The Drinker

by Hans Fallada

  During our conversation I had been putting my shoes on, and now I took the suitcase despite Lobedanz’s protestations. At last I had hit on the right tone for dealing with him. Alcohol, which is constantly stirring up new and different moods, had suggested it to me. Now Lobedanz became a worm again, he protested that he was only a poor worker incapable of dealing with an educated man. Of course my silver was bound to be good, bound to be. I must put it down to his stupidity—that he had thought a man like myself might have inferior silver. I pretended to be sunk in gloomy silence, which made him uneasier than ever, but to myself I was shaking with inner laughter. When we got back home, without having to be asked, Lobedanz brought out the bottle of brandy which, sure enough, he had kept ready. I reached in my pocket and asked: “How much?”

  “Two marks fifty,” he whispered, very humbly.

  “Here’s your money, and don’t you dare to bring me such rotten liquor again. Have I got to pay anything else?”

  He assured me that everything was settled.

  “Good, then get out. I want to sleep now.” He wriggled out through the door, I had managed to make him embarrassed and humble.

  But I neither felt like sleeping nor drinking. My craving for intoxication had slackened for a while, for some unknown reason I was given a short respite, during which something of my former active self came up to the surface. Perhaps this was a result of the scene I had just had with Magda, which had deeply upset me—of course I tried to think of it as little as possible. For a while I sat brooding on the sofa. It was terribly apparent that, after what had happened, I could never return home again. My old plan of weaning myself from alcohol and facing Magda and the doctors as a healthy man, had finally collapsed—in my sober moments I had never quite believed in it myself. It was also impossible to stay any longer here with Lobedanz; the idea filled me with disgust. It could only end in madness. I had to find some other way, and I believed I had a notion of what this way might be. Within the next twenty-four hours I should have to risk a great deal. I couldn’t set about my task as a drunken man.

  It must have been between two and three in the morning when I got up from the sofa and began unpacking the suitcase. I washed myself from head to foot, got half-dressed, and shaved with the utmost care. Everything went infinitely slowly. My hand was shaking so much that from time to time I despaired of ever being able to shave, but at last I managed it. From some unknown source within me, new energy arose, that gave me endurance, that allowed me just to take a few little mouthfuls of drink at long intervals.

  When at last, washed and tidied, I looked at myself in the mirror, I was astonished how well I still looked. True, my eyes were bloodshot, with pinpoint pupils, and my cheeks were rather flabby, but nobody could take me for a drunkard. I could risk it tomorrow morning, and I would risk it. I didn’t bother to go to bed. I wrapped a blanket round me and sat down on the sofa, to wait for morning. I listened. Everything was quiet in the house, but I was firmly convinced that Lobedanz was on the watch. Well, I would wait, and I trusted myself to outwit him.

  I had filled a tumbler with brandy, and put the bottle with the rest of it in the furthest corner of my room. I would have to manage till morning with this tumbler of brandy: I had made up my mind. But I only sipped it. I was dead-tired from the unwonted activity of the night. I leaned back, and was soon asleep.

  A slight clatter awoke me. I half-opened my eyes and blinked into the room, in which the morning sun had already got the upper hand of the light from the electric bulb. Lobedanz stood bent over my suitcase. He had taken a table-knife out of its baize, examined it critically and weighed it in his hand. For a while through half-closed eyelids I watched this scoundrel rummaging among the silver; then I stretched and yawned loudly like someone who is just waking, and looked round my room. It was empty. I just caught sight of the door-handle lifting into position. A glance into the suitcase convinced me that Lobedanz had contented himself for the time being with merely examining the silver. The actual pilfering was probably being reserved for my more drunken moments. I opened the window and looked out over the town. The sun had not risen far above the horizon, it must have been between six and seven o’clock. I called through the door for Lobedanz. The artful dog let some time pass before he answered. I called down to him that I would like to have my breakfast. He brought it very quickly: his cringing, almost sheeplike expression betrayed a lively alarm at the change in my bearing. I acted as if I had noticed nothing and for the first time I ate with some relish. The coffee was surprisingly good, the rolls crusty, the butter fresh and cool—that scoundrel Lobedanz certainly knew how to live.

