carved wooden arm of the chair, and then stood up. He had the energy of a young man. “Now get dressed and meet me in the garden. You are no longer ill, except for the sickness in your soul. Are you hungry?”
I took a deep breath and realized that my stomach didn’t hurt, my body didn’t ache—the headache had dissolved—and indeed I was suddenly famished. I nodded, and he bowed and left the room. A moment later a pregnant woman brought me a tray of food: bacon and eggs, manioc, and cubes of barely cooked meat. She set the tray on the bed and stepped back while I ate.
She wore a rough skirt, but no blouse; her heavy breasts were splayed and painted with thick red circles and scallops. She had a wide, child-like face, and her heavy earlobes were pierced with wooden plugs; balsa spokes radiated from her nasal septum, giving her the appearance of a heavy, pregnant cat.
“Are you my nurse?” I asked in Portuguese, then in English and German; but she didn’t respond. She just stood near the bed and waited until I was finished; then she took the tray and left me to dress.
I got out of bed and suddenly felt a rush of joy. I wasn’t dizzy. I felt weak, but not ill. I was going to live. I was on fire, but I was going to live.
I gazed out the window at Mengele’s formal maze of a garden and saw Mengele below, patiently waiting for me.
* * * *
We walked a straight line through Mengele’s tropical gardens, which for all the wild, exotic growth were formal and studied: expansive lawns that directed the eye to stone steps, classically inspired fountains, huge sculpted topiaries, arbors and enclosures with geometer’s lines of miraculous tropical color—planned and limited explosions of shrub, vine, and flowers—pergolas, bowers, streams, ponds, and angel white temples. Surrounding all was rain forest, the ominous dark green walls that appeared to extend forever.
Behind us was his neoclassical mansion of red brick, white marble, and hundreds of oblong windows, a house that would have suited Jane Austen’s England, but was a red welt here in this land of lush growth.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Mengele said as we walked down a mown path toward an open Ionic temple.
I had a fleeting thought that the temple was a doorway into a dangerous yet magical forest. “What wouldn’t work?” I asked.
“Murdering me.”
“So I see.” I studied his face, looking for Uncle Pepe, the younger, hard-faced Mengele.
“Oh, I’m dead all right, just like Erwin Schrödinger’s cat.” Mengele kept a brisk pace, as if he had created this garden for marching rather than strolling. Do you know about that?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. But—”
“In Schrödinger’s thought experiment, the cat is alive in one universe, dead in another. It all depends on the observer whether he sees a live cat or a dead one.”
“Well, I guess I just picked the wrong universe.”
“No,” my son, “you are between them. You have not made your choice yet.”
“How do you know that?”
Mengele made the hnrung, hnrung sound, the mocking sound of the dreamer.
“Well...?” I asked.
“Because I have made my choice.” He seemed pleased with himself. “It gives one a certain perspective and advantage.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You choose to live.”
“You will know that soon enough, too,” Mengele said as he stepped between the columns of the temple, his feet clattering on the tiled stone floor.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“For a walk. Are you tired?”
“A bit.”
“Then I know just the place where we can rest,” and Mengele crossed the floor of the temple, stepped onto the lawn on the other side, and directed me to follow him into the rainforest. The demarcation between garden and forest could have been drawn with a straightedge; it certainly wasn’t natural. “It must take an army of gardeners to keep the rainforest from taking over,” I said.
“No, the trees stop just there of their own
I took a deep breath and realized that my stomach didn’t hurt, my body didn’t ache—the headache had dissolved—and indeed I was suddenly famished. I nodded, and he bowed and left the room. A moment later a pregnant woman brought me a tray of food: bacon and eggs, manioc, and cubes of barely cooked meat. She set the tray on the bed and stepped back while I ate.
She wore a rough skirt, but no blouse; her heavy breasts were splayed and painted with thick red circles and scallops. She had a wide, child-like face, and her heavy earlobes were pierced with wooden plugs; balsa spokes radiated from her nasal septum, giving her the appearance of a heavy, pregnant cat.
“Are you my nurse?” I asked in Portuguese, then in English and German; but she didn’t respond. She just stood near the bed and waited until I was finished; then she took the tray and left me to dress.
I got out of bed and suddenly felt a rush of joy. I wasn’t dizzy. I felt weak, but not ill. I was going to live. I was on fire, but I was going to live.
I gazed out the window at Mengele’s formal maze of a garden and saw Mengele below, patiently waiting for me.
* * * *
We walked a straight line through Mengele’s tropical gardens, which for all the wild, exotic growth were formal and studied: expansive lawns that directed the eye to stone steps, classically inspired fountains, huge sculpted topiaries, arbors and enclosures with geometer’s lines of miraculous tropical color—planned and limited explosions of shrub, vine, and flowers—pergolas, bowers, streams, ponds, and angel white temples. Surrounding all was rain forest, the ominous dark green walls that appeared to extend forever.
Behind us was his neoclassical mansion of red brick, white marble, and hundreds of oblong windows, a house that would have suited Jane Austen’s England, but was a red welt here in this land of lush growth.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Mengele said as we walked down a mown path toward an open Ionic temple.
I had a fleeting thought that the temple was a doorway into a dangerous yet magical forest. “What wouldn’t work?” I asked.
“Murdering me.”
“So I see.” I studied his face, looking for Uncle Pepe, the younger, hard-faced Mengele.
“Oh, I’m dead all right, just like Erwin Schrödinger’s cat.” Mengele kept a brisk pace, as if he had created this garden for marching rather than strolling. Do you know about that?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. But—”
“In Schrödinger’s thought experiment, the cat is alive in one universe, dead in another. It all depends on the observer whether he sees a live cat or a dead one.”
“Well, I guess I just picked the wrong universe.”
“No,” my son, “you are between them. You have not made your choice yet.”
“How do you know that?”
Mengele made the hnrung, hnrung sound, the mocking sound of the dreamer.
“Well...?” I asked.
“Because I have made my choice.” He seemed pleased with himself. “It gives one a certain perspective and advantage.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “You choose to live.”
“You will know that soon enough, too,” Mengele said as he stepped between the columns of the temple, his feet clattering on the tiled stone floor.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“For a walk. Are you tired?”
“A bit.”
“Then I know just the place where we can rest,” and Mengele crossed the floor of the temple, stepped onto the lawn on the other side, and directed me to follow him into the rainforest. The demarcation between garden and forest could have been drawn with a straightedge; it certainly wasn’t natural. “It must take an army of gardeners to keep the rainforest from taking over,” I said.
“No, the trees stop just there of their own
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