Havoc

by Havoc (retail) (epub)

  “What do I care about the point of view?”

  Kryger also got down off the low cabinet.

  “Precisely. But neither can you budge from your viewpointless point of view. It’s as if you want to run off to all corners of the world at the same time—”

  For a little while Jastrau remained standing still with his eyes shut. His head was swimming. He smiled wearily as he said, “Well, I guess I’ll be going. I can’t stand it up here any longer.”

  “It was nice to talk with you, Herr Jastrau.”

  “Yes, and to make it clear that my talents are very limited.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it exactly that way.”

  Then, with a quick handshake, Kryger disappeared into the telegram editor’s office, while Jastrau quietly went and mingled with the guests in the vestibule, the celebrities. A single one among them called out his name. He did not stop, but went on to the stairway, intent on leaving.

  “Well, here you are—at last.”

  He ran right into Steffensen, who stood on the landing with his hands in his pockets and his cap perched on the back of his head. He looked like a jobless drifter as he stood there rocking on unsteady legs.

  “I’d like to buy you a drink, now that I have some money,” he said, grinning.

  Jastrau looked at him and suddenly experienced again the animosity he had felt upon first meeting him.

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “Oh, rubbish—”

  “No, I’m going home.”

  “Nonsense. Here I’ve been running around looking for you. I was up there in the lecture hall,” he said with a toss of his head in that direction. “Phew! I laid myself open to an encounter with my old man. And what a look he gave me! He was up there listening to the election returns. Ugh! He looked so high and mighty, sitting there staring at his pink fingernails. He was with that red-haired fellow. You know the one I mean—”

  What a way to talk about his father. But there was something else that gave Jastrau a start. Stefani and Vuldum! They had been talking together. So it was Vuldum who had spilled the beans. He had thought as much. But why? Why had he done it? The other evening Vuldum had sat listening to the review with evident relish, but nevertheless—

  “Let’s go down and have a highball,” said Steffensen.

  In the Bar des Artistes the election-night mood was even more frenetic than up at Dagbladet. The room was obscured in a thick blue cloud of tobacco smoke, the steady hum of voices rose now and then to a tumult of laughter, and the sound of crackling ice came incessantly from the cocktail shaker. “Four highballs here!” “Bacardi!” “A small Dubonnet!” “Champagne!” And in the background, the steady droning of the phonograph—Hawaiian guitar music, a saxophone, xylophone, and a Negro chorus singing the blues—a mild but sustained anesthetic that served to provide a rhythmic background for the monotonous rounds of highballs and cocktails. And whenever the phonograph stopped, a new and unceasing sound rent the atmosphere from a ventilator—a noise that unhinged one’s brain.

  The room was alive with festivity, and Jastrau and Steffensen gazed out at the innumerable heads. Red and glistening bald pates. Craniums with twenty white hairs, carefully parted. Hair brushed back in pompadour style, with a distinguished sprinkling of gray around the ears. Hair with expansive bald patches over the temples. Men and more men. A solitary smooth, round, blond, page-boy bob, so even that it must have been cut with the help of a bowl. And a single blue-black hairdo on a woman with a nasal voice. Otherwise, men. Only men. Hoarse voices and piercing cackles as from a chicken yard. And in the background, the white face of the clock and Lundbom’s round, flushed, ingratiating countenance—sun and moon in the same quarter of the sky.

  “My, how good it seems not to have to think,” Jastrau said in a tone of relief.

  Lundbom nodded to them familiarly with a gracious smile. What? Did he already know him?

  Lundbom nodded again. “Good evening, Herr Jastrau—Herr Editor.” He even spoke to him by name. A warm, comfortable feeling came over him, a sense of being at home. And there, at the round table, sat Kjær and Little P. How ridiculous! He had been in the place only once before. And already he had the cozy feeling of being at home.

  At length they found chairs and sank submerged into the sea of people and the hum of voices as if into a big soft feather bed. Steffensen stretched out his legs and brusquely ordered whiskey, and soon two glasses stood before them, sweating and fizzing, with a subdued tinkling of ice like bells from a fairyland.

  “I can’t think tonight,” said Jastrau.

  “Why do you have to think? We came here to relax,” said Steffensen with a grin.

  “And I find myself thinking anyhow.”

  “Don’t you think I know it? It’s the phonograph that’s putting ideas into your head.”

  And it was not very long before Jastrau was involved in a long political dissertation. “The Social Democrats will win. You’ll see.” Steffensen laughed and replied with the monotonous, one-syllable word that expressed his views on the subject. “Shit,” he said, then laughed again. But all the while his eyes had a cold, glassy luster that made chills run up Jastrau’s spine.

