’re in Beatrice, Missouri.”
SEVEN
That evening, when both mother and child were asleep, Johann Kliever and Frederick walked through the streets of Beatrice to the Nick-Nack Inn, the town’s only tavern. Sawdust covered the floor, belching small tornadoes of beige dust with every footfall. Men hunkered down over tables pockmarked with angry craters. Chairs rocked on uneven legs. A haze of smoke hung low in the air. Kliever strode through the room, nodding at people as he went. As they sat down at an empty table, an old man approached. He was wearing a long black apron tied at the waist and carried a battered metal tray under his arm. In the dim light of the saloon his skin was gray, tissue-thin, and deathlike. His small, pale eyes were sunk deep within the craggy lines of his face.
“This is Polk,” said Kliever.
The barman gazed at the floor, saying nothing. Kliever slapped the top of the table with his enormous hand. “Give us two beers and two shots. This man is the proud father of a new baby boy, Polk. We’re here to celebrate.”
Without a word, Polk turned and wobbled toward the bar at the back of the room. Frederick watched him go. “Is that man all right?” he asked.
“Polk? He’s so drunk he doesn’t know his own name. But that’s when he’s at his best. He never forgets an order, never gives wrong change. And he won’t say a word to anyone. He’s a machine.”
Moments later the barman returned and deposited four glasses on the table in front of them without spilling a drop, and then staggered wordlessly back to his post. Kliever raised his glass.
“To fatherhood,” he said.
“Heaven help me,” said Frederick, and threw back his drink. He felt the heat of the liquor inside him. “Do you have children?”
“One son. A baby, too. He’s just a few months old. Stefan.”
“So you know all about it.”
“Not really. You would have to ask my wife.”
“Women’s work?”
“Perhaps.” Kliever shrugged.
The two men drank.
“Have you lived here long?” asked Frederick.
“Most of my life.” Kliever spoke in a low, gruff voice. His German was perfect, without a trace of an accent. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and settled his huge frame back in his chair. “My grandfather was from Bavaria. He settled in the Mississippi Delta in 1856. My father and my uncles ran a farm for one of the big cotton families down there. They were good farmers, but they spent most of their time fighting with each other. In the end my father couldn’t stand it anymore, and moved away. I was still young when we left.” Kliever paused. “He died ten years ago. I work the farm he left me.”
“So you’ve never been to Germany?”
Kliever shook his head. “I’m an American, born and bred.”
“But your German is excellent.”
“That was all we spoke growing up. I only learned English when I got to school.”
“I suppose I shall need to go back to school myself, then,” mused Frederick, looking around him. In the far corner of the room he noticed a piano covered by a cobwebbed tarpaulin. “Your town seems a fine place.”
Kliever nodded. “The land is good. Rich soil. And the river does its bit.”
“The river?”
“The Missouri River. The longest river in America. Runs right through the town. I’ll show you on the way home.”
Before Frederick could reply, there was a loud crash from the far end of the room. Kliever got to his feet and beckoned Frederick to follow him. A crowd of people were peering over the bar. Polk’s prostrate body lay across the floor behind the counter, quite still. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. A small halo of shattered
The two men stood alone in the corridor for a moment.
“Doctor?” said Frederick.
“Yes, Herr Meisenheimer?”
“Where are we?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, what is the name of this town?”
A smile spread across the doctor’s face. “Didn’t you know? You’re in Beatrice, Missouri.”
SEVEN
That evening, when both mother and child were asleep, Johann Kliever and Frederick walked through the streets of Beatrice to the Nick-Nack Inn, the town’s only tavern. Sawdust covered the floor, belching small tornadoes of beige dust with every footfall. Men hunkered down over tables pockmarked with angry craters. Chairs rocked on uneven legs. A haze of smoke hung low in the air. Kliever strode through the room, nodding at people as he went. As they sat down at an empty table, an old man approached. He was wearing a long black apron tied at the waist and carried a battered metal tray under his arm. In the dim light of the saloon his skin was gray, tissue-thin, and deathlike. His small, pale eyes were sunk deep within the craggy lines of his face.
“This is Polk,” said Kliever.
The barman gazed at the floor, saying nothing. Kliever slapped the top of the table with his enormous hand. “Give us two beers and two shots. This man is the proud father of a new baby boy, Polk. We’re here to celebrate.”
Without a word, Polk turned and wobbled toward the bar at the back of the room. Frederick watched him go. “Is that man all right?” he asked.
“Polk? He’s so drunk he doesn’t know his own name. But that’s when he’s at his best. He never forgets an order, never gives wrong change. And he won’t say a word to anyone. He’s a machine.”
Moments later the barman returned and deposited four glasses on the table in front of them without spilling a drop, and then staggered wordlessly back to his post. Kliever raised his glass.
“To fatherhood,” he said.
“Heaven help me,” said Frederick, and threw back his drink. He felt the heat of the liquor inside him. “Do you have children?”
“One son. A baby, too. He’s just a few months old. Stefan.”
“So you know all about it.”
“Not really. You would have to ask my wife.”
“Women’s work?”
“Perhaps.” Kliever shrugged.
The two men drank.
“Have you lived here long?” asked Frederick.
“Most of my life.” Kliever spoke in a low, gruff voice. His German was perfect, without a trace of an accent. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and settled his huge frame back in his chair. “My grandfather was from Bavaria. He settled in the Mississippi Delta in 1856. My father and my uncles ran a farm for one of the big cotton families down there. They were good farmers, but they spent most of their time fighting with each other. In the end my father couldn’t stand it anymore, and moved away. I was still young when we left.” Kliever paused. “He died ten years ago. I work the farm he left me.”
“So you’ve never been to Germany?”
Kliever shook his head. “I’m an American, born and bred.”
“But your German is excellent.”
“That was all we spoke growing up. I only learned English when I got to school.”
“I suppose I shall need to go back to school myself, then,” mused Frederick, looking around him. In the far corner of the room he noticed a piano covered by a cobwebbed tarpaulin. “Your town seems a fine place.”
Kliever nodded. “The land is good. Rich soil. And the river does its bit.”
“The river?”
“The Missouri River. The longest river in America. Runs right through the town. I’ll show you on the way home.”
Before Frederick could reply, there was a loud crash from the far end of the room. Kliever got to his feet and beckoned Frederick to follow him. A crowd of people were peering over the bar. Polk’s prostrate body lay across the floor behind the counter, quite still. His eyes were open, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. A small halo of shattered
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