Chapter XVII
It was two weeks later. Pat had so far recovered that we could travel home. We had packed our things and were waiting for Gottfried Lenz. He was to collect the car. Pat and I were going by train.
It was a warm milky day. The clouds like cotton wool stood motionless in the sky, the hot air quivered above the dunes and the sea lay leaden in a bright shimmering haze.
Gottfried arrived after lunch. From afar I saw his fair head shining above the hedges. Not until he turned into the drive to Fräulein Müller's villa did I notice he was not alone—behind him appeared a miniature imitation racing motorist, an enormous checked cap put on with the peak to the back, immense dust goggles, a white overall and a couple of out-size, ruby-red, glowing ears.
"My hat, but it's Jupp!" said I in astonishment.
"The same, Herr Lohkamp," replied Jupp, grinning.
"And the rig! What's that for?"
"Did you ever see the like of it?" said Lenz delighted, shaking me by the hand. "He's being coached for a racer. Eight days now I've been giving him driving lessons. He begged me to let him come to-day. A good opportunity to make his first cross-country tour."
"Going to break the record, Herr Lohkamp," Judd assured me eagerly.
"And how he'll break it!" Gottfried smirked. "I've never seen the like of him for persecution mania. The first lesson he tried to overtake a Mercedes-Compressor in our good old taxi. A perfect little demon."
Jupp was perspiring with happiness and looked at Lenz adoringly.
"I thought I could eat the cheeky blighter, Herr Lenz. Meant to snap him up in the curve, like Herr Köster."
I could not help laughing. "You're starting well, Jupp."
Gottfried looked with paternal pride at his pupil. "First, you snap up that luggage and take it to the station."
"By myself?" Jupp almost exploded with excitement. "Can I drive the bit to the station quite by myself, Herr Lenz?"
Gottfried nodded and Jupp dashed into the house.
We passed up the trunks. Then we collected Pat and drove to the station. We were a quarter of an hour too early when we got there. The platform was empty, only a few milk cans were standing about.
"You'd better push off," said I. "Otherwise you'll never get home."
Jupp at the wheel looked at me, offended.
"You resent such observations, eh?" Lenz asked him.
Jupp sat up. "I've reckoned it all out most carefully, Herr Lohkamp," said he reproachfully. "We will be in the workshop comfortably by eight."
"Quite right." Lenz patted him on the shoulder. "Offer to take him on in a bet. For a bottle of seltzer water."
"Not seltzer water," replied Jupp, "but I'll risk a packet of cigarettes any day."
He looked at me challengingly.
"I suppose you know the road is pretty bad?" I asked.
"All reckoned in, Herr Lohkamp."
"What about the corners, have you thought of them?"
"Corners mean nothing to me. I have no nerves."
"Good, Jupp," said I. "Then I take on the bet. But Herr Lenz mustn't drive on the way."
Jupp laid his hand on his heart. "My word of honour."
"Very good, very good. But say, what's that you've got there in your hand?"
"My stop watch. I'm going to time it as we go. Just like to see what the sleigh can do."
Lenz grinned. "Yes, boys, Jupp is fully armed. I dare say the jolly old Citroën is quivering in every cylinder al ready."
Jupp ignored the irony. He plucked excitedly at his cap. "Then we'll start, Herr Lenz, eh? A bet's a bet."
"Of course, you little compressor. Au revoir, Pat. See you later, Bob." Gottfried climbed into the seat. "Now, Jupp, show the lady how a cavalier and future ruler of the world starts."
Jupp adjusted the goggles over his eyes, waved like an old hand, and in first gear pulled out smartly over the curb onto the road.
Pat and I sat awhile on a seat in front of the station. The hot white sun lay full on the wooden wall that shut off the platform. There was a smell of resin and salt. Pat leaned
back her head and closed her eyes. She sat perfectly still, her face turned to the sun.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No, Robby."
"There comes the train," said I.
The engine came stamping along, black, little and forlorn against the quivering, great waste. We got in. The train was almost empty. It moved' off puffing. The smoke of the engine hung thick and black in the air. Slowly the landscape revolved past—the village with the brown thatched roofs, the meadows with cows and horses, the wood, and then, peaceful and sleepy in the hollow behind the dunes, Fräulein Müller's house.
