The night in Lisbon

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "I picked up a bottle of Dubonnet, knocked off the neck against a corner of the bar, and brandished my murderous weapon. The patron stood still. Behind me a second bottle crashed. I didn't look around; I couldn't leave the patron out of my sight.

  " 'It's me,' said Helen, and shouted at the patron: 'Salaud! Give us our things or you won't have any face left!'

  "Her broken bottle in hand, she went into a crouch and approached the patron. I grabbed her with my free hand. Her bottle must have been Pernod, because suddenly the whole place reeked of anise. A stream of longshoreman's curses poured over the patron. Still crouching, Helen tried to struggle free from my hand. The patron retreated behind the bar.

  " 'What's going on here?' asked a voice from the door in German.

  "The patron began to grin. Helen turned around.

  "The German sergeant whom I had invented for Henri's benefit was there in person.

  " 'Is he hurt?' the sergeant asked.

  " That swine?' Helen pointed to Henri, who was still lying doubled up on the floor with his fists between his legs. 'That's not blood. Just Dubonnet.'

  " 'You're Germans?' asked the sergeant.

  " 'Yes,' I replied. 'And we've been robbed.'

  " 'Have you papers?'

  "The patron grinned. He seemed to understand some German.

  " 'Of course we have papers,' Helen fumed. 'And I must ask you to help us.' She held up her passport. 'I am Obersturmbannführer Jürgens' sister. See—' She pointed at the date in the passport. 'We're staying at the Chateau de ——' She gave a name that I had never heard in all my life. 'We've just come to Bordeaux for the day. We left our things here, with this thief. Now he claims he never saw them. Would you kindly help us.'

  "She started for the patron again. 'Is that true?' the sergeant asked him.

  " 'Of course it's true. A German woman does not lie!' said Helen.

  "That was one of the idiotic slogans of the National Socialist regime.

  " 'And who are you?' the sergeant asked me.

  " 'The chauffeur,' I said, plucking at my overalls.

  " 'All right! What are you waiting for?' the sergeant roared at the patron.

  "The man behind the counter had stopped grinning.

  " 'Do you want us to close your joint?' the sergeant asked.

  "Helen translated with relish, adding a few 'salauds' and 'sales étrangers' of her own. I had been called those names so often that it gave me a special kick to hear her calling this Frenchman a dirty foreigner in his own country.

  " 'Henri!' the patron bellowed. 'Where did you leave the stuff? It's all news to me,' he said to the sergeant. 'He must have taken it.'

  " 'He's lying,' said Helen. 'He's just trying to put the blame on his gorilla. Go on, give us our things,' she shouted at the patron, 'or we'll call the Gestapo!'

  "The patron gave Henri a kick. Henri slunk away. 'I beg your pardon,' said the patron to the sergeant. 'It's all a misunderstanding. Will you have something on me?'

  " 'Cognac,' said Helen. 'The best.'

  "The patron set a glass on the counter. Helen glared at him. He added two more. 'You're a brave woman,' said the sergeant.

  " 'A German woman fears nothing,' Helen quoted from the Nazi manual, and put down the broken Pernod bottle.

  " 'What kind of car do you drive?' the sergeant asked.

  "I looked straight into his innocent gray eyes. 'A Mercedes, of course. That's the Führer's car.'

  "He nodded. 'Beautiful place here, isn't it? Not like home, but pretty nice. How do you like it?'

  " 'Lovely. But not like home, of course.'

  "We drank. The cognac was excellent. Henri came in with our things and put them on a chair. I looked through the knapsack. Nothing was missing.

  " 'Everything in order,' I said to the sergeant.

  " 'It was the waiter's fault,' said the patron. 'You're fired, Henri. Clear out.'

  " 'Thank you, sergeant,' said Helen. 'You're a German soldier and a gentleman.'

  "The sergeant saluted. He was less than twenty-five. 'There's still the bill for those broken bottles of Pernod and Dubonnet,' said the patron, regaining his courage.

  "Helen translated. 'He's not a gentleman,' she added. 'Nothing doing. It was self-defense.'

  "The sergeant took the next bottle from the bar. 'Allow me,' he said with an air of gallantry. 'The victor's got to have some privileges.'

  " 'Madame doesn't drink Cointreau,' I said. 'Take the cognac, sergeant, even if it has been opened.'

  "The sergeant presented Helen with the bottle. I put it into the knapsack. Once outside, we said good-by. I had been afraid the soldier would want to take us to our Mercedes, but Helen handled that adroitly. His parting words were: 'Such things don't happen in our country. We have order.'

  "I looked after him. Order, I thought. With torture, bullets in the neck, and mass murder. Give me a million petty crooks like that café owner.

  " 'How do you feel?' Helen asked.

  " 'Fine. I didn't know you could curse like that.'

  "She laughed. 'I learned it in the camp. What a relief! It's taken a year of internment off my back. But where did you learn to fight with broken bottles and kick people in the family jewels?'

  "'Fighting for the rights of man,' I answered. 'We are living in an age of paradoxes. To preserve peace, we wage war.'

