Once a Jailbird

  ‘I’ve no time for you now,’ he growled. ‘I must go out at once. We’ll have a talk later on.’

  ‘May I ask a favour?’ said Kufalt, in an unusually obsequious tone. ‘I’ve got terrible toothache. May I go to the dentist at once?’

  ‘I can’t write you a note for the Welfare Office now,’ said Jauch. ‘At lunchtime.’

  ‘I’ll go at my own expense, Herr Jauch. I don’t want to give you any trouble.’ And he added anxiously: ‘It doesn’t cost more than one and a half marks to have a tooth pulled out, does it?’

  ‘I must go,’ said Jauch.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Kufalt. ‘I really can’t bear it any longer.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Jauch, and ran out of the room.

  X

  Kufalt slipped like a weasel through the typing room, as he passed whispering to Maack: ‘It was true what Patzig said,’ and was outside in an instant. Maack had not caught his hurried whisper.

  Coat and hat—what a time it all took! Jauch’s step was no longer audible on the stairs; it all depended on whether Jauch walked, and did not take any transport. Kufalt had to walk, he knew the state of his pocket too well. A few pfennigs—good for three cigarettes. Better not take any more or he might be tempted to spend it.

  The street. A glance to the right, a glance to the left. Not a sign of Jauch. No good to stand and hesitate: to the centre of the city? Or the suburbs? To the centre, surely, for a textile house. Kufalt ran.

  At the next street corner there were three alternatives. Kufalt dashed blindly round the corner to the right. A wild goose chase; it was futile.

  Not a sign of Jauch; not a sign. A throng of people. No Jauch. Should he go back? Yes.

  Kufalt ran back to the crossroads again; the traffic light was red, but he dared not wait. He slipped round cars and trams, until suddenly he found himself wedged in; someone cursed, he doubled back onto the pavement he had left, and as he looked round a figure emerged from a tobacconist’s puffing away on a cigar. Herr Jauch!

  ‘Well, Kufalt, where are you off to?’

  ‘Over there.’ And he pointed. He hardly knew his way around Hamburg. What if Jauch should ask the name and address of the dentist!

  But he did not ask.

  ‘You’d better hurry up. You know you have to make eighteen marks this week. Toothache or no toothache. Do you understand? No excuses accepted.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt humbly, took off his hat, and dropped behind.

  Then he followed Jauch, under cover of a couple just in front. Jauch went on his way, walking with the bouncing, tiptoe gait of fat men, puffing contentedly at his cigar; and if he looked round occasionally it was certainly not at Kufalt, but at the girls in their light blouses, with their bare arms and lissom legs.

  ‘Damned pimply old goat,’ whispered Kufalt, and for safety’s sake crossed to the other side of the street, the better to conceal himself.

  Jauch likewise crossed over. Kufalt dodged back again, and saw Jauch disappear round an opposite corner. Kufalt went after him—what an unpleasantly empty street! It would be awkward here. He must keep some way behind. Jauch turned the corner, Kufalt trotting in pursuit. And Herr Jauch vanished—how does the phrase go?—as though the earth had swallowed him.

  Kufalt stopped, panting. So the chase had been in vain. He had vanished, vanished for good, into one of these houses.

  At last Kufalt came to his senses and realized that a textile firm must have a shop, or at least a plate on the door, and that it must be one of not more than ten or twelve houses; and he began to search.

  There were no shops. As to firms: on fifteen houses there were only two plates, either of which might be what he wanted: ‘Lemcke & Michelsen, Children’s Clothing, Wholesale’ and ‘Emil Gnutzmann, Successors to Stieling, Textile Distributors’.

  ‘That was an easy one,’ thought Kufalt to himself with relief, planting himself behind an advertisement pillar; and sure enough, twenty minutes later, he saw Jauch come out, stop, look up at the sky, take a cigar out of his pocket, cut it, light it, walk down the street, and turn back . . .

  Herr Jauch came back, straight towards Kufalt’s pillar; Kufalt dodged nervously round it. ‘Which side will he come? Suppose I ran bang into him! Did the brute spot me?’ But Jauch disappeared into a quiet little café, and Kufalt suddenly understood. ‘Jauch has practically fixed it up, he’s just got to telephone Marcetus.’

