Chapter IV
The weather turned warm and wet and it rained steadily for several days. Then it cleared and the sun shone down with a sultry brooding warmth. When I arrived at the workshop on Friday morning, I found Matilda Stoss, her broom clamped under her arm, standing in the middle of the yard like a mesmerized hippopotamus.
"Just look, Herr Lohkamp, isn't that gorgeous? Every time it's a fresh miracle."
I stood in astonishment—the old plum tree by the petrol pump had blossomed overnight.
There it had stood, bent and bare, all winter; we used to hook up old tyres in it and stand oil cans to drain in its branches; it had been just a convenient rack on which to hang everything from polishing-rags to engine-bonnets. Only a few days ago our newly washed dungarees were flapping from its branches; even so late as yesterday there had been nothing specially noticeable about it; and now suddenly overnight, it had been transformed, enchanted into a shimmering cloud of pink and white, a cloud of bright blossoms, as if a swarm of butterflies had suddenly settled on our grimy workshop.
"And the smell!" said she, rolling her eyes with enthusiasm. "Marvellous! Just like rum."
I smelt nothing, but I understood immediately. "Smells like customers' cognac to me," I suggested.
She denied it emphatically. "You must have a cold, Herr Lohkamp. Or is it polyps, perhaps? Almost everyone has polyps nowadays. No, old Stoss has a nose like a bloodhound; you take it from me, it's rum, old rum."
"All right, Matilda. . . ."
I poured out a glass of rum and then went out to the petrol pump. Jupp was already sitting there. In a rusty jam tin beside him he had several sprays of blossom. "What's this in aid of?" I asked in surprise.
"For the ladies," explained Jupp. "When they fill up they get a spray gratis. I've sold ninety litres more already. The tree is worth its weight in gold. If we didn't have it we'd have to make an artificial one."
"You've the making of a smart businessman, boy," said I.
He grinned. The sun shone through his ears so that they looked like stained-glass windows.
"I've been photographed twice too," he went on. "With the tree for background."
"Good for you, you'll be a film star yet," said I, and walked across to the pit where Lenz was crawling out from under the Ford.
"Bob," said he, "something's just occurred to me. We must be getting busy about that girl of Binding's."
I stared at him. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. What are you staring for anyway?"
"I'm not staring—"
"I say you are staring. What was her name exactly? Pat—but Pat what?"
He straightened up. "You don't know? but you wrote down her address. I saw you myself."
"I lost the bit of paper," I explained.
"Lost!" He seized his yellow hair with both hands. "After my spending a solid hour outside with Binding! Lost! Well, perhaps Otto knows."
"Otto doesn't know either," said I.
He looked at me. "You miserable dilettante! You're worse than that. Don't you know, then, that that was a wonderful girl? Hergott!" He stared at the sky. "When for once in our lives a bit of all right runs across our track, a dismal bonehead like you must go and lose the address."
"She didn't strike me as anything so wonderful," said I.
"That's because you're an ass," replied Lenz; "a twerp, who can recognize nothing above the level of a whore from the Café International. A pianist, that's what you are. Let me tell you once more, that was a windfall, a real windfall, that girl. You have no idea about such things, of course! Did you look at her eyes? Of course you didn't—you looked at your schnapps glass."
"Oh, you shut up," I interrupted, for with the mention of schnapps he touched me on the raw.
"And her hands," he went on, without paying any attention—"slender, long hands like a mulatto's—Gottfried understands these things, Gottfried knows. Holy Moses! A girl at last, as girls ought to be—beautiful, of course, and, what is more important, with atmosphere-r-" He interrupted himself. "Do you know, for instance, what that is—atmosphere?"
"Air, that you pump into a tyre," said I.
"Of course," said he pityingly. "Air, of course! Atmosphere, aura, radiance, warmth, mystery—it's what gives beauty a soul and makes it alive. But what's the use—your atmosphere is the smell of rum—"
"Now stop, or I'll drop something on your head," I growled.
But Gottfried still talked and I did nothing to him. He had of course no notion of what had happened and that every word found a mark—especially that about the drink. I had just about gotten over it, and was consoling myself pretty well; and now he must dig it all up again. He went on praising and praising the girl until soon I began to feel that I had really lost irretrievably something extraordinary.
At six o'clock I went disgruntled to the Café International. That was my old refuge; Lenz had been right when he said so.
When I got there, to my surprise there was an immense activity. On the counter were iced cakes and plum cakes, and flat-footed Alois was running with a tray laden with rattling coffee-cups to the back room.
I halted. Coffee, by the canful? There must be a whole tribe of drunks under the table, out there.
