The Tenth Circle
by
Barry Baldwin
‘There
you go, little man.’
The doctor held out a bursting cream bun
which he had produced from the bottom drawer
of his desk. His arms were long enough that
he was able to do this without any relaxation
of the rigid gun-in-the-back-of-the-neck
posture that he always adopted in the comfortless
chair of his own designing.
The boy, a living cherub torn from the canvas
of some Renaissance artist, except for his
eyes which at that moment were bulging almost
as much as the bun, stretched out both his
hands. He received it with good-mannered
restraint, not snatching. With the wisdom
that comes instinctively to a child of eight,
the boy said nothing. He knew that the doctor
did not wish to be thanked. The bun was
a transaction, not a gift; they both understood
that.
A third party in the room did not. The woman,
her still naturally blonde hair compressed
with daily discipline into a different kind
of bun, pursed her lips which were thin
enough to make this an almost effortless
sign of disapproval as she watched them.
She was officially in her middle thirties,
though there was more than one school of
thought about this among her colleagues
and superiors, many of whom tended to revise
their theories on a regular basis, depending
upon whether she was wearing her state-approved
breasts up or down.
She was the doctor’s factotum: nurse,
receptionist, secretary. More than enough
to be going on with, though she would have
been willing to be more. But there was no
chance of that, as she had concluded long
ago. She was aware that there was no need
to take this personally. The doctor was
famously indifferent to women, whatever
the colour of their hair or configuration
of their bosoms. To boys also, whence one
of the emotions she felt towards his gifting
of the child.
Sitting in a chair that was far more comfortable
than his, for the doctor did not make her
suffer for his own spartan tastes, she wondered
yet again why he of all men should be so
drawn towards cream buns. This continued
puzzlement defied the explanation which
he had given her at the beginning of their
relationship. Not that she had asked, of
course, not that she ever would have, a
reticence that owed as much to her philosophy
that to show curiosity about anyone, superior
or inferior, served only to diminish oneself,
as to fear of him, though fear he did most
certainly inspire, not just in her but in
everyone including his own superiors, that
most effective kind of fear, the kind engendered
by his assumption of it in others rather
than through its imposition.
On their very first day, noticing her noticing
him, he had raised the bun high above his
head in what came dangerously close to a
mock salute and said, ‘I see you are
wondering about this. It is my one defining
characteristic, another term for weakness
perhaps, albeit our leader nurtures a taste
for this particular confection, hence I
honour him thus, though I will concede to
you that it is a philosophical question
to what extent to do something one would
in any case have done constitutes a genuine
honour...’ His voice had trailed off
at that point, a rare event: he tended not
to run out of words on any subject, one
of several reasons his company was not much
sought out at the social level.
Still holding the bun, which he had not
yet tasted or even seemed to have looked
at, the boy walked with short careful steps
to the door which he somehow manoeuvred
open with an elbow and went out, closing
it with an unchildlike dignity and quiet.
‘Was
that wise?’
‘From
his point of view, no. Soon he will develop
stomach ache and the bun will be back. Ah
well, as our friend Moll likes to say, give
them something sweet to chew on. It will
be a good lesson.’
‘For
whom?’ Both appreciated that these
words were only a form of punctuation.
‘For
the boy. Though perhaps also for me. Not
that he may be with us for much longer.’
‘No?’
A genuine question, this time.
‘Yes.
No. Forgive me. The Yes-No game was a favourite
of mine when I was his age. Excellent training,
too, for rising in the professional ranks.
No, or do I mean Yes, he may soon be gone.
There was reason to think that a colleague
might take him under his wing, so to speak,
but apparently his interest has been diverted
elsewhere. So there will be no more call
upon our little bun boy’s services.
At least, not in that particular direction.’
‘Then
I should make the appropriate notation in
the ledgers.’ She was already pulling
one of the several pudgy brown volumes on
her desk towards her.
‘Naturally.
You do not need me to tell you that. Though
much depends on his reaction to the other
item I bestowed upon him earlier. Hence,
it would be prudent to defer your emendation
until it is clear which of the various possible
outocmes shall have prevailed.’ The
doctor’s gaze flickered towards her.
He was a past master at changing the blue
of his eyes from Mediterranean to Arctic
latitudes. Just for a moment, the ice chips
prevailed, then they melted back into Southern
softness. ‘Tell me, are you familiar
with the works of Gray?’
A strange question. ‘Gray? Well...’
‘Clearly
you do not. I am referring to Gray, Thomas,
English poet, 1716-1771. He composed verses
upon his school, the famous Eton. Ode on
a Distant Prospect of Eton College, to be
precise. In the sixth stanza, he writes
Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today.
An appropriate sentiment, do you not think?’
