The Post Office Girl

  Again the martial clang of the bell from downstairs. Goodness! It comes to her—her aunt and uncle are waiting in the lounge, and here she is dawdling. She hasn’t washed up, hasn’t even taken off her disgusting bargain-basement coat. Feverishly she unstraps the straw suitcase to get out her toilet articles. But when she unrolls the rubber bundle and puts everything on the smooth glass plate—the coarse soap, the small prickly wooden brush, the obviously dirt-cheap washing things—she feels again that she’s exposing her entire lower-middle-class life to a haughty, sneering curiosity. What will the maid think when she comes in to straighten up, certainly she’ll go right back down and make fun of the beggarly guest for the rest of the staff to hear. One person will tell another, everyone in the hotel will know it in no time, and I’ll have to walk past them, every day, have to look down quickly and know they’re saying things behind my back. No, her aunt can’t help, there’s no hiding it, it’ll leak out. With every step she takes she’ll split a seam, her clothes and her shoes will reveal the naked truth of her shabbiness to everyone. But now it’s time to get going, her aunt is waiting, and her uncle gets impatient easily, she says. What to wear? God, what to do? First she thinks of the green rayon blouse her sister lent her, but what was the showpiece of her wardrobe yesterday in Klein-Reifling seems miserably flashy and common to her now. Better the plain white one, because it doesn’t stand out so much, and the flower from the vase: perhaps the blazing headlight of it on her blouse will distract attention. Then she scurries down the stairs with downcast eyes, rushing past all the hotel guests for fear they’ll look at her, pale and breathless, her temples throbbing, and with the queasy feeling that she’s walking over a cliff.

  From the lobby her aunt sees her coming. Something funny about that girl. How gracelessly she dashes down the stairs, the lopsided, embarrassed way she passes people! A nervous thing, probably; they should have told us! And my God, how awkwardly she’s standing in the entry now, she’s probably near-sighted, or something else isn’t right. “Is something the matter, child? You’re so pale. Are you ill?”

  “No, no,” she stammers, distracted—there are still so many people in the lobby, and that old lady in black with the lorgnette, the way she’s staring! Probably at her absurdly unpresentable shoes.

  “Come on, child,” her aunt urges, and puts her arm around her, not imagining what a favor, what a great thing she’s doing for her intimidated niece. Because Christine finally has a little bit of cover—a cloak and half a hiding place: her aunt is shielding her, at least from one side, with her body, her clothes, her imposing appearance. With this escort Christine, nervous as she is, succeeds in crossing the dining room with reasonable composure, to a table where fat, phlegmatic Uncle Anthony is waiting. He gets up now, a good-natured smile on his broad jowly face. He regards his newly arrived niece with his red-rimmed but bright Dutch eyes and gives her a heavy, worn paw. The main reason he’s so cheerful is that now he doesn’t have to wait any longer for lunch. Like a true Dutchman, he likes to eat, a lot and at leisure. He hates disruptions, and since yesterday he’s been secretly dreading some impossible chic flibbertigibbet who’d disturb his meal with chattering and too many questions. But now that he sees his niece, self-conscious, charming, pale, and meek, he begins to feel better. She’ll be easy to get along with. He gives her a friendly look and says jovially, to buck her up, “First you have to eat. Then we’ll talk.” She pleases him, this shy slip of a girl who doesn’t dare to look up, who’s so unlike those flappers over there, whom he detests in a grouchy sort of way because a gramophone always rattles to life when they show up and because they sashay through the room as no woman in Holland ever would have in his day. He pours Christine some wine himself, although bending over makes him grunt a little, and he motions to the waiter for service.