But the hostess explained. To-day in the back room they were holding the farewell party to Rosa's friend Lilly. I clapped my hand to my forehead. But of course, I was invited! The only man too, as Rosa had significantly said— for Kiki, the pansy, who was also to be there, did not count. I went out again swiftly and bought a bunch of flowers, a pineapple, a child's rattle, and a slab of chocolate.
Rosa received me with the smile of a great lady. She was wearing a heavy low-necked dress and sat enthroned at the head of the table. Her gold teeth flashed again. I enquired how her little one was, and for it presented her with the celluloid rattle and the bar of chocolate. Rosa beamed.
With the pineapple and the flowers I turned to Lilly: "With my best wishes."
"He always was a cavalier," said Rosa; "and now come, Bob, sit between us two."
Lilly was Rosa's best friend. She had a brilliant career behind her. She had been what is the unattainable ambition of every little pros'titute, a hotel woman. A hotel woman does not walk the streets—she lives in the hotel and makes her acquaintances there. Very few reach those heights—they have not enough clothes or enough money to be able to wait long for a suitor. True, Lilly had only been in a provincial hotel; but in the course of the years she had saved almost four thousand marks. Now she meant to get married. Her future husband had a small plumbing business. He knew all about her but he did not mind. And he would not have to worry for the future; when one of these girls does marry, she is to be trusted. They know the rough-and-tumble and have had enough of it.
Lilly was to be married on Monday. To-day Rosa was giving her a farewell coffee-party. They had all turned up to be with Lilly once more. Once married she would not be able to come here again.
Rosa poured me out a cup of coffee. Alois came trotting up with an enormous cake all peppered over with currants and almonds and angelica. She laid a great slice in front of me.
I knew what I had to do. Expertly I sampled a bite and registered utmost astonishment.
"Donnerwetter, but this was certainly never bought in a shop!"
"Made it myself," said Rosa, delighted. She was a wonderful cook and liked one to recognize it. Especially at goulash and plum cake she was unrivalled. She did not come from Bohemia for nothing.
I looked around. There they sat about the table, workers in God's vineyard, unparalleled connoisseurs of human nature, soldiers of love: Wally, the beautiful, whose white fox somebody had stolen recently during a night ride in a taxi; Lina with the wooden leg, who yet always found a lover; Fritzi, the gay, who was in love with the flat-footed Alois, though she could have had a house of her own and a friend, whom she refused; Margot of the red cheeks who always wore housemaid's clothes and thereby picked up smart lovers; Marion, the youngest, radiant and carefree; Kiki, who did not count as a man because he wore women's clothes and made up; Mimi, the poor creature, who with her forty-five years and varicose veins found the going always hard; a couple of barmaids, and some dining partners whom I did not know; and finally, the second guest of honour, little, grey and shrivelled as a winter apple— "Mother," the confidante of everybody, comfort and support of all night walkers. Mother of the sausage stall at the corner of Nikolaistrasse, at night a travelling kitchen and exchange bureau, where together with her Frankfort sausages she sold on the quiet cigarettes and rubber goods, and could always be counted on for a loan.
I understand the etiquette. Not a word of shop, no indelicate suggestion to-day; forgotten Rosa's remarkable prowess that had earned her the nickname of the "Iron Horse"; forgotten Fritzi's discussions with Stefan Grigoleit, the cattle dealer, on the subject of love; forgotten Kiki's dances around the brezel basket in the early hours of the morning. The conversation here would have done credit to a mothers' meeting.
"Everything ready, Lilly?" I asked.
She nodded. "I've had my trousseau a long while."
"A wonderful trousseau, she has," said Rosa. "Antimacassars even!"
"Antimacassars? What; are they for?" I asked.
"Oh, come, Bob!" Rosa looked at me so reproachfully that I immediately explained I knew, of course, what they were: lace covers, crocheted furniture ornaments, the symbol of little bourgeois respectability, the sacred symbol of married love and paradise lost. They were none of them pros'titutes by temperament; they were the wreckage of middle class existence. Their secret ambition was not vice, it was the marriage bed. But they would never have admitted it.
I sat down to the piano. Rosa had been waiting for that. She was, like all these girls, fond of music. As a farewell gesture I played all her and Lilly's favourite songs. To begin with, "The Maiden's Prayer." The title was perhaps not specially suited to the place, but it was a tune with plenty of go and jingle. Then followed "The Birds' Evensong," "Alpine Glow," "When Love Dies," "Harlequin's Millions," and finally "Home, Sweet Home." Rosa was particularly fond of that one. pros'titutes are at one and the same time the hardest and the most sentimental of people. They all joined in, Kiki singing contralto.