"There is Fräulein Müller," said Pat.
"So she is."
She was standing at the front door waving. Pat took out her handkerchief and let it flutter from the window.
"She won't see that," said I, "it's too small and thin. Here, have mine."
She took it and waved. Fräulein Müller waved back vigorously.
The train gradually gained the open country. The house vanished and the dunes were left behind. Beyond the black strip of the wood the sea looked out from time to time—the glance of a watching tired eye. Then came the soft golden green of the fields and the ears of corn dipping in the gentle breeze to the horizon.
Pat gave me back my handkerchief and sat in a corner. I pulled up the window. That's over, thought I, thank God, that's over. It had been only a dream. A damned bad dream.
Shortly before six we reached the city. I took a taxi and loaded the luggage. Then we drove to Pat's place.
"Are you coming up?" she asked.
"Of course."
I saw her up, then went down again to fetch the luggage with the driver. When I returned Pat was still in the hall. She was talking with Lieutenant Colonel Hake and his wife.
We went into her room. It was light, early evening outside. On the table was a glass vase with pale red roses. Pat went to the window and looked out. Then she turned round. "How long were we away actually, Robby?"
"Exactly eighteen days."
"Eighteen days. It seems much longer."
"To me too. But it's always like that when you come out of it."
She shook her head. "I don't mean that."
She opened the balcony door and went out. There folded up against the wall leaned a white lounge deck-chair. She pulled it out and looked at it in silence.
When she came in again her expression had altered and her eyes were dark.
"Just look at the roses," said I. "They are from Köster. His card is beside them."
She picked up the card and then put it down again on the table. She looked at the roses, but I saw that she hardly noticed them. She was still in her thoughts with the lounge deck-chair. She had imagined.she had escaped it, and now once more perhaps it was to be part of her life. .
I let her be and said no more. There was no point in trying to divert her. She would have to face it, and it was as well it should happen now, while I was still there. One could only postpone it with words; sooner or later it was bound to come, and then perhaps it would only be harder.
She stood awhile by the table, her face lowered, her hands leaning upon it. Then she lifted her head and looked at me. I said nothing. She walked slowly round the table and put her hands on my shoulders.
"Old boy," said I.
She leaned against me. I held her tight. "Now we're going to deal with the business, eh?"
She nodded. Then she smoothed back her hair. "It was only a moment, Robby."
"I know."
There was a knock. The maid entered with the tea trolley. "That's good," said Pat.
"Will you have tea?" I asked.
"No, coffee. Good, strong coffee."
I stayed for half an hour. Then she grew tired; I saw it in her eyes.
"You ought to sleep a bit," said I.
"And you?"
"I'll go home and sleep too a bit. Then in two hours I'll fetch you for supper."
"You are tired?" she asked doubtfully.
"Yes, a little. It was hot in the train. And afterwards I must go for a while to the shop."
She asked no more questions. She was very tired and just sank down. I put her to bed and covered her well. She fell asleep immediately. I put the roses near her and Köster's card alongside, that she should have something to think about when she waked. Then I left.
On the way I stopped at a telephone box. I decided to 'phone Jaffé at once. At home it would be too difficult, the entire pension would be listening in.
I took up the receiver and gave the number of the clinic. After a time Jaffé came to the instrument.
"Lohkamp speaking," said I, clearing my throat. "We returned to-day. We have been back an hour."
"Did you come by car?" asked Jaffé.
"No, by train."
"So, and how is it?"
"All right," said I.
He considered a moment. "I want to examine Fräulein Hollmann to-morrow. At eleven, say. Would you tell her?"
"No," said I. "I don't want her to know I have 'phoned you. She is sure to ring you herself to-morrow. Perhaps you would tell her then."
"Very well. Let it stand at that. I will tell her."
Mechanically I shoved aside the fat, greasy telephone book. It lay on a little wooden pulpit. Telephone numbers were scribbled over the walls in pencil.
"Then can I come and see you in the afternoon?" I asked.
Jaffé did not answer.
"I'd like to know how things are with her," said I.
