What he calls “the accident” happened “about a week ago.” If he’s right, then the explosion must have occurred Saturday, the day Shirin was scheduled to speak at the theater. But Saturday seems impossible in light of what I recorded that “they” first told me, probably in Radenau. If it happened on Friday I wouldn’t have been there, since I was planning on a good night’s sleep after spending the day in the park with B. Therefore I conclude that it probably happened on Sunday.
Tim knows nothing whatever about the explosion except that I was pulled out of the rubble and reportedly was deemed lucky to be alive.
I asked him how to get an outside line and was told I’d have to talk to Dr. Emerson about that. I told him I just wanted to call my mother and let her know I’m all right, but he said I’d have to talk to Dr. Emerson about that. I asked him what other kinds of patients are in this ward, and he said I’d have to ask Dr. Emerson a question like that. I asked him if he could send someone in to talk to me, and he said it was the middle of the night and he’d come himself but he had to stay at the desk. I asked him if I could come find him, and he said this would not be a good idea at this time of night but he’d be glad to talk to me as long as I wanted, on the phone.
I asked him if this is like a regular hospital, and he said no, not really, because there’s no one here with, like, you know, diseases, like cancer or pneumonia or appendicitis. This is more like a nursing home, he said.
I asked him if he could make a call for me, and he said only if Dr. Emerson okayed it. I asked him if I’d had any visitors and he said he was pretty sure I hadn’t. I asked if any visitors were expected, and he said there might be but he wouldn’t necessarily know about it very far in advance. I asked if anyone was asking about me, and he said oh, sure, they call every day to see how you’re doing. I asked who that was, and he said he doesn’t know.
I said I was surprised they’d moved me from Germany.
He said, “Well, you don’t have any problem functioning, you know. You just forget you’ve done it. Like now. Everything you’re saying makes sense, but when you wake up in the morning, you probably won’t remember saying it. You’re not unconscious or anything, you just forget. Like, you’ve forgotten that we’ve already had this conversation three times.”
“We’ve already talked about all this three times before?”
“Twice last night and this is the third time.”
“I don’t think I’ll forget this time.”
“Good, I hope not. That’s what you said the last time, though.”
I told him I’d tie a string around my finger, and he laughed.
He laughed, but he doesn’t know the really funny part, which is that there is already a string tied around it.
Saturday, June 1
Morning
All the same, when I woke up, I remembered that conversation with Tim. I’ve lost a week almost to the hour.
I had to wait till noon to get in to see Dr. Emerson, who was pretty much what I’d pictured him to be and pretty much what I suppose he has to be to run a joint like this: old enough to be authoritative but not a senior citizen, unflappable, unimpressible, unsnowable, unmovable—but perfectly friendly and willing to hear you out.
I said I wanted to talk to Fr. Lulfre, and was surprised to learn that Fr. Lulfre was expected to arrive at the center today in time for dinner.
Like Tim, Dr. Emerson knew nothing about the “accident.” When I asked for permission to call Germany, he asked who I wanted to talk to. I was prepared for the question, and offered him a piece of paper with three names on it. The incredible truth is, I don’t know Shirin’s last name. We were never formally introduced and there was never a moment when it would have been appropriate to ask. I know Michael’s last name—to hear it—but it could just as easily be spelled Dzerjinski or Dyurzhinsky as the way I heard it, Dershinsky. Without a first name, Frau Doktor Hartmann was unfindable. So the three people named on the list were Monika and Heinz Teitel and Gustl Meyer, the owner of the “leftovers” shop, Uberbleibselen.
Dr. Emerson glanced at the names and observed that it must be the middle of the night in Germany.
“No, actually, it’s just midevening—the best time to call.”
“Do you speak enough German to deal with an operator?”
When I said no, he did something that impressed the hell out of me. Without a moment’s hesitation, he picked up the phone and started punching buttons. Within sixty seconds he had the German country code, the Radenau city code, and had exerted enough force of will to get himself an operator who spoke English. When he had the numbers, the operator asked him if he wanted to be connected, and he said yes, try Gustl Meyer. When there was no answer there, the operator tried the Teitels’ number. When the phone was answered, Dr. Emerson asked if this was Monika Teitel. Evidently the answer was yes, because he shoved the phone at me.
I said, “Monika, is that you? This is Fr. Jared Osborne. We met in the basement of the theater …?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “What do you want?”
It was just as uncordial as it looks. I said, “I’m calling from the United States. You know I was in the explosion….”
“Yes?”
“Monika, I’m trying to find out what happened.”
“The theater was exploded.”
“I know, I was there, but I was hit in the head and I don’t remember anything. What I’m trying to find out is, was anybody down there in the—”