Billiards At Half-Past Nine Part 11

In the evenings when I sit in the living room with Father, Grandmother could be there. I read and he drinks wine and fumbles in his card indexes, laying the postcard-size prints out in front of him, as if playing solitaire. Father, always correct, tie never loose, waistcoat never unb.u.t.toned, never relaxing into paternal joviality. Restrained and solicitous. 'Do you need books, clothes, money for the journey? Aren't you bored, child? Would you rather go out? To the theater, to the cinema, out dancing? I'd be glad to take you. Or would you prefer to ask in your school friends for coffee again, up on the roof garden, now the weather's so fine?' And before going to bed, the evening walks, round the block, up Modest Street to the Modest Gate, then down Station Street to the station. 'Can you smell the far-off places, child?' And on through the underpa.s.s, past St. Severin's and the Prince Heinrich Hotel. 'Gretz has forgotten to wash the bloodstains off the pavement.' Boar's blood turned hard and black. 'It's half-past nine, child, time to go to bed now. Good night.' A kiss on the forehead. Always kind, always correct. 'Would you rather we hired a housekeeper, or aren't you tired of restaurant food yet? Frankly, I don't much like strangers in the house.' Breakfast. Tea, rolls, milk. A kiss on the forehead and, sometimes, in a very low voice, 'Child, child'-'what is it, Father?' 'Come on, we're going away.' 'What, now, right now?' 'Yes, let school be for today and tomorrow, we're not going far. Just to Amsterdam. It's a lovely city, child, and the people are quiet and very kind-you only have to get to know them.' 'Do you know them?' 'Yes, I know them. It's so nice walking along in the evenings by the ca.n.a.ls.' 'Gla.s.s. Gla.s.s. Stillness. Do you hear how quiet the people are here? Nowhere are they as noisy as at home, always bawling and shouting and boasting. Would it bore you if I went and played billiards? Come along if it amuses you.'

I never understood the fascination with which old and young men alike watched him play, when he stood there, amidst the cigar smoke, a gla.s.s of beer near him on the edge of the table, and played billiards, billiards. Did they really use the familiar "thou" with him, or was it just a peculiarity of Dutch speech that it sounded like "thou" when they spoke to him? They did know his first name. They rolled the R of Robert like a hard piece of candy on the tongue. Silence. So much gla.s.s by the ca.n.a.ls. My name is Ruth, half-orphan, my mother was twenty-four when she died. I was three, and when I think of her, I think of seventeen or of two thousand years. Twenty-four is a figure that doesn't suit her; it should rather be something under eighteen or over eighty. She always looked to me like Grandmother's sister. I know that big, well-guarded secret, that Grandmother's crazy, and I don't want to see her so long as she's like that. Her craziness is a lie, grief behind thick walls, I know it, I get drunk on it sometimes myself and swim away in a lie. The house at the rear, No. 8 Modest Street, inhabited by ghosts. Love and Intrigue, Grandfather built the monastery, Father blew it up, and Joseph has rebuilt it. All right with me; you'll be disappointed how little it upsets me. I saw them bringing the dead out of the cellars, and Joseph tried to convince me they were sick, and only being taken to the hospital, but does one simply throw the sick onto trucks like sacks? And I saw Krott, the teacher, sneaking into the cla.s.sroom during recess and stealing Konrad Gretz's sandwiches out of his desk, and I saw Krott's face and was scared to death, and prayed, 'Please G.o.d don't let him find me here, please, please,' because I knew he would kill me if he found me. I was standing behind the blackboard looking for my barrette, and he could have seen my legs, but G.o.d had mercy and Krott didn't notice me. I saw his face, and I also saw how he bit into the bread, then went out. Anyone who has looked into faces like that doesn't get upset any more about blown-up abbeys. And then the scene afterwards, when Konrad Gretz discovered his loss and Krott exhorted us all to be honest: 'Now children, be honest. I'll give you a quarter of an hour, and the culprit will have to have owned up, or else'-eight minutes more, seven minutes more, six,-and I looked at him, and he caught my eye, and bore down on me, 'Ruth, Ruth,' he yelled. 'You? Was it you?' I shook my head and began to cry, because I was scared to death again. And he said, 'Good heavens, Ruth, tell the truth.' I wanted to say yes, but then he would have seen that I knew, and I shook my head through the tears; four more minutes, three, two, one, time. 'You're a bunch of d.a.m.nable thieves, a gang of liars. For punishment you can write out "I must not steal" two hundred times.' You and your abbeys. I've had to keep more awful secrets than that and stuck out being scared to death. They threw them on the trucks like sacks.

Why did they have to treat that nice Abbot so coolly? What did he do, did he kill somebody or steal a sandwich from someone? Konrad Gretz had enough to eat, liver pate and herb-flavored b.u.t.ter on white bread. What devil suddenly possessed the teacher's gentle, reasonable face? Murder was crouched between his eyes and nose, nose and mouth, between his ears. They threw the bodies onto the trucks like sacks, and I enjoyed it when Father scoffed at the mayor in front of the big wall map, when he drew marks with his black chalk and said, 'Get rid of it, blow it up.' I love him; I don't love him any the less now that I know about it. Has Joseph at least left his cigarettes in the car? And I also saw how the man handed over his wedding ring for two cigarettes-how many would he have wanted for his daughter, and how many for his wife? The price list was written on his face: ten, twenty, he'd have been ready to discuss it. They're all ready to do business. I'm sorry, Father, but I still like the taste of the honey and bread and b.u.t.ter, even after I know who did it. We'll go on playing father and daughter. Precise as a ritual dance. After the refreshments, there should have come the walk up Cossack's Hill: Joseph, Marianne and me far ahead, and Grandfather behind, like every Sat.u.r.day.

