Berlintoxication - Stephanie Laimer-Read (moboreader TXT) 📗

of our country. I’d be able to see what our enemies are up to. I’d know if someone was planning a crime, and I would prevent it. Give me that power. You won’t regret it.’
Springer’s voice was strong and commanding. He was the man in charge, sure of his authority.
He meant it, Walter could feel that much. There was genuine hope and benevolence coming from the man opposite him; Springer really wanted to do what was best.
You’ve got that power. You can’t use it. You don’t need it. You don’t want it. It makes you stand out, and you don’t want that, do you? You want to be happy. Springer would use the Ability for the best, and he’d pay you for it (and 1,000 marks is a fortune for you). He’s serious; you can feel that he’s not lying, can’t you?

‘But... well, even if I wanted to give you my power,’ Walter said hesitantly, ‘how could I technically do that?’
Springer smiled.
‘Does that mean you do want to?’
It was difficult to resist, and Walter did not try very hard. ‘Well...’ he said, and that was enough to tell Springer that he meant yes.
‘Wonderful. The answer to your question is only a short journey away.’

***

A bit later they were on the Pfaueninsel, Peacock Island, an islet in the Havel river in the south-western Wannsee district. Pfaueninsel was a picturesque and important part of Berlin.
It was where Friedrich Wigbert I, Elector of Brandenburg, had hunted rabbits in the 17th century.
It was here that Friedrich Wigbert II had used to meet his mistress, the trumpeter’s daughter Gräfin von Lichtenau, who had his child when she was fifteen years old. Here she had had a snow-white, dream-like castle built for her.
It was where Friedrich Wigbert III had had a garden with roses and palm trees, rice and sugar cane; where he had kept a menagerie with birds and bears, llamas, kangaroos and monkeys - animals which his son, Friedrich Wigbert IV gave to Berlin Zoo later.
It was where, during the revolution of 1848, Kaiser Wigbert I had hidden before he fled to England.
Peacock Island was also where (and this was the fact that was most prominent to Walter at the moment) the alchemist Johannes Kunckel had produced glass in the 17th century – presumably performing black magic, experimenting with fire and potions, creating smoke and stench.
Walter had vaguely heard the rumours about all those things, but never worried too much. Of course, there were people who would do black magic, and it was probably reasonable to be careful when you went to Peacock Island - but that was all over now. Johannes Kunckel’s laboratory had burnt down, and the alchemist had moved to Sweden and died a long, long time ago.
And now it turned out that one of the small pavilions was still being used as a laboratory and that alchemy was not as far away as Walter had thought.
The laboratory was immaculately clean and neat. If it exuded anything, then it wasn’t sorcery, but efficiency. There were cages with monkeys and dogs that stared blankly into space. There were thousands of bottles, from the standard to the unusual: belladonna and holly, opium, camomile, laughing gas, æther, powder made from toadstools, bags of cocaine. There were drugs that could make you happy, numb or wild, that could make you sit contentedly watching your hands for the rest of your life.
There were scalpels, needles and wires, and there was something in a bottle that might have been a homunculus. There was a big picture on the wall that explained the basics of phrenology: the art of telling from the shape of your head whether you’re a born criminal, an imbecile, a natural leader, a good citizen, a genius... or something else.
Walter looked at the rows of shelves that lined the white-tiled walls, stacked with bottles and little pots, with test tubes and Petri dishes, with candles, coins and amulets.
‘Could you please tell me what’s your role in this?’ he said to the middle-aged, contented-looking man opposite him.
Springer had introduced the man as Doctor Cornelius Hermann before wishing them good luck, putting 500 marks in cash on the table (the other half was to be paid afterwards) and leaving. Now Walter was alone with this man and his obscure devices and medicines. They were sitting at a well-scrubbed metal table looking at each other.
‘Well,’ said Dr Hermann, ‘I am the person who’s responsible for the medical and magical side of things. I extract special powers and transfer them to the right persons.’ He seemed to be getting into the swing.
‘I mesmerise and magnetise,’ he continued, ‘I know who’s good and bad and stupid, because I can tell from their outlooks. I have pills and powders, wires and cables, spells and symbols and lotions and potions. One day I’ll cleanse the world from all of the things that don’t fit in. I saw bones, I slash skin...’
He checked himself, smiled happily, and saw Walter’s expression. ‘But only if it is necessary. That’s not what I will do to you.’
‘And what will you do? What happens if I say yes?’
‘I thought you had said yes already?’ Dr Hermann pointed to the money on the table.
Walter nodded. ‘Well...’
‘There we are, then. You agreed to give us your ability to read minds, and that’s what will happen. The whole operation is easy. First you must understand that thoughts, feelings and mental abilities are just another form of matter, and I know how to gain access to this matter.’
‘I see...’
‘Now, Herr Busch, your brain possesses a certain sensitivity for thoughts and emotions. We will extract this sensitivity and transfer it into one of these bottles...’ - the doctor pointed to three grey bottles lined up on a bottom shelf - ‘by means of certain substances and conductors. I have done similar operations on other people with powers different from yours, so I know that it is possible. It is a quick procedure, you’ll feel barely anything, and afterwards you’ll be immensely relieved.’
Walter had spotted the operative word. ‘Barely?’
‘Well, I cannot guarantee that it will be completely painless. But we will do our best. And it will be far less painful than - well - what other people feel and will continue to pass on to you, less painful than the constant emotions of others affecting you. A few hours of discomfort are better than a lifetime of being crushed under strangers’ feelings. Can’t you imagine that?’
Once again, Walter remained silent. He could.
‘Your ability is nothing to be afraid of,’ said Dr Hermann, ‘but it is nothing that is necessary or helpful for you, either. I have considered it for a long time, and I think that it is simply a highly developed form of telepathy. But you are not happy with it, are you?’
And that was the main point. Oh God, it sounded like a good plan to get some peace and quiet and not to have to feel what others felt and not to be different all the time.
‘What is going to happen now?’ said Walter weakly.
‘Nothing you need to worry about. First of all we will need to make a few examinations to ensure that you are fit and well enough for the operation and to make arrangements so that everything will go as smoothly as possible. You will sit down over there’ - he pointed to a leather chair in the middle of the laboratory - ‘and I will give you something to stop you from feeling pain. If all the tests go satisfactorily, we will start the operation itself. We will put some wires on you to take out your power. You need to be awake at that time, but as soon as we can, we will make you sleep. And when you wake up, it will all be over. Are you ready?’

