Mohr - Softcover

Frederick Reuss is the acclaimed author of Horace Afoot, Henry of Atlantic City, and The Wasties. He lives in Washington, DC, with his wife and two daughters.

“To Japan?” Agnes stares at the ticket in her hand. Shanghai-Nagasaki-Shanghai. “With you?” “Separate berths, of course.” “I can’t go to Japan with you!” “Why not?” Mohr struggles to maintain an impish cheer. “To Fujiyama.” She shakes her head. “It’s a beautiful mountain. Come with me. I want to go to the top.” They are standing at the front entrance of the hospital. He worked late in order to leave with her when her shift ended. She presses the envelope into his hand, looking directly into his eyes. “No. I’m sorry.” “At least take some time and think about it.” Agnes shakes her head. “I can’t.” Mohr stands there awkwardly. The silence between them gives way to the clamor of traffic. The Sikh traffic policeman at the intersection blows his whistle. A rickshaw puller stomps past, cursing, barely able to control the momentum of his fat passenger. Mohr smiles; Agnes doesn’t. Wong pulls up to the curb. “I simply mean as a friend,” he says. “That’s all.” “What makes you think I am your friend?” Mohr flushes. “What makes you think you are not?” He gets into the car and pulls the door shut. Agnes is already walking away as he rolls down the window. Once again, he feels foolish, empty-headed, tangled up in things, his powers gone. He used to think that life here would improve him, that he would grow, and in growing that Käthe and Eva would be inspired, and when they were at last reunited they would all grow together again, and—Germany be damned—their new life here would be richer and he would rejoin the human race, not as a refugee and a has-been but as a free and independent man. Instead, all he feels is lost, without a compass; all he wants is to believe that things could not have turned out other than the way they have, that it’s not his fault he’s stuck here, all alone. What happened? Once upon a time he expected only good of himself. He believed in the purity of his heart and all his intentions. But something happened. He was mistaken. No good has come out of anything he has done. Nothing good at all. On the way home the car gets caught in a parade along Avenue Edouard VII—bluejacketed sailors and soldiers marching down the avenue bearing banners, drums and horns echoing. His thoughts flitter. Rent, driver, bills, refrigerator, food, cigarettes. Käthe.