Chapter VI
Patricia Hollmann lived in a big, yellow block of flats removed from the street by a narrow verge of grass. In front of the entrance was a lamp. I parked the Cadillac directly under it. In the flickering light she looked like an immense elephant of molten, black lacquer.
I had still further perfected my wardrobe. To the tie I had added a new hat and a pair of gloves. I was also wearing Lenz's ulster, a marvellous brown affair of finest Shetland wool. Thus armed, I hoped to dispel forever any first unfortunate impression of drunkenness.
I blew the horn. Immediately, like a rocket ascending, lights flashed on at five windows, one above the other. The lift started humming. I watched it descend like a bright skep lowered out of the sky. The girl opened the door and came quickly down the steps. She had on a short fur jacket and a close-fitting brown skirt.
"Hello!" She offered her hand. "I am so glad to get out. I have been at home all day."
I liked the way she shook hands—with a grip more powerful than one would expect. I hate people who offer a limp hand like a dead fish.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I replied. "I might have called for you at midday."
"Have you so much time, then?" she asked laughing.
"Not exactly. But I might have arranged to get off."
She took a deep breath. "Wonderful air—it smells of spring."
"You can have all the air you want," said I. "What about going out into the country, by way of the forest? You see I have a car." Casually I indicated the Cadillac, as if it were an old Ford.
"The Cadillac?" Surprised, she looked at me. "Is it yours?"
"For this evening, yes. Other times it belongs to our workshop. We've been working on it and mean to make the deal of our lives with it."
I opened the door. "What do you say if we drive to the 'Bunch of Grapes' first and have something to eat?"
"Eat certainly, but why the 'Bunch of Grapes'?"
I looked at her puzzled. The "Bunch of Grapes" was the only decent restaurant I knew.
"It's open," said I. "That's all I know about it. And I think we have a duty toward the Cadillac."
"Duties are irksome," she replied. "The 'Bunch of Grapes' is sure to be steep and boring. Let's go somewhere else."
I stood at a loss. My ideas for a serious evening were vanishing into thin air. "Then you must suggest something," said I. "The other places I know are a bit slapdash. I don't think they would suit you."
"How do you know?"
"Can see that—"
She looked at me quickly: "Well, we could try."
"All right." I definitely gave up my entire programme. "Then I do know somewhere, if you're not easily shocked. We'll go to Alfons'."
"Alfons' sounds very good," she replied; "and I'm not easily shocked this evening."
"Alfons runs a beer garden," said I; "an old friend of Lenz's."
She laughed. "Lenz has friends everywhere, I guess."
I nodded. "He makes them easily. You saw that with Binding."
"Yes, indeed," she replied. "It was like lightning."
We drove off.
Alfons was a heavy placid fellow. Prominent cheekbones . . . Small eyes . . . Shirt sleeves rolled up . . . Arms like a gorilla. . . . Anyone he didn't want in his pub he threw out himself—including members of the Fatherland Sports Union. For really difficult guests he kept a hammer under the counter. The place was conveniently situated; close by the hospital. It saved Alfons transport charges.
With a hairy hand he wiped over the bright deal table.
"Beer?" he asked.
"Whisky, and something to eat," said I.
"And the lady?" asked Alfons.
"The lady will also have a whisky," said Patricia Holl-mann.
"That's the stuff!" remarked Alfons. "There are pork chops with sauerkraut."
"Killed by yourself?" I asked.
"Certainly."
"But the lady would probably prefer something a bit lighter, Alfons."
"Not seriously," protested Alfons. "Let her have a look at the chops first."
He got a waiter to show a portion. "Was a wonderful sow," said he. "Took two firsts."
"That's the stuff," replied Patricia Hollmann to my amazement, with as much assurance as if she had been in the racket for years.
Alfons winked. "Two portions then?"
She nodded.
"Fine! I'll go and choose them myself."
He went off to the kitchen.
"I take back my doubts about the place," said I. "You have taken Alfons by storm. Choosing them himself—usually he does that only for very old customers."
Alfons returned. "I've thrown in a fresh sausage as well."
"Not a bad thought," said I.
Alfons looked at us benevolently. The whisky arrived. Three glasses. One for Alfons.
"Well, pros't!" said he. "May our children have rich parents."