'Are you all right, Grandfather?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'Aren't we walking too fast?'

'No, don't worry, children. I wonder if I could sit down a little, or do you think it's too damp?'

'The sand's dry as dust, Grandfather, and it's still quite warm, don't worry, you can sit down; here, give me your arm.'

'Of course, Grandfather, light yourself a cigar; we'll see to it nothing happens.'

Luckily Joseph has left his cigarettes in the car, and the lighter works, too. Grandfather gave me such pretty dresses and sweaters, much prettier than those from Father whose taste is old-fas.h.i.+oned. Easy to see Grandfather understands something about girls and women. I don't want to understand Grandmother, I don't want to; her craziness is a lie. She wouldn't give us anything to eat, and I was glad when she'd gone and we were given more. Maybe you're right, maybe she was great and still is, but I don't want to know about greatness. One white-bread sandwich with liver pate and herb-flavored b.u.t.ter nearly cost me my life. Let her come back again and sit with us in the evenings, but please don't give her the key to the kitchen, please don't. I've seen hunger on the teacher's face and I'm scared of it. Dear G.o.d, always give them something to eat, always, so the horribleness won't ever come back on their faces. It's a harmless Mr. Krott who gets into his little car Sundays and drives his family out to St. Anthony's to attend High Ma.s.s. Today is how many Sundays after Pentecost, how many Sundays after Epiphany, after Easter? A dear man with a dear wife and two dear little children, 'Look, Ruth, hasn't our little Frankie grown?' 'Yes, Mr. Krott, your little Frankie's grown.' And I never think any more about my life hanging by a thread. No. And I also wrote out very nicely two hundred times, 'I must not steal.' And of course I don't say no when Konrad Gretz gives a party; they have wonderful pate de foie gras with herb-flavored b.u.t.ter and white bread, and when someone treads on your toes or spills your gla.s.s of wine they don't say, 'Entschuldigen Sie bitte,' and they don't say, 'Excusez moi,' they say, 'Sorry.'

The gra.s.s by the roadside ditch is warm, and Joseph's cigarette has a spicy smell, and I still liked the taste of bread and honey after I learned it was Father who blew the Abbey sky-high; Denklingen is lovely back there in the evening sun. They ought to hurry, we'll need at least half an hour to change.

11.

"Come on over here, General. Don't be embarra.s.sed, they introduce all newcomers to me first. I'm the oldest inhabitant here, in this fine house. Why do you keep hacking away with your walking-stick at our garden soil that never did you any harm, and shaking your head all the time and muttering 'field of fire' at every wall, at the chapel, the hothouse-it's a nice phrase, by the way, 'field of fire.' Make way for bullets and sh.e.l.ls. Oh, is it Otto? Kosters? No, no familiarities, name no names; and besides, the name Otto is already being used. So may I call you 'Field-of-Fire'? I can see from looking at you, and can hear from your voice, and smell on your breath, that you've not only tasted the Host of the Beast, you've lived on it. Regular diet with you. Listen, new one, tell me, are you a Catholic? Of course, I'd have been surprised if not. Can you serve at Ma.s.s? Of course, you were brought up by the Catholic Fathers. Forgive me if I laugh. We've been looking for a new altar boy here for three weeks. They decided Ballosch was cured and let him go. How would you like to make yourself useful a little bit? You're a pretty harmless lunatic, not violent, with your one and only tic of muttering 'field of fire' at every occasion, suitable and unsuitable. You'll surely be able to carry the Missal from the right to the left and the left to the right of the altar. You can manage a genuflection in front of the tabernacle, can't you? You're in splendid health, after all that's part of your profession; you can beat the mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa on your breast and say the kyrie eleison. You see how useful an educated general brought up by Catholic priests can be. I'll tell the sanatorium priest to make you our new altar boy. All right with you, isn't it?

Thank you. You can tell right away when a man's a gentleman. No, round this way, please, this way to the hothouse, I just want to show you something, part of your stock-in-trade. And please, no uncalled-for gallantries; don't work off your dancing-cla.s.s complexes on me, if you please. I'm seventy-one and you're seventy-three, so no hand-kissing, no senile flirtations, just lay off the nonsense. Now listen. See what's there behind that light green pane of gla.s.s? Yes, weapons; that's our good chief gardener's a.r.s.enal. It's used for shooting hare and partridge, crows and deer, because our chief gardener's a pa.s.sionate hunter, and there between the guns and rifles lies such a pretty, handy, black object, a pistol. Now remember what you learned when you were a cadet, or a lieutenant, and tell me, is a thing like that really deadly dangerous, can you really kill somebody with it? Now don't turn pale on me, old warhorse; you've swallowed the Host of the Beast by the ton, and now when I ask you a couple of simple questions you turn weak. Don't start trembling, I know I'm a bit crazy, but I'm not going to stick the pistol into your seventy-three-year-old chest and save the State your pension. I've no intention of saving the State anything. I've asked you a clear, military question, so give me a clear, military answer: could that thing kill anybody? Yes? Good. At what range, for the greatest accuracy? Ten yards, twelve, at the very most twenty-five.

