In the world beyond his little room a million torches flickered in parade, while drums and bugles swelled in the chorus of the Coming Order. All was to be made clean. All was to be made pure. This was the voice of the future. And yet, the anxious hygienist remained curiously impervious to the rhetoric that roared around him. Having gained some sense of the bestial from his mother’s mutterings and his stepfather’s oily fingers, the fervent student held back from final commitment. Although he listened carefully to the speeches of the Minister of Light and even felt a little tingle of nationalist pride from time to time, still the raging voice and hysterical gesticulation of the Minister struck our hero as insufferably melodramatic. Even worse were the ravings of the Minister of Biology, with his ridiculous, medieval calculations of the width of vermin noses. This was not science. This was politics. And it was between these two huge stones that the ambitious student felt himself to be inescapably wedged. Without politics there could be no opportunity for science. In order to hold forth the pure light of inquiry, he would have to pass through the net of political conformity.
And so our hero stood by the window and watched the world go by. He saw the fat little burghers strap on sleek black pistols and march out into the storm. He saw the red-robed judges bend to the new dimensions of the law. He saw writers reorient their words and poets transform their songs. He saw bakers make cakes in the shape of the Leader’s twisted symbol, and painters regenerate their canvases with flags. In this arena, the little gladiator made his choice.
“Please come in, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sit down, won’t you?”
The first-year medical student sat down and crossed his legs primly.
“What can I do for you?” Dr. Trottman asked.
“I’ve been thinking about things for the past few months.”
“Really? What things?”
“Our first conversation. The one we had before I was admitted. I’ve been thinking quite a lot about that.”
Dr. Trottman nodded. “Yes, I remember. And have you come to some decision?”
“I think that you were right, Dr. Trottman,” Langhof said. “One cannot divorce himself from the great things happening around him.”
Dr. Trottman smiled amiably. “Quite true, Herr Langhof.”
Langhof shifted slightly in his seat. “My point, Dr. Trottman, is that now I would like to ally myself more closely to Nation and People.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I don’t agree with every aspect of the new regime.”
“No one does, of course.”
“Yes. Quite right.”
“How would you like this alliance to be made, Herr Langhof?”
“I think my best position would be in the Special Section,” Langhof said boldly.
Dr. Trottman’s eyes widened. “Special Section? That is somewhat more than mere alliance.”
“I am aware of that.”
“The Special Section is a very elite organization, Herr Langhof. Are you aware of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t doubt the seriousness of your commitment. Believe me, I don’t doubt it. But you see, Herr Langhof, you were never in the Youth Group, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, in most cases only former members of the Youth Group can be considered for the Special Section.”
“I had hoped that you might recommend me, Dr. Trottman. I realize that I have been somewhat negligent in the past. I admit that politics up until now has played only a peripheral part in my life. But now I wish to correct that lapse.”
“I see.”
“Do you think it possible for me to find a place in the Special Section?”
Dr. Trottman stared thoughtfully over the upper rim of his glasses. “Perhaps.”
“That is all I can ask.”
“It is quite a lot,” Dr. Trottman said curtly.
“I don’t mean to be arrogant in my request, Doctor. It’s simply that I am anxious to perform what I now see clearly to be my duty.”
“I’m not offended by your arrogance,” Dr. Trottman said. He smiled. “You are a man of great ability. And you know it. You also know that small matters should not stand in the way of your advancement. That is not arrogance, my dear Langhof, that is virtue.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dr. Trottman stood up. “Be assured that I will do what I can for you.”
The man of great ability rose quickly to his feet. “I am greatly in your debt, Dr. Trottman.”
Dr. Trottman shook his head resolutely. “You are in no one’s debt, Herr Langhof,” he said. “The world is changing. There is no place for false modesty, for slave moralities. Most certainly, you will learn this in the Special Section.”
“I look forward to it.”
“The eyes of the world are upon us,” Dr. Trottman said stentoriously. “But our eyes are on the stars.”
“You will never have cause to regret doing this for me,” Langhof said.
“I never expect to, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said. He rose from behind his desk, stepped back slightly, and raised his arm rigidly in salute.
Langhof stood transfixed, not with wonder or admiration, but with astonishment. For the gesture, so melodramatic, so ridiculously perfervid, so quintessentially burlesque, was made with such complete seriousness by Dr. Trottman that it was all the ambitious student could do to keep from laughing.
But Dr. Trottman stood completely still, his eyes staring hotly at Langhof. Finally our hero grasped what was expected of him. He brought himself to his full height, clicked his heels together and, as he had seen the others do, raised his arm. They stood for a moment facing each other, the tips of their fingers stretched out to make a triumphal arch over Dr. Trottman’s littered desk.
“You will be hearing from me, Herr Langhof,” Dr. Trottman said as he let his arm fall slowly to his side. “I trust the news, when it comes, will be favorable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good day.”
“Good day, sir.”
And then Langhof, our hero, turned smartly toward the door and marched out, closing it behind him. In the hallway he did not tremble as he had that evening in the park when Anna fled away. Nor did he hear music, martial or otherwise. He did not see a vision of perfect order or fall upon his knees, a stricken, sweating Saul of Tarsus. He did not goose-step down the hall, but merely turned slowly, strolling past the darkened professorial offices with a little smile playing on his lips. And if any thought came to him at all, it was of the laughable gullibility of people, even quite intelligent people like Dr. Trottman. How easy it seemed to charm and beguile them, to use the insufferable silliness of the times and yet rise above it all, trip lightly over it — even as he now tripped down the hall with perfect insouciance.
HERE IN THE REPUBLIC there is much insouciance. In the village square the men and women leap in a furious guaracha, kicking yellow dust into each other’s eyes. In the bars, the old men lean toward the candles and drink mescal down to the worm while the young ones nod drowsily outside the brothel door. And in the capital, the ermine-coated and bejeweled wives of the ministers of state sit in steamy halls and watch endless fashion shows with strained and calculating faces.
And yet, from my verandah I can see the foothills of the mountainous northern provinces, a place where, it is said, humor still exists in the form of low-minded jokes about El Presidente. Huddled around their dying fires, the insurrectionists talk of El Presidente’s teeth. It is said that they are made of gold and that he has inserted a small homing device to assure their quick recovery, should anyone be fool enough to steal them. In the northern provinces, every part of El Presidente’s body comes in for ridicule. There is much talk of a silver rectum that makes the sound of a cash register when El Presidente makes his toilet. It is said that his urine is tested by a chemical refinery built exclusively for that purpose and that the four-word motto of the Republic has been inscribed on the lead plate in his head. Just beneath the stitched scalp, it reads in elegant script: FREEDOM OBEDIENCE COUNTRY VULGARITY.