We touched glasses. The girl did not sip, she tipped it down.
"That's the stuff," said Alfons and sloped back to the counter.
"Did you like the taste of the whisky?" I asked.
She shook herself. "A bit powerful. But I couldn't let Alfons down."
The pork chops were the goods. I ate two large portions and Patricia Hollmann cheered me on. I thought it grand the way she joined in and found her feet in the place without any trouble. And without any fuss she drank yet a second whisky with Alfons. He winked to me secretly that he thought she was all right. And Alfons was a connoisseur. Not exactly as regards beauty and culture; more for kernel and content.
"When you are married," said I, "you might teach Alfons to recognize one or two of his human weaknesses."
"Certainly," she replied. "He looks as if he had none."
"But he has." I pointed to a table beside the bar. "There."
"What? the gramophone?"
"Not the gramophone. Choral singing. Alfons has a weakness for choral singing. No dances, no classical music—only choirs. Male choirs, mixed choirs—everything on those records there is a choir. There—you see, here he comes."
"Like it?" asked Alfons.
"Like mother makes," I replied.
"The lady too?"
"The best pork chops in my life," declared the lady boldly.
Alfons nodded satisfaction. "Now I'll play you my new record. Make you open your eyes."
He went to the gramophone. The needle scratched and a male choir lifted up its voice, singing with immense gusto "Silence in the Forest." It was a damned noisy silence.
From the first onset the whole place was still. Alfons could be dangerous if anyone showed irreverence. He stood at the counter, his hairy arms propping his chin. His expression changed under the influence of the music. He looked almost dreamy—dreamy as a gorilla can. Choral singing had an extraordinary effect on him; it made him as soft and sentimental as a calf. When he was younger and even more quick-tempered his wife used to keep one of his favourite records always ready on the instrument, so that if he should get dangerous and appear with the hammer she could switch on the needle; then he would lower the hammer, and listen and calm. It was unnecessary now: his wife was dead and her portrait, by Ferdinand Grau, for which Ferdinand always had free table here, hung over the bar—and besides, Alfons was older and colder.
The record ran out. Alfons came over.
"Wonderful," said I.
"Especially the first tenor," added Patricia Hollmann..
"Exactly," observed Alfons showing signs of recovery. "You know something about it I see. The first tenor is in a class by himself."
We were standing out on the pavement. The street lamps outside the pub cast restless lights and shadows up into the labyrinth of branches of an old tree. The twigs already had a shimmer of green and in tbe flickering uncertain light from below the tree appeared even bigger and taller, as if its top were lost in the gloom up there—like some enormous, outstretched hand, in an immensity' of desire grasping the sky.
Patricia Hollmann gave a slight shiver.
"Are you cold?" I asked.
She turned up her collar and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her fur jacket. "It's only momentary. It was pretty warm in there."
"You are too lightly clad," said I. "It is still cold at night."
She shook her head. "I don't like wearing heavy things. It will be nice when it gets really warm again. I can't bear cold. At any rate not in the town."
"It is warmer in the Cadillac," said I. "I took the precaution of bringing a rug."
I helped her into the car and spread the rug over her knees. She drew them high up. "Grand! Now I'm quite warm. Cold makes you miserable."
"Not only cold." I turned to the wheel. "Now shall we go for a jaunt?"
She nodded. "I'd like it."
"Where to?"
"Just slowly along the road. It doesn't matter where."
"Right."
I started the engine and we drove slowly and planless through the city. It was the hour when the evening traffic was at its thickest. We slipped almost inaudibly through, the engine ran so sweetly. The car might have been a ship gliding soundlessly along the gay canals of life. The streets drifted by—bright doorways, lights, rows of street lamps, the sweet mild evening effervescence of life, the gentle fever of the lighted night, and, over all, between the roofs of the houses, the great, iron-grey sky, against which the city flung its light.
The girl sat silent beside me; brightness and shadow through the window glided across her face. I glanced at her occasionally; she reminded me again of the evening when I had first seen her. Her expression had become graver, she appeared stranger than before, but very beautiful; it was the same expression that had moved me then and had not let me go. It seemed to me as if there were in it something of the secret of quietness that things have that are near to nature—trees, clouds, animals—and occasionally a woman.