  There Kufalt stood, still behind his pillar, and thoughts raced through his head: ‘We’ll lose it, we’ll lose it! And such a chance, a contract like that only comes twice a year . . . I ought to have a try. I’ll be on the street in a week, I can’t make eighteen as long as Liese . . . If he’s sitting behind the curtains, he’s bound to see me cross the street. It’s madness, I’ll slip round the corner and go back to the typing room, Berthold ought to be here, perhaps I’ll make eighteen . . . ’

  But he risked it and ran, stood in the entrance of Gnutzmann, Successors to Stieling, and looked across at the café to see whether the door would open, or Jauch’s angry fist appear from behind the curtains . . .

  Slowly Kufalt mounted the stairs. It was, at any rate, encouraging to know that he was wearing a good suit, his blue one with the white needle stripe, and a decent shirt, so that no one would smell an ex-convict, if he behaved properly; indeed he looked as well as the old Kufalt looked in his heyday.

  ‘Can I see the boss?’ he asked in that tone of forced cheerfulness that he used to hear in days gone by in many an office from many a commercial traveller.

  ‘What about, please?’ asked the pretty, fair-haired young woman in the reception room in that tone of metallic courtesy which every clerk in every office can produce at will, for every uninvited caller.

  ‘The address contract,’ said Kufalt, listening in the direction of the stairs on which he could hear a step.

  ‘Herr Bär is dealing with that,’ said the girl. ‘But I think the contract is already assigned. Just a moment. Would you kindly take a seat?’

  The step passed, but Kufalt did not dare sit down; Jauch might appear at any moment. He paced up and down, the blood began to throb in his throat, the coward’s courage had already vanished.

  What—oh, what—had he let himself in for?

  ‘Herr Bär will see you,’ said the young woman, and led the way. The door of the disconcerting reception room shut behind him, and Kufalt then felt safe.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Herr Bär curtly.

  Kufalt bowed. He had imagined Herr Bär as an elderly, careworn, corpulent personage, and he saw before him a young man, athletic and well dressed.

  ‘We heard,’ said Kufalt, recovering from his bow, ‘that you had a large address contract to award. My firm is very anxious to get it. We are quite a new firm, and we would offer you discount prices, the lowest you could possibly get.’

  ‘What would they be?’

  ‘If the address lists are fairly straightforward to copy—ten marks a thousand.’

  Young Herr Bär’s face darkened: ‘The contract is as good as given. I have more or less promised it.’

  And he looked inquiringly at Kufalt.

  ‘Well,’ said Kufalt hurriedly, ‘we would do it for nine fifty.’

  ‘Nine marks,’ said Herr Bär, ‘and I’ll see if I can get out of my promise.’ Kufalt hesitated, and Bär said: ‘It would be rather unpleasant for me, so you would at least have to make it worth my while.’

  ‘Nine marks twenty-five,’ added Kufalt, as the door opened, the pretty reception clerk looked in and said: ‘Herr Jauch is here, Herr Bär.’

  Kufalt glanced anxiously at the door . . . it would open in a moment . . . the manager of the typing room, and here he was trying to compete against him . . . a mere ex-convict . . . besides which, he was at the dentist . . . but it was against the law to reproach a man publicly for having been in prison . . . or perhaps in a case like this it was permissible . . . ?

  ‘Tell him to wait,’ growled Herr Bär. A
nd to Kufalt: ‘That’s your competitor. He’ll do it for eight and a half.’

  ‘Not under ten and a half,’ said Kufalt. ‘I know him.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Herr Bär. ‘By the way, what is the name of your agency?’

  Kufalt’s brain cut out . . . a name. Quick! A name!

  ‘Cito . . . Presto,’ he said breathlessly. And then more calmly—it was a sort of short circuit in his brain: ‘Cito-Presto Agency.’

  ‘Well,’ laughed Herr Bär, ‘that’s certainly one up on your competitor! And when can you begin?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ said Kufalt, feeling dizzy. (No typewriters—no office—and they would need a telephone too.)

  ‘And how many can you deliver daily?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘Right. That makes a month. No, five days more, not counting Sundays.’

  ‘We’ll deliver the three hundred thousand in a month.’

  ‘Right,’ said Herr Bär meditatively, surveying Kufalt, but his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. ‘You can fetch the envelopes and the address lists first thing tomorrow. Where is your office, did you say?’