  "That was almost true. The only way we could keep alive was to lie and cheat. In the weeks that followed I stole fruit off the peasants' trees and milk out of their barns. It was a happy time. It was dangerous, ridiculous, sometimes heartbreaking, and often funny—but there was never any bitterness. I've just told you about the incident with the caf6 owner. Those things began to happen all the time. You've probably had the same experience?"

  I nodded. "Yes, it was funny all right, if you could look at it that way."

  "I learned to," said Schwarz. "Through Helen. She had ceased to store up the past. What I had experienced only occasionally was her daily radiant reality. Every day the past crumbled away behind her. All her experience crowded into the present. What for others spread out over a whole life was for her concentrated in the moment; but there was nothing frantic or hysterical about this concentration. It was perfectly relaxed, as serene as Mozart and as inexorable as death. Morality and responsibility in the earth-bound sense had ceased to exist, replaced by higher, almost ethereal motivations. There was no time for the commonplace. She sparkled like fireworks, but her fireworks left no ashes. I didn't know it then, but she had lost the desire to be saved; she knew it was impossible. But since I insisted, she played along—and I, like a fool, dragged her with me from one station of the Cross to the next, all twelve of them, from Bordeaux to Bayonne and all the way to Marseille, and finally here.

  "When we reached the château, it was occupied. We saw uniforms, soldiers bringing up wooden workbenches, officers in Air Force breeches and polished high boots, strutting about like strange peacocks.

  "Hidden behind a beech tree and a marble goddess in the park, we watched. It was a silken late afternoon. 'Did we leave anything?' I asked.

  " 'The apples on the trees, the air, the golden October, and our dreams,' said Helen.

  " 'We've left them everywhere,' I answered. 'Like flying cobwebs in the autumn.'

  "An officer on the terrace barked a command. 'The voice of the twentieth century,' said Helen. 'Let's get out of here. Where will we sleep tonight?'

  " 'Somewhere in the hay,' I said. 'Or maybe even in a bed. In any case, together.'

  CHAPTER 16

  "Do you remember the square outside the consulate in Bayonne?" Schwarz asked. "The refugees would line up in columns of four, but after a while the ranks would disintegrate; the refugees would panic and block the entrance, weeping and groaning and fighting for a place."

  "I remember," I said. "There were place tickets that entitled you to stand outside. But the crowd blocked the entrance just the same. When a window opened, the moaning became a screaming and a howling. They had to thr
ow the passports out of the windows. A hundred arms shot up. The crowd looked like a forest."

  The girls had gone off to bed except for two. One of them, who was rather pretty, sauntered over to our table with a yawn. "You're funny. All you do is talk and talk. It's our bedtime now. But the cafes are all open if you want to talk some more."

  She opened the door. White and strident, the morning burst in. The sun was shining. She closed the door behind us. I looked at my watch. "The ship won't be sailing today," said Schwarz. "Not until tomorrow night."

  He saw that I didn't believe him. "Let's go and see," he said.

  After the silent brothel, the noise at first was almost unbearable. Schwarz stood still. A crowd of children ran by, carrying baskets full of fish. "Watch them all running and shouting," he said. "As if no one were missing."

  We went down to the harbor. The water was choppy, a cool wind was blowing, the sun was harsh and without warmth; sails fluttered in the breeze. Everyone was furiously busy with the morning, his work, and himself. We drifted through the bustle like two withered leaves. "You don't believe the ship isn't sailing until tomorrow?" Schwarz asked.

  He looked very tired and worn in the merciless light. "I can't," I said. "You told me that it was sailing today. Let's ask. It means too much to me."

  "As much as it did to me. And then all of a sudden it means nothing at all."

  I did not reply. We walked on. A desperate impatience seized hold of me. Life called me with its cries and colors. The night was over. Must we go on conjuring up shadows?

  We stopped outside a shop covered with posters. In the window a white sign announced that the sailing had been postponed until the following day.

  "I'm almost done," said Schwarz.

  I had gained a day. But in spite of the sign, I tried the door. It was still locked. Ten or a dozen people were watching me. From all sides they came a few steps closer as I pressed the door handle. They were refugees. When they saw that the door was still locked, they turned away and pretended to be looking into shop windows.

  "You see that you still have time," said Schwarz, and suggested that we have some coffee in the port.

  He drank the hot coffee quickly, cradling the cup in his hands as though to warm them. "What time is it?" he asked.

  "Half past seven'

  "One hour," he murmured. "They'll be coming in an hour." He looked up. "I didn't want to tell you a sob story. Is that what it sounds like?"

  "No."

  "What does it sound like?"

  "Like the story of a love."

  His features relaxed. "Thank you," he said. He pulled himself together. "The awful part began in Biarritz. I had heard that a small ship was putting out from Saint-Jean-de-Luz. There was nothing to it. When I arrived back at the pension, I found Helen lying on the floor. Her face was convulsed. 'A cramp,' she whispered. It will pass. Leave me alone.'

  "I'll go for a doctor.'