She said nothing, always her policy when
she had nothing to say. Not that it made
any difference. The doctor was already surging
on. ‘And yet, it occurs to me, have
all the verses in the world ever saved a
single person from death? Well, perhaps
once. I am thinking of a tale in the Greek
biographer Plutarch whom we read at school.
It is to be found in his life of the Athenian
general Nicias. This Nicias was in command
of the great armada that invaded Sicily
and was utterly defeated. I pass over that
part, it is not something we wish to contemplate
in our own present circumstances. The soldiers
who were taken prisoner were sentenced to
the stone quarries of Syracuse. An unpleasant
fate. Except, that is, for those who could
recite from memory any lines from the plays
of the poet Euripides, of whom for a reason
not given, perhaps because there was none,
these Sicilians were inordinately fond.
Any of the prisoners who managed to quote
a verse were spared the quarries. I wonder
what would happen if we were to institute
a similar policy? Perhaps I will raise the
point at our next organisational meeting.
Or perhaps not. The story may well be a
polite fiction. According to our teacher,
Plutarch was not the most reliable of chroniclers,
and he was writing many centuries after
the event. How, I wonder, shall we be judged
by our Plutarchs..?’
The doctor eased out of his reverie. She
was busy at her ledgers, the scratching
of her pen her only response. Although her
head remained half-cocked at a polite listening
angle, it was clear that she had ceased
to pay him any more than a small and very
carefully measured portion of her attention.
he smiled to himself at this well-judged
blend of honesty and good manners.
‘I
see that I am boring you. You are quite
right, we must press on. So, what is on
our menu for today?’
Without looking up or any pause in the movement
of her pen, she said, ‘A fresh intake
will be arriving at 1600 hours precisely.
And you should look at that new file I placed
on your desk this morning. It is from the
commandant himself. One was given to understand
that an immediate opinion is required.’
‘It
always is.’ The doctor flicked open
the file with a well-manicured finger. ‘As
I thought. More of this technical matter
from our glorious businessmen who want,
I sometimes think, only to turn our work
to their own advantage. Listen to this.’
He picked up the top sheet of paper, assumed
a rasping voice that was quite at variance
with his normal well-modulated one - he
was, she acknowledged, an adept mimic, one
of the ways in which he put the children
at ease - and declaimed at machine-gun tempo.
‘We confirm receipt of your order
for five triple furnaces, including two
electric elevators and one emergency elevator.
A practical installation for stoking coal
was also ordered and one for transporting
residue.’ Dropping the letter and
taking up another one from a random shuffling
of the fat sheaf, he gave a repeat performance.
‘For loading purposes, we suggest
simply a metal fork moving on cylinders.
for transportation from storage points to
the furnaces, we suggest light carts on
wheels, and we enclose diagrams of these
drawn to scale.’ The doctor returned
to his ordinary tone. ‘Didier, Kori,
IGF, what do I know? I am medical, not mechanical.’
‘Nevertheless, it would be prudent
to make some pretence of having considered
the matter. If you like, I can prepare an
opinion for you to sign.’ As is often
the case, she thought, more satisfied than
resentful: an unspoken value of such services
bound him more closely to her than any amount
of verbal reminder. ‘The commandant
is very concerned that we maintain our lead
over the other establishments. As you know,
there is much rivalry over quotas and...’
‘And
these things are noted in high places. Quite.
You may assure the commandant that while
I have anything to do with it, he will not
lose the lead which he knows we have been
giving him for some time. You can mention,
without making too much of it, that I dined
not so long ago with the head of the Institute
for Military Scientific Research, I think
you have seen him here, that shifty-looking
fellow with the inky-black beard, on which
occasion he expressed the official satisfaction
with our results in the warmest possible
terms.’
There was a discreet knock on the door.
The doctor tugged at the fob chain which
he wore as appropriate to his station. ‘One
minute early. Evidently more training is
required. Arrange it. Meanwhile, let him
kick his heels out there. Punctuality should
be the politeness of peasants as well as
princes. To be early is quite as discourteous
as to be late. More so, in fact. It presumes
that we are eager to set aside our duties
for a mere diversion. A pleasant one, I
grant you, but still a diversion.’
Covertly checking her own watch, while reflecting
that he was never so fearsome as when indulging
in this kind of banter, she observed that
his rigmarole had used up the offending
minute. Standing up, she straightened the
pleats of her skirt, more an act of habit
than necessity, marched over the bare floor
- the doctor would not permit any carpeting
or rugs - and wrenched open the door. An
orderly entered, dressed in the regulation
striped jacket. He set down on her desk
the silver tray he was carrying, on which
reposed their statutory mid-morning coffee.
