Chapter XI
I was on the way to Pat's. It would be the first time I had been to see her. Hitherto she had either been to my place or I had met her outside her house and we had gone somewhere or other. But it was always as if she were merely on a visit. I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to know how she lived.
The park behind the roundabouts was in full flower. I jumped the railing and began plundering a white lilac.
"What are you doing, my man?" suddenly rapped a sharp voipe.
I looked up. A chap with a burgundy red face and white, waxed moustaches was staring at me indignantly. Not a policeman and not a park keeper. A high military gent on the retired list, one saw it immediately.
"That's not very difficult to see," I replied politely. "I'm breaking off lilac sprays."
The chap lost the faculty of speech for a moment. "Don't you know this is a city park?" he then growled excitedly.
I smiled at him amiably. "You don't say! I thought it was the Canary Islands. Where the pretty, yellow long-birds come from, you know."
The chap turned purple. I was afraid he might have a stroke. "Out of there at once, fellow!" he cried in first-rate barracks-square tone. "You are stealing public property. I'll put you under arrest."
I had in the meantime enough lilac. "You catch me, grandfather," I invited the old chap, and then jumped over the railing on the opposite side and disappeared.
Outside Pat's place I looked over my clothes once more. Then, slowly, I mounted the stairs. The house was new and modern—a decided contrast to my jaded and pompous barracks. The staircase had a red carpet—none of that at Mother Zalewski's. Much less a lift.
Pat lived on the second floor. On the door was a self-important tin plate: Egbert von hake, lt. col. Involuntarily I adjusted my tie before ringing the bell.
A girl in white cap and little apron opened—not to be mentioned in the same breath with our cockeyed slut, Frida. I began to feel rather awkward. "Herr Lohkamp?" she asked.
I nodded.
Without more ado she led me across a little landing and opened a door. I should not have been surprised if Lieutenant Colonel Egbert von Hake had been standing there in full uniform and had subjected me to preliminary cross-examination, so solemn was the effect of the array of portraits of generals, who, covered with decorations, looked down grimly upon me, mere civilian, from the walls of the antechamber. But there was Pat already coming toward me with her lovely, long stride, and the room was suddenly an island of warmth and gaiety. I shut the door and first of all took her cautiously in my arms. Then I handed to her the stolen lilac. "Here," said I, "with the compliments of the town council."
She put the sprays in a large, bright earthenware pot that stood on the floor by the window. As she did so I glanced in surprise around the room. Pleasant, subdued colours; little old, lovely furniture; a soft blue carpet, pastel-tinted curtains, cosy little armchairs upholstered in faded satin . . .
"My God, how did you find such a room, Pat?" said I. "People usually put only their broken furniture and useless birthday presents in rooms they have to let."
She pushed the vase with the flowers carefully back against the wall. I saw her slender, arched neck, the straight shoulders and the arms, a shade too thin. As she knelt she looked like a child, a child one must take care of. But her movements were those of a graceful animal, and then when she stood up and leaned against me, she was no longer a child, her eyes and her lips again had the inquiring expectancy and mystery that so intoxicated me and of which I had believed there was none left in this muddy world.
I put my arm about her shoulders. It was lovely to feel her like this. "They are my own things, Robby," said she. "The house used to belong to my mother. When she died I let it and kept just two rooms for myself."
"Then it belongs to you, does it? And Lieutenant Colonel Egbert von Hake is a tenant?"
She shook her head. "Not now. I couldn't keep it. I had to sell the rest of the furniture and give up the house. I live here en pension now. But what have you got against old Egbert?"
"Nothing. I merely have a natural shyness of policemen and staff officers. Comes from my army days."
She laughed. "My father was a major."
"Major is just on the border line," I replied.
"Do you know old Hake, then?" she asked.
I was suddenly seized with an alarming thought. "Is he a little chap, so high, very straight, with a red face, a white moustache, and a big voice? The sort to go walking a lot in the park?"
"Aha!" She glanced at the lilac and then looked at me, smiling. "No, he's a tall, pale-faced chap with horn-rimmed spectacles."
"Then I don't know him."
"Would you like to know him? He's very nice."
"God forbid! For the moment I belong more to the mechanic and Zalewski side."
