But Kufalt did not move, and Monte looked at him reproachfully.
‘May we have a little money, Herr Bär, just a small amount?’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Herr Bär. ‘You would like to be paid daily? That will be quite all right. What is the amount?’
‘Ninety-three fifty.’
‘Right. Here is an order on the cashier. He’ll give you the money. Good morning.’
‘Thank you very much. And good morning.’
They made their way out into the street, and there was joy on their faces; that came to about twelve marks a head, a nice little sum for one day’s work . . .
‘Stop! There’s someone looking round that advertisement pillar. After him, Monte—run!’
They ran, one each side of the pillar: nothing.
‘Odd how you can be mistaken. I could have sworn it was Jablonski; you remember, the bloke who limped a bit, from the Presto . . . ’
‘You must have been dreaming.’
‘Seems so. It’s strange how you always see something when you’ve got a bad conscience. And yet I don’t need to have a bad conscience, do I?’
Shithouse gossip is not confined to the army and to jail: when the pair came back the room was full of it. The firm of Gnutzmann could not pay; would not pay; Kufalt would come back without money; with a worthless bill; an uncovered cheque; with empty promises; no, with the news that the contract had been withdrawn.
They had got quite heated and abusive over it and, in spite of the protests of two or three of them, the embargo on talking had been lifted. They had been smoking, Jänsch had sent out for three bottles of beer, Oeser for a pickled cucumber, and hardly a thousand addresses had been typed between eight o’clock and half past ten . . .
And now came Kufalt, with money—crisp, crackling notes.
It was almost a disappointment. ‘Well now—who on earth started all this?’
‘You did, man, we could do with a little less of your lip, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You said that if the blokes didn’t pay up . . . ’
‘I . . . ’
‘That will do,’ said Maack. ‘Now we must get on. We’ve got two hours to catch up, otherwise we’ll be here till ten again. Jänsch, put down that beer. No more talking.’
‘If I drink beer, I don’t talk,’ growled Jänsch, but started typing again.
They all began, some hesitant and half-hearted for a moment or two, but they were soon drawn into the common rhythm and the eternal routine; and they had reached the stage when they could type and think the while, type and dream themselves into a world of heart’s desire . . .
A man could dream, too, when folding prospectuses, and slipping them into envelopes, and even when counting addresses. Kufalt dreamed himself into the hours that were to come.
If only they might not be so late that evening! She would wait for him—what had she called him? Dearest? Darling? Perhaps all would still be well, perhaps that was what his life had lacked all these long years: something to which a man could look forward with pleasure.
He longed for the evening, she had been so different that morning, so gentle. She would surely be sitting in his room, waiting for him . . .
But who was this, waiting for him? Who was it sitting in the corner of the sofa in the dim room, who was it that did not even get up but merely looked at him, that evening just before ten? Not Liese, it was Beerboom!
Kufalt switched on the light. He was so furious that he hardly looked at his visitor and merely said: ‘What are you doing here? I said you were not to come here again.’
Beerboom was the evil spirit, he was the dark, disastrous star that had brooded over their first night of love, and now, by some mysterious fatality, he was to be present at their second. The door opened and Liese came in. She was wearing a white dress with a bright flowered pattern, and looked very cheerful; she gave him a frank and friendly hand and said: ‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening, Liese.’
His sole idea was to get Beerboom to go; if Beerboom had not been there, he could have taken her in his arms at once.
‘Herr Beerboom asked to be allowed to wait here. It’s very important, he says.’ She stopped for a moment, and added cautiously: ‘I let him sit here alone. I even forgot to turn on the light.’
‘Well, what is it, Beerboom?’ asked Kufalt.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Beerboom. ‘I’m just off.’
But he did not move.
The tone of Beerboom’s voice had so changed that Kufalt looked closely at his whimpering companion of a little while before.
Beerboom had always had a pallid, leathery skin, but that evening it seemed to be lit by some sort of inner glow. His hair was matted as though with sweat, his eyes flickered and gleamed . . .
He could not keep his hands still, they darted incessantly here and there, sometimes tapping on the table, sometimes fumbling in his pockets, sometimes fingering his face, searching for what he could not find . . .