  While I was eating, Lobedanz tidied up my bed and the wash-stand, and as he did so, he couldn’t resist throwing furtive side glances at me. His cough seemed to get worse. The brandy-bottle which he found in the corner of the room, gave him at last the excuse he had been seeking to start a conversation:

  “You’ve hardly drunk anything, sir,” he said, and held the bottle up to the light.

  “No, my dear Herr Lobedanz,” I said ironically but genially, as I spread some butter thickly on a roll. “And if you go on bringing me such hooch, I’ll soon give up drinking altogether.”

  “It was a mistake, sir,” he growled. “A mistake on the grocer’s part. As true as I stand here, I paid four marks fifty for this bottle, and the grocer gave me the wrong one. But of course I’ve only charged you the proper price, I paid the two marks myself, though I’m a poor man. I’m honest, sir …”

  “Don’t talk rubbish, Lobedanz,” I answered roughly. “You’re no more honest than you are poor. You’re an old swindler, or rather a young one, but sly enough for an old one. Perhaps that’s why I like you. Now you can take that bottle,” I suddenly cried in pretended rage, “and drink it yourself. And see there’s a decent one here in five minutes.”

  And I threw a note down on the table. He snatched it.

  “As soon as the shops open,” he assured me.

  “Not when the shops open!” I shouted still louder. “Now, this very minute! You idiot, do you think I’m going to sit awake all day after a night like this? I want to get to sleep some time.”

  With a pretence of excitement, I had jumped up, already taken off my jacket and unbuttoned my waistcoat. I had to convince him now, or the whole thing would go wrong. So I snatched up the tumbler of brandy that stood on the table, gulped it down, and cried, “There, fill it up again with that damned hooch of yours. And see there’s some other drink here in five minutes; the grocer is bound to let you in by the back door, a good customer like you!” I had torn off my waistcoat and was already unbuttoning my braces.

  “In five minutes!” Lobedanz assured me, and hurried out of the room. It was easy to detect the relief and satisfaction in his words. He had been afraid of losing his milch cow, but now I was boozing again, hallelujah!

  Hardly had I heard the front door shut than I was in my clothes again. I shut the suitcase, took it, and ran downstairs. There might be a Frau Lobedanz, and Lobedanz children, of the same gentle, insinuating, whispering, damned-roguish kind as their father, I’d never set eyes on them, and I didn’t see them this morning either. Unimpeded, I came out into the lane. Here, almost free of my tormentor, the alcohol nearly played a trick on me again. Suddenly I remembered that for the first time for weeks I was out without “provisions”, and on such a dangerous and decisive journey, while up in my room stood a newly-filled tumbler of brandy. I nearly went back, and if I had I would almost certainly have fallen again into the long-fingered blackmailing clutches of Lobedanz. But the energy which had newly awakened in the night was victorious; I shook my head and went on my way.

  19

  Of course I had no idea in which direction Lobedanz had gone, and at first I looked about me rather anxiously. But once I was out of the “shed quarter” and walking through the clean streets of my home town, I felt safer. Without hesitation, I went straight to the station and sat down in the second-class waiting-room. I knew I
was risking a great deal; if anything of my story had leaked out, I was lost. But I would have to run many more risks this morning: this sitting in the waiting-room was only a rehearsal for other important undertakings to come. Of course I could have hidden in the park for a few hours with less risk, but in my changed mood, I liked to defy danger now, though I must also confess that I was to some extent incited to it by alcohol. I did not want to be quite without it, so I ordered from the waiter, besides a big breakfast of fried eggs, sausage and cheese, a carafe of cognac as well, with which to lace my coffee while I breakfasted for the second time, in comfort, and not without appetite. During this long spun-out meal I buried myself in the local newspaper, which I had not seen for a long time. I read all the local news, including the personal columns, and became certain that no hint about me had got into the paper. It was quite feasible that Magda in her ‘concern for my well-being’ would have inserted in the paper an announcement to the effect that: E.S., a wholesale merchant, had been missing for such and such a time and was probably wandering about the neighbourhood in a state of mental confusion. Anyone having news of him etc., etc. But nothing of the kind.