A delicate cup and saucer for her, a large
mug for the doctor. As always, she, not
the orderly, took the mug over to him. There
was a protocol to be observed. The mug was
amethyst-blue in colour: all three understood
the significance of this.
At this fixed point in their days, it was
the doctor’s custom to inaugurate
conversation upon subjects that, if not
light, were unrelated to their work. He
rarely attempted to steer her down the paths
of gossip, much less any kind of personal
disclosures. Today’s topic was a play,
The Daughter Of The Cathedral, that he had
just seen performed. By a mutual consent
that itself had never been, and never had
needed to be, put into words, their definition
of social conversation was that he talked
while she sipped away at her coffee, casting
sideways glances at her ledgers. So, after
an exposition of the patriotic virtues of
this play, the doctor again inspected his
watch, narrowly beating her to this dutiful
act, and made a show of sorts out of re-opening
the file from the commandant. It occurred
to him, not for the first time, that Proust
had believed conversation dangerous, the
more intellectual the more dangerous since,
as he put it, it falsified the life of the
mind by getting mixed up in it. He smiled
to himself: it was not the done thing any
more to read Proust, let alone talk about
him.
Lunch, brought to them three hours later
by a different orderly (the call she had
put through about the first one had clearly
set the wheels of his re-training into motion),
an ample if somewhat indeterminate stew,
eked out in the doctor’s case by another
cream bun from his private cornucopia, was
of a different complexion. Once fuelled
by this meal, she deemed it appropriate
to discuss (this did not count as conversation)
the progress of their work and anything
that might currently be arising from it.
On this occasion, the file from the commandant,
which despite the doctor’s post-coffee
melodrama had spent more of the morning
on her desk than his, was the main order
of business. During this stage, the boot
was on the other foot: she talked briskly,
he nodded in silent approval. As always,
he admired the swiftness with which she
had mastered the brief, her grasp of the
essentials, the diamond-hard lucidity that
informed the prose of her suggested response.
As always, he kept these compliments to
himself.
The orderly returned, bearing two glasses
of brandy which he distributed between them.
The doctor took a sip, said nothing, took
another sip, then nodded to her. she in
turn nodded to the orderly who, having no
nodding rights, stood briefly to attention,
turned, and left them to their compotation.
Usually, this was a wordless pleasure. Today,
though, the doctor had something to say.
‘No
doubt you have heard that certain elements
have been criticising our work again?’
‘There
has been some talk of it at our level, yes.’
‘The
usual religious obscurantists, of course.
Old women, saving your presence, masquerading
as old men, minus stomach and their eyes
fixed firmly on the past. One would have
thought that men of God would have the vision
to embrace the new and work for the future.’
‘Will
they cause us any great trouble, do you
think?’
‘I
doubt it. We have heard them before, and
will do so again. Those in authority can
be relied upon to confine their chattering
to the sidelines.’
‘Religion
causes strange behaviour, nevertheless.
Reasonable people have no need of it.’
‘You
are right, on both counts. Allow me to tell
you a little story I heard the other day
from a colleague. A Jewish story, nicely
enough. Apparently a group of their rabbis
met to consider all the evils of the world.
They came to the conclusion that God could
never have permitted them, therefore he
must be dead. At which point the chief rabbi
announced that it was time for prayers,
so they adjourned.’
She seemed about to smile, but instead asked,
‘Is that a joke?’
The doctor drummed his fingers on the desk
for a moment. It occurred to him that only
someone who believes in God can blaspheme.
‘A joke? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Must
a joke always be funny?’
Their philosophising at an end, the two
returned to their respective papers. The
next hour or so passed in silence, except
for a single burst of noise from outside
which sounded like guns going off but which
might have been no more than one of the
very old trucks backfiring. Not at that
moment, but at others, the doctor briefly
raised his head to look across at his companion,
an action never acknowledged or reciprocated.
A knock on the door announced another visit
from the orderly, the same one who had brought
them lunch, again carrying his predecessor’s
silver tray. Nothing for their stomachs
on it this time, instead a large white envelope.
He stood a distance from them both, clearly
unsure as to whom he should give it; she
had looked at him, but without seeming to.
Then the doctor put up his hand, not unlike
a child about to request permission to visit
the lavatory. Relieved, the orderly took
his tray over, delivered the envelope, and
retired.
The doctor let it lay on his desk for a
full ten minutes to establish its lack of
importance in relation to his own work,
then picked it up with a calculated sigh,
opened it, read the single sheet of paper
from within, shook his head, replaced it
in the envelope, and slid it well away from
his own files.
‘Professor Hirt again,’ he observed,
‘Professor Sigmund Hirt,’ laying
an icy stress on the Sigmund. ‘Well,
what can one expect from somebody with that
name?’
‘Is
it a message of any importance?’