Good G.o.d, now, don't get so upset! What a timid old General you are! Report me? What's there to report? They've poured so much reporting into you, you can't get it out of your system, can you? Kiss my hand if you have to, but do hold your tongue, and there's a Ma.s.s early tomorrow morning, right? They've never had such a fine, handsome, white-haired, well-bred altar boy here before. Can't you take a little joke? I'm only interested in weapons the way you're interested in fields of fire. Don't you realize that one of the unwritten laws in this excellent inst.i.tution is that we all let each other have our little hobbies? You've got yours, with your field-of-fire tic; be discreet, Field-of-Fire, remember your fine education-and forward with Hindenburg, hurrah-there you are, you like that, don't you, just a matter of choosing the right words-let's go round here, by the chapel; wouldn't you like to go in and have a look round the scene of your future operations? Quietly now, old man, you know what to do: hat off, right finger in the font, now the sign of the cross, that's fine, fine. Kneel down now, eyes on the sanctuary light, pray, say one Ave Maria and one Pater Noster-nice and soft. You can't beat a Catholic education. Stand up, finger in the font, sign of the cross, let the lady go first, hat on. Very nice, here we are again. What a lovely summer evening, lovely trees in the lovely park; there's a bench. Forward with Hindenburg, hurrah, you do like that, don't you? How do you like the other one, got to get a gun, get a gun, you like that one, too, do you? Let's stop joking, that joke was worn out in any case, after Verdun. They were the last knights-killed in battle, too many knights, too many lovers, all at once-too many well-brought-up young people. Have you ever thought of how much pedagogical sweat was wasted in the s.p.a.ce of a few months? All in vain. How was it none of you ever had the idea of setting up a machine gun at the entrance of the trade schools and colleges, right after the exams, and shoot dead all those radiant successful graduates? You think that's exaggerated? Well, then let me say that the truth is pure exaggeration. I danced with the graduates of 1905, 1906 and 1907. They wore their caps, they drank their beer and I drank with them at their student parties-but more than half the students of those three years fell at Verdun. And how many do you think are left of all who graduated in 1935, or 1936 or 1937? Or in 1941 or 1942? Pick any year you like. And don't start shaking again-I'd never have thought an old General like you could be so nervous. No, don't do this; don't put your hands in mine-what's my name? Remember, you don't ask that kind of question here, no one here keeps visiting cards, we don't ask each other out for drinks and a chat; here, we call each other by our first names and no further questions. All of us here know that all men are brothers, even if they be hostile ones. Some have tasted of the Host of the Lamb, only a few of us of the Host of the Beast, and my name is got to get a gun, get a gun, and my Christian name is forward with Hindenburg, hurrah. Forget all your bourgeois prejudices for good, your conversational cliches; here the cla.s.sless society rules. And stop complaining about losing the war. Good heavens, did you really lose two wars, one after the other? You could have lost seven for all of me. Stop your sniveling, I wouldn't give five cents for all the wars you lost; losing children is worse than losing wars. You can be an altar boy here in the Denklingen Sanatorium, it's a highly respectable occupation, and don't make speeches to me about the German future. I read about it in the newspapers: the German future is all pegged out. If you have to weep, don't blubber. So they've been unjust to you, too? Impaired your honor, yes, what's the use of honorableness when any stranger can make dents in it? But now relax, in this b.o.o.by hatch they take care of you fine, in this place they go into it every time your soul lets out a squeak, all complexes respected here. Just a question of money: if you were poor, it would be cold water and a good thras.h.i.+ng, but here they cater to every one of your whims. They even let you go out, you can go and drink beer in Denklingen. All you have to do is holler, 'field of fire, field of fire for the second army, field of fire for the third army,' and someone or other will answer, 'Yessir, General.' Here we don't think of time as an indefinite continuous concept but rather as separate units which must not be related and become history. Do you understand? I quite believe you that you've seen my eyes before, in someone with a red scar on the bridge of his nose, but statements and a.s.sociations like that aren't allowed here. With us, time is always today, Verdun is today and today Heinrich died and Otto fell, it's May 31, 1942, today, and today Heinrich whispered in my ear, '... and forward with Hindenburg, hurrah.' You knew Heinrich, you shook his hand, or rather he shook yours. Fine. But now we're going to get some work done. I can still remember which prayer was the hardest for an altar boy to learn. I learned it myself with my son Otto, when I had to hear him recite it: 'Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus tuis ad laudem et gloriam nominis sui'-here comes the hardest part, old man-'ad utilitatem quoque nostram, totiusque Ecclesiae suae sanctae'-say it after me, old man-no, 'ad utilitatem,' not 'utilatem'-they all make that mistake-I'll write it down for you if you like, or you can look it up in a prayer book-goodbye now, Field-of-Fire, see you later, it's suppertime; bon appet.i.t."

