Arch of Triumph

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “You were not married to him, were you?” Ravic asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “The law. His estate. The police will want to make a list—of what belonged to you and—to him. You must keep what belongs to you. What is his, will be retained by the police. For his relatives should they show up. Had he any?”

  “Not in France.”

  “You had been living with him, hadn’t you?”

  The woman did not answer.

  “For a long time?”

  “For two years.”

  Ravic looked around. “Haven’t you any suitcases?”

  “I have—they were over there against the wall—last night.”

  “I see, the patron.” Ravic opened the door. The charwoman with the broom started back. “Mother,” he said, “for your age you are much too inquisitive. Get me the patron.”

  The charwoman was about to protest.

  “You’re right,” Ravic interrupted her. “At your age one has nothing but inquisitiveness left. Nevertheless, get me the patron.”

  The old woman mumbled something and disappeared, pushing the broom before her.

  “I’m sorry,” Ravic said, “but it can’t be helped. It may seem vulgar, yet we’d better do it right now. It’s simpler, even though you may not understand it at the moment.”

  “I do,” the woman said.

  Ravic looked at her. “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The hotelkeeper entered, a paper in his hand. He did not knock at the door.

  “Where are the suitcases?” Ravic asked.

  “First the bill. Here. You’ve got to pay the bill first.”

  “First the suitcases. No one has as yet refused to pay your bill. The room is still rented. And next time knock at the door before you enter. Let me have the bill and get us the suitcases.”

  The man gave him a furious look. “You’ll get your money all right,” Ravic said.

  The patron left. He slammed the door.

  “Have you any money in the suitcases?” Ravic asked the woman.

  “I—no, I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know where there might be any money? In his suit? Or wasn’t there any?”

  “He had money in his wallet.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Under—” The woman hesitated. “He kept it under his pillow most of the time.”

  Ravic got up. He carefully lifted the pillow on which the head of the dead man rested and drew forth a black leather wallet. He gave it to the woman. “Take out the money and everything that is important to you. Quickly. There is no time left for sentimentality. You’ve got to live. What other purpose could it serve? To molder at police headquarters?”

  He looked out the window for a minute. A truckdriver was having a row with the driver of a grocer’s wagon drawn by two horses. He was berating him with the full superiority conferred by a heavy motor. Ravic turned around again.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give the wallet back to me.”

  He pushed it under the pillow. He noticed that it was thinner than it had been. “Put the things into your bag,” he said.

  She did it obediently. Ravic picked up the bill and perused it. “Have you already paid a bill here?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “This is a bill for two weeks. Did he pay—” Ravic hesitated. It struck him as strange to speak of the dead man as Mr. Raszinsky. “Were the bills always paid promptly?”

  “Yes, always. He often said that—in our situation it is important always to pay promptly when you have to.”

  “That scoundrel of a patron! Have you any idea where the last bill might be?”

  “No. I only know that he kept all his papers in the small suitcase.”

  There was a knock at the door. Ravic could not help smiling. The porter brought in the suitcases. The patron came in after him. “Are these all?” Ravic asked the woman.

  “Yes.”

  “Naturally these are all,” the hotelkeeper growled. “What did you expect?”

  Ravic picked up the smaller suitcase. “Have you got a key to this? No? Where can the keys be?”

  “In his suit. In the wardrobe.”

  Ravic opened the wardrobe. It was empty. “Well?” he asked the patron.

  “The patron turned to the porter. “Well?” he spat.

  “The suit is outside,” stammered the porter.

  “Why?”

  “To be brushed and cleaned.”

  “He does not need that any more,” Ravic said.

  “Bring it in at once, you damned thief,” the patron yelled.

  The porter gave him a funny look, winked, and left. He returned immediately with the suit. Ravic shook the jacket, then the trousers. There was a clinking sound. Ravic hesitated a moment. Strange, going through the pockets of a dead man’s trousers. As if the suit had died with him. And strange to feel that way. A suit was just a suit.

  He took the keys out of the pocket and opened the suitcase. On top lay a canvas folder. “Is this it?” he asked the woman.

  She nodded.

  Ravic found the bill at once. The bill was receipted. He showed it to the patron. “You have overcharged for a whole week.”

  “What of it!” he shouted. “And the trouble! The mess! The excitement! All that is nothing? My gall bladder is acting up again, that ought to be included, too! You yourself said that my guests might leave. The damage is much greater! And the bed? The room that must be fumigated? The bedclothes that are filthy?”

  “The bedclothes are on the bill. Also a dinner for twenty-five francs that he was supposed to have eaten last night. Did you eat anything last night?” he asked the woman.

  “No. But couldn’t I just pay for it? It is—I’d like to get it over with quickly.”

  To get it over with quickly, Ravic thought. We know that feeling. And then—the silence and the dead man. The thud of silence. Better so—even if it is ugly. He picked up a pencil from the table and began to figure. Then he handed the bill to the patron. “Do you agree?”

  The latter glanced at the final figure. “Do you think I am crazy?”

  “Do you agree?” Ravic repeated.