  He went on, “You’ll see. An election like this is an absolute waste of time.” Steffensen’s rigid lips twisted in a smiling grimace, but the expression in his eyes remained the same. “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. Because it’s not the parliament that governs. It’s nothing but a safety valve for the people’s craving for power.”

  “U-uh, u-uh,” came the voices of a Negro chorus from the phonograph. And Jastrau’s thoughts continued to flow from him like long, unending strips of paper. “U-uh,” sang the Negroes. “We’ll have a new government, but we’ll have the same old department heads.” “Uh-uh, u-uh.” “Damned if anyone can make out who governs Denmark, but in any event it isn’t parliament.”

  “No, thank God,” growled Steffensen. He sat slouched against the wall—an overgrown lout, almost a hooligan. Now and then Lundbom glanced at him mistrustfully.

  Jastrau did not really care about being with him. He had no graces whatever. Everything was out of proportion—his forehead was too high, his teeth were so small that it looked as if he had too many of them, and the pores were too conspicuous in a nose that seemed abnormally large, like that of an adolescent boy.

  But there was, after all, that noteworthy poem—a bit of arson committed by a neurotic boy. He was inclined to view him in the light of that poem.

  “And isn’t it strange,” he went on, “that all these things I think about—all these political matters—seem so unreal to me? Including your game with the police. Yes, now you’ll be given an amnesty. Isn’t it strange that I seem to find far more reality in that poem you let me have than in all this other stuff? And by the way, I wanted to ask you—”

  He stopped suddenly. Steffensen’s face had turned deathly pale.

  Jastrau followed his glance. Down at the entrance, a tall figure had thrust aside the red portieres and was making a conspicuous appearance with his light-colored coat, wavy crown of white hair, and radiant, smooth-shaven smile. It was the eternally young H. C. Stefani. And behind his shoulder, Jastrau saw Vuldum’s long chalk-white face and the black St. Peter’s dome.

  Jastrau did not want to be seen by them and ducked his head. But they came nearer and stopped right behind Jastrau’s chair.

  “No, it’s too crowded here,” he heard Stefani say.

  Steffensen, on the other hand, sat directly facing them. They could not help seeing him as he sat with his head leaned against the wall so that his cap was lifted to reveal his tousled hair. Why did he keep his cap on in such a place anyway? His face was tilted slightly to one side and the light fell directly on it. The inexplicable expression of anger that was always in evidence about his lips became more coarse and pronounced, and his eyes glinted green as ice.

  Suddenly Jastrau felt a finger tap him on the shoulder. He shrank into himself, but turned his hea
d. It was Arne Vuldum’s chalk-white face that nodded at him.

  “Good evening, Ole,” he said with a polite but deadly smile. “We’re leaving,” he added. His tone was indulgent and friendly. Then he looked across at Steffensen and pursed up his lips astringently.

  H. C. Stefani nodded coldly.

  Jastrau could only nod and smile vaguely. Was his smile polite enough? Or did it reflect his confusion—give him away? The sweat stood out on his forehead.

  And then the two gentlemen were gone, on their way out of the place again—two tall, dignified backs. Vuldum looked as if he had been lifted high above the crowd.

  Slowly they vanished behind the red portieres—with a proper theatrical touch, the way a portiere should be handled.

  Jastrau could hear Steffensen getting his breath back. But he was pale as a corpse and his eyelids were white and bloodless.

  “Two whiskeys, waiter,” he said.

  “Shall I take the gentleman’s hat?” the little waiter inquired impertinently.

  “All right,” said Steffensen, disregarding the tone of voice and indifferently handing over his cap. “But let’s have two whiskeys.”

  Then, with a serious expression, he suddenly leaned forward and, looking Jastrau straight in the eye, said brusquely: “Now, no more talk about politics. I’m here to have a good time.” Then, with a sigh: “God knows I need it.”

  “What shall we talk about?”

  “You might tell me a dirty story. That would do me some good.” But his voice sounded insincere. There was something furtive about it.

  Jastrau shook his head.

  “Well, then I know one, and it’s the best story in the world,” said Steffensen. It was he who wanted to tell a story, and right away. He made a wry face. Was he being cynical or just self-conscious? One thing was certain—the look in his eyes made it clear that he was watching for something. He was carefully observing every expression on Jastrau’s face.

