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 mysel
f 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."
Chapter XVIII
Our taxi was standing outside "The Bar." I went in to relieve Gottfried and to get the key and the papers. Gottfried came out with me.
"Made any money?" I asked.
"So-so," he replied. "Either there are too many taxis or too few people to ride in them. How was it with you?"
"Bad. Stood around the whole night and didn't take twenty marks."
"Dull times." Gottfried raised his eyebrows. "Then you're probably not in such a hurry to-day, eh?"
"No, why?"
"You can take me along a bit."
"All right." We climbed in. "Where do you want to go then?" I asked.
"To the cathedral."
"What?" I asked. "Do you think I might have misheard? 'Cathedral,' I understood."
"No my son, you did not mishear. Cathedral it is."
I looked at him astonished.
"Don't stare; drive," said Gottfried.
"Very good." We set off.
The cathedral lay in an old quarter of the city in an open place surrounded by houses of the clergy. I stopped at the main door.
"Farther," said Gottfried; "right round."
He pulled me up outside a little doorway at the back and got out.
"Lots of fun," said I. "I take it you're going to confession."
"Come with me," he replied.
I laughed. "Not to-day. I've said my prayers already this morning. That does me for the whole day."
"Don't talk silly, baby. Come on. I want to be generous and show you something."
I followed him curiously. We passed through the little door and were immediately in the cloisters. They made a large quadrangle and consisted of long rows of arches supported on the inner side by grey granite pillars; and they framed a garden. In the middle rose up a large, weatherworn cross with the figure of Christ. At the sides on stone reliefs were depicted the Stations of the Cross. In front of each picture was an old praying bench. The garden had run wild and flowered over and over.
Gottfried pointed to a couple of immense white and red rosebushes. "I wanted to show you that. Do you recognise them?"
Surprised, I halted. "Of course I recognise them," said I. "So this is where you glean, you old church-robber."
When Pat had moved into Frau Zalewski's a week ago Lenz had sent her in the evening, by Jupp, an immense bunch of roses. There had been so many that Jupp had had to go down twice, and each time returned with both arms full. I had already given myself a headache trying to think wherever Gottfried could have got them; for I knew his rule, never to buy flowers. I had never seen them in the city park.
"That is a real idea," said I, appreciatively. "Takes a man to think of that."
Gottfried beamed. "The garden here is a proper gold mine." He laid a hand gaily on my shoulder. "I hereby take you into partnership. I imagine you'll be able to make good use of it just now."
"Why just now?" I asked.
"Because the park is pretty bare. And that's been your hunting ground to date, I think?"
I nodded.
"Besides," continued Gottfried, "you're coming now to the time when the difference between a bourgeois and a cavalier begins to show. A bourgeois always gets less attentive the longer he knows a woman. A cavalier, always more attentive." He made an extended gesture. "With all this you can become an absolutely staggering cavalier."
I laughed. "That is all fine, Gottfried," said I. "But what happens when you get caught? There's not much of a getaway, and pious people might easily
consider it as desecration of a holy place."
"My dear boy," replied Lenz, "do you see anybody here? Since the war people go to political meetings, not to church."
That was true. "But what about the parsons?" I asked.
"The flowers don't mean anything to the parsons, or the garden would be better looked after. And the Almighty will have his fun, if you give someone pleasure with it. He's not built that way. He's an old soldier."