  " 'No doctor,' she panted. T don't need one. It will pass. Come back in five minutes. Leave me alone! Do what I say. No doctor. Go away!' she cried. T know what I'm doing. Come back in ten minutes. Then you —'

  "She waved me away. She was unable to speak. But her eyes were so full of a terrible, incomprehensible plea that I left. I stood in front of the house, staring at the street Then I inquired about a doctor and was told that a Dr. Dubois lived a few streets away. I ran to his place. He put on his things and came along with me.

  "When we returned, Helen was lying on the bed. Her face was damp with sweat, but she was quieter. 'You've brought a doctor,' she said as reproachfully as if I had been her worst enemy.

  "Dr. Dubois approached the bed with little mincing steps. 'I'm not sick,' she said.

  " 'Madame,' said Dubois with a smile, 'suppose we let the doctor decide that.'

  "He opened his bag and took out his instruments. 'Leave us alone,' Helen said to me.

  "I left the room in confusion. I remembered what the camp doctor had said. I walked up and down the street, staring at the Michelin tire ad on the garage across the street. The fat man made of tires became a dark symbol, compounded of entrails and crawling white worms. I heard hammering from the garage, as though someone were making a sheet-iron coffin, and all at once I knew that this threat had long been with us, a livid background against which our life had taken on sharper contours, like a sunlit forest against a wall of storm clouds.

  "I don't know how long it was before Dubois came out. He had a little goatee, and I guessed that his practice consisted chiefly in prescribing mild remedies for the coughs and hangovers of the summer people. That mincing walk of his threw me into despair. This was the dead season in Biarritz; he was grateful no doubt for any ailment that turned up. 'Your wife . . .' he said and paused.

  "I glared at him. 'Just tell me the truth or don't say anything.'

  "For a moment a thin, very touching smile changed him completely. 'Take this,' he said, pulling out a prescription pad and writing something illegible. 'Go to a drugstore and have it filled. Make sure they return the prescription. You can use it as often as you have to. I've put that down.'

  "I took the white paper. 'What is it?' I asked.

  " 'Nothing you can do anything about,' he answered. 'Remember that. Nothing you can do anything about.'

  " 'What is it? Don't be so mysterious. I want the truth.'

  "He did not reply. "When you need it, go to a drugstore,' he said. 'They'll give it to you.'

  "'What is it?'

  " 'A powerful sedative. You can only get it with a doctor's prescription.'

  "I took the prescription. 'How much do I owe you?'

  " 'Nothing.'

  "He minced away. At the corner he turned around. 'Get it and leave it somewhere where your wife can find it. Don't talk to her about it. She knows. She's wonderful.'

  " 'Helen,' I said to her. 'What does all this mean? You are sick. Why won't you tell me about it?'

  " 'Don't torture me,' she replied very feebly. 'Let me live in my own way.'

  " 'You don't want to talk about it?'

  " She shook her head. 'There's nothing to talk about.'

  " 'Isn't there anything I can do to help you?'

  " 'No, dearest,' she said. 'This time you can't help me. If you could, I'd tell you so.'

  " 'I still have the little Degas. I can sell it here. There are rich people in Biarritz. It will bring in enough money to put you in a hospital.'

  " 'And have me arrested? Besides, it wouldn't do any good. Believe me.'

  " 'Is it as bad as all that?'

  "The look in her eyes was so harried and miserable that I asked her no more. I decided to drop in on Dubois and ask him again."

  Schwarz fell silent. "Did she have cancer?" I asked.

  He nodded. "I should have suspected it long before. In Switzerland they had told her that she could be operated on again but that it would do no good. She had had one operation; that was the scar I had seen. The specialist had told her the truth. She could choose between a few more useless operations that would keep her permanently in the hospital and a short life outside. He had also told her that there was no assurance that she would live any longer in the hospital. She had decided against the operations."

  "She didn't want to tell you?"

  "No. She hated her sickness. She tried to ignore it. She felt soiled, as though worms were crawling around inside her. She had the feeling that the disease was a kind of jellyfish, living and growing inside her. She thought I would be repelled if I knew about it. Perhaps she even hoped to make her cancer go away by ignoring it."

  "And you never spoke to her about it?"

  "Very little. She spoke to Dubois, and later on I made Dubois tell me the truth. He gave me more drugs. He told me the pain would increase; but it was also possible, he said, that the end would be quick and merciful.

  "I didn't speak of it to Helen. She didn't want me to. She threatened to kill herself if I didn't leave her alone. After that I pretended to believe her—to believe that it was
harmless cramps.

  "We had to leave Biarritz. We deceived each other. Helen watched me and I watched her, but soon the deception acquired a strange power. First it destroyed what I feared most: the notion of time. The notion of weeks and months faded away. It still terrified us to think how little time we had ahead of us, but our fear became as transparent as glass. It was no longer a cloud over our days; it became a shield that deflected all disturbing thoughts; they simply couldn't come in. I had my fits of despair when Helen was asleep. I stared at her face as she lay there breathing gently, and at my sound hands, and I understood the terrible forlornness that our skin imposes on us, the gulf that can never be bridged. My healthy blood was powerless to cure the sick blood of my beloved. That was beyond understanding. And so is death.