"I won't be able to tell you that to-morrow," Jaffé replied. "I shall have to observe her for at least a week. But I will let you know how "things stand then."
"Thanks." I stared at the pulpit in front of me. Someone had drawn something there. A fat girl with a big straw hat. Ella is a goat was written below. "Must she do anything special in the meantime?" I asked.
"I'll see that to-morrow. But I fancy she is quite well looked after in her place."
"I don't know. I hear that the people want to go away next week. Then she will be alone, except for the maid."
"So? Very good, then I'll discuss it with her to-morrow."
I pushed the telephone book once again over the drawing on the pulpit. "Do you think she—that she might have another attack like that?"
Jaffé hesitated a moment. "It's possible, of course," said he then, "but it is not probable. I will only be able to tell you that after I have examined her thoroughly. I'll call you up then."
"Thanks, do."
I hung up the receiver. Outside I stood a while in the street. It was dusty and close. Then I went home.
At the door I ran into Frau Zalewski. She shot out of Frau Bender's room like a cannon ball. As she caught sight of me she stopped.
"What, back already?"
"As you see. Anything happened in the meantime?"
"Nothing to do with you. No mail either. But Frau Bender has gone."
"Indeed. Why?"
Frau Zalewski put her hands on her hips. "Because the world is full of scoundrels. She has gone to the Christian Home. With her cat and twenty-six marks."
She explained that the orphanage, where Frau Bender had been children's nurse, had gone phut. The director had been speculating unwisely on the exchange. Frau Bender had been dismissed and had lost two months' arrears of pay.
"Has she found something else?" I asked thoughtlessly.
Frau Zalewski merely looked at me.
"No, no, of course not," said I.
"I told her she could stay on if she liked. There was no hurry about payment. But she wouldn't."
"Poor people are generally honest," said I. "Who's moving in there now, then?"
"The Hasses. It's cheaper than the room they have been having."
"And the Hasses'?"
She gave a shrug. "Must wait and see. I haven't much hope anyone will come."
"When will it be free, then?"
"To-morrow. The Hasses are moving now."
"How much does the room cost, actually?" I asked. An idea had suddenly occurred to me.
"Seventy marks."
"Much too dear," said I, now wide awake.
"With morning coffee, two rolls, and plenty of butter?"
"True. But leaving out Friday's morning coffee—fifty, not a pfennig more."
"Would you be thinking of taking it?" asked Frau Zalewski.
"Perhaps."
I went into my shack and contemplated meditatively the connecting door to the Hasses' room. Pat in the Zalewski boarding house! No, that was not a happy thought.
All the same I did go round after a while and knock.
Frau Hasse was in. She was sitting in the half-empty room before a mirror, a hat on her head, and powdering herself.
I greeted her, looking round the room as I did so. It was larger than I had thought. Now that the furniture was partly removed one could begin to see it. The carpets were plain, bright, and fairly new, the doors and windows freshly painted, and the balcony was quite big and fine.
"I suppose you've heard already what he is doing with me now," said Frau Hasse. "I must move into the room of that person over there. Isn't it a shame?"
"A shame?" I asked.
"Yes, a shame," she burst out excitedly. "You know I couldn't bear her, and now Hasse is forcing me to go into her room, without a balcony and with only one window. Merely because it is cheaper! Think how she will be triumphing in her Christian Home!"
"I don't imagine she is trumphing."
"Of course she's triumphing, make-believe children's nurse! Still water runs deep, let me tell you! And next door to that tart, that Erna Bönig! And the stink of cat!"
I looked up embarrassed. "But cats are very clean, beautiful animals," said I, "Besides, I've just been in the room. It doesn't smell of cats."
"So?" replied Frau Hasse with hostility, adjusting her hat. "That depends on the nose, of course. But I'm not going to do anything about it. He can lug the furniture across himself. I'm going out. I mean to have that, at least, out of this dog's life."
She stood up. Her spongy face was trembling with rage, so that the powder came off in a little rain of dust. I saw that she had painted her lips very red and was altogether done up to kill. She smelt like an entire perfumery as she sailed out.