Lilly got up to go. She must go and collect her bridegroom. Rosa gave her a resounding kiss. "Good luck, Lilly. Don't take it too hard."
Laden with presents, she left us. God knows, but she had quite a different look from before. The hard-bitten expression, common to all who have to do with human baseness, was wiped away; her face had softened; it actually had again something virgin.
We were standing in the door waving to Lilly when Mimi suddenly started blubbering. She had been married herself, but her husband had died of pneumonia in the war. If he had been killed, she complained, she would have had a small pension and would not have had to go on the streets.
Rosa patted her on the back. "Hell, Mimi, don't lose heart. Come and let's have another drop of coffee."
The entire party turned back into the International like so many hens into a pen. But the right atmosphere was there no more. "Play us one more to finish, Bob," said Rosa. "Something to buck us up."
Then I also took my leave. Rosa slipped some more cake into my pocket. I presented it to "Mother's" son, who was already setting up the sausage stall for the evening.
I considered what I should do. I did not want to go to "The Bar" in any case; nor to the cinema. What about the workshop? I looked at my watch. Eight o'clock. Köster must be back by now; if he was there, Lenz would not go on jawing by the hour about the girl again. I went.
There was light in the shed. And not in the shed alone— the whole courtyard was flooded. Köster was there by himself.
"What is this in aid of, Otto?" said I. "Sold the Cadillac?"
Köster laughed. "No, Gottfried's doing a bit of floodlighting, that's all."
Both headlamps of the Cadillac were on and the car had been shoved forward so that the beam shone through the window into the yard and fell directly upon the plum tree. It looked marvellous standing there, so chalky white, the darkness like a black lake lapping about it on either side.
"A grand show," said I. "But where is he?"
"Gone to fetch some grub."
"Good," said I. "I am feeling a bit low myself. It's probably only hunger."
Köster nodded. "Eat while you can, Bob; the old soldier's first law. I went off the rails myself this afternoon —entered Karl for the race."
"What?" said I. "On the sixth?" .
He nodded.
"But, damn it, Otto, all sorts of big guns will be starting in that."
He nodded again. "In the sports-car class against Braumüller."
I rolled up my sleeves. "To business then, Otto! Wholesale oil baths for the favourite."
"Half a mo'," said the last of the romantics, who had just come in. "Fodder first." He unpacked supper, cheese, bread, raucherwurst as hard as a brick, and sardines. With it we drank good cool beer. We ate like a gang of hungry threshers. Then we set about Karl. For two hours we worked on him, testing and greasing everywhere. Afterwards Lenz and I sat down to a second meal. Gottfried turned on the Ford's light-as well. In the collision one of the headlamps had remained intact. From the twisted chasis it now stared up into the sky.
Lenz turned round satisfied. "So, now bring out the bottles. We must celebrate the Feast of the Flowering Tree."
I placed the cognac, the gin, and two glasses on the table.
"And what about yourself?" asked Gottfried.
"I'm not drinking."
"What? Why not?"
"Because I'm fed up with this damned boozing."
Lenz contemplated me awhile. "Our child has over-schnapped himself, Otto," said he at last to Köster.
"Then let him be, if he doesn't want to," replied Köster.
Lenz filled his own glass. "The lad has been a bit cracked for some time."
"There are worse things," said I.
The moon rose big and red over the roof of the factory opposite. We sat awhile in silence.
"Say, Gottfried," I began at last, "you consider yourself a bit of an expert in matters of love—"
"An expert? Man, I'm an old master," Lenz modestly replied.
"Fine. Then you'll be able to tell me: in love does one always behave like a damned fool?"
"How do you mean, like a damned fool?"
"Well, as if one were half-tight. Skite and blather and swindle."
Lenz burst out laughing. "My dear baby! The whole thing is a swindle. A wonderful swindle by Mama Nature. Look at the plum tree, for instance. Making herself more beautiful than she will be afterwards. It would be just terrible if love had any truck with truth. Thank God the damned moralists can't get everything under their thumbs."
I sat up. "You mean, without some swindle it just wouldn't go at all."
"Absolutely not, my child."
"A man' can make himself damned ridiculous though," said I.
Lenz grinned. "Mark this one thing, my boy: never, never, never can a man make himself ridiculous in the eyes of a woman by anything he may do on her account. Not even by the most childish performances. Do anything you like—stand on your head, talk the most utter twaddle, swank like a peacock, sing under her window—anything at all but one thing: don't be matter-of-fact. Don't be sensible."
I began to brighten. "What do you think, Otto?"
Köster laughed. "He's probably right."
He got up, went over to Karl and put up the bonnet. I .fetched the rum bottle and a glass and put them on the table. Otto switched on the car. The engine purred, deep and strong. Lenz had his feet up on the window ledge and was staring out into the night.
