sorry we are only writing back to you now. Christoph enjoyed your letter. I know that he, for one, still thinks very fondly of you. He still refers to you as his best friend.
You may have heard from Petra already, the news about him. Two months ago I put him in a hospital. I could have stood it myself, but Margaret and the dog (and I include the dog in this, because Christoph treats Alphonse like a second child) have become very sensitive to the worst of it. The dog—can you imagine a dog that howls every time his master cries?
If you want to reach Christoph, you can write to him at the hospital. I know he would enjoy that. You don’t need to be so guarded.
I too would like to be forthright with you: I have believed for a long time that Christoph was in love with you, and maybe he still is. He was heartbroken you did not let him help you get out. Do you think I’m crazy for imagining that he might never have had as many troubles as he did, if he hadn’t lost you? Sometimes I wish that he had stayed in the East.
Sincerely,
Sarah
Included was an address for a mental hospital in New Rochelle.
July 2, 1990
Dear Amadeus,
I brought Christoph home yesterday from the hospital. He seems much worse, and it relieves me to have someone to tell.
Well, he had been gone from us for eight months. His eyes are blank, I’m not sure he recognizes me, even after all the visits, and he only speaks in German now, which—I don’t know if you are aware—I’ve still never really mastered. When we got back to the apartment, his performance was pretty typical. He did not look at Margaret, poor little child. She stood behind the coatrack in the hall. She was smiling at him, though, enough to make her face break. He didn’t speak to her but when he went by, he put out his hand, as though by accident, and rubbed the top of her head. It looked as though he were looking at a tablet behind his eyes, not out at the world, not at me, and certainly not at Margaret. His lips moved. That’s what it’s like. That’s what it’s almost always like with him. I took him to his study, he sat down, he thanked me in German. He picked up one of his legal pads as if he had never been gone, and started writing.
I looked over his shoulder. He had written:
ATT: FBI
I am Christ, the only son of Lucifer.
Why did I bring him home? I bet that’s what you’re wondering. There were recommendations against it actually. It seems he has managed to make it appear as if he were taking his medication, while at the same time slipping it down the toilet to avoid allowing the CIA to infiltrate his body—with its tiny cameras. The CIA, he tells us, is working with the reconstructed Nazi party, the one that operates out of Argentina and southern Brazil, which is working with the KGB(!!?), and this party wants to kill him. That said, he is very calm, does not get in anyone’s way, and oddly, I don’t feel afraid of him. Most of the time, except for the German, when I meet him at the hospital, he behaves like a preoccupied professor, the one he was meant to be. It’s true he made me get rid of both televisions; “the eyes in the television are unblinking,” he told me. But you know, I didn’t mind that either, I was glad really. It’s just that Margaret, at the loss of the TV, seems to have only become more inarticulate. Sometimes I think she’s gotten too much from her father’s side. I worry for her, but what can I do? I took her to the child psychiatrist for a while, but she throws fits every time. She hates the doctor, really hates her. And the doctor did say the girl was making progress at our last visit, but the child is so good at putting on a show for her … What bothers me the most, really, is that Margaret is such a quiet little thing, so tongue-tied, and I like to talk to her, especially now that Christoph is gone. Why did I end up with such a quiet child?!
Well, after I left Christoph in his study the other day, I came here into the kitchen and found your letter on the