  ‘We are moving at the moment,’ said Kufalt hastily. ‘We haven’t got into our new place yet, and we have left the old one. As soon as we are settled I will give you the address.’ And he cursed himself for being a fool—after all, he must know where they were going!

  But Herr Bär was still absorbed in his own thoughts. ‘Right,’ he said pensively; and then added abruptly: ‘Listen . . . ’—he stopped; ‘I don’t yet even know your name, Herr . . . ’

  ‘It may go wrong,’ thought Kufalt; ‘why should I put both feet in it? There’s Jauch outside . . . ’ And he said hastily: ‘Meierbeer is my name. Meierbeer.’

  ‘Any connection with the composer? Or with me—at the tail end? Ha-ha!’ Herr Bär laughed. ‘Now, Herr Meierbeer, I dare say you won’t mind if I send you away by the trade staircase. You see, your competitor, Herr Jauch . . . I’ve more or less promised him the job . . . I must fix it somehow; you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Kufalt laughed with relief, and the throbbing of his heart began to subside. He suddenly realized that this was his lucky day. ‘I wouldn’t care for the competitor to see me pinching his contract.’

  ‘That’s all right then,’ said Bär. ‘Come along.’

  ‘How much printed matter is there to be in each envelope?’ asked Kufalt suddenly.

  ‘Oh, not too much,’ said Herr Bär encouragingly. ‘One eight-page prospectus folded, and an order postcard inside.’

  ‘Putting in order cards makes extra work.’

  ‘Not as much as all that,’ said Herr Bär cheerfully.

  ‘I beg your pardon—when there are three hundred thousand of them. It means at least four, or five, working days extra.’

  ‘Well, nine marks then,’ said Herr Bär, holding out his hand.

  ‘Nine marks fifty is the lowest,’ said Kufalt, with his hand behind him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Herr Bär indignantly; ‘you have already said nine marks twenty-five.’

  ‘Not with a reply postcard,’ said Kufalt. He was standing on the top stair, and Herr Bär on a mat outside the door.

  ‘Then we’ll call it off,’ said Herr Bär, withdrawing his hand. ‘Herr Jauch is still waiting.’

  ‘We have to live,’ said Kufalt, certain that Jauch would not do it at the price; ‘and we will do them much more neatly than any other firm.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ growled Herr Bär; ‘and then half of them come back undelivered.’

  ‘That can only be the fault of the address lists.’

  ‘Not here; our addresses are all correct.’

  ‘That’s what all firms say,’ smiled Kufalt.

  ‘Oh, do talk business, Herr Meierbeer,’ said Herr Bär, with a smile, attracted again by his visitor’s name. ‘Do you write it with an “ä” like me?’

  ‘No, with a double “e”,’ said Kufalt. ‘Nine fifty.’

  ‘Let’s say nine twenty-five, and here’s my hand on it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll meet you,’ said Kufalt coming down. ‘Nine forty.’

  ‘Herr Jauch says he can’t wait any longer,’ said the reception clerk.

  ‘Herr Jauch can go to . . . ’ shouted Herr Bär furiously; then, composing himself, he added: ‘No, no, Fräulein, he can’t. Tell him to wait just three more minutes.’ To Kufalt he proposed ‘Nine thirty.’

  ‘Nine thirty-five,’ said Kufalt; ‘and that’s my last word. But cash down on delivery of every ten thousand.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Bär. ‘Confirm it in writing; and I’ll send you an acknowledgement.’

  ‘Right,’ said Kufalt. And now the hands met. ‘Then early tomorrow morning . . . ’

  ‘In the name of my firm I thank you very much for the contract,’ said Kufalt, suddenly becoming very formal. He shook the other’s hand again. ‘I hope we may do further business together.’

  He descended the stairs with dignity, while Herr Bär reluctantly applied himself to wriggling out of his option to Herr Jauch.

  XI

  It was shortly after the half-hour’s midday break, and a scorching summer’s day. The typing room was stifling and sultry, the whitewashed windows did not even admit the solace of blue sky and sunshine: just a room full of hot and choking air.

  Fingers danced limply on the keys; when the carriage clicked it was pushed back by slow and weary hands, a second’s pause, and the fingers began again.

  Hot, moist foreheads, blank drawn faces, not a word, not a whisper; just limp and grumpy men, typing.