  “Who are you anyway? Why are you meddling?”

  “I am a brother,” Ravic said. “Do you agree?”

  “Plus ten per cent for service and taxes. Otherwise not.”

  “All right.” Ravic added on the figures. “You’ll have to pay two hundred and ninety-two francs,” he said to the woman.

  She took three hundred-franc notes out of her bag and gave them to the patron, who grabbed them and turned to go. “The room must be vacated by six o’clock. Otherwise it will count as another day.”

  “We get eight francs change,” Ravic said.

  “And the concierge?”

  “That we’ll settle ourselves.”

  Sullenly the patron counted out eight francs on the table. “Sales étrangers,” he muttered and left the room.

  “The pride of some French hotelkeepers consists in their hatred of foreigners from whom they make their living.” Ravic noticed the tip-conscious porter hovering at the door. “Here—”

  The porter looked first at the bill. “Merci, monsieur,” he announced then and left.

  “Now we still have the police to deal with and then he can be taken away,” Ravic said, looking toward the woman. She was sitting quietly in the corner among the suitcases, in the slowly gathering dusk. “When one is dead, one becomes very important—when one is alive, nobody cares.” He looked at the woman again. “Would you like to go downstairs? There must be a writing room downstairs.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll go with you. A friend of mine will come to settle the matter with the police. Doctor Veber. We may wait for him downstairs.”

  “No, I’d like to stay here.”

  “There’s nothing to do. Why do you want to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. He—won’t
be here much longer. And I often—he wasn’t happy with me. I was often away. Now I will stay.”

  She spoke calmly, without sentimentality.

  “He won’t know that now,” Ravic said.

  “It isn’t that—”

  “All right. Then we’ll have a drink here. You need it.” Ravic did not wait for an answer. He rang the bell. Surprisingly the waiter appeared promptly. “Bring us two large cognacs.”

  “In here?”

  “Yes. Where else?”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The waiter brought two glasses and a bottle of Courvoisier. He stared toward the corner where the bed glimmered whitely in the dusk. “Shall I turn on the light?” he asked.

  “No. But you can leave the bottle here.”

  The waiter put the tray on the table and departed as quickly as he could.

  Ravic took the bottle and filled the glasses. “Drink this, it will do you good.”

  He expected the woman would refuse and he would have to persuade her. But she emptied the glass without hesitation.

  “Is there anything else of value in the suitcases that aren’t yours?”

  “No.”

  “Something you would like to keep? That could be useful to you? Why don’t you take a look?”

  “No. There is nothing in them. I know.”

  “Not even in the small suitcase?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know what he kept in it.”

  Ravic picked up the suitcase and put it on the small table near the window. A few bottles; some underwear; a few notebooks; a box of water colors; brushes; a book; in a compartment of the canvas folder two bank notes wrapped in tissue paper. He held them up to the light. “Here is a hundred dollars,” he said. “Take it. You can live on this for a while. We’ll put the suitcase with your belongings. It could just as well have been yours.”

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  “Possibly you find all this disgusting. But it has to be done. It is important to you. It will give you a little time.”

  “I don’t find it disgusting. Only I couldn’t have done it myself.”

  Ravic filled the glasses again. “Have another drink.”

  She emptied the glass slowly. “Do you feel better now?” he asked.

  She looked at him. “Neither better nor worse. Nothing.” The dusk enveloped her. Sometimes the red reflections of the neon lights flickered across her face and hands. “I can’t think at all,” she said, “as long as he is here.”

  The two ambulance men turned back the blanket and put the stretcher down near the bed. Then they lifted the body. They did it quickly and in a businesslike manner. Ravic stood close to the woman to be at hand in case she fainted. Before the men covered the body, he bent down and took the small wooden Madonna from the night table. “I think that belongs to you,” he said. “Don’t you want to keep it?”

  “No.”

  He gave it to her. She did not take it. He opened the smaller suitcase and put it in.

  The ambulance men covered the corpse with a cloth. Then they lifted the stretcher. The door was too narrow and the corridor outside was not very wide. They tried to get it through; but it was impossible. The stretcher hit against the wall.

  “We must take him off,” said the older man. “We can’t turn the corner this way.”

  He looked at Ravic. “Come,” Ravic said to the woman. “We’ll wait downstairs.”

  She shook her head.

  “All right,” he said to the man. “Do what you think necessary.”

  Both men lifted the body, holding it by the feet and shoulders, and put it on the floor. Ravic wanted to say something. He watched the woman. She did not move. He kept silent. The men carried the stretcher into the hall. Then they came back into the dusk and carried the body out into the dimly lit corridor. Ravic followed them. They had to lift the stretcher very high in order to go down the stairs. Their faces swelled and became red and wet with perspiration under the weight, and the dead body swung heavily above them. Ravic’s eyes followed them until they reached the foot of the stairs. Then he went back.

  The woman was standing near the window, looking out. The car was parked on the street. The men pushed the stretcher into it like bakers pushing bread into the oven. Then they climbed up on their seats, the motor roared as if someone were crying out from underground, and the car shot around the corner in a sharp curve.

