C4 antho - Chamber Four
C4 antho - Chamber Four C4 antho - Chamber Four
~300~ The Chamber Four Fiction Anthology cubicle by the door―the other Americans he pushed to the periphery and spied on. Of all the employees in the American subsidiary, German and English, Joseph Stone was the only person allowed to keep a real plant. All other plants were required to be silk or plastic. So when Herr Halsa tickled a file into his hand and sat down with a tired sigh, Joseph at some level did not hear the words he had just spoken. Frederick Lebeaux Wagner? Herr Halsa pronounced the name “Vagna,” the German way―though the underqualified good ol’ boy with bobbing eyebrows and a love of dirty jokes was as American as Joseph himself. Halsa placed his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, then patted it. He leaned forward with whatever he had to say. “Do you know why Hühne is a doctor?” he asked. Joseph couldn’t get over how unusual this was: Herr Halsa speaking English to him in private. “Hühne’s a doctor because the owner’s son, the old man’s son, who went to Gymnasium with Hans, has a younger brother who became―chancellor, is it?―at the University Köpfingen. But a chancellor at the University Köpfingen doesn’t give away free doctorates so easily, without work, so they arranged it in this way, that Hans Hühne, who couldn’t rise so high on the technical side without a doctor’s degree, would take his doctorate in insects, in bugs, and the university would confirm, yes, he’s a doctor, with no diploma printed. He’s a specialist in the dung beetle with his shit degree. I have only a certificate, but Doktor Schwanz Hühne has not even that much.” His face, which had cooled off since the gym, veered back towards plum as he spoke. Joseph laughed because he thought Herr Halsa expected and even demanded a laugh from him―a good, strong, closelipped laugh that said, Wow, is that true? I won’t ever tell anyone. But on the table in front of him, Halsa’s folder named the wrong man for inventory manager, very clearly and prejudicially wrong.
American Subsidiary ~301~ “What about Gary Jackson? For this job,” he said, tapping on the file. “The applicant who did the same job before.” Also the applicant Joseph had recommended. Herr Halsa had nodded, and the other person in the room had nodded, and Joseph had in fact written the offer letter already, and it was in his hand here, behind the other papers for which he’d already, while Herr Halsa was talking about the shit doctorate, gotten his trusting signature, and he’d been planning to go up front after this meeting and drop it in the mail. “Gary Jackson?” Herr Halsa said. “The black one? I didn’t know you wore white make-up to work.” “You said on the phone with the lawyer that you need more minorities.” “Do not refer to private conversations between me and my lawyer,” Halsa said, abruptly switching to German. “You’re in the room to explain his meaning when I’m lost in garbagey lawyer words. You’re not supposed to remember any of it.” “I’m just trying to help.” Herr Halsa leaned in and pushed his chest hard against the table. He was speaking English again. “I don’t ask for your help,” he said, looking into Joseph’s eyes but pressing his thumb against the table’s high shine. “I don’t need your help ever, do you understand? I pay you!” A truck flashed a stutter of sunlight across the posters again. Joseph tried to think how to react like a German. Most of his German friends would have quit. The good, decent, strong-willed Germans would have argued, then quit. But what about the businessy Germans? The Nieten in Nadelstreifen, idiots in pinstripes? Or come to think of it, this bitter subversive feeling most closely matched his friend who drafted all the factory drawings here, that’s who he felt most
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American Subsidiary ~301~<br />
“What about Gary Jackson? For this job,” he said, tapping<br />
on the file. “The applicant who did the same job before.”<br />
Also the applicant Joseph had recommended. Herr Halsa<br />
had nodded, and the other person in the room had nodded,<br />
and Joseph had in fact written the offer letter already, and it<br />
was in his hand here, behind the other papers for which he’d<br />
already, while Herr Halsa was talking about the shit doctorate,<br />
gotten his trusting signature, and he’d been planning to<br />
go up front after this meeting and drop it in the mail.<br />
“Gary Jackson?” Herr Halsa said. “The black one? I<br />
didn’t know you wore white make-up to work.”<br />
“You said on the phone with the lawyer that you need<br />
more minorities.”<br />
“Do not refer to private conversations between me and<br />
my lawyer,” Halsa said, abruptly switching to German.<br />
“You’re in the room to explain his meaning when I’m lost in<br />
garbagey lawyer words. You’re not supposed to remember<br />
any of it.”<br />
“I’m just trying to help.”<br />
Herr Halsa leaned in and pushed his chest hard against<br />
the table. He was speaking English again. “I don’t ask for<br />
your help,” he said, looking into Joseph’s eyes but pressing<br />
his thumb against the table’s high shine. “I don’t need your<br />
help ever, do you understand? I pay you!”<br />
A truck flashed a stutter of sunlight across the posters<br />
again.<br />
Joseph tried to think how to react like a German. Most of<br />
his German friends would have quit. The good, decent,<br />
strong-willed Germans would have argued, then quit. But<br />
what about the businessy Germans? The Nieten in Nadelstreifen,<br />
idiots in pinstripes? Or come to think of it, this bitter<br />
subversive feeling most closely matched his friend who<br />
drafted all the factory drawings here, that’s who he felt most
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