She went along the wide, black paths by the chapel and back to the hothouse, and only the walls were there to witness her opening the door with the key and slipping quietly past the empty flowerpots and the flower beds into the chief gardener's office. She took the pistol from between the guns and rifles and opened her soft black leather handbag. The leather closed round the pistol, leaving ample room for the clasp to be snapped shut. And smiling, caressing the empty flowerpots, she left the hothouse and locked the door again behind her. And only the walls were there to witness her withdrawing the key and going slowly back along the wide, black paths to the house.

Huperts was laying the supper table in her room. Tea, bread, b.u.t.ter, cheese and ham. "You look wonderful, Madam."

"Really," she said, putting her handbag on the dressing table and taking off her hat to release her dark hair; she smiled and asked, "Could the chief gardener possibly bring me a few flowers?"

"He's out," said Huperts, "he's off duty till tomorrow morning."

"And can't anyone but he go into the hothouse?"

"No, Madam, he's terribly particular about it."

"That means I'll have to wait till tomorrow evening-or I'll get myself some in Denklingen or Doderingen."

"Will you be going out, Madam?"

"Yes, probably, it's such a fine evening, and I suppose I may."

"Of course, of course you may-or should I telephone His Excellency, or Dr. Faehmel?"

"I'll do so myself, Huperts. Would you be kind enough to switch my telephone over to exchange-but for a long while, if you please?"

"Certainly, Madam, certainly."

When Huperts had gone she opened the window, threw the key to the hothouse out onto the compost pile, shut the window, poured herself some tea and milk, sat down and drew the telephone toward her. "Come on," she said quietly, "come on," and tried with her left hand to steady her trembling right hand, which was reaching out for the receiver. "Come on, come on," she said, "I'm ready with death in my handbag to return to life. None of them understood that this contact with cold metal would be all I'd need; all of them took gun wrong, I don't need rifles and cannon, a pistol will do as well. Come on, come on, tell me the time, little voice, tell me the time, are you still that same soft voice, is your number still the same?" She took the receiver in her left hand and listened to the buzz-buzz-buzz from exchange. "All Huperts has to do is press a b.u.t.ton and there it is: time, the world, the present, the German future. I'm excited at seeing how it looks when I get out of the bewitched castle." With her right hand she dialed: one-one-one, and heard the soft voice say: "At the signal, the time will be five-fifty-eight and forty seconds." Time flowed into her face and blanched it deathly white as the voice said, "Five-fifty-nine and ten-twenty-thirty-forty-fifty seconds." A harsh gong stroke. "Six o'clock precisely, September sixth, 1958," said the soft voice. Heinrich would have been forty-eight, Johanna forty-nine and Otto forty-one; Joseph was twenty-two, Ruth nineteen. And the voice said, "At the signal, the time will be six-one, precisely." Careful, or I'll really go crazy and the play will be in earnest, and I'll relapse into the eternal Today forever, never find the way in again and go running round and round outside the leafy walls, never finding the entrance. Time's visiting card, like a challenge to a duel-not to be accepted: September 6th, 1958, one minute and forty seconds past six o'clock, P.M. A fist full of vengeance has smashed my pocket mirror and left me only two fragments in which to see the deathly pallor in my face. I did hear that rumbling explosion, going on for hours, and heard the outraged people whispering, 'They've blown up our Abbey.' I heard the waiters and the doormen, the gardeners and the baker boys relaying the frightful news-which I don't find so frightful. Field of fire. A red scar on the bridge of his nose. Deep-blue eyes. Who can it be? Was it he? Who was it? I would have blown every abbey in the world sky-high to have Heinrich back again, to wake Johanna from the dead, and Ferdi, and the waiter called Groll, and Edith ... and to be able to learn who Otto really was. Killed at Kiev. It sounds so stupid and smells of history. Come on, old man, let's cut out our game of blindman's buff, this holding my hands over your eyes. You're eighty today, and I'm seventy-one. And at a distance of ten to twelve yards anyone's pretty sure to hit a target squarely. Come to me, you years, you weeks and days, you hours and minutes, and which second, "six-two, and twenty seconds." I'm going to leave my paper boat and throw myself into the ocean. Deathly pallor. Perhaps I'll live through it. "Six-two and thirty seconds"; it sounds so urgent. Come on, I haven't any time to lose, no seconds to waste, "h.e.l.lo, Miss, quick, why don't you answer me, Miss, Miss, I need a taxi right away, it's very urgent, help me, please." Recording machines can't reply, I ought to have known it. Put the receiver down; take the receiver up and dial: one-one-two-were taxis still ordered from the same number? "This evening," said the soft voice, "Denklingen Theater will be showing that old-time film, 'The Moorland Castle Brothers.' Programs begin at six o'clock and eight-fifteen; Doderingen Theater is now offering you an opportunity to see that fine film, 'The Power of Love." ' Hush, hush, now, my little boat's gone-but I did learn to swim, didn't I, at the Blucher pool in 1905, wearing a black bathing suit with skirt and frills, diving off the three-foot board. Pull yourself together, deep breath, you know how to swim. What do you have to say on one-one-three, soft-voiced one: "And if you are expecting guests this evening, may we suggest this tasty and economical menu: a first course of Welsh rarebit with ham and cheese, followed by green peas and sour cream, a fluffy potato pudding, and a freshly grilled schnitzel"-"Operator, Operator"-Recording machines don't answer-"Your guests will appreciate you as a superb homemaker." She dialed again, one-one-four, and again the soft voice: "... so the camping equipment all packed, the picnic prepared, and don't forget to pull up your hand brake when you park on a slope. And now-a happy Sunday with your family."