There was a knock. The maid of a while back pushed in a low trolley. Eggshell porcelain, a silver dish with cakes, another with incredibly tiny sandwiches, serviettes, cigarettes, and God knows what else—dazzled, I surveyed it all. "Mercy, Pat!" said I. "It's just like the films. I'm used to eating out of grease-proof paper off the Zalewski window ledge, remember, the old tommy-cooker beside me. Have mercy on the inhabitant of a loveless pension if in his confusion he smashes an odd cup or two."
She laughed. "You won't do that. Your professional honour as a motor mechanic forbids it. You must be clever with your fingers." She reached for the handle' of a jug. "Tea or coffee, Bob?"
"Tea or coffee? Are there both then?"
"Yes. Look."
"Grand. Like the best palaces! All it wants now is music."
She leaned over and switched on a little portable radio which I had not noticed before. "So—now what will you have, tea or coffee?"
"Coffee, plain coffee, Pat. I'm homely. And you?"
"I'll have coffee with you."
"But otherwise you take tea?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll have that."
"I'll start now and get used to coffee. Will you have cakes with it or sandwiches?"
"Both, Pat. One must make the best of one's opportunities. I'll have some tea after, too. I must sample everything you have." She laughed and loaded up my plate. "Enough, enough! Remember we are in the neighbourhood of a lieutenant colonel. The army likes moderation in the lower ranks."
"Only in drinking, Bob. Old Egbert himself is terribly fond of meringues."
"Really," I replied. "They weaned us of them pretty thoroughly in those days." I pushed the table to and fro on its rubber wheels. It invited it. Noiselessly it rolled over the carpet. I looked around. Everything went with everything else. "Yes, Pat," said I, "this is how our ancestors lived."
She laughed. "What nonsense are you talking now?"
"It's not nonsense. It's a sign of the times."
"But it's merely an accident I have a few things, Robby."
I shook my head. "It's not an accident. And it's not the things either. It's what lies behind them. You don't see it. Only a person who no longer belongs to it, sees it."
She looked at me. "You could have them just the same, if you really wanted."
I took her hand. "But I don't want, Pat, that is it. I'd feel a high-flyer. The likes of us have to be ready to move on any miniite. We're used to it. It belongs to the time."
"It's a very convenient way, Bob," said Pat.
I laughed. "Maybe. And now give me some tea. I'd just like to try it."
"No," said she, "we'll stick to coffee. But eat something more in case you have to move on."
"True. But what about Egbert—if he's so fond of cakes, won't he be counting on some to come back to?"
"Maybe. But he must count on the lower ranks taking their revenge. That belongs to the time, too. Eat it all."
Her eyes were shining and she looked wonderful. "Do you know one thing I'm not discarding next time I have to move on?"
She did not answer, but she looked at me.
"You," said I. "And now to be avenged on Egbert."
I had had only a plate of soup at the cab shelter for lunch, so it was not difficult to eat up everything there was.
And egged on by Pat I finished off the entire jug of coffee as well.
We sat by the window and smoked. The evening showed red over the roofs. "It's nice here, Pat," said I. "I can well imagine one might not want to go out for weeks together— until one had quite forgotten the whole rotten business outside there."
She smiled. "There was a time when I thought I never should come out of here again."
"How was that?"
"I was sick."
"That's another matter. What was the matter?"
"Nothing much. But I had to stay in bed. I suppose I grew too fast and got too little to eat. During the war and after the war there wasn't much to be had, of course."
I nodded. "How long were you in bed, then?"
She hesitated a moment. "About a year."
"But that's a long time." I looked at her attentively.
"It's past now, long since. But then it seemed to me a lifetime. Do you remember in 'The Bar' once you told me about Valentin? How after the war he couid never forget what a pleasure it was to be alive? And how nothing else mattered to him besides?"
"You have a good memory," said I.
"Because I understood it so well. Ever since that time I've been just as easily pleased. I'm afraid I'm very superficial, Robby."
"Only people who think they're not superficial, are."
"But I am, definitely. I've not much interest in the important things of life. Only in the beautiful things. Just this lilac here makes me happy."
"That's not superficiality—that's ultimate philosophy. The end of all wisdom, Pat."
