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 Oskar's Inspiration  (6 ratings)by Sean Bamman Page 3 of 3 "All right then I'll order you a Sino-Swiss dish from Heidi's House of Hunan. I think Chicken with garlic sauce is their specialty." "That sounds good. And I'll be safe from the undead peasants." "I'll pick up the food." "Have them deliver. I want you home for a change." I place the order from our clean, dim kitchen. A half empty, half full bottle of wine strategically placed by the phone to remind me that she is lonely and, as all lonely people do in this household, drinks red wine by herself. "Your food will be here soon. I don't feel well. Too much coffee or writing or something. I'm going to take a bath to relax," I shout to her, now reading. She consents. I lock the door behind me, run the water in the bathtub and remove my clothes to give myself the long-awaited self-examination. Nothing. And again, nothing. Unfaithful, lucky, married scourge of the earth unlocks the door and escapes into the hot water. Closes eyes, relaxes. The phone rings. Two rings. She talks and is still talking. Perhaps the delivery man won't deliver because of the peasants? Living and undead. Or my diseased, promiscuous ex-lover is confessing my sins to relieve herself of her enormous guilt? A soft knock on the door and Beatrice softly enters. "So what brings the Queen to my humble but humid sanctuary?" She looks upset and doesn't answer. "You're always welcome to join me." Bad news? "If you want to, that is." An accident? Somebody's dead? Please not your father! "What's going on? Is everything all right? Please talk to me." Does she know? "Who was on the phone? Talk to me, Beatrice." "It doesn't matter." "What doesn't?" "It doesn't matter who was on the phone." "That's fine. But please talk to me." "Give me a moment." "Beatrice, you can talk to me about anything. I'm a little concerned because I don't know what..." "Just listen." "I am. Go on." "Just let me finish. Let me talk." More than anything I want her to talk but she hesitates. She must know. Somehow she does. A secret caller. A private detective originally hired by her father to confirm everyone's suspicions that I am not talented, not smart, not a writer. I can no longer justify my lifestyle in saying that I am an artist because I'm not. I remain silent, confused, warm, naked and wet. "I love you, Oskar." And will love me until the end, I hope. "It's just that this is so hard for me to say." She's not crying yet. "I feel as if you probably know part of what I have to say." Silence. Stay focused. Don't give anything more away. Everything will be worked out. I can't lose her. Her voice! She is nervous. I deserve this. "Listen sweetie." "Please! Oskar, let me talk." No eye contact. "I'm having an affair and I think you already know. You must know." I didn't. "Yes," I lie. My face becomes numb. My stomach caves in. The rest of me disappears into my white porcelain frame. My wife, beautiful and married and not pure. No, not pure. I am silent. She talks and rambles but it doesn't matter. With whom? She owes me that much. No, it doesn't matter either. Can we remain together? I am no better. Maybe worse. "What?" I ask her. "I said you must see a doctor." She's crying. Still no eye contact. The doorbell rings. "Why would I have to see a doctor?" "This is so difficult, Oskar," she mumbles under tears. "I'm really sorry." Charmed by the charismatic, unnamed, faceless dictator known for his use in chemical warfare, Switzerland has given up her neutral status and has become an axis power. Life is different but not over. Life is very different. The doorbell rings again. I submerge myself in the hot water and watch my wife's image become distorted.
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