I'll never make it. There's too much lost time to be made up, my face is getting paler all the time and even if my stony face doesn't dissolve into tears, all the time I've played truant with and denied is still in me like a hard lie. Mirror, Mirror,-jagged fragment of it-has my hair really gone white in the torture chambers of soft voices? One-one-five-a sleepy voice: "Hallo, Denklingen exchange, can I help you"-"Can you hear me, Miss? Can you hear me?" "Yes, I can hear you"-a laugh-"I want to put an urgent call through to the office of Faehmel, the architect, at 7 or 8 Modest Street, both addresses are listed under Faehmel, child, you don't mind if I call you child?"

"Not at all, Madam, not at all."

"It's very urgent."

Sound of turning pages.

"I have Mr. Heinrich Faehmel and Dr. Robert Faehmel-which number do you want, Madam?"

"Heinrich Faehmel."

"Hold the line, please."

Was the telephone still kept on the window sill, so that when he phoned he could look out onto the street and over to 8 Modest Street, where his children would be playing on the roof? And look down to Gretz' shop where the wild boar hung at the door? Was it really ringing there now? She heard the bell, far away, and the intervals between the rings seemed endless.

"Sorry, Madam, I'm afraid there's no answer."

"Would you please try the other number?"

"Certainly, Madam." Nothing, nothing, no answer.

"Then would you order me a taxi, please, child?"

"Certainly. Where are you?"

"At the Denklingen Sanatorium."

"At once, Madam."

"Yes, Huperts, clear the tea away, and the bread and cold meat as well. And I'd like to be alone, please. I'll see the taxi when it comes up the avenue. No, thank you, I don't need anything else. You aren't a recorded voice, are you? Oh, I didn't mean to offend you-it was only a joke. Thank you."

She felt cold. She could feel her face shriveling, a grandmother's face, wrinkled, tired, she could see it in the window-pane. No tears. Was time really creeping, silvery time, into her hair? I learned how to swim but I didn't realize how cold the water would be. Soft voices hara.s.sed me, drove the present into me. Grandmother with silvery hair, anger turned into wisdom, thoughts of revenge to forgiveness. Hatred candied over with wisdom. Old fingers clutched the handbag. Gold, brought with her from the bewitched castle, ransom gold.

Come get me, dearest, I'm coming back. I'll be your dear old white-haired wife, a good mother and a kindly grandmother who can be described to all your friends as particularly nice. She was sick, our grandmother, for years, but now she's well again, she's bringing a whole handbag full of gold with her.

What shall we eat this evening in the Cafe Kroner? Welsh rarebit with ham and cheese, green peas with sour cream, and a schnitzel-and will we shout 'Hosanna, David's bride, who has come home from the bewitched castle.' Gretz will come and pay his respects. His mother's murderer. He did not feel it in his blood, nor did Otto. When the gym teacher comes by the house on his white horse I'll shoot. It is no more than ten yards from the pergola to the street-on the diagonal it can't be much more than thirteen yards. I shall ask Robert to work it out for me exactly. At all events it is within the range of maximum accuracy. Field-of-Fire explained it to me and he ought to know, our white-haired altar boy. He'll start serving early tomorrow morning. Will he learn before then to say 'utilitatem' and not 'utilatem'? A red scar on the bridge of his nose-and so he did become a captain. That shows how long the war lasted. The windowpanes tinkled when yet another demolition charge exploded and in the morning there was dust on the window sill. I wrote 'Edith, Edith' in the layer of dust, with my fingers. I loved you more than if our blood had been the same. Where did you come from, Edith, tell me?

I'm getting more and more wizened. He'll be able to carry me with one hand, from the taxi into the Cafe Kroner. I'll be on the dot. It's six-six and thirty seconds at the most. My lipstick has been squashed by the black fist of revenge. And my poor old bones are trembling. I'm scared: how will they look, the ones my age? Will they be really the same as then, or only like what they were? And what about our golden wedding, old man, September, 1908, don't you remember, September 13th? How do you intend to celebrate the golden wedding? Silver-haired the jubilee bride, silver-haired the jubilee bridegroom, and gathered all around them their countless flock of grandchildren, forgive me if I laugh, David. You were no Abraham, yet I feel a little of Rachel's laughter in me. Only a little, there's no room for a lot of it in me, just a nutsh.e.l.l of laughter and a handbag of gold, that's all I'm bringing with me. Still, my laughter may be small but powerful energies are hidden in it, more than in Robert's dynamite....

Here you are all coming down the avenue much too solemnly, much too solemnly and slowly; there's Edith's son, far away in front, but that isn't Ruth at his side. She was three when I left, but I'd still recognize her if I met her at eighty. That isn't Ruth. People don't unlearn the way they use their hands. The tree is contained in the nutsh.e.l.l. How often did I see my mother in Ruth when she brushed the hair away from her forehead. Where is Ruth, she must forgive me-this one's a stranger, a pretty one. Oh, that's the womb that will bear you your great-grandchildren, old man. Will there be seven of them, seven times seven? Forgive me if I laugh, you're moving like heralds, slowly and much too solemnly. Have you come to get the jubilee bride? Here I am, ready, wizened like an old, old apple. You can carry me to the taxi on one hand, old man, but quickly: I haven't a second more to lose. Yes, the taxi's here already-you see how well I can coordinate. I learned that much at least as the wife of an architect-make way for the taxi now-there's Robert and the good-looking stranger lining up on the right, and there on the left the old man with his grandson; Robert, Robert, is this the place to put your hand on someone's shoulder? Do you need someone to hold you up? Come on, old man, come in, welcome-we want to celebrate and be merry! The time is ripe!