"Not in my case. I am superficial and frivolous."
"So am I."
"Not as I am. You said something just now about highflying. I am a real high-flyer."
"That's what I thought," said I.
"Yes. I determined I would live, awhile at any rate, as I liked. No matter if it was sensible or not. And I did."
I laughed. "Why look so defiant about it?"
"Because everybody said it was utterly irresponsible—I ought to save my little bit of money and get work and a position. But I was determined I would be carefree and gay and do what I wanted and not pinch and scrape. That was after my mother died and I had been so long in bed."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I couldn't imagine it," I replied.
"Do you think it was irresponsible, too?"
"No, courageous."
"Ach, courage—I'm not courageous. I was frightened enough sometimes. Like somebody in the wrong seat at the theatre, who yet doesn't get out of it."
"Then you were courageous," said I. "A man is courageous only when he is also afraid. And it was sensible too. You'would only have lost your money otherwise. You did at least get something out of it. But what did you do?"
"Nothing really. Just live for myself."
"All honour! That's the rarest of all."
She smiled. "But it will soon be over. I've got to start something now."
"Oh. What? Had your business interview" with Binding ' anything to do with that?"
She nodded. "With Binding and Doctor Max Matuscheit, director of the Electrola Gramophone shop."
"Well," said I, "Binding might have thought of something better, surely."
"He did," she replied; "but I wasn't having any."
"I'd advise him not to, too. When do you start, then?"
"The first of August."
"Well, that doesn't leave us much time. Perhaps we could find something else, though. In any case you can be sure of our custom."
"Have you a gramophone, then?"
"No, but I'll get one at once. All the same I don't like the business much."
"I don't mind," said she. "It's all much simpler for me .since you are here. But I shouldn't have told you anything about it."
"You should. You must always tell me everything."
She looked at me a moment. "Good, Robby," said she. Then she stood up and went to a little cupboard. "What do you think I have here? Rum for you. Good rum, I believe."
She put a glass on the table and looked at me expectantly.
"The rum is good all right, I can smell it already from afar," said I. "But really, Pat—don't you think you ought to save a bit now, rather? To postpone the gramophones?"
"No," she replied.
"Right again," said I.
The rum, as I could see from the colour, was broken-down. The salesman had lied to Pat, evidently. I drank the glass.
"First rate," said I, "give me another. Where did you get it?"
"From the shop at the corner."
Aha, thought I: another damned pastry shop, of course. I resolved to look in there and tell the fellow off.
"Well, I suppose! ought to go now, Pat, eh?" I asked.
She looked at me. "Not straight away—"
We were standing by the window. The lights flicked up from below.
"Show me your bedroom, will you?" said I.
She opened the door and switched on the light. I stood at the door and looked in. All sorts of things passed through my head.
"So that's your bed, Pat," said I at last.
She smiled. "Whose else should it be, Robby?"
"True." I glanced up. "What absurd things one says. I meant: so that's where you sleep. And there's the telephone. Now I know that too. Now I'll go. Good-bye, Pat."
She put her. hands to my cheeks. It would be marvellous to stay there now in the gathering darkness, close side by side under the soft blue cover in the bedroom—but there was something stopped me; it was no inhibition, nor fear, nor yet prudence—it was simply a very great tenderness that overwhelmed desire.
"Good-bye, Pat," said I. "It has been lovely here. Lovelier for me than you can perhaps imagine. As for the rum —that you should have thought of it—"
"But that was nothing."
"For me it was. I'm not used to such things, Pat."
The Zalewski joint. I sat around awhile. I did not like Pat's being indebted to Binding for anything. Finally I went across the passage to Erna Bönig.
"A business call, Erna," said I. "Tell me, how are things in the female labour market?"
"Come," replied Erna, "there's a blunt question out of a hard heart I Rotten, if you want to know."
"Nothing doing?"
"What line?"
"Secretary, assistant—"
She shook her head. "Hundreds of thousands' without a job. Can the lady do anything particular?"
"She looks marvellous," said I.
"How many words?" asked Erna.
"What?"
"How many words can she write a minute? In how many languages?"
