His Eyes Were Not His Own--part 1

            The man behind the desk carried an air of arrogance about him. His eyebrows were bushy and grey around the edges, drooping down to his half-closed, impassive eyes. His massive mouth was sealed in a sloping frown which the rolls of fat beneath his chin mimicked. The suit he wore was an old one; one accustomed to a wearer some sizes smaller and strained at the seams.

            He opened his mouth, a gesture reminiscent of a yawning toad, and emitted two booming syllables:

            “Come in.”

            At his command, the stained wooden door to the spacious office opened, and in walked another man. He was taller and leaner than the sitting man, whose bored eyes flashed upward only for the briefest of moments at the approach of Herr Castle. Gripped within the arms of Herr Castle was a great abundance of papers, mostly handwritten in a luxurious calligraphy, which he laid to rest on the mahogany surface of the sitting man’s desk. An errant slip of paper fell out of an overstuffed pocket. Pinpricks of sweat hung to Castle’s high forehead, some of which fell as he stooped to retrieve the fallen paper. The fat lips of the sitting man pressed together in a thin line, but Herr Castle took no notice, instead focusing on the book he produced from the pockets of his waistcoat. It was a small volume, scarcely larger than the palm of his hand, and looked as though it had been boiled, burned, and buried for decades.

            “As you can see, Emmerich, I have…” Castle began, but was silenced by the sitting man’s objecting hand. He straightened his hunched frame, standing tall and lean in the face of denial.

            “As we are not yet partners, Herr Castle, I would insist that you refer to me as Herr Maday for the duration of your…presentation.” Maday emphasized the last word, drawing out the sounds in a serpentine hiss.

            “Yes, of course, Herr Maday,” Castle said, bowing his head. He closed his grey blue eyes and concentrated. He knew that Emmerich did not take him seriously and needed to perform flawlessly. “As I was saying, I have succeeded in a full decryption of Otto E. Leopold’s diary. The rotating cypher used a different code word every week, but I made a lucky breakthrough when…”

            Once again, Maday’s wrinkled hand rose in protest: a gesture of measured, self-assured command.

            “May I safely assume, Herr Castle, that a summation of your presentation is an easily legible version of the inner thoughts of the first chancellor of the German empire?”

            “Yes. Many germanists have tried to pierce the veil of this book, but they had not…do you not find this discovery fascinating, Herr Maday?” Castle asked, seeing Maday’s hand once again rose, elbow propped on his desk. The hand folded into a fist, and fell on the papers Castle had dropped with a refined, dignified force.

            Castle said nothing, staring at the meaty fist suppressing his work.

            “Understand, Herr Castle, that while your efforts have been undoubtedly…” He paused. “You have certainly put effort into your work, but I am afraid the Wiener Volkskonservatorium is not open such contributions. Surely you understand?”

            “Do I understand?” Castle repeated. “Do I understand that an unprecedented window into the mind of one of the greatest men in recent history is being discounted from the Weiner Volkskonservatorium? Is that the question?”

            Maday nodded, folding his hands under his chins.

            “This is ridiculous!” Castle shouted, grabbing his papers off the immaculate surface of Maday’s desk.

            “Be that as it may, it is also my decision,” Maday said, his tongue caressing each word and releasing them with something of a purr. “The Weiner Volkskonservatorium is to be a conservatory of music and the arts, not of military history. Perhaps another institution would be happy to receive you. But unless you can impress me with a unique contribution of music or the arts, I must insist that our business here is concluded.”

            Castle’s mouth twitched with snapping retorts, desperate pleas, and senseless obscenities, but he made no sound. He looked at the beaten, broken diary held in his right hand. The priceless years of research and obsession had, in its moment of truth, failed him. He put it, gently, back in his waistcoat pocket.

            “There is something else I may have to offer, Herr Maday,” Castle said, careful to rein in his emotions. “The actual work is still at my apartment, but perhaps a summation would suffice at the moment?”

            Maday frowned. “Please be quick about it,” he said.

            Castle nodded, and placed his papers back down on the desk, strumming the polished surface with his long fingers. Maday grimaced at the noise, but remained silent. After a pregnant pause, Castle spoke.

            “I have discovered, in short, the perfect communication method.”

When the pause continued, Maday said, “Short indeed, but I’m going to need something of an explanation of this method of communication before I can judge its perfection.”

            “I am afraid that would be impossible. Imagine describing color to a blind man, or the sound of a waterfall to a deaf man.”

            Maday put his hand to his face and sighed. “Are you asking for another meeting, Herr Castle?” he asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Very well, you have it. I expect to see you at one thirty tomorrow, right here.”

            “Thank you enormously, herr Maday. You will not regret this,” Castle said, snatching up his papers and turning to leave. The raised hand of Maday stopped him one more time.