I drew up beside him. "Were you ever drunk when you were with a woman?"
"Often," he replied without stirring.
"And?"
He looked at me sideways. "You mean, and then mixed things up a bit? Never apologise. Never talk. Send flowers. No letter. Only flowers. They cover up everything. Even graves."
I looked at him. He did not stir. His eyes glittered in the reflection of the white light outside. The engine was still running, softly growling, as if the earth beneath us were quaking.
"Well, I guess I might as well have a drop," said I and opened the bottle.
Köster switched off the engine. Then he turned to Lenz.
"The moon's bright enough now to be able to find a glass, Gottfried. What about turning off the illuminations? The Ford anyway. The damned thing with its cockeyed searchlight reminds me of the war. It was no joke at night when those things reached out after your aeroplane."
Lenz nodded. "And that there reminds me—well, no matter." He got up and turned off the headlights.
The moon had risen high over the factdry roof and was now hanging like a yellow Chinese lantern in the upper branches of the plum tree. The branches swayed gently back and forth in the light breeze.
"It's extraordinary," said Lenz after a while, "the way men put up monuments to every conceivable sort of person —why not occasionally to the moon or to a tree in blossom?"
I went home early. As I opened the hall door I heard music. It was the secretary's, Erna Bönig's, gramophone. A soft, clear woman's voice was singing. Then came a quiver of muted violins and strumming guitars. And again the voice, piercing sweet as if it were overflowing with a great joy. I listened to catch the words. It sounded strangely moving here in the dark corridor between Frau Bender's sewing machine and the Hasse's family trunks, the way the woman there sang so softly.
I looked up at the stuffed boar's head over the kitchen door. I heard the housemaid rattling dishes. "How can I live without thee?" sang the voice a few steps away behind the door.
I shrugged my shoulders and went into my room. ' Next door I heard an excited argument. A few minutes later there was a knock and Hasse came in.
"Am I disturbing you?" he asked wearily.
"Not at all," said I. "Will you have something to drink?"
"I'd rather not. Just sit a bit."
He gazed dully in front of him.
"You're well off," said he. "You're alone—"
"Ach, nonsense," I replied. "Always to be sitting around like this alone, that's nothing either—you take it from me."
He sat sunken in his armchair. His eyes were glazed in the half-light that entered from the street lamp outside. The narrow, round shoulders . . .
"I pictured life so different," said he after a while.
"We all have," said I.
After half an hour he went back again to make peace with his wife. I gave him some cigarettes and a half-bottle of curacao that had been standing in the cupboard from some previous occasion—unpleasant, sweet stuff, hut quite all right for him. He didn't understand such things.
Softly, almost soundlessly, he went out, a shadow into the shadow, as if he were already extinguished. I closed the door after him again. As I did so a scrap of music floated in from the passage—violins, banjos.
I sat by the window. Outside lay the graveyard in the blue moonlight. The coloured rockets of the electric signs climbed up over the treetops and the gravestones gleamed out of the darkness. They were quiet and unterrifying. Cars hooted close by them and the light of the headlamps wiped across their weather-worn inscriptions.
I sat a long while and thought of all sorts of things. Among others, of how we came back from the war, like miners from a pit disaster, young and disillusioned of everything but ourselves. We had meant to wage war against the lies, the selfishness, the greed, the inertia of the heart that was the cause of all that lay behind us; we had become hard, without trust in anything but in our comrades beside us and in things—the sky, trees, the earth, bread, tobacco, that never played false to any man—and what had come of it? All collapsed, perverted and forgotten. And to those who had not forgotten was left only power-lessness, despair, indifference and schnapps. The day of great dreams for the future of mankind was past. The busy-bodies, the self-seekers triumphed. Corruption . . . Misery . . .
You are well off, you are alone, Hasse had said. All very well—the man who is alone cannot be forsaken. But sometimes, at night, the whole artificial structure collapses, life turns into a sobbing insistent melody; out of the senseless grinding of the everlasting barrel organ, rises up a whirlwind of wild desires, cravings, melancholy, hope, without direction seeking an object. Ach, this pitiful need for a little bit of warmth—-couldn't it be two hands then and a face bowed near? Or was that too only deception, surrender, and flight? Was there nothing then, but to be alone?
I shut the window. No, there was nothing. For anything more, there was too little solid ground under one's feet.
But next morning I rose early and, before going to work, knocked up the proprietor of a little flowershop. I selected a bunch of roses and asked him to send them off at once. It felt a bit strange as I slowly wrote the address—Patricia Hollmann—on the card.