The Post Office Girl

  For the entire overcast evening she huddles exhausted in the corner of the wood-paneled car. The countryside is dimly visible through the window, now wet with rain. At first small villages flit past indistinctly in the twilight, like startled animals running away; then everything fades into opaque and featureless fog. There’s no one else in her third-class compartment, so she stretches out on the wooden bench, feeling for the first time how tired she is. She tries to think, but the monotonous stuttering of the wheels breaks the flow of her thoughts, and the narcotic cowl of sleep tightens over her throbbing forehead—that muffled and yet overpowering railroad-sleep in which one lies rapt and benumbed as though in a shuddering black coal sack made of metal. Beneath her body the rackety wheels speed on like driven slaves; above her thrown-back head time goes by silently, without form or dimension. So completely does she sink into this surging black tide that she’s startled awake the next morning when the door bangs open and a man, broad-shouldered and mustachioed, severely confronts her. It takes a moment for her to collect herself and realize that this uniformed man means her no harm, isn’t going to arrest her and take her away, but only wants to inspect her passport, which she brings out of her handbag with cold-stiffened fingers. The official scrutinizes the photo for a moment and compares it with her nervous face. She’s trembling violently (with an unreasonable and yet immutable fear, dinned into her by the war, of somehow violating one of the thousand-and-one regulations: back then everyone was always breaking some law). But the gendarme amiably returns her passport, gives his cap a casual tug, and closes the door more gently than he opened it. Christine could lie down again if she wanted to, but the shock has banished sleep. She goes to the window, curious to look out, and her senses awaken. It was only a moment ago (for sleep knows no time) that the flat horizon was a loamy gray swell merging into the fog behind the icy glass. But now rocky, powerful mountains are massing out of the ground (where have they come from?), a vast, strange, overwhelming sight. This is her first glimpse of the unimaginable majesty of the Alps, and she sways with surprise. Just now a first ray of sun through the pass to the east is shattering into a million reflections on the ice field covering the highest peak. The white purity of this unfiltered light is so dazzling and sharp that she has to close her eyes for a moment, but now she’s wide awake. One push and the window bangs down, to bring this marvel closer, and fresh air—ice-cold, glass-sharp, and with a bracing dash of snow—streams through her lips, parted in astonishment, and into her lungs, the deepest, purest breath of her life. She spreads her arms to take in this first reckless gulp, and immediately, her chest expanding, feels a luxurious warmth rise through her veins—marvelous, marvelous. Inflamed with cold, she takes in the scene to the left and the right; her eyes (thawed out now) follow each of the granite slopes up to the icy epaulet at the top, discovering, with growing excitement, new magnificence everywhere—here a white waterfall tumbling headlong into a valley, there neat little stone houses tucked into crevices like birds’ nests, farther off an eagle circling proudly over the very highest heights, and above it all a wonderfully pure, sumptuous blue whose lush, exhilarating power she would never have thought possible. Again and again she returns to these Alps sprung overnight from her sleep, an incredible sight to someone leaving her narrow world for the first time. These immense granite mountains must have been here for thousands of years; they’ll probably still be here millions and millions of years from now, every one of them immovably where it’s always been, and if not for the accident of this journey, she herself would have died, rotted away, and turned to dust with no inkling of their glory. She’s been living as though all this didn’t exist, never saw it, hardly cared to; like a fool she dozed off in this tiny little room, hardly longer than her arm, hardly wide enough for her feet, just a night away, a day away from this infinitude, these manifold immensities! Indifferent and without desires before, now she’s beginning to realize what she’s been missing. This contact with the overpowering is her first encounter with travel’s disconcerting ability to strip the hard shell of habit from the heart, leaving only the bare, fertile kernel.

  Forgetting herself completely in this first explosive moment, full of passionate curiosity, she continues to stand in front of the landscape, her flushed cheek pressed to the window frame. She no longer thinks about what she’s left behind. Her mother, the office, the village, all are forgotten; forgotten too is the tenderly drawn map in her handbag from which she could have learned the names of all the peaks, all the streams tumbling into the valleys; forgotten is her own self of the day before. All that’s left is soaking up this ever-changing magnificence, these shifting panoramas, and inhaling the freezing air, sharp and pungent like juniper, this mountain air that makes the heart beat faster and harder. Christine doesn’t move from the window during the four hours of the trip. She’s so absorbed that she loses track of time, and her heart gives a lurch when the engine stops and the local conductor, his words strangely accented but unmistakable, announces her destination.