12.

The desk clerk looked uneasily at the clock: it was past six already, Jochen had not appeared to relieve him, and the gentleman in Room 11 had now been asleep for twenty-one hours, with the card Please Do Not Disturb hanging on the door handle, and still no one as yet had sensed the silence of death behind the locked door. There had been no whispers, no chambermaids screaming. Dinnertime, dark suits, bright dresses. Much silver, candlelight, music. Mozart with the lobster c.o.c.ktail, Wagner with the meat course, jazz for dessert.

Disaster lay in the air. Full of anxiety, the man looked at the clock, which was propelling the seconds much too slowly on toward the point where the disaster would erupt. Again and again the telephone: menu 1 to Room 12, menu 3 to Room 218, champagne to Room 14. The weekend adulterers were ordering the necessary stimulants. Five globetrotters were hanging about in the lobby, waiting for the bus to take them to the night plane. "Yes, Madam, first left, second right, third left-the Roman children's graves are illuminated evenings and you're allowed to take photographs." Grandma Blessieck was drinking her port back in a corner. She had finally nabbed Hugo, who was reading to her from the local newspaper: "Purse-s.n.a.t.c.her Foiled. Yesterday, near the Memorial Field, a young man made an attempt to s.n.a.t.c.h an old woman's handbag, but the courageous grandmother succeeded in ... Foreign Minister Dulles...." "Nonsense, all nonsense," said Grandma Blessieck, "nothing political and nothing international, the local events are the only interesting ones"; and Hugo read, "City head honors deserving boxer...."

Mockingly, time postponed disaster's eruption, while gla.s.ses softly tinkled, silver dishes were placed on the tables, and fine china plates began to vibrate to the n.o.ble music. The airlines coach driver was standing in the doorway, raising his hands, admonis.h.i.+ng, warning, while the door swung softly back into its felt-lined frame behind him. The desk clerk nervously glanced at his notebook: "As of 6:30, reserve room for Mr. M., street side; 6:30, double room for Councillor Faehmel and wife, absolutely on street side; 7:00, pick up dog Kaessi in Room 114 for walk." The special fried eggs for that dreadful canine were just being taken up: yolk hard, white soft, and slices of sausage, crisply fried, and as usual the stinker would fastidiously turn up his nose at the meal. The gentleman in Room 11 had now been sleeping twenty-one hours and eighteen minutes.

"Yes, Madam, the fireworks begin half an hour after sun-down, that is to say about half-past seven. The Fighting Veterans' parade about seven-fifteen. Sorry, I'm not in a position to tell you whether the Minister will be there." Hugo read on in his high school graduate voice: "And the city fathers presented to the deserving boxer not only the Key to the City but also the golden Marsilius Plaque, which is awarded only for particularly outstanding cultural accomplishments. The dignified ceremony closed with a gala banquet." The globetrotters were finally leaving the lobby. "Yes, gentlemen, the banquet for the Left Opposition party is in the Blue Room-no, for the Right Opposition party in the Yellow Room. There are signs marking the way, sir." Who belonged to the Left, who to the Right? You couldn't tell by looking at them. Jochen would have been better at such a job. When it came to labeling people, his instinct was infallible. He could spot the real gentleman in a shabby suit or the upstart in a tailor-made. He would have known how to distinguish between the Left and the Right Opposition, though otherwise you couldn't tell them apart even to their menus. Oh, there's still another banquet: the board of directors of the Co-operative Welfare Society. "The Red Room, sir." Their faces were all the same, and they would all eat lobster c.o.c.ktail as hors d'oeuvre, the Left, the Right and the board of directors; all would have Mozart for the hors d'oeuvres, Wagner for the main course and the taste of rich sauces, and jazz for dessert. "Yes, sir, in the Red Room." Jochen's instinct was infallible in social matters, but failed him beyond that. When the shepherd priestess came onto the scene for the first time, it had been Jochen who'd whispered: 'Careful, that's real upper cla.s.s.' And when the small, pale young woman appeared, with her long unruly hair and only a handbag and pocketbook under her arm, Jochen whispered: 'Hustler.' And I said: 'She does it with anyone, but takes nothing for it, so she's not a wh.o.r.e,' and Jochen said, 'She does it with anyone, and takes something for it.' And Jochen was right. Jochen, however, has no instinct for disaster; for when the blonde came in, glamorous with her thirteen suitcases, I said to him as she got into the lift: 'Do you want to bet we won't see her alive again?' And Jochen said, 'Don't be ridiculous, she's only skipped out on her husband for a couple of days.' And who was right? I was! Sleeping tablets and a Do Not Disturb notice in front of the door. She slept twenty-four hours, and then the whispering started: 'Dead, someone dead in Room 118.' It's a fine thing when the murder squad arrive around three in the afternoon, and around five a body's dragged out of the hotel, a fine thing.