‘Well, what is it?’ asked Kufalt. And, with a glance at his watch: ‘You’ll be late back to the Home, it’s ten o’clock already.’
‘Oh no, I shan’t be too late.’
‘How’s that? Have you left there, eh?’
‘Left it? I’ve been chucked out!’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Kufalt slowly, and then: ‘Where are your things?’
‘Still there. I tell you they chucked me out, ten or twelve men set on me and chucked me out.’
‘But why?’ asked Kufalt. ‘How did it happen? I can’t see them doing that sort of thing.’
‘I smashed up my typewriter,’ said Beerboom. ‘I couldn’t stand the sight of the thing grinning at me any longer; a hundred addresses, five hundred addresses, a thousand addresses.’ He got up, looked round for a moment, sat down again and said: ‘It doesn’t matter. What will be, will be.’
‘Now listen,’ said Kufalt firmly. ‘That doesn’t make sense at all. You don’t tell me that the others chucked you out because you smashed up a typewriter. Seidenzopf might, but not the others. What did you smash it up with?’
‘A hammer.’
‘Where did you get the hammer?’
‘Pinched it. No, I bought it.’
‘It’s no good,’ said Kufalt. ‘I don’t believe you. The others would be only too glad if you’d smashed up one of those stinking pigs’ typewriters. I can understand that Woolly Teddy would chuck you out for it, but the others—no!’
‘I did in all their work, too—squirted a fire extinguisher all over it. So they chucked me out. Beat me and chucked me out.’
‘And Father Seidenzopf?’
‘I landed him one in the jaw.’
‘But he wouldn’t just let you go after a thing like that, he’d call in the cops.’
‘I was off before he could.’
‘Oh, then you weren’t chucked out, you did a bolt.’
‘Well, it doesn’t make much odds,’ muttered Beerboom; he got up and went to the open window. Suddenly he asked eagerly: ‘Would it kill a bloke to hop onto those rails?’
And he put one foot on the window sill.
‘No nonsense now,’ said Kufalt. ‘I don’t want any trouble on your account.’
He held Beerboom firmly. But if the man had really meant it nothing could have held him back. It was Liese who stopped him, with her slender fingers.
‘But why did you cause all that trouble in the typing room, Herr Beerboom?’ she asked.
‘He put on a fit of rage, I know that from prison,’ said Kufalt.
‘I got fed up with it all,’ said Beerboom. He looked at the girl and returned so far into the world as to take his foot off the window sill. ‘Nothing but typing—typing, all day long, and everything gets more and more topsy-turvy in my head.’
‘But,’ said Liese, ‘you must have been fed up a long while ago? Why so suddenly?’
‘Because it got to the limit, Fräulein,’ said Beerboom. ‘One reaches the limit, then the courage comes.??
?
‘What limit?’
‘Ah,’ replied Beerboom, with an evil look. ‘You don’t want to hear about it, Fräulein. You’d just call me a murderer again.’
Silence fell.
Then he said: ‘I thought they’d put me into an asylum, but they just called up a flying squad. So I thought I’d better clear out.’ He burst into a sudden shriek of laughter. ‘I gave Minna one on the nose as I went, I’m pretty sure I smashed it.’
Liese had moved away from him; she was standing in the door as though ready to escape, but she did not take her eyes off him.
Kufalt stood near him—he was still leaning against the crossbar of the window.
‘And what are we going to do with you?’
‘Ah—’ said Beerboom slowly. ‘I might jump . . . ’
And he leaned right out of the window. ‘Stop!’ shouted Kufalt.
But his fears were groundless. Beerboom brought his head back into the room. He grinned. ‘That’s exactly what they’d like—all these people who have done me down: my parents and the investigating magistrates and the public prosecutors and the clergymen and the officials in the clink. How pleased they’d all be if I pushed off quietly like that, eh? I’m sure! Nothing doing . . . !’ His voice rose as he went on. ‘I’m going to make a hell of a stink first; I’ll give them something to remember me by. I don’t mind going out, but I’ll have a big case before the courts anyway, with two columns in the papers every day . . . I’ll show ’em . . . I’ll get them all sacked, the grafters, and Woolly Teddy first!’ Once more he burst into sudden laughter, which shook him like a convulsion. ‘I tore half his beard out, he yelled just like a cat!’