I looked after her sheepishly. Then I explored the room thoroughly once more. I considered where one might put Pat's various pieces of furniture. But I soon gave that up. Pat here, always here, beside me—I could not picture it. The idea would probably never have occurred to me if she had been well. However . . .. I opened the door and stepped the measure of the balcony. But then I shook my head and returned to my room.
She was still asleep when I entered the room. I sat down quietly in an armchair by the bed, but she waked immediately.
"Sorry I waked you," said I.
"Have you been here all the time?" she asked.
"No. Only just come back."
She stretched and laid her cheek against my hand. "That's good. I don't like people watching when I am asleep."
"I can understand that. I'm not fond of it either. I didn't mean to look at you. I wanted merely not to wake you. Wouldn't you sleep a bit longer?"
"No, I'm quite rested. I'll get up at once."
I went into the room next door while she dressed. Outside it was growing slowly dark. From an open window opposite a gramophone was quacking the Hohenfriedberg March. A chap with a bald head and braces was attending to the instrument. Now he walked up and down the room doing Swedish exercises to the music. His bald head shone out of the semi-darkness like an agitated moon. I watched him indifferently. I was feeling depressed and gloomy.
Pat came in. She looked beautiful, quite fresh and not the least exhausted.
"You look splendid," said I surprised.
"I feel well too, Robby. As if I had had a good night's sleep. I change very quickly."
"Yes, by Jove. So quick sometimes one can hardly keep up."
She leaned against my shoulder and looked at me. "Too quick, Robby?"
"No. Only too slow on my part. I'm often a bit slow, Pat."
She smiled. "Slow is sure. And sure is good."
"About as sure as a cork on the water."
She shook her head. "You are much surer than you think. In fact you are altogether different from what you think. I have seldom seen anyone who was so much in error about himself as you."
I took my arm from her shoulder.
"Yes, darling," said she, nodding. "That is so, really. And now come, let's go and get something to eat."
"Where should we go then?" I asked.
"To Alfons'. I must see all that again. I feel as if I had been away for an eternity."
"Good," said I. "But have you the right hunger for it? You can't go to Alfons' unless you are hungry. He'd throw' you out otherwise."
She laughed. "But I'm terribly hungry."
"Then off we go." I was suddenly very glad.
Our entry into Alfons' was triumphal. He greeted us, vanished immediately, and returned half-strangled in a stiff collar and a green-spotted tie. He would not have done that for the Emperor of Germany. He was even a little embarrassed himself, at such an unheard-of mark of decadence.
"Well, Alfons, what have you got that's good?" asked Pat, propping her elbows on the table.
Alfons smirked, blew out his lips and made his eyes small. "You're in luck. There's crab to-day."
He took a step back to observe the effect. It was first rate.
"With it, a glass of new Moselle wine," he whispered, delighted, taking yet another step back.
He received a storm of applause—and particularly from the door, where with wild, yellow hair and sunburnt nose appeared the grinning face of the last of the romantics.
"Gottfried!" exclaimed Alfons. "You? Yourself? Man, what a day! Come to my bosom!"
"Now you'll see something," said I to Pat.
The two rushed into each other's arms. Alfons slapped Lenz on the back until it sounded as if there were a smithy next door. "Hans," he then shouted across to the waiter, "bring the Napoleon."
He lugged Gottfried to the bar. The waiter brought out a large dusty bottle. Alfons poured out two grasses.
"Pros't, Gottfried, you damned old roast pig."
"Pros't, Alfons, good old turnkey."
The two emptied their glasses at a gulp.
"First rate," said Gottfried. "A cognac for madonnas."
"A pity to tip it down like that," agreed Alfons. "But how can one drink slowly when one is happy. Come, let's have another."
He poured out and raised his glass. "You faithless old tomato, you."
Lenz laughed. "My dear old Alfons."
Alfons' eyes became moist. "Once more, Gottfried," said he, moved.
"On with the dance." Lenz held out his glass. "I only say No to a cognac when I can't raise my head off the floor."
"That's the way to talk." Alfons poured out the third glass.
A little out of breath, Lenz came to the table. He took out his watch. "Arrived at the workshop with the Citroën ten minutes to eight. What do you say to that?"