  “Good Lord!” Abruptly she comes to herself. There already and she hasn’t given a thought to anything, how to greet her aunt, what to say. Hurriedly she fumbles for her suitcase and umbrella—mustn’t leave anything behind!—and rushes after the other passengers who are getting off. With military discipline, two ranks of colorfully capped porters fan out and set upon the arrivees, while the station buzzes with shouted names of hotels and loud welcomes. She is the only one with no one to meet her. Increasingly uneasy, her heart in her throat, she looks in all directions, searching anxiously. No one. Nothing. Everyone’s expected, everyone knows where to go, everyone but her. The travelers are already crowding around the cars from the hotels waiting in a shiny, colorful row like a regiment at the ready, the platform is already starting to empty. Still no one: they’ve forgotten her. Her aunt didn’t come; maybe she left, or she’s ill; they wrote calling it off but the telegram didn’t arrive in time. My God, is there at least enough money for the trip back! But first she gathers her remaining strength and goes up to a porter with “Palace Hotel” on his cap in gold letters, and asks in a small voice if a van Boolen family is staying there. “Sure, sure,” replies the stout, red-faced man in a guttural Swiss accent. Oh, and he was told there would be a young lady at the station. If she’d just step into the car and give him the baggage-compartment receipt for her large bags. Christine flushes with mortification, noticing for the first time that her seedy little straw suitcase is swinging with telltale lightness in her hand, while in front of all the other cars stand spanking-new and metallically gleaming tank turrets of wardrobe trunks, seemingly straight from the store window, splendid towers among the colorful cubes and prisms of luxurious Russian calf, alligator, snakeskin, and smooth glacé kid. The distance between those people and herself must be glaringly obvious. Shame grips her. Quick, some lie! The rest of her luggage will be along later, she says. So then we can be off, announces the majestically liveried porter (thank goodness without surprise or disdain), opening the car door.

  Once shame touches your being at any point, even the most distant nerve is implicated, whether you know it or not; any fleeting encounter or random thought will rake up the anguish and add to it. This first blow marks the end of Christine’s unselfconsciousness. She climbs uncertainly into the dull black hotel limousine and involuntarily recoils when she sees she’s not alone. But it’s too late to go back. She has to move through a cloud of sweet perfume and pungent Russian leather, past knees reluctantly swung out of the way—she does this timidly, shoulders hunched as though with cold, eyes downcast—to get to a seat in the back. She murmurs a quick embarrassed hello as she passes each pair of knees, as if this courtesy might excuse her presence. But no one answers. She must have failed the sixteen inspections, or else the passengers, Romanian aristocrats speaking a harsh, vehement French, are having such a good time that they haven’t noticed the slender specter of poverty shyly and silently perched in the farthest corner. With the straw suitcase
across her knees (she doesn’t dare to set it down in an empty spot), she slumps over for fear that these no doubt snooty people might take notice of her, doesn’t dare lift her eyes even once during the entire trip; she looks down, seeing only what’s under the bench. But the ladies’ luxurious footwear only makes her conscious of the plainness of her own. She looks with chagrin at the women’s legs with their arrogant poise, pertly crossed beneath summer ermines, and the boldly styled ski socks of the men. This netherworld of opulence is enough to drive waves of shame into her cheeks. How can she hold her own next to this undreamed-of elegance? Each timid glance brings a new pang. A seventeen-year-old girl across from her holds a whining Pekinese lazily sprawled in her lap; its felt-trimmed coat bears a monogram, and the small hand scratching it is rosily manicured and sparkles with a precocious diamond. Even the golf clubs leaning in the corner have elegant new grips of smooth cream-colored leather; each of the umbrellas casually tossed there has a different exquisite and extravagant handle. Without thinking she quickly moves her hand to cover up her own umbrella’s handle, made of cheap fake horn. If only no one looks, no one notices what’s only now become clear to her! She cringes further in alarm, and with each eruption of laughter anxiety runs up and down her hunched spine. But she doesn’t dare look up to see if she is the joke.

  Release from this torment finally comes when the car crunches into the graveled forecourt of the hotel. A clang like a railway-crossing bell summons a colorful squadron of porters and bellhops out to the car. Behind them stands the reception manager, dressed in a black frock coat to make a distinguished impression, his hair parted with geometric precision. First out the open car door is the Pekinese: it leaps out, jingling and shaking itself. Next come the women, who hike up their summer furs over athletically muscled legs and descend easily, chattering loudly all the while; the perfume billowing after them is almost stupefying. It would undoubtedly be good manners for the gentlemen to allow the young woman now timidly getting up to go first, but either they’ve come to the correct conclusion about her station or they fail to notice her at all; in any case they stride past her and up to the reception clerk without a glance back. Christine remains behind uncertainly, holding the straw suitcase, which she suddenly detests. She thinks she might give the others a few more paces’ head start to keep them from looking too closely at her. But she waits too long. As she steps onto the running board of the car, nobody from the hotel springs forward to meet her: the obsequious gentleman in the frock coat has gone in with the Romanians, the bellhops are busy towing the luggage, and the porters are thunderously moving heavy chests about on the roof of the car. No one pays any attention to her. Evidently, she thinks, mortified—evidently, undoubtedly, they take her for the help, at best those gentlemen’s serving girl, because the porters are maneuvering baggage past her with complete indifference, ignoring her as though she were one of their own. Finally she can’t bear it any longer and with the last of her strength manages to get through the door of the hotel and go up to the desk clerk.