***

The afternoon was a mass of blurred images. Walter had his eyes examined and the shape of his head checked, his arms measured and his fingers scrubbed with carbolic. He was washed and had iodine put on him. Spells were spoken and herbs were burnt.
Then he sat down on the chair and put his arms on the arm rests, so the doctor could fix the leather straps. This he did promptly, and the actual operation began.
Walter sat silently while sounds vibrated and echoed between the white tiles. He was given a copper helmet that made his head ache. A blue bottle and a wire were attached to him. There were injections: anaesthetics against the pain, something that made him numb, something that was like ice in his veins. Then things became odd and confusing; he didn’t understand what was happening. All he felt was the spinning and shaking of the room, a dull ache in his whole body, piercing voices far away.
And at some point he woke up with a curious pain in his forehead. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.
He was still strapped to the chair, but the helmet was gone, and there didn’t seem to be any tubes or needles anywhere.
‘It has really happened, hasn’t it?’ he mumbled.
‘It certainly has.’ The doctor stood stooping over him, grinning widely and displaying an uncanny amount of teeth.
‘Congratulations, boy. You’ve done splendidly. It’s all over now.’

***

Later on Walter met Charlotte again. They went to a café in Wilmersdorf and drank coffee; she gave him back his umbrella; they talked; she looked more beautiful than ever.
There was something different about him, she thought as they went out for a short walk, decently and without any bad intentions. However, she couldn’t say what was different, and she didn’t ask.
Walter talked with her and said what you were supposed to say. He was polite and courteous. He tried to find out what she felt, but he was not sure. It was true: his Ability was gone. He still received emanations from her, the way apparently all humans did, but they were not as clear as they used to be, not by far - not even if he used all the concentration he could muster. It was frightening not to sense her feelings anymore, but at the same time it was an incredible relief.
After the operation Dr Hermann had given him the rest of the money, which Springer must have left before, and had rowed him back from Peacock Island. Walter had walked home through south Berlin. He had walked on and on and finally taken a carriage. He had sat there, the horse’s steps shaking him; his temples throbbing and his hands trembling, mercifully free from anybody else’s thoughts and feelings. Alone in his head at last.
His mind-reading power had been transferred to a glass bottle from which somebody else would take it at some point. They would use it to control criminals, use it to know about their next moves and forestall them. That was something good; Walter was proud of it.
It hadn’t been about the money. Well, in a way it had, and anyone who criticised that should try living in poverty - but that hadn’t been the main cause because Walter wasn’t like that. It had been because they had promised him peace and quiet, a mind of his own, without all those hopes and fears of other people confusing him. A life of his own. That was what he had been promised; that was what he had signed up for, and that was what he had received.
Why shouldn’t he have done it? Springer was a good man, a God-fearing man, loyal, reliable.