Now, how's that for a buffalo-face! A trunk with a diplomatic air, two hundred pounds, a dachshund-waddle-and look at the suit on the man. This one fairly reeked of importance, kept in the background while two less significant birds stalked over to the desk. Mr. M.'s room, please. "Oh, yes, Room 211. Hugo, come here, take the gentlemen upstairs." And six hundredweight swathed in English woolens soundlessly glided upward.

"Jochen, Jochen, good G.o.d, where've you been all this time?"

"Excuse me," said Jochen, "you know I'm almost never late. And I wanted to be on time especially tonight when your wife and children are waiting for you. But when it comes to choosing between you or my pigeons, well, I'm not so sure. And when I send six of them off on a trip, I want six back, but only five were on time, you understand; the sixth came in ten minutes late and completely exhausted, poor creature. Go on, now, if you still want to get a good seat for the fireworks. Yes, all right, I see, Left Opposition in the Blue Room, Right Opposition in the Yellow Room, board of directors of the Co-operative Welfare Society in the Red Room. Well, all right, that's not bad for a weekend. Not nearly as tough as when the Stamp Collectors or the National Beer Brewers' Committee meet. Don't worry, I'll manage them okay, and I'll control my feelings, even though I'd just as soon warm the seat of the Left Opposition's pants, and spit into the hors d'oeuvres of the Right and the Co-operative Welfare Society-all right, don't get excited, we'll keep the old house flag a-flying. And I'll check up on your would-be suicides. Yes, Madam, Hugo to your room at nine o'clock for cards, certainly. Ah, Mr. M.'s already here? Don't like him, that Mr. M.; without even having seen him I hate his guts. Yes, sir, champagne to Room 211, and three Partagas Eminentes. By the smell of their cigars shall ye know them! Good G.o.d, here comes the entire Faehmel family."

Girl, oh girl, what's happened to you! When I saw you for the first time, at the Emperor's Parade in 1908, my heart beat faster. Even though I knew that little flowers like you didn't grow for the likes of us to pick. I took the red wine into the room where you were sitting with Papa and Mamma. Child, child, who ever would have thought you would grow into a downright grandma, all silver hair and wrinkles; I could carry you up into the room with one hand, and I'd do so if they'd let me. But they won't let me, old girl, too bad, you're still good-looking.

"Your Excellency, we've reserved Room 212 for you and your wife, pardon, for your wife and you. Any luggage at the station? No? Anything to be brought from your house? Nothing. Oh, only for two hours while the fireworks are on, and to watch the Veterans' parade. Of course there are seats for six people in the room, there's a large balcony, and if you wish we can have the beds pushed together. Not necessary? Hugo, Hugo, show the ladies and gentlemen to Room 212, and take a wine list with you. I'll send the young people up to your room. Of course, Doctor, the billiard room has been reserved for yourself and Mr. Schrella, and I'll see that Hugo is free for you. Yes, he's a good boy, he's spent half the afternoon hanging onto the telephone, dialing again and again; I don't think he'll ever forget your phone number or the Pension Moderne's as long as he lives. Why is the Fighting Veterans' League parading today? Some field marshal's birthday-the hero of Husenwald, I think; we'll get to hear that wonderful song, 'Fatherland, the s.h.i.+p of state groans in every timber.' Well, we'll let her groan, Doctor. What? Always has groaned? If you'll allow me to express a personal political opinion here, I'd say, 'Watch out if she ever groans again. Watch out!' "

"I've stood right here once before," she said quietly, "and watched you as you went marching by below, during the Emperor's Parade in January, 1908. It was imperial weather, dearest, a crackling frost, as they say in poems, I believe. And I was all aquiver to see if you'd stand up to the last and hardest of the tests: of how you would look to me in your uniform. The General stood on the next balcony and toasted Father, Mother and me. You made out all right, old man-don't look at me so suspiciously, yes, suspiciously, you've never looked at me like that before-put your head in my lap, smoke your cigar and forgive me if I'm shaky. I'm scared. Did you see that boy's face? He might have been Edith's brother, mightn't he? I'm scared, and you must understand that I cannot go back into our apartment as yet, perhaps never again. I can't step back into the circle, I'm scared, much more than I was then. Obviously, you're all quite used to the faces. But I'm beginning to wish I were back among my poor old harmless lunatics. Are you all blind, then? So easily fooled? Don't you see they'd kill you all for less than a gesture, for less than a sandwich? You needn't even be dark-haired or blond any more, or show your grandmother's birth certificate. They'd kill you if they just didn't like your faces. Didn't you see the posters on the walls? Are you all blind? You just don't know any more where you are. I tell you, dearest, the whole pack of them have partaken of the Host of the Beast. Dumb as earth, deaf as a tree, and as terribly harmless as the Beast in his last incarnation. Respectable, respectable. I'm scared, old man-I've never felt such a stranger among people, not even in 1935 and not in 1942. Maybe I do need time, but even centuries wouldn't be enough to get me used to their faces. Respectable, respectable, without a trace of grief. What's a human being without grief? Give me another gla.s.s of wine and don't stare at my handbag so suspiciously. You all knew about the medicine but it's me who has to use it. You have a pure heart, with no idea how bad the world is, and today I want to ask you to make another great sacrifice: cancel the party in the Cafe Kroner, destroy that legend, don't ask your grandchildren to spit on your statue, simply make sure you never get one. You really never liked paprika cheese-let the waiters and kitchenmaids sit down at the banquet table and eat up your birthday dinner. We'll stay here on this balcony and enjoy the summer evening in the family circle, drinking wine and looking at the fireworks and watching the Fighting Veterans march past. What are they fighting against, anyway? Shall I go and telephone the Kroner to cancel the dinner?"