"No idea," said I; "but, Erna, the personal touch, you know—"
"My dear boy," replied Erna, "I know all about it— lady of good family, seen better days, compelled, and so on. Hopeless, I tell you. The only chance is if someone has a special interest and pushes her in somewhere. You know why, of course. But you won't be wanting that, I presume?"
"Funny question," said I.
"Not so funny as you think," replied Erna somewhat-bitterly. "I know cases." I thought of the business with her own boss. "But let me give you a bit of advice," she went on. "Get busy yourself and earn enough for two. That's the simplest solution. Get married."
"Come off the grass," said I, laughing. "I'm not so sure of myself as all that."
Erna gave me a queer look. Suddenly all the life seemed to go out of her and she appeared old and almost withered. "I'll tell you something," said she. "I live pretty well and have all kinds of things I don't need. But believe me—if a man were to come to me and propose that we should live together, properly, decently, I'd leave all this junk and go with him into,an attic if need be." Her face regained its former expression. "But wipe that out—everybody has some sentimental corner." She winked at me through her cigarette smoke. "Even you, apparently?"
"Ach, well—" said I.
"Now, now," warned Erna. "You fall for it easiest when you are least expecting—"
"Not me," I replied.
I stuck in my room until eight o'clock—then I had had enough of sitting around and went to "The Bar" to meet someone to talk to."
Valentin was there. "Sit down," said he, "what will you drink?"
"Rum," I replied. "I've taken rather a fancy to rum since this afternoon."
"Rum is the soldier's milk," said Valentin. "But you are looking very well, Bob."
"Yes?"
"Yes, younger."
"Stuff," said I. "Pros't, Valentin."
"Pros't, Bob."
We put the glasses on the table and looked at one another. Then we both burst out laughing.
"Old boy," said Valentin.
"Damned old soak," I replied. "What shall we drink now?"
"Same again."
"Right."
Fred filled the glasses. ;
"Well, pros't, Valentin." ;
"Pros't, Bob."
"Wonderful word, 'pros't,' eh?"
"Word of all words."
We said it several times more. Then Valentin left.
I continued to sit. Apart from Fred nobody was there. I looked at the old, lighted maps, the ships with their yellowing sails, and thought of Pat. I should have liked to ring her up, but I forced myself not to. I did not want to think so much about her. I wanted to take her as an unexpected, delightful gift, that had come and would go again—nothing more. I meant not to give room to the thought that it could ever be more. I knew too well that all love has the desire for eternity and that therein lies its eternal torment. Nothing lasts. Nothing.
"Give us another glass, Fred," said I.
A man and a woman came in. They had a cobbler at the bar. The woman looked tired, the man lustful. They left again soon.
I emptied the glass. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not gone to see Pat this afternoon. I would never be free again of that picture—the twilit room, the soft, blue evening shadows, and the beautiful, curled-up figure of the girl talking in her deep, husky voice about her life and her desire for life. Damn it, I'm getting sentimental. What had been till now a breathless, surprising adventure was melting into the mists of affection; had it not already laid firmer hold on me than I knew or cared for; hadn't I discovered only to-day how much I had changed? Why had I gone away? why did I not stay with her as I had meant to? Ach, damn, I would think no more about it, one way or the other. Let come what may—I suppose I should go mad if I lost her—but she was there, she was there now—what else mattered? To hell with it. What was the use trying to make safe and sure our little life? Sooner or later the great wave must come and sweep all away.
"What about a drink with me, Fred?" I asked.
"Sure," said he.
We had two absinths. Then we tossed for two more. I won. That didn't seem to me right. So we went on tossing. But it was five times before I lost. Then I did so three times in succession. . . .
"Am I drunk or is it thundering outside?" I asked.
Fred listened. "It's thunder all right. The first storm this year."
We went to the door and looked at the sky. There was nothing to be seen. It was merely warm, with now and then a roll of thunder. "We'd better have one on the strength of it," I suggested. Fred was all for it.