  But if only the waiter, with his starched and ironed cuffs and equally starchy face, hadn’t put such strange delicacies on her plate, all these unfamiliar hors d’oeuvres, chilled olives, colorful salads, silvery fish, heaps of artichokes, mysterious creams, a delicate goose-liver mousse, these pink salmon steaks—all of it exquisite without a doubt, subtle and light. And to get hold of these strange objects, which of the dozen utensils at her place is she supposed to use? The little spoon or the round one, the miniature knife or the broader one? How to cut it all up without revealing to the waiter’s professional eye and to her proficient neighbors that this is her first time ever in such a posh dining room? How to avoid committing some gross gaucherie? She unfolds her napkin slowly to gain a little time, lowering her eyes and stealing glances at her aunt’s hands in order to copy what they do. But at the same time she has to respond to her uncle’s friendly questions. He speaks a thick Dutch-inflected German that needs to be followed closely, and the chunks of English that he’s always slipping in make it even harder. She needs all her nerve in this battle on two fronts, but her feeling of inferiority has her constantly imagining whispers behind her back and derisive or sympathetic looks from people nearby. Fear of betraying her poverty and lack of worldliness to her uncle, her aunt, the waiter, to everyone there, and the simultaneous effort of making carefree, even cheery conversation under the most terrifying strain make the half hour seem an eternity. She contends bravely until the fruit course; then her aunt finally notices her confusion, without understanding it: “Child, you’re tired, I can tell. No wonder, when you’ve been traveling all night in one of those miserable European trains. No, don’t be embarrassed, feel free to nap for an hour in your room, then we’ll be off. No, there’s nothing we wanted to do, Anthony always has a rest after lunch too.” She gets up and helps Christine to her feet. “Just go on upstairs and lie down. Then you’ll be refreshed and we can go for a brisk walk.” Christine takes a deep breath of thanks. An hour hidden behind a closed door is an hour gained.

  “So how do you like her?” she asks as she comes in. Anthony is already unbuttoning his jacket and vest for his siesta.

  “Very nice,” he yawns, “a nice Viennese face … Oh, hand me the pillow … Really very nice and modest. A little poorly dressed, that’s all, I think so anyway … I mean … I don’t know how to say it … We don’t see such things anymore … And I think if you’re going to introduce her as our niece to the Kinsleys and everyone else, she’ll have to be dressed more presentably … Couldn’t you help her out with something from your wardrobe?”

  “I’ve already taken out the key.” Mrs. van Boolen smiles. “I was stunned myself when I saw her trailing into the hotel in that outfit … It was something a person wouldn’t be caught dead in. And you didn’t see her coat, yellow as an egg yolk, really a specimen—you could display it in a shop with Indian curios … Poor thing, if she only knew how barbarically she’s decked herself out, but my God, where would she find out … The damned war laid everybody low in Austria, you heard her say herself that she’s never been three miles beyond Vienna, never met people … Poor dear, you can tell she feels out of place here, she goes around in terror … But put it out of your mind, you can depend on me, I’ll set her up properly. I’ve got plenty here, and what I don’t have I’ll pick up at the English shop; no one will know, and why shouldn’t she have something special for a few days, the poor thing.”

  While her husband dozes on the ottoman, she musters the two almost wall-high garment bags standing like caryatids in the entry. During her two weeks in Paris Mrs. van Boolen went to a good many dress shops, not just museums. The hangers rustle with crêpe de chine, silk, batiste. She pulls out a dozen blouses and outfits, one after another, then puts them back, studying, deliberating, figuring, trying to decide what to give her young niece. Sorting through the iridescent gowns and the black ones, the delicate fabrics and the heavy ones is a slow process, but enjoyable. At last a shimmering froth of sheer garments is piled on the chair along with all sorts of stockings and underthings, all so light they can be picked up with one hand; she takes them to Christine’s room. To her surprise the door swings open when she pushes on it. A
t first she thinks the room is empty. The window is wide open, looking straight out onto the countryside; there’s no one in the chairs, no one at the desk. She goes to put the clothes down on one of the chairs and finds Christine asleep on the sofa. The unaccustomed glasses of wine have gone to her head; her uncle had poured her one after another—all in good fun—as she drained them quickly, not knowing what else to do. She’d intended just to sit down and think things over, get everything straight in her mind, but then drowsiness had gently laid her head on the cushions.

  The helplessness of a sleeper is always either moving or slightly ridiculous to other people. As Christine’s aunt tiptoes closer, she is moved. In her sleep the frightened girl has drawn her arms over her chest, as though to protect herself. This simple gesture is touching, childish, as is the half-open, almost frightened mouth; the eyebrows too are somewhat raised, as though she’s in the grip of a dream. Even in her sleep, her aunt thinks with sudden clear-sightedness, even in her sleep she’s afraid. And how pale her lips are, how colorless her gums, how pasty her complexion, although the sleeping face is still young and childish. Probably poorly nourished, overtaxed from having to go to work at an early age, tired out, worn down, and not even twenty-eight. Poor girl! Christine’s unconscious self-revelation in her sleep suddenly makes Mrs. van Boolen feel almost ashamed. Disgraceful of us, really. So tired, so poor, so worried to death—they needed help and we should have given it to them a long time ago. Back there you’re wrapped up in a dozen charitable causes, you’re giving charity teas, making Christmas donations, you don’t even know who they go to, and your own sister, your closest relative, for all these years you’ve forgotten her, yet you could have worked wonders with a few hundred dollars. Yes, she might have written, reminded me—always that foolish pride of the poor, that unwillingness to ask! Fortunately now at least we can help out and give this pale quiet girl a little happiness. Moved once more, she doesn’t know why, she goes back to the strangely dreamy profile. Is it her own image as seen in a mirror long ago? Is she remembering an early photo of her mother in a narrow gold frame that hung over her bed as a child, or her own loneliness in the boardinghouse? In any event she’s unexpectedly overcome with tenderness. And tenderly, gently, she strokes the sleeper’s blond hair.