Blue-uniformed men were already gathering at the big doors of St. Severin's, standing around in groups, smoking, carrying blue and red flags with great, black F.V.'s on them. The bra.s.s band began to rehea.r.s.e "Fatherland, the s.h.i.+p of state groans in every timber." On the balconies, wine gla.s.ses clinked softly, champagne buckets echoed metallically, corks popped into the dark blue evening sky. The bells of St. Severin's chimed a quarter to seven, and three dark-suited men stepped onto the balcony of Room 211.

"Do you really believe they might be some use to us?" asked M.

"I'm certain," said the one.

"No doubt about it," said the other.

"But won't we antagonize more voters than we'll win by such a show of sympathy?" asked Mr. M.

"The Fighting Veterans' League is known as non-radical," said the one.

"You can't lose anything," said the other, "and you're bound to win something."

"How many votes are involved? At best and at worst?"

"At best, around eighty thousand, at worst around fifty thousand. Make up your mind."

"I haven't made up my mind yet," said M. "I'm still waiting for K.'s instructions. Do you think up till now we've managed to escape the attention of the Press?"

"We have, Mr. M.," said the one.

"And the hotel personnel?"

"Absolutely discreet, Mr. M.," said the other. "Mr. K.'s instructions should come in soon."

"I don't like those guys," said Mr. M., "they believe in something."

"Eighty thousand votes ought to believe in something, Mr. M.," said the one.

Laughter. Clink of gla.s.ses. The phone.

"Yes, M. speaking. Have I got you right? Show sympathy? Right."

"Mr. K. has decided in the affirmative, gentlemen. Let's move our chairs and the table out onto the balcony."

"What will they think abroad?"

"They'll have the wrong ideas in any case."

Laughter, the clink of gla.s.ses.

"I'll go down to the leader of the parade and draw his attention to your balcony," said the one.

"No, no," said the old man, "I don't want to lie on your lap and I don't want to look up into the sky. Did you tell them in the Cafe Kroner to send Leonore here? She'll be disappointed. You don't know her, she's Robert's secretary, a dear child, she mustn't be done out of her party. I don't have a pure heart, and I know exactly how bad the world is; I feel like a stranger, more strange than when we used to go to The Anchor in the upper harbor and take the money to the waiter called Groll. They're getting into marching formation down there-it's a warm summer's evening, the laughter's echoing up here in the dusk-shall I help you, dearest? I suppose you don't know that you laid your handbag on my lap in the taxi. It's heavy, but not heavy enough-what do you intend to do, precisely, with that thing?"

"I want to shoot that fat man there on his white horse. Can you see him, do you still remember him?"

"Do you think I could ever forget him? He killed the laughter in me, and broke the hidden springs within the hidden wheels. He had that little blond fellow executed, Edith's father taken away, and Groll too, and the boy whose name we never learned. He taught me how lifting your hand could cost you your life. He made Otto into someone who was only Otto's husk-and in spite of all that, I wouldn't shoot him. I've often asked myself why I came to this city. To get rich? No, you know that. Because I loved you? No-since I hadn't yet met you and couldn't yet love you. Ambition? No. I think I just wanted to laugh at them and tell them at the end: it wasn't really serious. Did I want children? Yes. I had them. Two died young and one fell in battle, and he was a stranger to me, stranger even than those young men picking up their flags down there. And the other son? How are you, Father? Well, and you? Well, thank you, Father. Can I do anything for you? No, thank you, I don't need anything. St. Anthony's Abbey? Forgive me if I laugh, dearest. Dust. It doesn't even arouse my sentimentality, much less my feelings. Would you like some more wine?"

"Yes, please."

I'll take my stand on Paragraph 51, dearest husband. The law is flexible-look down there, there's our old friend Nettlinger, clever enough not to appear in uniform, but just the same here to shake hands and slap people on the back and finger the flags. I'd rather shoot Nettlinger, if anyone-but perhaps I'll think it over and not shoot into that menagerie down there. My grandson's murderer is sitting nearby on the balcony, can you see him, in his dark suit, respectable, oh so respectable. That one thinks differently now, acts differently, plans differently; he's learned a little, speaks fluent French and English and understands Latin and Greek, and he's already put the bookmark in his prayer book for tomorrow. Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost. He's just hollered 'What's the Introit?' into his wife's bedroom. I won't shoot fat-guts there on his white horse. I won't shoot into the menagerie-just a bit of a turn, and, at a range of six yards at the most, I can't miss. At seventy-one what else good can I accomplish? No tyrannicide for me, it'll be murder of respectability. Death will bring the great wonder back into his face; come, don't tremble, dearest, I want to pay the ransom money. And it gives me pleasure, to breathe deep, aim and fire-you needn't hold your ears, dearest, it doesn't bang louder than a balloon bursting. Vigil of the fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost....

13.