We had reached the quieter streets of the suburbs. The wind grew stronger. It seemed to be driving the night before it. At a large square, about which little houses were sleeping in little gardens, I stopped the car.
Patricia Hollmann made a movement as if she were awakening.
"It's lovely, that," said she after a while. "If I had a car, I would drive about slowly like that every evening. There is something unreal in gliding along so noiselessly. One is awake and dreaming at the same time. I can imagine that one would not want, then, any human being of an evening—"
I took a packet of cigarettes from my pocket. "One needs something of an evening, eh?"
She nodded. "Of an evening, yes. It is a queer thing, when it turns dark."
I tore open the packet. "They are American cigarettes, do you like them?"
"Yes, better than any."
I gave her a light. For an instant the warm, close light of the match illumined her face and my hands, and suddenly I had a mad feeling as if we had belonged to one another a long time.
I lowered the window to let out the smoke.
"Would you like to drive a bit now?" I asked. "I'm sure you'd find it fun."
She turned toward me. "I'd like to; but I can't."
"You really can't?"
"No. I've never learnt."
I saw my chance. "But Binding might have shown you long ago," said I.
She laughed. "Binding is too much in love with his car. He won't let anybody near it."
"That is just stupid," I continued, glad to be able to give Fatty one. "I'll let you drive, certainly. Come on."
I threw all Köster's warnings to the wind and got out to let her take the wheel. She got excited. "But I tell you I really and truly can't drive."
"Sure, you can," I replied. "Only you don't know it yet."
I showed her how to change gear and work the clutch. "So," said I then, "now away you go."
"One moment!" She pointed to a solitary bus crawling along the road. "Shouldn't we let that by first?"
"Certainly not." I swiftly slipped the gear and let in the clutch.
"Heavens!" cried Patricia Hollmann. "It's going."
"That's what it was built for. Only no fear. Give it plenty of gas. I'll watch it."
She was gripping the steering wheel desperately tight and looking apprehensively along the road. "My God, we are going pretty fast, aren't we?"
I glanced at the speedometer. "You are doing now, just twenty-five kilometres. That is in reality twenty. A good speed for a long-distance runner."
"It feels like eighty to me."
After a few minutes the first fear was overcome. We were driving along a wide, straight road. The Cadillac reeled a bit now and then as if we had cognac instead of petrol in the tank, and occasionally ran suspiciously near the curb, but gradually it went quite well, and with the result I had anticipated—I got the upper hand, for we now suddenly had the relationship of pupil and teacher, and I made the best of it.
"Mind," said I, "there's a policeman over there."
"Should I stop?"
"It's too late now."
"And what happens if he catches me? I haven't a driver's license."
"Then we both go to gaol."
"Good heavens!" Alarmed, she felt for the brake with her foot.
"Gas!" I called. "Gas! Step on it hard. We must go proudly and swiftly by. Boldness is the best rule against the law."
The policeman took no notice of us at all. The girl sighed with relief.
"I never knew before that traffic police could look like fire-spitting dragons," said she when we had put him a few hundred yards behind us.
"They only do that when you drive around them." I slowly put on the brake. "So, now here's a fine empty byroad. We are going to practise now, properly. First of all, starting and stopping."
Patricia Hollmann stalled the engine several times. She unbuttoned her fur coat. "It is making me hot! But I must learn it."
She sat eager and attentive, watching first what I did. Then with excited little cries she took her first corners and was as afraid of approaching headlights as if they had been the devil, and as proud when she had successfully passed them. Soon there arose in the little space dimly lighted by the lamp in the switchboard a feeling of comradeship, which springs up quickly where technical, matter-of-fact things are concerned; and after half an hour, when we changed places and I drove back, we were as familiar with one another as if we had unbosomed our whole life histories.
In the neighbourhood of Nikolaistrasse I stopped the car again. We were directly under a red movie advertisement. The asphalt gleamed a pale purple. On the curb shone a big black spot.
"So," said I. "Now.we have honestly earned a glass of something to drink. Where should we do that?"
Patricia Hollmann considered a moment. "Let us go again to that lovely bar with the sailing ship," she suggested.
For one moment I was in utmost alarm. In the bar was now sitting, for a dead cert., the last of the romantics. I saw his face already . . .
