Borchert looked at him, coolly. "I don't think that you should let the tape trouble you, Mr. Kline. Why don't you simply accept it for what it purports to be?"
"Because it's not what it is," said Kline.
Borchert nodded slowly. "Very well, Mr. Kline," he said. "What do you propose?"
"I need to see them," Kline said. "Rules or no."
"And you want me to make the necessary arrangements. You're certain of it?"
"Yes," said Kline.
Borchert sighed. "So be it," he said. "I'll make the necessary arrangements, Mr. Kline. You'll see them tomorrow."
"I want to see them today."
"Not today, tomorrow. Don't push your luck."
Kline nodded, stood to go. His body was sore, bruised.
"Would you mind wiping your blood off the floor before you go, Mr. Kline?" asked Borchert, rising from the chair to stand perfectly balanced on his remaining leg. "And Mr. Kline," he said. "Now you have a history of violence. I advise you to be careful."
Late evening, Gous arrived with a half-empty bottle of Scotch cradled in the crook of his elbow, Scotch which was, according to him, compliments of Borchert.
"How kind of him," said Kline, flatly.
"Why he should care after your escapade this afternoon is beyond me," said Gous.
"Maybe that's why I only get half a bottle."
Gous nodded. "Do you have glasses?" he asked.
"No."
"I guess Borchert didn't think you rated glasses," said Gous. He fumbled awkwardly at the lid with his bandaged hand. "I'm going to have to ask you to open it," he said.
"How's your hand?" asked Kline.
"Nice of you to ask," said Gous. "Recovering nicely, thank you," he said, lifting the bandaged lump in the air. "I'm supposed to keep it elevated. And I shouldn't drink too much," he said. "Alcohol thins the blood and all that."
Kline screwed the cap off the bottle and drank. It was good Scotch, or at least good enough. He took another mouthful then pushed the bottle over to Gous, who, using his forearms like chopsticks, managed to get it to his mouth. He almost upset the bottle putting it back on the table.
"What made you change your mind?" he asked.
"My mind?" asked Kline.
"About amputation."
"Who said I changed my mind?" Lifting the bottle, he took another drink.
"Why would Borchert have sent over a bottle otherwise? Did you get a call?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Gous nodded. "It's nobody's business but your own," he said.
Kline reached for the bottle, watched the stump at the end of his arm knock against it, nearly knock it over. "Nobody's business but my own," he said, aloud, his voice sounding quite distant.
"That's right," Gous said. "That's what I said."
Kline could see on the end of his arm, the ghost of his hand, pale and transparent, sprouting oddly from the stump. "That's right," he heard himself say. He flexed his missing fingers, saw them move. They had cut off his hand but the ghost of his hand was still there. Perhaps this was what was meant by a call? Perhaps Borchert, shorn of most of his limbs, saw the ghosts of what was missing: vanished limbs grown uncarnate, pure.
He looked up. There was Gous, across the table from him, his eyes drooping, half-closed, his face mostly gone in shadow. Kline tried to reach for the bottle but couldn't find it.
"Where was I?" he asked.
He saw Gous' eyelids wince, come all the way open. "We should get you into bed," Gous said. "While I still can."
"It isn't Scotch," said Kline, to where Gous had been, but Gous wasn't there anymore. It took him some time to realize that Gous was there beside him, looming above him, trying to get him out of the chair. And then, without knowing how, he was standing, Gous beside him, and they were gliding slowly through the room.
"No," said Gous, slowly. "It is Scotch. But that's not all it is."
Fuck, thought Kline. "I thought you were my friend," he said, and felt himself falling. And then he was on the bed, sprawled, Gous sitting beside him looking down at him.
"I am your friend," Gous said. "I drank with you, didn't I?"
Kline tried to nod but nothing happened. He could see the wrappings around Gous' hand staining with blood.
"Besides," said Gous, "friendship is one thing, God another."
"Scoot over," Gous said. Kline was not sure how much time had passed. "There's enough room on that bed for two."
Gous' cheek on the pillow, just next to his own eye, was the last thing he would remember until, hours later, he awoke, alone, to the sight of his bandaged foot, the bandages already steeped with blood. Even then it was not until he felt the dressings with his remaining hand that he realized that three of his toes had been removed.
VII
"This is what you wanted," said Borchert after Kline had forced his shoe over his bandaged foot and limped over to Borchert's building. It had been difficult to walk without the toes, hard to keep his balance, and very painful. By the time he had reached the building his shoe was saturated with blood. The guard, perhaps the same guard as the day before, had regarded him with one eye and said, "What is wanted?" In answer he had merely lifted his bloody shoe slightly. The guard, without another word, let him pass, as did the guard behind the door. And now here he was, upstairs, across from Borchert, in Borchert's room, being told that he had gotten what he wanted.
"You should be careful about what you ask for," said Borchert.
"I didn't ask for anything."
"You asked," said Borchert, "to interview certain people in person. I told you I would make arrangements. I have made them. I took the fewest number of toes possible," he said. "Even now, for them to see you is to stretch the rules a little. A four, normally. . but it isn't unheard of."
"I want to leave," said Kline.
"Of course you do," said Borchert cheerily. "But I believe we've already discussed that. It's not possible."
"Why are you doing this?"
"What am I doing exactly?" asked Borchert. "I've made you a four. I've done you a favor."
"I don't see it that way."
"Perhaps someday you will."
"I doubt it."
Borchert looked at him seriously. "I doubt it too," he said. "Look," he said, "at your missing hand."
"When can I leave?" asked Kline.
"When all this is done."
"When will that be?"
Borchert shrugged. "That depends on you," he said. He lifted his remaining hand, pointed his crippled middle digit at Kline. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, you have interviews to conduct."
He was taken down a floor and then down the hall to another door, behind which was one of the interviewees, an eleven, his legs hacked off at the knees, his fingers and one thumb all shaved down nearly to knuckle. He recognized his voice as the third on the tape: Andreissen. Before he would speak with Kline, Andreissen demanded to see the missing toes, suggesting that Kline should not hide his light under a bushel.
Kline sat and loosened his shoe and slowly worked it off, blood dripping from it to puddle on the floor. He dropped the shoe onto the floor and began unwrapping the sodden dressing. Andreissen came nimbly out of his chair and, like an ape, propelled himself across the floor on his knuckles and the stumps of his knees. His eyes were lucid and shining, and when Kline got the wrapping off to reveal his mangled foot Andreissen came very close indeed. Kline could hardly bear to look at the foot. The place where the toes had been was cauterized but now cracked and seeping a flux of blood and pus.
"I thought you self-cauterized," said Andreissen. "Part of the reason I agreed to this was because I wanted to see what self-cauterization looked like."