  Christine is instantly awake. Taking care of her mother has accustomed her to being alert at the slightest touch. “Am I late already?” she stammers guiltily. All office workers are afraid of being late for work. For years she’s gone to sleep afraid and awakened afraid at the first blast from the alarm clock. The first thing she does is check the time: “I’m not too late, am I?” The day always begins with fear of having neglected some responsibility.

  “But child, why panic?” her aunt says soothingly. “We have time coming out our ears here, we don’t know what to do with it all. Take it easy if you’re still tired. Of course I don’t want to disturb you, I was just bringing some clothes for you to look at, maybe it would be fun for you to wear some of these things while you’re here. I brought so much from Paris, it’s just filling up my trunk, so I thought it would be better if you wore a few things for me.”

  Christine feels herself flushing, down to her chest. So she’d been disgracing them from the moment they saw her—no doubt her aunt and uncle were both ashamed on her account. But how sweetly her aunt tries to help, veils her handouts, goes out of her way not to hurt her.

  “But how could I wear your dresses, Aunt?” she stammers. “They’re certainly much too fancy for me.”

  “Nonsense, they suit you better than they do me. Anthony complains that I’m dressing too young anyway. He’d like to see me looking like his great-aunts in Zaandam, heavy black silk up to the neck, buttoned up like a Protestant, and a starched white housewife’s bonnet on my head. On you he’d like these things a thousand times better. So tell us now which one you want for this evening.”

  In a flash she’s taken one of the filmy garments and held it skillfully against her own (suddenly with the casual, graceful movements of the long-forgotten dress model). It’s ivory-colored, with floral edging in a Japanese style; it seems to glow in contrast to the next one, a midnight-black silk dress with flickering red flames. The third is pond-green with veins of silver, and all three seem so fantastic to Christine that she doesn’t dare to think they could be hers. How could she ever wear such splendid and fragile treasures without constantly worrying? How do you walk, how do you move in such a mist of color and light? Don’t you have to learn how to wear clothes like these? She gazes humbly at the exquisite garments.

  But she’s too much a woman not to yearn too. Her nostrils flare, and her hands have begun trembling strangely because they’d like to finger the material. Christine struggles to master herself. Her aunt, from her experience as a model long ago, knows this hungry expression, this almost sensual excitement which grips women when they see luxury. She can’t help smiling at the sudden light in this quiet blond girl’s eyes as they flicker restlessly and indecisively from one garment to another. She knows which garment Christine is going to choose, knows too she’ll regret not taking the others. Her aunt finds it amusing to overwhelm her still more. “There’s no rush, I’ll leave all three here for you. You can choose the one you like best for today and tomorrow you can try on something else. I’ve also brought stockings and underthings—all you need now is something fresh-looking and attractive to put a little color in your cheeks. If you don’t mind we’ll go right over to the shops and buy everything you need for the Engadine.”

  “But Aunt,” Christine whispers, startled and shaken. “What did I do to deserve this…You shouldn’t be spending so much on me. And this room is much too expensive for me, really, a plain one would have been fine.” But her aunt just smiles and looks at her appraisingly. “And then, child,” she declares dictatorially, “I’ll take you to our beautician, she’ll make you more or less presentable. Nobody but one of our Indians back home would have a hank of hair like that. You’ll see how much freer your head will be without that mop hanging down your neck. No, no argument, I know what’s best, leave it to me and don’t worry. And now get yourself together. We have lots of time, Anthony is at his afternoon poker game. We want to have you all fixed up to present to him this evening. Come, child.”