"Ach," said I swiftly, "that's nothing to write home about. There are lots of better places."
"I don't know—I thought it very nice recently."
"Really?" I asked taken aback. "You thought it very, nice recently?"
"Yes," she replied with a laugh. "Very."
Indeed, thought I, and that's what I've been blaming myself for!
"But I think around this time it is very full," I tried once more.
"We could see anyway," she replied.
"Yes, we could do that." I considered what I should do.
As we approached I got out quickly. "I'll just take a quick look. I'll be back in a minute."
There was nobody there I knew except Valentin. "I say, has Gottfried been here yet?" I asked.
Valentin nodded. "With Otto. They left half an hour ago."
"Pity," said I breathing again. "I should like to have seen them."
I went back to the car. "We might risk it," I explained. "It's not so bad to-day." As a precaution I parked the Cadillac round the next corner in the deepest shadow.
But we had not been sitting ten minutes when Lenz's straw-blond head appeared at the counter. Damn, thought I, now for it. A few weeks later would have suited me better.
Gottfried seemed not to want to remain. Already I fancied myself delivered when I saw Valentin drawing his attention to me. So much for my lying.
Gottfried's expression when he caught sight of us would have been a study for an ambitious film star. His eyes stood in his "head like two poached eggs and I was afraid his bottom jaw would drop off. It was a pity there wasn't a producer sitting in "The Bar" at that moment; I'm sure he would have engaged Lenz on the spot—for roles, for example, where the sea serpent suddenly appears with a bellow in front of the shipwrecked sailor.
Gottfried soon had himself in hand again. I cast an imploring look at him to vanish. He responded with a villainous grin, settled his coat and came forward.
I knew what was ahead and attacked immediately.
"Have you seen Fräulein Bomblatt home already?" I asked to neutralize him at once.
"Yes," he replied without betraying, by so much as an eyelid, that he had never heard of Fräulein Bomblatt till that second. "She sent you her love and hopes you will call her up first thing in the morning."
That was quite a good comeback. I nodded. "I'll do so. I hope she will buy the car."
Lenz opened his mouth once more. I kicked him on the shin and gave him such a look that he stopped short with a smirk.
We drank a few glasses. I only sidecars, with plenty of lemon. I did not mean to get myself in wrong again.
Gottfried was in form. "I've just been round to your place," said he. "Wanted to fetch you. Afterwards I went to the amusement park. They've got a magnificent new merry-go-round. What about coming?" He looked at Patricia Hollmann.
"At once," she replied, delighted. "Then let us start now," said I.
I was glad to get outside. In the open the business was simpler.
First the barrel-organs—advance posts of the amusement park. Melancholy sweet droning. On the threadbare velvet covers of the organs occasionally a parrot, or a half-frozen little monkey in a red twill jacket. . . . Then the harsh voices of vendors of crockery ware, glass-cutters, Turkish delight, balloons, suitings. . . . The cold blue light and the smell of the carbide lamps. . . . The fortunetellers, the astrologers, the pepper-cake tents, the swing boats, the sideshows—and lastly, clamourous with music, gay, glittering, lit-up like palaces, the circling turrets of the merry-go-rounds. . . .
"All aboard, lads," yelled Lenz as with streaming hair he made a wild leap for the scenic railway. It had the loudest orchestra. At every round six trumpeters stepped out of six gilded niches, turned to the east and the west, blew a blast, flourished their instruments and retired. It was glorious.
We were sitting in a large swan and lurching up and down. The world glittered and glided, it reeled and fell back into a black tunnel through which we hurtled to a beating of drums, immediately to be greeted again with trumpets and splendour.
"Onward!" Gottfried steered the way to a flying roundabout with airships and aeroplanes. We entered a zeppelin and did three rounds in it.
Rather out of breath, we got down again. "And now for the devil's wheel," announced Lenz.