The other two looked at him with grave and disapproving eyes; but their gravity and disapproval completely passed him by. ‘Have you got a cigarette, Willi?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t got a bean left.’
Kufalt gave him a cigarette. ‘Well, and what’s to be done now?’ he asked.
‘I’m not worrying,’ said Beerboom, smoking greedily.
‘Listen to me a minute,’ said Liese, after a pause. ‘Yes?’ said Beerboom, and looked at her with an evil grin. ‘You’re only a bit of flesh even if you wash every day, Fräulein. You stink too.’
Liese acted as though she had not heard. ‘You said just now you thought they’d put you in an asylum, didn’t you. Why not go into one of your own free will?’
‘That’s not a bad idea, Beerboom,’ agreed Kufalt.
Beerboom thought for a while. ‘But suppose they won’t take me, suppose they just hand me over to the police?’ And he went on doggedly: ‘If the police are going to get me, I’ll see that it’s for something worthwhile. Three months for damage and assault is no good to me.’
‘We can put one across them all right,’ said the resourceful Kufalt. ‘We’ll say you live with us, you suddenly started raving and attacked us. You’re quiet now, but you’re afraid it might happen again. They need only keep you one or two days.’
‘And then?’
‘By then you’ll have talked to the big cheese among the doctors, and any fool can see that you’re a complete nutcase, if you really tell him all about it. You mustn’t forget that business with your sister.’
A glance at Liese.
A glance from Beerboom at Liese.
There she stood, fair-haired and radiant, so delicate, so pink and white, a child . . .
‘Am I to tell that too?’
‘Of course. Especially that.’
‘You think that sounds so crazy?’
‘Then let’s get going,’ urged Kufalt. ‘You can’t stay the night here. I don’t want any trouble with the police. Which is the nearest, Liese?’
‘Friedrichsberg,’ she said, half in a whisper. ‘You haven’t got far to go.’
‘Listen, Fräulein,’ said Beerboom. ‘I’ll only go if you take me there.’ His voice rose into a scream: ‘So help me God, I’ll stop here if you don’t go with me.’
Kufalt and Liese Behn looked at each other.
‘All right,’ said Liese. ‘I’ll go with you. But you must promise me that you really will go into the asylum.’
‘Look, Kufalt,’ said Beerboom, ‘lend me twenty marks and I’ll clear out. There won’t be any trouble, and you can go to bed with your girl straight away.’
‘In the first place I haven’t got twenty marks,’ said Kufalt angrily; ‘and, secondly, I wouldn’t lend them to you if I had. You’d go and get drunk, and do something, and I’d get into it for giving you money.’
‘All right,’ said Beerboom. ‘Then let’s go. I don’t yet know where. Perhaps we might really try the asylum after all.’
IX
‘Look, old chum . . . ’ Beerboom began in quite a different tone when they had reached the street.
It was a relief to be outside in the street with him. Here a wind blew, people passed, lamps shone, all had suddenly grown more real, life had become normal and straightforward; all that had been done and said in the half-darkness of the room now faded into the distance and seemed quite fantastic.
Liese had attached herself to Kufalt. They walked like a genuine pair of lovers, clasping hands with fingers intertwined.
Beerboom shuffled along beside them. Up above he had been a figure of ill omen; what was left of him now? They could call a taxi and leave him standing; they could approach a constable, and he would bolt—there needn’t be any Beerboom—Beerboom was an accident, a detestable, warped creature, spoiled by prison . . . they would get rid of him somehow. Then they would be alone together. And love and work, and work and love . . .
Beerboom was at ease out in the street. He began in an entirely different tone: ‘Look, old chum, you seem to be in a bit of a mess too. They want your blood as well. Marcetus and Jauch were at the Home this morning, and had a long talk with Woolly Teddy, and most of it was about you . . . ’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Kufalt.