  Soon boxes are flying off the shelves in the big sports shop. They choose a sweater in a checkerboard plaid, a chamois belt that cinches the waist, a pair of fawn walking shoes with a pungent new smell, a cap, snug colorful sport stockings, and all sorts of odds and ends. In the fitting room Christine peels off the hated blouse like a dirty rind: the poverty she brought with her is packed out of sight in a cardboard box. She feels oddly relieved as the horrid things disappear, as though her fears were being hidden away forever. In another shop a pair of dress shoes, a flowing silk scarf, and yet more wonders. Christine has no experience of this kind of shopping and is agog at this new marvel, this buying with no concern for cost, without the eternal fear of the “too expensive.” You choose things, you say yes, you don’t think about it, you don’t worry, and the packages are tied up and on their way home, borne by mysterious messengers. Your wish is granted before you’ve even dared to make it. It’s strange, but intoxicatingly easy and pleasant. Christine surrenders without further resistance and lets her aunt do as she pleases. But when her aunt takes banknotes out of her bag she averts her eyes nervously. She tries not to listen, not to hear the price, because what’s being spent on her has got to be such a fortune, such an unimaginable amount of money: she’s made do for years on less than what her aunt’s gone through in half an hour. She contains herself until they’re leaving, then seizes the arm of her gracious benefactress and gratefully kisses her hand. Her aunt smiles at her touching confusion. “But now your hair! I’ll take you to the hairdresser’s and drop in on some friends while you’re there. In an hour you’ll be freshly done up and I’ll come get you. You’ll see what she does for you, already you’re looking completely different. Then we’ll go for a wal
k and tonight we’ll try to have a really good time.” Christine’s heart is thumping wildly. She lets herself be led (her aunt means her nothing but good) into a tiled and mirrored room full of warmth and sweetly scented with mild floral soap and sprayed perfumes; an electrical apparatus roars like a mountain storm in the adjoining room. The hairdresser, a brisk, snub-nosed Frenchwoman, is given all sorts of instructions, little of which Christine understands or cares to. A new desire has come over her to give herself up, to submit and let herself be surprised. She allows herself to be seated in the comfortable barber’s chair and her aunt disappears. She leans back gently, and, eyes closed in a luxurious stupor, senses a mechanical clattering, cold steel on her neck, and the easy incomprehensible chatter of the cheerful hairdresser; she breathes in clouds of fragrance and lets aromatic balms and clever fingers run over her hair and neck. Just don’t open your eyes, she thinks. If you do, it might go away. Don’t question anything, just savor this Sundayish feeling of sitting back for once, of being waited on instead of waiting on other people. Just let your hands fall into your lap, let good things happen to you, let it come, savor it, this rare swoon of lying back and being ministered to, this strange voluptuous feeling you haven’t experienced in years, in decades. Eyes closed, feeling the fragrant warmth enveloping her, she remembers the last time: she’s a child, in bed, she had a fever for days, but now it’s over and her mother brings some sweet white almond milk, her father and her brother are sitting by her bed, everyone’s taking care of her, everyone’s doing things for her, they’re all gentle and nice. In the next room the canary is singing mischievously, the bed is soft and warm, there’s no need to go to school, everything’s being done for her, there are toys on the bed, though she’s too pleasantly lulled to play with them; no, it’s better to close her eyes and really feel, deep down, the idleness, the being waited on. It’s been decades since she thought of this lovely languor from her childhood, but suddenly it’s back: her skin, her temples bathed in warmth are doing the remembering. A few times the brisk salonist asks some question like, “Would you like it shorter?” But she answers only, “Whatever you think,” and deliberately avoids the mirror held up to her. Best not to disturb the wonderful irresponsibility of letting things happen to you, this detachment from doing or wanting anything. Though it would be tempting to give someone an order just once, for the first time in your life, to make some imperious demand, to call for such and such. Now fragrance from a shiny bottle streams over her hair, a razor blade tickles her gently and delicately, her head feels suddenly strangely light and the skin of her neck cool and bare. She wants to look in the mirror, but keeping her eyes closed is prolonging the numb dreamy feeling so pleasantly. Meanwhile a second young woman has slipped beside her like a sylph to do her nails while the other is waving her hair. She submits to it all without resistance, almost without surprise, and makes no protest when, after an introductory “Vous êtes un peu pâle, Mademoiselle,” the busy salonist, employing all manner of pencils and crayons, reddens her lips, reinforces the arches of her eyebrows, and touches up the color of her cheeks. She’s aware of it all and, in her pleasant detached stupor, unaware of it too: drugged by the humid, fragrance-laden air, she hardly knows if all this is happening to her or to some other, brand-new self. It’s all dreamily disjointed, not quite real, and she’s a little afraid of suddenly falling out of the dream.