"A record," replied Pat. "Long live Jupp! I'll present him with a box of cigarettes myself."
"And you will get one portion of crab extra for your share," declared Alfons, who had followed on Gottfried's heels. Then he handed us each a sort of tablecloth. "Take your coats off and tie this round. Does the lady allow it, or not?"
"I consider it necessary, even," said Pat.
Alfons nodded his pleasure. "You are a sensible woman, I knew that. One must eat crab in comfort. Without fear of spots." He beamed. "You, of course, get something a bit smarter."
The waiter, Hans, brought a snow-white cook's apron. Alfons unfolded it and helped her in. "Suits you," he commented.
"The very thing," she replied laughing.
"I'm glad you like it," said Alfons amiably. "It warms one's heart."
"Alfons!" Gottfried knotted his tablecloth around his neck so that the points stuck away out. "I must say, at the moment it looks more like a barber's shop here than anything."
"We'll soon change that. But a little bit of art first."
Alfons went to the gramophone, and immediately the Pilgrims' Chorus from Tannhauser burst forth. We listened in silence.
Hardly had the last tones died away than the kitchen door opened and the waiter, Hans, appeared with a bowl as big as a baby's bath tub. It was steaming full of crabs. Coughing, he set it on the table.
"Bring me a serviette, too," said Alfons.
"You are going to eat with us, friend?" exclaimed Lenz. "There's an honour."
"If the lady has nothing against it?"
"The contrary, Alfons."
Pat moved her chair aside and he took a seat next her.
"Be as well if I sit beside you," said he, a trifle apologetic. "As a matter of fact I'm rather smart at serving them up. That's a bit tedious for a lady."
He dipped into the bowl and with uncanny rapidity set about dismantling a crab for her. With his enormous hands he did it so deftly and elegantly that she had nothing to do but eat the morsels appetisingly offered her on a fork.
"Taste good?" he asked.
"Wonderful." She raised her glass. "Your health, Alfons.'"
Alfons touched glasses gaily and emptied his slowly. I looked at her. I should have preferred it had been something without alcohol.
She felt my glance. "Salut, Bob," said she.
She was beautiful, radiantly happy.
"Salut, Pat," said I, and emptied my glass.
"Isn't it lovely here?" she asked, looking at me again.
"Grand." I filled mine once more. "Pros't, Pat!"
A glow passed over her face. "Pros't, Bob; Pros't, Gottfried!"
We drank. "Good wine," said Lenz.
"Graacher Abtsberg from last year," explained Alfons. "Glad you recognised it."
He hauled a second crab from the bowl and offered Pat the opened claw.
She declined. "You must eat that yourself, Alfons. You'll get nothing otherwise."
"Later. I'm quicker at it than the others."
"Very good." She took the claw. Alfons beamed with pleasure and helped her to some more. He looked like a great old owl feeding a little, white fledgling.
In conclusion we all drank one more round of Napoleon and then took leave of Alfons. Pat was delighted.
"It was lovely," said she. "Thank you very much, Alfons. It was perfectly lovely." She gave him her hand.
Alfons murmured something and kissed it. Lenz's eyes almost dropped out of his head with amazement. "Come again soon," said Alfons. "You too, Gottfried."
Little and forlorn under the lamp post outside stood the Citroën.
"Oh," said Pat and' stopped short. A tremor passed over her face.
"After his performance to-day I've christened him Hercules," said Gottfried, opening the door. "Should I drive you home?"
"No," said Pat.
"That is what I thought. Where do we go then?"
"To 'The Bar' or not, Robby?" She turned to me.
"Of course," said I; "of course we are going to 'The Bar.'"
We drove along through the streets very slowly. It was warm and clear. People were sitting in front of the Cafés. Music drifted across. Pat was sitting beside me. I suddenly could not believe that she was really ill; I made myself quite hot in the effort, but for a moment I just could not believe it.
In "The Bar" we met Ferdinand and Valentin. Ferdinand was in form. He got up and went toward Pat.
"Diana," said he, "back from the woods—" She smiled. He put his arm about her shoulders. "Brown, bold huntress of the silver bow—what will you drink?"