The devil's wheel Was a large, flat disc, slightly raised in the middle, which revolved ever faster and faster and on which one had to keep upright. Gottfried boarded' it with about twenty others. He stepped it like a maniac and received special applause. At the finish he was alone with a cook who had a stern like a Clydesdale. That wily person planted herself, as the business became more difficult, plumb in the centre of the disc, while Gottfried swept prancing around her. The rest were already all under. At last fate claimed the last of the romantics also; he staggered into the arms of the cook, and in close embrace rolled over the edge. When he joined us again he had the cook on his arm.. He dubbed her, without more ado, Lina. Lina smiled embarrassment. He asked her what she would drink with him. Lina replied that beer was said to be good for thirst. The two disappeared into the Bavarian beer garden.
"And we? Where do we go now?" asked Patricia Hollmann with shining eyes.
"Into the maze of ghosts," said I, pointing to a large booth.
The maze was a way beset with surprises. After a few steps the ground wobbled, hands groped for one out of the dark, masked figures sprang out of corners, spirits howled —we laughed, but once the girl started swiftly back at the appearance of a green-lighted death's-head. For an instant she lay in my arms, her breath touched my cheek, I felt her hair on my lips—then immediately she was laughing again and I let her go.
I let her go—but something in me did not let her go. Long after we had come out I still felt her shoulder in my arm, the soft hair, the faint peach smell of her skin.
I avoided looking at her. She had suddenly become something different for me.
Lenz was already awaiting us. He was alone.
"Where's Lina?" I asked.
"Getting tight," he replied, with his head indicating the beer garden, "with a blacksmith."
"My sympathy," said I.
"Not at all," replied Gottfried. "Now let us pass on to serious man's work."
We went to a booth where one had to throw hard rubber rings on to hooks and could win all manner of things.
"So," said Lenz to Patricia Hollmann, shoving his hat on to the back of his head, "now we'll collect your trousseau."
He threw first and won an alarm clock. I followed and bagged a teddy bear. The booth proprietor passed them over and made a great spiel to attract other customers. "You'll soon change your tune," smirked Gottfried, and won a frying pan; I, a second teddy bear. "Bit of a cow, eh?" said the booth proprietor, handing us the things.
The chap did not know what he was in for. Lenz had been the best bomb thrower in the company; and in winter when there wasn't much doing we practised for months on end, throwing our hats on to all possible hooks. By comparison the rings here were child's play. Without any difficulty Gottfried next collected a cut-glass vase, I half a dozen gramophone records. The proprietor shoved them over to us in silence and then examined his hooks.
Lenz aimed, threw and won a coffeepot, the second prize. We now had a host of spectators. I threw three rings in rapid succession on to the same hook. Forfeit: the penitent Saint Magdalene in a gold frame.
The proprietor made a face as if he were at the dentist's, and refused to let us go on. We intended to stop, but the spectators kicked up a row. They insisted that the fellow should let us carry on. They wanted to see him cleaned out. When the rumpus was at its height Lina suddenly turned up with her blacksmith. "People should only miss, eh?" she crowed, "never hit, eh?" The blacksmith boomed support.
"All right," suggested Lenz, "one more throw each."
I threw first. A washbasin with jug and soap dish. Then came Lenz. He took five rings. He threw four in quick succession on to the same hook. Before the fifth he made an artistic pause and took out a cigarette. Three people offered him a light. The blacksmith slapped him on the shoulder. Lina was chewing her handkerchief with excitement. Then Gottfried took aim and threw the last ring, very gently so that it should not bounce off, clean on to the other four. It hung there. Thunderous applause. We had captured the first prize-—a pram with a pink cover and lace pillows.
The proprietor, cursing, wheeled it out. We packed the rest into it and moved off to the next stand. Lina pushed the pram. The blacksmith made such jokes about it that I thought better to drop behind a bit with Patricia Holl-mann.
At the next stall one had to throw rings over wine bottles. If the ring landed clean one won the bottle. We got away with six bottles. Lenz, regardful of etiquette, presented them to the blacksmith.
There was one more booth of a similar kind. But the proprietor had smelt a rat and was just declaring it closed as we came up. The blacksmith was making trouble; he had observed that here beer bottles were to be contended for. But we declined. The chap at this booth had only one arm.
With a large following we arrived at the Cadillac.
"Now what?" asked Lenz, scratching his head. "We'd better tie the pram on behind."
"Sure," said I, "but you'll have to get in and steer so that it doesn't tip over."
Patricia Hollmann protested. She was afraid Lenz would actually do it.
