being wheeled down the hall.Ostermann stood when they came in, taking Ben’s hand. He was wearing a suit and tie, as natural to him as his perfect posture and formal nod. Ben wondered, a darting moment, if he wrote dressed this way, erect at his desk in a white collar, keeping German alive.
Ben approached the bed, his stomach tightening with shock. Not just sick. Danny’s face was beaten in, bruised, one eye swollen shut, jagged laceration marks crossing the rest. What happens when you hit. Ben stared at him for a minute, trying to see something familiar, but all he could see was the fall itself, the smash at the end. Why this way? Danny primping at the mirror for a date, deliberately doing this to himself. Why not sleeping pills, an easier Hollywood exit? Why would he want to look this way?
Ben stepped closer, taking in the IV drip, the monitor, all the hospital tools to keep him alive, bring him back. But you only had to look at the broken face to see the truth. The teases, the grins, were gone. They were just waiting for the rest of him to go. Ben took his hand, half expecting some response, but nothing moved.
“Danny,” he said, keeping his voice low, waking someone who’s just dozed off. He turned to the others. “Can he hear anything?”
“No,” Liesl said.
“We don’t know that,” Ostermann said. “There’s no way of knowing. Talk if you like.”
“Nonsense,” Liesl said, moving over to a vase of flowers.
“No, the doctor said, head injuries—we don’t know. What really happens.” He looked over at Ben, his voice reassuring. “The first two days were the critical ones. So perhaps—”
“But he’s no better,” Liesl said, bluntly pragmatic, facing it. “Why do people send flowers when he can’t see them.”
The room, Ben noticed now, was full of them, covering side tables and window sills.
“It’s a sign of concern,” Ostermann said. “A gesture.”
“For you,” Liesl said. “They send them for you.”
“You’re tired,” Ostermann said, as close, Ben saw, as he would come to a reprimand.
Liesl was reading one of the cards attached to a vase. “From Alma,” she said. “So she’s forgiven you.”
“For now,” Ostermann said, a weak smile.
Ben looked at the bruised face. When you’re unconscious, where does the mind go? Functioning somewhere beyond pain, or simply floating in white? Now that he was here, what was there to do? The usual business of a hospital visit seemed beside the point—fetching nurses, chatting idly to keep up spirits, plumping pillows.
Instead they waited, Ostermann returning to his book, Ben sitting at the bedside gazing at Danny’s damaged face, Liesl pacing, making lists of the flower cards for thank-you notes, glancing over at the bed as if she were still deciding how to feel, wearing herself out with it.
By lunch, in the cafeteria, she was visibly exhausted.
“Go home and rest,” Ostermann said. “You were here all night.”
“How can I leave? What if I’m not here if— What would people say?”
“That the family was here. Get Ben settled in. I’ll stay.”
“How can I sleep?” she said, putting things on her tray, standing up.
Ostermann looked at her fondly. “Then have a swim.” He turned to Ben as she left the table. “It’s no good, being here day and night. Look at her, all nerves. Take her home. He’ll be here later, you know.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“I know how you feel. When Anna was dying, in Paris, I never left. Nuns. I didn’t want to leave her with nuns. Leave her alone. But it was for me, not her. When she died, I was there and it didn’t matter. She was alone. I didn’t know it until then. We die alone.” He looked up. “I’ll call if there’s a change.”
T HEY DROVE up into the hills, the narrow road twisting upward in a series of blind curves past tall bushes and steep, hidden driveways. With each turn the houses seemed to get bigger, villas and a few white boxes that once must have
Ben approached the bed, his stomach tightening with shock. Not just sick. Danny’s face was beaten in, bruised, one eye swollen shut, jagged laceration marks crossing the rest. What happens when you hit. Ben stared at him for a minute, trying to see something familiar, but all he could see was the fall itself, the smash at the end. Why this way? Danny primping at the mirror for a date, deliberately doing this to himself. Why not sleeping pills, an easier Hollywood exit? Why would he want to look this way?
Ben stepped closer, taking in the IV drip, the monitor, all the hospital tools to keep him alive, bring him back. But you only had to look at the broken face to see the truth. The teases, the grins, were gone. They were just waiting for the rest of him to go. Ben took his hand, half expecting some response, but nothing moved.
“Danny,” he said, keeping his voice low, waking someone who’s just dozed off. He turned to the others. “Can he hear anything?”
“No,” Liesl said.
“We don’t know that,” Ostermann said. “There’s no way of knowing. Talk if you like.”
“Nonsense,” Liesl said, moving over to a vase of flowers.
“No, the doctor said, head injuries—we don’t know. What really happens.” He looked over at Ben, his voice reassuring. “The first two days were the critical ones. So perhaps—”
“But he’s no better,” Liesl said, bluntly pragmatic, facing it. “Why do people send flowers when he can’t see them.”
The room, Ben noticed now, was full of them, covering side tables and window sills.
“It’s a sign of concern,” Ostermann said. “A gesture.”
“For you,” Liesl said. “They send them for you.”
“You’re tired,” Ostermann said, as close, Ben saw, as he would come to a reprimand.
Liesl was reading one of the cards attached to a vase. “From Alma,” she said. “So she’s forgiven you.”
“For now,” Ostermann said, a weak smile.
Ben looked at the bruised face. When you’re unconscious, where does the mind go? Functioning somewhere beyond pain, or simply floating in white? Now that he was here, what was there to do? The usual business of a hospital visit seemed beside the point—fetching nurses, chatting idly to keep up spirits, plumping pillows.
Instead they waited, Ostermann returning to his book, Ben sitting at the bedside gazing at Danny’s damaged face, Liesl pacing, making lists of the flower cards for thank-you notes, glancing over at the bed as if she were still deciding how to feel, wearing herself out with it.
By lunch, in the cafeteria, she was visibly exhausted.
“Go home and rest,” Ostermann said. “You were here all night.”
“How can I leave? What if I’m not here if— What would people say?”
“That the family was here. Get Ben settled in. I’ll stay.”
“How can I sleep?” she said, putting things on her tray, standing up.
Ostermann looked at her fondly. “Then have a swim.” He turned to Ben as she left the table. “It’s no good, being here day and night. Look at her, all nerves. Take her home. He’ll be here later, you know.”
“What if he isn’t?”
“I know how you feel. When Anna was dying, in Paris, I never left. Nuns. I didn’t want to leave her with nuns. Leave her alone. But it was for me, not her. When she died, I was there and it didn’t matter. She was alone. I didn’t know it until then. We die alone.” He looked up. “I’ll call if there’s a change.”
T HEY DROVE up into the hills, the narrow road twisting upward in a series of blind curves past tall bushes and steep, hidden driveways. With each turn the houses seemed to get bigger, villas and a few white boxes that once must have
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