Gottfried removed Ferdinand's arm. "Sob merchants are always tactless," said he. "The lady is escorted by two gentlemen already; you probably have not noticed that, you great buffalo."
"Romantics are a following—not an escort," declared Ferdinand unperturbed.
Lenz grinned and turned to Pat. "Now I'm going to mix you something really remarkable. A Kolibri cocktail. A Brazilian specialty."
He went to the counter, mixed all kinds of things, and then brought along the cocktail.
"How does it taste?" he asked.
"A bit thin, but Brazilian," Pat replied.
Gottfried laughed. "It is powerful all the same. Made with rum and vodka."
I saw at a glance that there was neither rum nor vodka in it—it was fruit juice, lemon, tomato, perhaps a drop of . Angostura. A non-alcoholic cocktail. But Pat, thank heaven, did not notice.
She had three large Kolibris, and I noticed how well she felt at not being treated as if she were ill. After an hour we left, only Valentin remaining. Lenz had arranged it so. He invited Ferdinand into the Citroën and steamed off. In that way it did not appear as if Pat and I. were leaving early. It was all very thoughtful, but for a moment it made me feel as miserable as a dog.
Pat took my arm. With her lovely, graceful stride she walked beside me; I felt the warmth of her hand, I saw the shimmer of the lamplight as it glided over her animated face— No, I could not believe that she was ill; I could believe it only in the daytime, but not at night when life was gentler, warmer, and full of promise.
"Should we go to my place for a bit?" I asked.
She nodded.
The passage of our pension was lighted. "Damn," said I. "What's happening now? Wait a minute, will you?"
I opened the door and looked in. The passage lay badly illuminated like some narrow suburban alley. The door to Frau Bender's room was wide-open, and there was light there too. Like a little black ant Hasse was trotting along the corridor, bowed under a standing lamp with pink silk shade. He turned slowly.
"Good evening," said I. "So late?" '
He lifted up his pale face with its drooping, dark moustache. "I only got back from the office an hour ago. And I only have time at night to do the moving."
"Is your wife not there then?"
He shook his head. "She's with some woman friend.
Thank God she has a friend at last—she spends a lot of time with her." He smiled guilelessly and contented, and trotted on. I brought Pat in.
"I think we won't make a light, eh?" I asked when we were in my room.
"Yes, darling. For one moment, then you can put it out again."
"You are insatiable," said I, and the red plush splendours briefly showed up in the shrill light, and as swiftly were out again.
The windows were open and the night air wafted in from the trees opposite, fresh as if from a wood.
"Lovely," said Pat and curled up in the corner of the window seat.
"Do you really like it here?"
"Yes, Robby. Like being in a big park in summer. It's grand."
"I suppose you didn't happen to notice the room next door as you passed?" I asked.
"No, why?"
"This fine big balcony here on the left belongs to it as well. It is quite shut in, and nothing opposite. Now if you lived there, you wouldn't even need a suit for your sun bathing."
"Yes, if I did live there—"
"You could," said I casually. "As you saw, the room will be free within a day or two."
She looked at me and smiled. "Do you think that sort of thing would quite suit us? To be always so near together?"
"But we wouldn't be together always," I replied. "I wouldn't be there in the daytime, for instance. And often not at night. On the other hand, if we could be together here, we wouldn't have to go and sit in restaurants, and always be parting so soon, as if we were merely on a visit."
She stirred a little in her corner. "It almost sounds as if you had thought it all out already, darling."
"And so I have," said I. "The whole evening, in fact."
She sat up. "Do you really mean it seriously, Robby?"
"Heavens, yes," said I. "Haven't you noticed that before?"
She was silent a moment. "Tell me, Robby," said she then, and her voice was deeper than before, "how do you come to mention it just now?"
"I come to mention it," I replied, more vigorously than.
I meant, for I suddenly felt that the decision that was now coming was about much more than merely the room, "I come to mention it, because during these last weeks I have seen how wonderful it was to be completely together. I can't bear it any longer, the hourly parting. I want to have more of you. I want you to be with me always; I have no desire any more for the sophisticated game of hide-and-seek with love, it is repulsive to me; I want just you and again you, I can never have enougli of you, and I don't want to forgo one single minute of you."
