Albert moved up his next visit to Königsdorf, returning later in October and inviting Violet over for lunch. When he went to dish up his homemade chili con carne, he found little shreds of paper in it, and confronted Fred. “Why is there paper in the food?” he asked, and Fred widened his eyes: “It wasn’t me!” and Albert raised his voice: “Don’t lie, Fred,” and Fred screamed, “I never lie!” and Albert said, louder, “You can’t mess around with the food!” and Fred declared, “I didn’t want to mess around!”
Violet’s more understanding approach elicited from Fred the confession that there was a question he hadn’t dared to ask, so instead he’d written it on a piece of paper, torn it up, and mixed it into the chili.
“You can ask me anything,” said Albert.
Fred ran a hand across his face. “Why do you two make such funny noises when Violet is here?”
Albert gulped. Violet laughed, and said, “We’re making whoopee.”
“And when do people make whoopee?”
She glanced at Albert, who, drinking a glass of water, avoided her eyes. “When they feel very, very good.”
“Ambrosial?”
“Completely ambrosial.”
That night, Albert was woken by odd noises. Violet was already awake, sitting upright in bed. “Making whoopee,” she said, pointing toward Fred’s room and chuckling, and after they’d made love a second time that night, Albert admitted that had he been alone he’d have found Fred’s imitation annoying, but with her everything was different, with her he was different, as if, since he’d known her, he could see Fred better, or was able to make more of an effort. Now he traveled to Königsdorf because he wanted to, not because he was obliged to, and for that he was grateful to Violet, he whispered to her, very grateful, and Violet replied that nobody had ever given her such a beautiful compliment, and she kissed him, and they made love a third time, and Albert felt so happy that for the first time in his life he wasn’t yearning for a different life. Everything could stay just as it was.
The following evening she introduced him to the Cyclops Eye.
The Cyclops Eye
October 27, 2001
Blurriness slowly gives way to focus. Rumpled bedding. Light of sunrise or sunset. Albert blinks. He has bags under his eyes. The scar on his cheek is shimmering. He asks, “And what am I supposed to do now?”
Violet’s giggling from offscreen. “Be yourself.”
“How can I not be myself?”
“Plenty of people are only rarely themselves.”
“Well, at the moment I feel very much like myself.”
“Do you find it uncomfortable, being filmed?”
“A little. But exciting, somehow, too.”
“You’ve really never been on camera before?”
“At Helena, they only take pictures on birthdays, and at Christmas.”
“I wish I could see you as a kid, I’d love to know how you crawled, how you walked. How you talked.”
“…”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wish I had a shelf full of tapes, like you. It wouldn’t matter so much to me whether it was a good past or a bad one. As long as there was one.”
“The last thing you want are bad memories.”
“How do you know? Not only can you look at most of your life whenever you want, but it’s mostly good, too. It says, Look here, Violet, you have a pretty good life.”
“We could go looking for your history.”
“I’ve done that, more than once.”
“Somewhere in this house there must be …”
“A heap of Hansel and Gretel crumbs.”
“A heap of what?”
“Hansel and Gretel crumbs. You follow them because you think they’re going to help you get out of the forest. And all they do is lead you deeper and deeper in. Till you can’t tell the day from the night anymore. Then, all of a sudden, the trail ends.”
“You don’t get lost so quickly if you’re traveling with someone else.”
“Or else much quicker.”
“You’re living in your own head again.”
“It would do most people good to live in their heads a little more. They’d cause less harm.”
“We’d make it through the woods.”
Albert’s hand obscures the picture.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s enough.”
“Why?”
“Please, turn it off now.”
November 16, 2001
Violet’s slim legs disappear into dark water. Feet invisible. Swarms of insects. Splashing. Whip pan: Albert sits on the bank, wrapped in a coat. Pines. Underbrush. Naked roots.
Violet’s voice from off camera: “Come in!”
“It’s fucking cold.”
“I’ll help you warm up.”
“Water’s not my thing.”
“You go swimming with Fred.”
“Water’s his thing.”
“I love the feeling of not knowing what’s around me. What’s under me.”
“That’s just the feeling I can’t stand.”
“Then let me help you. Let me ask Fred a couple of questions.”
“About the past?”
“He must know who your mother is.”
“I already told you, I’ve mucked through all of that.”
“Maybe I’ll see something you missed.”
“Promise me you won’t ask him.”
“Albert.”
“Violet.”
“I promise.”
“Can we go now? I’m cold.”
December 7, 2001
Zoom in on a leather sofa with a metal frame. Albert’s naked back. Pale and freckled. Before him, a stereo from Bang & Olufsen. Not a speck of dust on its mirrored surface.
Violet’s voice from offscreen: “Hey!”
Albert flinches, spins around. “I thought it was your parents.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you have to do that?”
“I could film you for hours.”
“You could? You do. Sometimes it’s hard for me to picture you without that thing in front of your face.”
“You don’t need to be afraid of it just because you’re not used to it.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s just that I’d like to look you in the eye now and then.”
“Someday you’ll thank me.”
“I don’t need recordings to remember how things were.”
“So, what — you think I’m one of those people who videotape the paintings in a museum, and only realize what they’ve seen when they get home?”
“Please, switch it off.”
December 23, 2001
Grainy grayness. Moaning. Heavy breathing. Violet’s voice from off camera: “Wait.” Something bumps the microphone. A streak. A pan across pale thighs. Albert’s hairless chest.
His cold stare. “You can’t be serious.”
“It could be—”
“Turn it off.”
“But it’s the kind of video I want for Christmas.”
“Very funny. Not the kind I want.”
“Just pretend it isn’t here.”
“Violet!”
January 21, 2002
Fred’s profile. Hazy outlines of brownish-green clouds behind him — a map of the world.
Violet’s voice: “Okay. Let’s go. What’s your name?”