  During my breakfast I was interrupted for some ten minutes by Stretz the baker, about whom I had just been reading in the newspaper. It appeared that he had been celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of his business. We get our bread from him, and now and then he buys his white flour from me. We have known each other for years. He sat down at my table and expressed surprise that we had not seen each other for so long and that I was here at the station eating his competitor’s rolls, instead of breakfasting peacefully at home off his. But all this was innocent, as I quickly noticed. I explained everything by hinting at a journey. I was sure now that no rumour of my changed way of life had penetrated beyond the very narrow circle of those concerned. Later, some distant acquaintances came into the waiting-room and, feeling quite safe, I greeted them with a friendly nod and wave of the hand.

  However, as the hands of the clock got closer to nine, the waiter had to bring me a second, and finally a third carafe of cognac—let him think what he liked about me, I was not likely to be his guest again soon.

  By five to nine I had paid. I got up, took my suitcase, and went into the street. I went along the station road, then fearlessly down our main promenade, the Ulmenallee, and so to the market square where the bank is. Here I was well inside enemy territory. Directly opposite the bank is the Town Hall, on the ground floor of which is situated the very police station that was probably called last night on my account. And one minute from the market square is my own business-place to which, perhaps, this farm-cart is rolling with its load of wheat-sacks. I really was rather excited and before I entered the bank I dried my sweating hands with my handkerchief. Then I went in.

  In the bank, I saw at a glance that, at this time of day, shortly after opening, there were only a few office-boys and typists fidgeting with papers. I put the suitcase down, hung up my hat, and went over to the counter behind which sat the clerk who looked after my account. Smiling, I bade him “Good morning” and told him that I had just returned from a lengthy journey (I pointed to my suitcase by the door) and that I would like to ascertain the state of my current account. And while I said all this lightly and without hesitation, I examined his face, inwardly trembling, for any sign of mistrust, suspicion, doubt. But nothing of this showed in the young man’s face. He willingly opened the book, totted up some figures with his pencil for a minute, and then said quite indifferently that at the moment my account stood at seven thousand eight hundred odd marks and some pfennigs.

  I could hardly conceal a start of joyous surprise, I had never expected so much in my wildest dreams. It was something of a puzzle to me how Magda had managed it. Probably the prison administration had settled up for the delivery of the cordage, but even that could not nearly have accounted for so much. Well anyway, I told myself, suppressing my happy excitement, there was money enough there, enough for the business and above all enough for me and my plans. For the moment I struggled with the temptation to draw out the whole amount, but I conquered myself. I did not want to behave meanly to Magda and the business, however meanly she had behaved to me. Apart from that, such a withdrawal, which would have looked like the closing of my account, would have attracted too much attention.

  All this went through my head like lightning, and now I said casually that I had a large payment to make today, and asked for pen and ink. Still standing by the counter, I made out a cheque for five thousand marks, and handed it to the book-keeper. With a last remnant of fear I examined his face again, but without a moment’s hesitation he made the necessary entries, stamped the cheque, and himself took it over to the cashier’s compartment. I went over too. I was animated by a feeling of proud triumph and boundless joy. Now I had done Magda beautifully: that she had been stupid enough not to give the bank the slightest hint, that showed my enormous superiority in its true light. I could have danced and shouted for joy. It was only with an effort that I suppressed a laughing fit that overtook me.

  “How would you like the money, Herr Sommer?” asked the cashier.

  “In big notes,” I said hastily, “that is, in fifties and hundreds, and about two hundred marks in small change.”

  In two minutes I had my money, put it away carefully in my breast pocket, and stepped like a proud conjuror into the market square. Just as I was going through the revolving doors, the idea occurred to me that this triumph ought really to be celebrated. Despite the early hour, I wanted to go to a little wine-bar in the market square and, with a bottle or two of burgundy, to eat a lobster or some oysters, or whatever Rohloff had, according to the season of the year.