‘Because I listened,’ said Beerboom proudly. ‘I was going to the WC and I listened at the door of Seidenzopf‘s room. But they were so suspicious, it wasn’t three minutes before they’d slung open the door and banged me on the head with it.’
‘Well, and then?’
‘Then they all went for me and blackguarded me, one after the other—that’s what made me give out like I did this afternoon.’
‘And what did they say about me?’
Beerboom pondered. Then he said rapidly: ‘Give me twenty marks if I tell you?’
‘Not fifty pfennigs,’ laughed Kufalt. ‘You come along to Friedrichsberg instead of getting drunk.’
‘But you’ll get pinched for sure if I don’t tell you what they’re up to; they talked about the police too.’
‘I know,’ said Kufalt. ‘I can imagine it all. The fact is I’m through with Presto.’
‘Well, and—?’
‘I thought you knew all about it. They can’t do a thing to me.’
‘Oh, OK then,’ said Beerboom, offended, and relapsed into his former malignant silence.
‘What are you doing then, if you’ve given up the typing office?’ asked Liese.
‘I’ve got a new job, a much better job,’ whispered Kufalt.
‘With Kutzmann’s or some such name,’ said Beerboom.
‘Eh?’ said Kufalt, pricking up his ears at once. ‘And what do you know about Gnutzmann?’
‘Twenty,’ said Beerboom.
‘No, nothing doing,’ said Kufalt. ‘Not only because twenty marks is a lot of money, but because you’d do something foolish and get me into trouble.’
‘I’ll do something foolish anyhow,’ said Beerboom.
‘Yes, but you won’t get me into it. Now please, Beerboom, tell me what they said!’
‘You oughtn’t to treat a friend like that,’ added Liese. ‘And Willi’s trying to help you.’
‘Willi,’ thought Kufalt ecstatically.
‘Yes, helping to get me into an asylum. Nice sort of friend that is. No, I shan’t say.’
&
nbsp; ‘OK then, don’t,’ said Kufalt savagely.
And he thought aloud to himself: ‘Even if they do know, they can’t do anything. There’s no law against competition, and Herr Bär’s a decent sort. If we put it to him, he’ll let us do the work, even though we have been in prison.’
‘There’s Friedrichsberg already,’ said Liese.
For most of the way they had been walking through gardens—shrubs, and smooth lawns, and beds of roses, and beside a little stream.
The night was still and soft, and pairs of lovers sat on the benches. There was a whispering among the foliage, a rustle and a murmur, and the air was rich with fruitfulness . . .
But beyond lay the squat, dark entrance buildings of the Friedrichsberg asylum. Blank and entirely dark.
‘They’re all asleep,’ said Beerboom, and stopped. ‘Give me five marks anyway.’
‘There’s always a nightwatchman in an asylum, just as in a prison. Come along.’
‘And it’s just like a prison inside,’ said Beerboom scornfully. ‘Fräulein, give me three marks. Give me two marks; give me one mark anyway.’
But Kufalt suddenly lost his temper: ‘You bloody twerp, you—you’re always butting in. You’ve messed up my whole evening. Are you coming, or not?’
He grabbed Beerboom by the arm and dragged him to the gate.
‘No, no,’ said Liese; ‘not like that, be careful.’
But Beerboom suddenly became docile, he even laughed: ‘Don’t hold me too hard, Kufalt, if I really hit out, I’d soon put you down . . . ’ He had shaken himself free and stood with his back towards the gate of Friedrichsberg, looking over at the gardens and benches.
‘There they sit,’ said he. ‘They cuddle till they get what they want, but the likes of us . . . ’ He waved an arm at Kufalt: ‘Does he get what he wants, Fräulein? He’d like us all to think so, but does he?’
‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ said Kufalt. ‘Are you coming or not? Otherwise we’ll go home.’
‘Of course I’m coming,’ said Beerboom, suddenly becoming tearful. ‘What else can I do as you won’t give me any money?’
But once again he stopped, in silence. This time he did not look down at the park, nor into the faces of his two companions. He was feeling for something. He passed his fingers carefully over his body and produced—Liese uttered a faint shriek—a knife: an open razor.