‘No
message from Professor Sigmund Hirt is of
any importance, though that is not a view
to be stated by either of us outside this
room. He writes to inform me yet again that
his work on temperature control is held
in high esteem by the authorities, and that
he has once more been summoned to the capital
to receive formal congratulations. He also
trusts that my own work is progressing as
well as can be expected, and promises to
put in a good word for me. Meanwhile, he
is sure I shall be glad to know that his
wife and their three children are in excellent
health, considering...’
‘Considering
that she is said to have produced them all
after the age of forty-eight.’
‘Quite.
You know, to return to what I was saying
earlier, I have never doubted the need and
value of my own work, whatever the religious
element may say. They choose not to remember
that I have sworn to abide by the Hippocratic
Oath, a text that dates far back before
the Christian era. Allow me to remind you
of what it says.’
The doctor closed his eyes and recited for
some time, again reminding her of a child
in a classroom. ‘By and large,’
he added, when the droning was done, ‘I
abide by its precepts where they apply to
current conditions. I am chaste, I do not
make sexual attempts upon my patients, I
do not procure abortions. As with many other
texts of importance, what it does not contain
is as significant, if not more so, as what
it does. what I do falls within the scope
of its silence. So, I repeat, I do not doubt
our medical work. But I do doubt some of
our medical colleagues, aboe all Professor
Sigmund Hirt and the hyper-fecund womb of
his lady wife. It would not surprise me
in the least to learn that these famous
three children come not from the insides
of the Professor’s wife but rather
from some orphanage or other. I may plant
that seed in the ear of our commandant.
He is not best pleased at the fame that
the good Professor Hirt enjoys, it tends
to give precedence to another establishment
over his own. Which cannot properly be laid
at my door, but the commandant rests all
the blame for his own shortcomings upon
my shoulders. At the risk of hyper-egotism,
I could and should assume his responsibilities,
along with my present ones, it would not
be onerous to combine his functions with
mine. Indeed, viewed from a certain perspective,
they already are essentially united. Naturally,
this conversation has never taken place.’
As though clicking off a gramophone record,
the doctor abandoned his monologue and returned
once more to his papers. When the silence
was again broken, it was not by him; it
never was at this particular moment.
‘The
new intake is arriving. I can hear the musicians
tuning up.’
The doctor stood up, alacrity at odds with
self-control. ‘Ah yes, the musicians,’
he said, as he always did at this time.
‘An excellent idea, I have always
maintained, though I know not everyone agrees.
Including you, I think.’
This unchanging verbal ritual made a soothing
end to their working day. Ritual, they both
reflected, was one of the key ingredients
in the new order of their land. ‘I
agree that the girls look very smart and
welcoming in their white blouses and navy-blue
skirts. One continues to have reservations
about the choice of repertoire, however.
The Merry Widow and Tales of Hoffmann are
not to all tastes.’
The doctor laughed. ‘I know, you would
have us all put on a diet of Beethoven.’
He walked with a stiffness that was part
military, part caused by a long day’s
sitting, over to a corner of the room which
was sheltered by a rudimentary screen. It
was behind this traditional decorous detail
of a doctor’s office that he changed
into his dress uniform, as he always did,
as a mark of respect for the new arrivals
and honour for his own work.
He wondered during the course of this robing
if he might not soon be undergoing a more
dramatic sartorial transmogrification. All
depended upon the boy’s understanding
of the message implied in the volume passed
over to him. He had marked one specific
story by the Brothers Grimm for immediate
attention, that of Little Snow White, the
matter of the half-poisoned apple. The doctor
had not disclosed to his factotum the commandant’s
specialised interest in the child, towards
whom he might be trusted to show the same
whimsy as that displayed to his dog. If
the boy could be relied upon to prepare
and proffer the cream bun in the manner
of the queen in her anile disguise, the
outcome would be most satisfactory. There
was no lack of the requisite ingredient
around their establishment. As for the child,
he would be looked after in the usual way,
something that would come as no surprise
after he had read the other story waiting
to be marked out for him.
The doctor went out and attended to his
present duties. It was still just another
day, a day of the kind that was routine
in the camp. He had not reckoned with the
higher loyalty of his factotum which obliged
her to disobey his order and report the
conversation that had not taken place to
the commandant. Nor with the instincts of
the child, who calculated that gaining the
favour of the higher official was worth
the sacrifice of his cream bun supplier.
So, it would turn out that his story would
be told, neither half of the bun would be
eaten, and the boy would remain under the
commandant’s protection until another
such came along for whom he had to make
way, and so for a different end came to
read the other tale of the Brothers Grimm,
that of The Jew Among Thorns.
The
Tenth Circle
©
2006 by
Barry Baldwin
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