  The woman turned around. “You should have left before,” Ravic said. “Why did you have to see the end of it?”

  “I could not. I could not leave before him. Don’t you understand that?”

  “Yes. Come. Have another drink.”

  “No.”

  Veber had turned on the light when the ambulance and police came. The room seemed bigger now that the body was gone. Bigger and strangely dead; as though the body had gone out and death alone was left.

  “Do you want to stay here in the hotel? I imagine not.”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any friends here?”

  “No, no one.”

  “Do you know a hotel where you’d like to live?”

  “No.”

  “There is a small hotel in the neighborhood, similar to this one. Clean and decent. The Hôtel de Milan. We might find something for you there.”

  “Couldn’t I go to the hotel where—to your hotel?”

  “The International?”

  “Yes. I—there is—I know it by now somehow—it is better than one entirely unknown—”

  “The International is not the right hotel for women,” Ravic said. That would be the finishing touch, he thought. In the same hotel. I am not a nurse. And besides—maybe she thinks I already have some sort of responsibility. That could be. “I can’t advise you to go there,” he said in a harsher voice than he intended. “It is always overcrowded. With refugees. Stay at the Hôtel de Milan. If you don’t like it there, you may move wherever you like.”

  The woman looked at him. He felt she knew what he was thinking and he was embarrassed. But it was better to be embarrassed for an instant and to be left alone later.

  “Good,” the woman said. “You are right.”

  Ravic ordered the suitcases carried down to a taxi. The Hôtel de Milan was only a few minutes’ ride. He rented a room and went upstairs with the woman. It was a room on the second floor, with wallpaper of rose-garlands, a bed, a wardrobe, and a table with two chairs. “Is this all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Very good.”

  Ravic eyed the wallpaper. It was terrible. “At least it seems to be clean in here,” he said. “Bright and clean.”

  “Yes.”

  The suitcases were brought upstairs. “Now you have everything here.”

  “Yes, thanks. Many thanks.”

  She sat down on the bed. Her face was pale and expressionless. “You should go to bed. Do you think you will be able to sleep?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He took an aluminum tube out of his pocket and shook a few tablets out of it. “Here is something to make you sleep. With water. Do you want to take it now?”

  “No, later.”

  “All right. I’ll go now. I’ll look you up one of these days. Try to sleep as soon as possible. Here is the address of the funeral parlor in case something comes up. But don’t go there. Think of yourself. I’ll come around.” Ravic hesitated a moment. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Madou. Joan Madou.”

  “Joan Madou. All right. I’ll remember it.” He knew he would not remember it and he would not look her up. But because he knew it he wished to keep up appearances. “I’d better write it down,” he said and took a prescription pad out of his vest pocket. “Here—write it yourself. That’s simpler.”

  She took the pad and wrote down her name. He looked at it, tore the sheet off, and stuck it in a side pocket of his coat. “Go to bed right away,” he said. “Tomorrow everything will seem different. It sounds stupid and trite, but it is true: all you need now is sleep and a littl
e time. A certain amount of time that you have to get through. Do you know that?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Take the tablets and sleep well.”

  “Yes, thank you. Thanks for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I really don’t know.”

  She offered her hand. It was cool to the touch and she had a firm clasp. Good, he thought. There is some determination here already.

  Ravic stepped into the street. He inhaled the moist, soft wind. Automobiles, people, a few early whores already at the corners, brasseries, bistros, the smell of tobacco, apéritifs, and gasoline—quick, fluctuating life. How sweet it could taste in passing! He looked up at the hotel front. A few lighted windows. Behind one of them the woman was sitting now and staring straight ahead. He took the slip with her name out of his pocket, tore it up, and threw it away. Forget. What a word, he thought. Full of horror, comfort, and apparitions! Who could live without forgetting? But who could forget enough? The ashes of memory that ground one’s heart. Only when one had nothing more to live for, was one free.

  He went to the Place de l’Etoile. A great crowd filled the square. Searchlights had been placed behind the Arc de Triomphe. They illuminated the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A huge blue-white-red flag waved in the wind in front of it. It was the celebration of the twentieth anniversary of the 1918 Armistice. The sky was overcast and the beam of the searchlights threw the shadow of the flag against the floating clouds, dull and blurred and torn. It looked like a ragged flag which gradually melted into the slowly darkening sky. Somewhere a military band was playing. It sounded weak and thin. There was no singing. The crowd stood silent. “Armistice,” an old woman said at Ravic’s side. “I lost my husband in the last war. Now it’s my son’s turn. Armistice. Who knows what next year will bring.…”

  4

  THE FEVER CHART over the bed was new and clean. Only the name was on it. Lucienne Martinet. Buttes-Chaumont. Rue Clavel.

  The girl’s face on the pillow was gray. She had been operated on the night before. Ravic carefully listened to her heart. Then he straightened up. “Better,” he said. “The blood transfusion worked a minor miracle. If she lasts one more day she has a chance.”