"All right," said Lenz, "then we had better divide up. The two teddy bears go to you. The gramophone records too. Now what about the frying pan?"
The girl shook her head. "Passes to the workshop, then," announced Gottfried. "Take it, Bob, you're master of the order of the poached egg. The coffeepot?"
The girl nodded toward Lina. The cook blushed. Gottfried presented her with the thing as at a prize-giving. Then he hauled out the crockery basin. "The washing gear here? To our old friend, no? He'll have use for it in his job. The alarm clock likewise. Blacksmiths are heavy sleepers."
I handed Gottfried the flower vase. He passed it to Lina. Stammering, she tried to decline. Her eyes were glued on the penitent Magdalene. She feared, if she took the vase, the smith would get the picture.
"I'm very fond of art," she burst out.
"Fräulein," asked Lenz, with a grand gesture turning round, "what do you say to that?"
Patricia Hollmann took the picture and gave it to the cook.
"It is a very beautiful picture, Lina," said she, smiling.
"Hang it up over your bed and take it to heart," added Lenz.
Lina seized it. She gave a great gulp of gratitude.
"And now you," said Lenz pensively, to the pram.
Despite her joy over the Magdalene, Lina's eyes were again covetous. The smith observed that one could never be sure when one might not need such a thing, and laughed so at the idea that he dropped one of the wine bottles.
But Lenz was against it. "Just a moment. I saw something a while back," said he and disappeared. A few minutes later he collected the cart and pushed off with it. "That's settled," said he when he came back alone.
We climbed into the Cadillac. "Like Christmas," said Lina happily amid all her junk, giving us a red hand in farewell.
The smith took us aside a moment. "Look here," said he, "if you ever have anyone you want socked—I live in Leibnitzstrasse sixteen, rear court, second staircase on the left. If it's more, then I'll come with my gang."
"That's agreed," we replied and drove off.
As we turned the corner of the amusement park, Gottfried pointed out the window. There was our pram—a real child in it, and a pale, still rather agitated woman beside it, examining it.
"Good, eh?" observed Gottfried.
"Take her the teddy bears!" cried Patricia Hollmann. "They belong with it."
"One perhaps," said Lenz. "You must keep one."
"No, both."
"All right." Lenz sprang out of the car, threw the plush things into the woman's arms, and, before she could say a word, dashed off as if he were pursued.
"So," said he, out of breath, "now I begin to feel quite sick at my own nobility. Put me down at the International. I must absolutely have a brandy."
He got out and I took the girl home. It was different from last time. She stood in the doorway and the light from the lamps flickered over her face. She looked lovely. I should have liked to go in with her.
"Good night," said I, "sleep well."
"Good night."
She gave me her hand and went up the steps. I watched her until the light went out. Then I drove off in the Cadillac. I felt extraordinary. It was not like other nights when one had been crazy about some girl. There was tenderness in it. Tenderness, and the desire to be able for once to let go.
I went to Lenz at the International. It was almost empty. In one corner sat Fritzi with her friend Alois, the waiter. They were quarrelling. Gottfried was sitting on the sofa by the bar with Mimi and Wally. He was charming with them both, especially Mimi, poor old creature.
The girls left soon. They must be about their business; now was the best time. Mimi groaned and sighed for her varicose veins. I sat down beside Gottfried.
"Now fire away," said I.
"What for, Bob?" he replied to my amazement. "It's quite right, what you're doing."
I was relieved that he took it so quietly. "I used to sing a different tune," said I.
He waved his hand. "Nonsense."
I ordered a rum.
"You know," said I then; "I haven't the least idea who she is or anything. Nor how she stands with Binding. Did he say anything to you?"
He looked at me. "Does that worry you?"
"No."
"Thought not. The mantle fits you pretty well, anyway."
I reddened.
"You don't need to blush. You're quite right. I wish I could."
I was silent awhile.
"How's that, Gottfried?" said I at last.
He looked at me. "Because anything else is dirt, Bob. Because nothing pays these days. Remember what Ferdinand told you yesterday. He's not far wrong, the old corpse painter. . . . Well, anyway, sit up to the old tin can there and play us a few of the old army songs."
I played the "Three Lilies" and the "Argonnermald!" They sounded ghostly in the empty room, when one remembered where we used to sing them.