  In the next room, the women at the copying machine were gossiping. They had nothing to do; it was now three or four days since they had had any work. But they got their pay just the same, they did not need to worry; food drops into some people’s mouths, but it’s not much good licking lips on an empty belly.

  Twenty typewriters were rattling, but above it could be heard the door in Jauch’s office being flung open and then slammed with a thunderous crash.

  The building quivered.

  Kufalt glanced at Maack. Maack glanced at Kufalt. Maack dropped his eyelids to indicate that he had understood.

  Hurried footsteps in the office, a window was thrown open, and Jänsch burst into suppressed merriment, for within Jauch could be heard cursing himself. Then silence fell; the door opened, Jauch thrust a purple face into the room and roared: ‘Fräulein Merzig! Fräulein Merzig!!’

  ‘Yes, Herr Jauch?’

  On the further side of the typing room the door opened, Fräulein Merzig (the tall one) also put her head through. ‘Yes, Herr Jauch, what is it?’

  ‘The Hamburg address book—quick, please.’

  ‘Certainly, Herr Jauch.’

  Everyone noticed that a storm was brewing, the lightning had begun to flash. Fräulein Merzig hurried from seat to seat in the typing room, in search of the Hamburg directory.

  Jauch, his face still purple, followed her with his eyes. ‘Who the hell has got it? Can’t he speak up!’

  She found it on Sager’s table, and took it away.

  ‘Look here, Fräulein, I’ve got a job to do,’ protested Sager feebly.

  She ran with it to Herr Jauch, who announced in a menacing tone:

  ‘Several pushy gentlemen will soon find themselves without a job.’

  He grabbed the directory and vanished.

  ‘You might at least say “excuse me”, or “please”, Fräulein,’ moaned Sager.

  ‘I don’t speak to you at all,’ said Fräulein Merzig, and she meant not merely Sager, but everybody in that room. She departed to her colleague, carefully leaving the door slightly ajar. ‘There’s something up today, I’ve never seen Jauch like this; he’s certainly going to sack one of those men.’

  He was still cursing in his room, savagely turning the pages of the directory; then he appeared again in the door; the whole of him, this time.

  ‘May I have my directory back, Herr Jauch?’ ask
ed Sager obstinately.

  ‘Has anyone heard of the Cito-Presto Typing Agency?’ asked Jauch, advancing into the middle of the room.

  Silence.

  Then a voice was heard: ‘The Cito Agency, Herr Jauch . . . ’

  ‘I said Cito-Presto, you fool!’ roared Jauch; he was already in the next room, where he repeated his question.

  ‘The Cito Agency . . . ’ said Fräulein Merzig.

  ‘Fool!’ roared Jauch, controlled himself, and said more mildly, ‘Beg pardon,’ but slammed the door behind him.

  He swung round; before him sat the entire typing room like a class of schoolboys, all with their faces turned towards him. He leaned against the door, thrust his hands into his pockets, rattled his keys in one of them, jingled his small change in the other, frowned darkly and gnawed his underlip.

  ‘Someone get the cigar out of my ashtray . . . ’

  He pondered, looked along the ranks, his eye resting balefully on Maack, who was typing. Jauch pondered once more, then darted at the man behind Maack, and shouted: ‘Lammers!’

  Lammers jumped up nervously, almost ran into the office, returned with the stump of a cigar and handed it to Jauch.

  ‘Match!’ said the latter.

  Lammers felt in his pockets, found some matches, struck one, and lit Jauch’s cigar, quivering nervously all the time. Jauch drew on the cigar and puffed out smoke. ‘You know quite well that smoking is forbidden here. If I see you with matches again . . . !’

  ‘But I haven’t been smoking, Herr Jauch,’ faltered Lammers.

  ‘Hold your tongue! Do you want to be sacked, or will you hold your tongue!’ roared Jauch to Lammers, who was now ashen.

  Lammers stood for a moment, then tottered to his place, crouched down into his chair and started typing.

  For a moment there was silence. Jauch snorted. Everyone felt it was the first gust before the breaking storm. Jauch was on the lookout for his next victim, and his eye fell on Kufalt, who was typing desperately. Jauch’s lips were moving, when a powerful bass was heard from the back of the room, ‘Stinking monkey cage!’

  Jauch turned sharply, his lips parted in amazement, and he gasped, like a man winded by a blow in the stomach: ‘What? Who said that?’