I heard her breathing. She sat in the corner by the window, her hands about her knees, arid said nothing. Slowly the red glow of the electric sign rose above the trees opposite and cast a warm reflection on her bright shoes. Then it wandered over her dress and her hands. "You can laugh at me if you like," said I. "Laugh, why?"
"Well, because I say all the time, / want. After all you must want too."
She looked up. "Do you know, you have changed, Robby?"
"No."
"Oh, yes. You have admitted it. You want. You don't ask so much now. You simply want."
"That's not such a very big change. You can still say No, just the same, no matter how much I may want."
She suddenly leaned forward toward me. "But why should I say No, Robby?" said she, in a warm, tender tone. "Of course I want it too."
Astonished, I put my arms about her. Her hair brushed my face. "Is that true, Pat?"
"But yes, darling."
"Damn it," said I. "I imagined it would be much more difficult."
She shook her head. "It all rests with you, Robby."
"I almost believe it," said I, surprised.
She put an arm around my neck. "It is good, sometimes, not to have to think of anything. Not to have to do everything yourself. To be able to lean. Ach, darling, it is all quite easy really—one must only not make it difficult oneself."
I had to shut my teeth not to reply. That she of all people should say that.
"True," said I then, "true, Pat." It was not true at all.
We stood awhile by the window. "We'll bring all your things," said I. "You won't have to do without anything. We can even get a tea trolley somewhere. Frida will soon learn."
"But we have one, darling. It belongs to me."
"So much the better. I'll start training Frida to-mor row."
She rested her head against my shoulder. I felt that she was tired.
"Shall I take you home now?" I asked.
"Soon. I'll just lie down here a minute."
She lay quietly, without speaking, on the bed, as if she slept. But her eyes were open and occasionally glinted in the light of the advertisement signs that rose up the walls and travelled over the bed-clothes like gay northern lights. Outside all was still. Next door one could hear now and then Hasse bumbling about amid the ruins of his hopes, his marriage, and perhaps even his life.
"You ought to stay here," said I.
She sat up. "Not to-night, darling."
"I'd much rather you stayed."
"To-morrow."
She got up and moved lightly about the dark room. I thought of the day when she stayed with me the first time and had gone just so quietly about the room dressing in the early morning light. I don't know what it was, but there was something touchingly matter-of-fact, almost shocking about it; it was like a gesture out of some distant, buried time; like silent obedience to some command, the reason for which no one now remembered.
She came back to me out of the darkness and took my face in her hands. "It has been lovely with you, darling. Lovely. It is good you are there."
I did not reply. I could not reply.
I took her home and went back to "The Bar." Köster was there.
"Sit down," said he. "How goes it?"
"Nothing special, Otto."
"Have something to drink?"
"If I do drink I'll have to drink a lot. I don't want to do that. But I wouldn't mind doing something else. Is Gottfried out with the taxi?"
"No."
"Good. Then I think I'll take it for a couple of hours."
"I'll come down with you," said Köster. I took out the car and left Otto. Then I drove to the stand. In front of me two cars were parked. After me came Gustav and Tommy, the actor. Then the two front cars went, and shortly after I also got a fare—a young woman who wanted to go to the Vineta.
The Vineta was a popular dance-hall with table telephones, pneumatic post, and similar novelties for provincials. It lay a little apart from the other places, in a dark side street.
We stopped. The girl rummaged in her bag and offered me a fifty-mark note. I gave a shrug. "Sorry, I can't change it."
The porter had come forward. "How much is it?" asked the girl.
"One seventy."
She turned to the porter. "Would you settle it for me? Come, and I'll give you the money at the cashier's."
The porter flung open the door and went with her to the cashier's desk. Then he returned. "There—" I counted. "One fifty, that is—"
"Don't talk tripe or are you quite green? Two groschen porter's tax if you want to come back. Hop it."
There were places where one tipped the porter, but that only when he got you a fare, not when you brought one. "I'm not that green," said I. "I'm getting one seventy."
"You'll get one in the snout," he growled. "You toe the line, my boy; this is my stand."