  But who dares to approach a desk clerk in the high season, this luxury-liner captain standing at the command behind his desk, steadfastly holding his course amid a storm of problems. A dozen guests wait shoulder to shoulder before him as he writes notes with his right hand and fires off bellhops like arrows with every look and nod while at the same time giving out information left and right, his ear to the telephone receiver, a universal man-machine with nerve fibers forever taut. Even those authorized to come near him have to wait, so what can an inhibited and uninitiated newcomer expect? This lord of chaos seems so unapproachable that Christine retreats timidly into an alcove to wait until the whirlwind has died down. But the straw suitcase is getting heavier in her hand. She looks in vain for a bench to set it down on. But as she glances around, she thinks she notices (imagination, probably, or nerves) two people in lobby club chairs looking at her ironically, whispering and laughing. Her fingers are getting so weak that in another moment she’ll have to let go. But at this critical point an artificially blond, artificially youthful, very elegant lady steps up smartly and sharply scrutinizes her profile before venturing, “Is it you, Christine?” And hearing Christine’s automatic “Yes” (more whispered than spoken), her aunt envelops her with airy kisses on both cheeks and the mild scent of face powder. But Christine, grateful that at last something warm and kindred has appeared, throws herself into this purely ceremonial embrace with such passion that her aunt, interpreting this clutching as family feeling, is quite moved. Gently she pats Christine’s heaving shoulders. “Oh, I’m awfully glad you came too, both Anthony and I, we’re so glad.” And then, taking her by the hand: “Come on, you’ll certainly want to freshen up a little, your Austrian trains are supposed to be so dreadfully uncomfortable. Why don’t you go fix yourself up. Don’t be too long, though—the bell rang for lunch just now, and Anthony doesn’t like to wait, that’s a weakness of his. Everything’s ready for you, the desk clerk will give you your room right away. But be quick, won’t you? Nothing fancy—it’s come as you are for lunch.”

  Her aunt motions, a liveried lad swiftly takes the suitcase and umbrella and runs for the key. The elevator shoots soundlessly two stories up. The boy opens a door in the middle of the corridor, flourishes his cap, and steps aside. This must be her room. Christine goes in. But on the threshold she stops short, as though she were in the wrong place. Because with all the will in the world, the postal official from Klein-Reifling, accustomed to shabby surroundings, can’t just flick a switch and really believe that this room is for her, this extravagantly scaled, exquisitely bright, colorfully wallpapered room, with open French doors like crystalline floodgates, the light cascading through. The unchecked golden torrent covers every corner of the room, every object in it is bathed in a deluge of fire. The polished surfaces of the furniture sparkle like crystal, friendly reflections glint on brass and glass, even the carpet with its embroidered flowers breathes with the lushness and naturalness of living moss. The room glows like a morning in paradise. The onslaught of blazing light everywhere is dazzling, and for a moment Christine’s heart seems to stand still; then she closes the door behind her, quickly and with a slightly guilty conscience. Her first reaction is to marvel that anything like this can exist at all, so much gleaming magnificence. Her next thought is one that for years has been indissolubly linked to anything desirable: what this must cost, how much money, what an incredible amount of money! Certainly more for a single day than she earns at home in a week—no, in a month! She looks around in embarrassment (how could anyone dare to feel at home here) and steps carefully onto the luxurious carpet; then she begins to go up to the treasures one at a time, awestruck and yet burning with curiosity. First she cautiously tries out the bed: will it really be all right to sleep there, on that effulgence of cool white? And the flowered silk duvet, spread out like down, light and pillowy to the touch. A push of a button turns on the lamp, filling every corner with its rosy glow. Discovery upon discovery: the washbasin, white and shiny as a seashell with nickel-plated fixtures, the armchairs, soft and deep and so enveloping that it takes an effort to get up again, the polished hardwood of the furniture, harmonizing with the spring-green wallpaper, and here on the table to welcome her a vibrant variegated carnation in a long-stem vase, like a colorful salute from a crystal trumpet. How unbelievably, wonderfully grand! She has a heady feeling as she imagines having all this to look at and to use, imagines making it her own for a day, eight days, fourteen days, and with timid infatuation she sidles up to the unfamiliar things, curiously tries out each feature one after another, absorbed in these delights, until suddenly she rears back as though she’s stepped on a snake, almost losing her footing. For unthinkingly she’s opened the massive armoire against the wall—and what she sees through the partly open inner door, in an unexpected full-length mirror, is a life-sized image like a red-tongued jack-in-the-box, and (she gives a start) it’s her, horribly real, the only thing out of place in this entire elegantly c
oordinated room. The abrupt sight of the bulky, garish yellow travel coat, the straw hat bent out of shape above the stricken face, is like a blow, and she feels her knees sag. “Interloper, begone! Don’t pollute this place. Go back where you belong,” the mirror seems to bark. Really, she thinks in consternation, how can I have the nerve to stay in a room like this, in this world! What an embarrassment for my aunt! I shouldn’t wear anything fancy, she said! As though I could do anything else! No, I’m not going down, I’d rather stay here. I’d rather go back. But how can I hide, how can I disappear quickly before anyone sees me and takes offense? She’s backed as far as possible away from the mirror, onto the balcony. She stares down, her hand on the railing. One heave and it would be over.