"Damned liquorice water," said I putting down the empty glass again on the bar. Fred also thought we might now try something with a bit more kick in it. He suggested cherry brandy—I was for rum. In order not to quarrel we drank both by turns. That Fred should not have to work so hard pouring out, we took larger glasses. We were now in fine fettle. Off and on we would go out to see if there wasn't lightning as well. We should have liked very much to see some lightning, but we had no luck. It would flash the moment we were inside again. Fred told me about his girl, whose father owned a Caféteria. But he wasn't marrying till the old man was dead and he was quite sure that she would get the restaurant as well. I thought he was a bit overcautious, but he argued that the old man was such an untrustworthy old blighter, he was quite capable of making over the restaurant, at the last minute, to the Methodist Church. At that I yielded my point. For the rest Fred was fairly hopeful. The old chap had caught cold and Fred was of opinion it might prove to be influenza, which was pretty dangerous at his age. I felt obliged to say that unfortunately influenza meant nothing at all to alcoholics, quite the contrary, an old soak might be on his last legs and get influenza and thrive on it and put on weight even. Fred thought it did not signify, in that case he might get run over by a bus. I agreed that that was more than likely, especially on wet asphalt. Fred thereupon went out to see if it were raining yet. But it was still dry. Only the thunder was a bit louder. I gave him a glass of lemon juice to drink and went to the telephone. At the last moment I remembered that I did not want to telephone. I waved my hand at the instrument and made to raise my hat. But then I observed that I hadn't it on.
When I returned Köster and Lenz were there. "Breathe on me," said Gottfried.
I breathed. "Rum, cherry-brandy and absinth," said he. "Absinth, you dirty pig."
"If you mean to suggest I'm drunk, you are mistaken," said I. "Where have you come from?"
"A political meeting. But it was too silly for Otto. What's that Fred's drinking?"
"Lemon juice."
"You'd better have a glass too," said he.
"To-morrow," I replied. "I'm going to have something to eat now."
Köster had been looking at me anxiously. "Don't look at me like that, Otto," said I. "I've only got a little bit tight out of pure joie de vivre. Not from worry."
"Then it's O.K.," said he. "But come and have something to eat all the same."
By eleven o'clock I was as sober as a bone again. Köster suggested we should have a look at Fred. We went in and found him lying behind the bar counter as if he were dead.
"Take him next door," said Lenz. "I'll do the serving here in the meantime."
Köster and I brought Fred round again. We gave him some warm milk to drink. The effect was instantaneous. Then we sat him on a chair and told him to have a rest for half an hour, Lenz would see to everything outside.
Gottfried did see to it too. He knew all the prices and the whole gamut of cocktails. He swung the mixer as if he had never done anything else.
After an hour Fred was back again. He had a cast-iron stomach and recovered quickly.
"Sorry, Fred," said I, "we ought to have had something to eat first."
"I'm in order again," he replied. "Does you good once in a while."
"No doubt about that." I went to the telephone and rang up Pat. All I had been thinking was suddenly of complete indifference to me. She answered. "I'll be at the front door in a quarter of an hour," I called and hung up quickly. I was afraid she might be tired and refuse to hear of it. I wanted to see her.
She did come. As she opened the front door I kissed the glass where her head was. She was about to say something but I did not give her the chance. I gave her a kiss and together we ran down the street till we found a taxi. It was thundering and there were flashes of lightning. "Quick, before it rains," I called.
We got in. The first drops pattered on the roof of the cab. The car bounced over the uneven cobbles. It was grand, for with each jolt I felt Pat beside me. Everything was grand, the rain, the city, the drink, everything wide and splendid. I was in that clear, overwakeful state that follows being drunk and having got the better of it again. The inhibitions were gone, the night was charged with a deep power and full of splendour, nothing could happen now, nothing false any more.
The rain began as we got out. While I was paying, the pavement was still spotted dark with drops, like a panther —but before I reached the door it was black and spouting silver, the water poured down so.
I did not make a light. The flashes lit up the room. The storm was over the middle of the town. Peal rolled upon peal. "We could shout here now, for once," I called to Pat, "without fear of anyone hearing."
The windows flamed. For an instant the black silhouettes of the trees in the graveyard sprang out against the blue-white sky and were at once felled again with a crash by the night—for an instant between dark and dark Pat's supple figure stood phosphorescent against the windowpanes—I put my arm around her shoulders, she pressed against me, I felt her lips, her breathing, I thought no more.