  I step out of the door, and before me stands the inevitable, the repulsive Lobedanz, looking at me with his slimy smile.

  20

  If this had not been the open market square I would have strangled the scoundrel! As it was I only looked at him darkly, menacingly for a moment, held on tighter to my case, and without taking further notice of him, made my way toward the station. But I knew full well that he was following on my heels and soon I heard his hateful soft insinuating voice:

  “Do let me carry your case, sir! Please let me carry your case, sir!”

  I pretended I had not heard, and walked on faster. But suddenly I felt a hand near mine on the handle of the case, and, in broad daylight on the open street, Lobedanz had taken the suitcase out of my hand.

  Furiously I turned and shouted: “Give me back that case at once, Lobedanz!”

  He smiled humbly.

  “Not so loud, sir,” he begged in a whisper. “People are looking. That’s embarrassing for you, sir. Not for a poor working man like me, but for you, sir.…”

  “Give me back that case at once, Lobedanz,” I repeated, but quieter, for people really were looking at us.

  “Later, later,” he said soothingly. “I like to carry it, sir. To the station, eh?” And without waiting for an answer, he passed by me and went on ahead to the station. I followed him with a helpless feeling of impotence. I looked with hatred at this slightly bowed figure in the dark-blue jacket. Ever since those minutes during which I walked behind Lobedanz to the station, I have known how a murderer feels immediately before his crime. And I could do nothing to him, nothing at all. He was stronger than I, physically as well as morally. He only needed to call the nearest policeman, and I was lost. He knew that perfectly well, the scoundrel. If I had been a bit more calm and collected at that moment, I could have left Lobedanz peacefully in possession of my suitcase, and dodged off quickly into some side street. With such a large sum of money in my pocket, the loss of the suitcase could easily be put up with—just the ransom to buy myself free from the miserable rogue. But these thoughts did not occur to me, my blood was boiling, I could not think.

  Having reached the square in front of the station, instead of going in, Lobedanz turned into the public convenience that lay to the left, hidden by bushes. He did not look
round at me, being certain that I would follow him like a little dog. Once in there, he put the suitcase down, pulled on his fingers till the joints cracked, and said: “Now, sir, we can talk peacefully here.”

  I looked round. The water was rushing in the half-dozen urinal basins, but customers were lacking at this early hour. Lobedanz was right: we could talk in peace here.

  “And so we will!” I cried furiously. “What do you think you’re doing, Lobedanz, running after me and spying on me all the time, last night already, and now again …”

  “Spying on you?” he echoed, reproachfully. “But sir, I’ve brought you your brandy,” and he actually took it out of his trousers pocket. “You forgot it this morning. But I’m an honest man. I said to my wife: ‘The gentleman paid for the brandy, so he ought to get it.’ So here I am.”

  He held the bottle out to me.

  “Drink up, sir, I’ve uncorked it already. The cork’s quite loose.”

  I made a furious gesture. He wasn’t discouraged. He offered me the bottle again.

  “Do drink,” he insisted. “You’re such a nice gentleman when you’ve had a drop to drink. It doesn’t suit you at all when you’re sober. You’re always so irritable then.…”

  He took the cork out of the bottle and rubbed its wet butt to and fro on the neck of the bottle.

  “Listen, sir,” he said laughing, “the schnaps is calling you.”

  And really, to this day I can’t make it out, but by his idiotic behaviour the rogue got me round again. Now laughing myself, I seized the bottle, cried “You miserable scoundrel, you!” and drank and drank. Then I took the bottle away from my mouth, corked it, thrust it into my own trousers pocket, and asked: “But what do you want from me, Lobedanz? Haven’t you had everything you were supposed to get?”

  “Don’t let’s talk about that, sir,” said Lobedanz eagerly. “Don’t let’s talk about trifles like that. I know you’re an honourable man, you’re really a fine man. You wouldn’t have the heart to let a poor man die in misery.…”