I didn't care about the two groschen. Only I wasn't in a mood to let him do the dirty on me. "Cut the cackle and pass up the rest," said I.
The porter hit so suddenly that I could not cover myself; nor, on my box, could I dodge it. My head struck the steering wheel. Dazed, I picked myself up. The porter was standing in front of me: "Want another, you big stiff?"
In a second I calculated my chances. There was nothing for it. The fellow was stronger than I. My only hope would have been to take him by surprise. I could not punch from the box, it would have no power. And by the time I got out' of the car he could down me half a dozen times. I looked at him. He blew his beery breath in my face: "One word more and your wife's a widow."
I looked at him. I did not move, I stared into that big healthy face. I devoured it with my eyes. I saw exactly where I must hit; I was ice-cold with rage. But I did not stir. I saw the face, too close, too distinct, as through a magnifying glass, immense, every bristle, the red, coarse, porous skin . . .
A policeman's helmet gleamed. "What's up here?"
The porter put on a servile look. "Nothing, Herr Constable."
He looked at me. "Nothing," said I.
He looked from the porter back to me. "You're bleeding?"
"Knocked myself."
The porter stepped back a pace. There was a grin in his eye. He thought I was afraid to accuse him.
"Right, off you go then," said the policeman.
I stepped on the accelerator and drove back to the stand.
"Man, you do look fine," said Gustav.
"It's only my nose," I replied, telling him the story.
"Come over into the pub," said Gustav. "I wasn't a Sergeant Stretcher-Bearer for nothing. Dirty trick, to hit a sitting man."
He took me into the pub kitchen, got some ice and worked on me for half an hour. "You won't so much as show a bruise," he explained.
At last he stopped. "Now, how's it with the nut? All right, eh? Then we won't lose any time."
Tommy came in. "Was that the big porter at the Vineta? He's famous for his punches. Hasn't had his taste yet, unfortunately."
"Well, he's going to now," said Gustav. . "Yes, but from me," I replied.
Gustav looked at me disapprovingly. "Before you are out of the car—"
"I've thought of a turn already. If I don't bring it off, then you can always have a go."
"Good."
I put on Gustav's cap and we took his car so the porter should not smell a rat. He wouldn't be able to see much anyway, the street was too dark.
We drove up. Not a soul was to be seen in the street. Gustav jumped out, a twenty-mark note in his hand.
"Damn. No small change. Porter, can you change it? One seventy, isn't it? You fix it."
He made as if to go to the cashier. The porter approached me, coughing, and pushed one mark fifty at me. I held my hand farther out. "Push off—" he growled. "The rest, you dirty swine!" I shouted. He stood a second as if petrified.
"Man," said he then, softly, licking his lips, "you'll be sorry for that for a month."
He hauled off. The blow would have knocked me senseless. But I was prepared; I turned and ducked, and his fist crashed with all its weight on to the sharp steel claw of my starting handle that I had been holding in readiness, concealed in my left hand. With a yell the porter leapt back shaking his hand. He was hissing with pain like a steam engine, and standing quite open, without cover.
I shot out of the car. "Do you recognise me?" I spat and hit him in the stomach. He toppled over.
"One!" Gustav started counting from the door.
By "Five" the porter was up again, looking glassy. As before I saw his face in front of me, very distinct—this healthy, big, stupid, common face; this perfectly healthy, powerful brute; this swine who would never have sick lungs; and suddenly I felt a red film over my brain and my eyes, I sprang at it and punched and punched; everything that had been tormenting me these last days and weeks I punched into that healthy, big face until I was hauled off.
"Man, you'll kill him!" cried Gustav.
I looked around. The porter, streaming blood, was leaning against the wall. He crumpled up, fell, and then slowly like an enormous shining insect in his uniform began crawling on all fours to the entrance.
"He won't be so free with his fists again," said Gustav. "But off we go—shake a leg, before anybody comes. That was near to assault and battery."
We flung the money on the pavement, got in and drove off.
"Am I bleeding too?" I asked, "or is that the porter?"
"Your nose again," explained Gustav. "He landed a very lovely left square on it."
"I didn't even notice it."
Gustav laughed.
"Do you know," said I, "I feel ever so much better."