  “You see, there’s this man who meets his doctor on the street. The man is embarrassed and looks down at his pink fingernails. ‘Look,’ he says to the doctor, ‘my son is sick—he’s picked up a disease.’ ‘Well,’ says the doctor, ‘nothing serious, I hope.’ ‘No,’ the man tells him, ‘it’s only that—well, you understand—these youngsters don’t know how to look out for themselves.’ ‘Well, ha ha, old boy, don’t let that worry you,’ says the doctor. ‘Just send him up to me and we’ll soon have him fixed up.’ ”

  Steffensen related the story very naturally, as if it might have been based on fact. He had obviously told it many times before. He went on:

  “But then the fine gentleman looks at the doctor for a little while and says, ‘Yes, but you see it’s our housemaid who’s—’ ‘Ah, ha ha!’ laughs the doctor, ‘then send her up to see me along with the boy. Oh, these young people, these young people, ha ha!’ And the doctor shakes his head. ‘But,’ says the fine gentleman, looking down at his pink fingernails, ‘it’s worse than that, because, you see, I and the house-maid—well, you know, it’s hard to leave the lambs alone.’ At this the doctor begins to roar with laughter. ‘Ah, you old goat—a youngster’s disease, is that what it is?’ he says. But then suddenly he stops, grows thoughtful, and asks nervously: ‘What about your wife? She isn’t—she didn’t get it too, did she?’ The other man nods. ‘You don’t say!’ says the doctor, beginning to look terrified. ‘Now I’ll have to say good-bye. I just remembered an appointment, and I’ll have to hurry.’ ”

  Jastrau let out an obliging roar of laughter. But Steffensen was staring at him in dead seriousness, a questioning look in his eyes. His mouth hung open, as if he were afflicted with a bad case of adenoids.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it?” he asked in an almost imbecile fashion.

  “Yes, very funny.” And Jastrau laughed again.

  “I mean, it’s really comical. A really comical story, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s a fine story.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? It seems so to me. Ha ha.” But Steffensen’s laughter sounded hollow.

  Jastrau looked at him closely. There was something he didn’t understand. Steffensen’s eyes had a faraway look in them, and he stopped gaping and drew his lips together tightly. There was nothing to indicate that he had enjoyed the story. Then suddenly he asked in a voice that betrayed nervousness:

  “No one could possibly misunderstand it, do you think? It’s comical, isn’t it? It couldn’t be—be taken seriously, could it?”

  “Are you always so serious when you tell dirty stories? Do you always analyze them so thoroughly?”

  “Well—no,” Steffensen said stiffly. “But now we’d better have a couple more whiskeys.”

  He took several long pulls at his drink, and with each swallow his Adam’s apple shot forth like a clenched fist.

  Then Jastrau thought it was his friendly duty to come up with a story himself.

  But when he had told it, Steffensen’s laughter sounded strangely cold and unsympathetic.

  In the meantime, the commotion around them had grown more boisterous. Some of the customers were shouting. An advertising agent and a lawyer had gotten into a quarrel, and a little waiter was scurrying around, trying to separate them with the help of one of his colleagues who looked just as boyish. The waiters at the Bar des Artistes always looked as if they had just grown out of their bellboy uniforms.

  “Two more whiskeys,” Steffensen bellowed.

  “Hadn’t we better call it a night?” Jastrau objected. But Steffensen only stared at him with a sober yet spiteful expression.

  “Are you with me, or aren’t you?”

  Jastrau felt himself growing weary.

  “Now go ahead and drink, and don’t be a spoilsport,” Steffensen growled.

  “Yes, that’s right.” The remark came from a fat old man with a blood-red face who had suddenly staggered up to their table and was wedging his colossal bulk between them. A white expanse of dress shirt protruded from between his vest and the top of his pants, as if he were coming apart. “That’s right. You should stop being a bore. That’s what you should do.” The words drooled from his thick lips. “How about a drink, boys? That’s the stuff. Don’t be a bore.” He began poking a finger at Steffensen’s chest, but staggered as he did so.

  “Oh go on, you old buffalo! Why don’t you look where you’re going?” Steffensen exclaimed, grinning.

  The two waiters came running toward them, but the old man had regained his balance. “My name is Larsen. Ladies’ lingerie.” His face lit up in a crafty alcoholic smile. “A dangerous line of business. Nothing for young fellows to get into. Nothing for little Buster-boy here.” He flung his arms around the little waiter and tapped him on the head. “We want some highballs here,” he said, brushing the back of his hand across the tabletop so that the glasses capsized and the whiskey ran out over the table. “Highballs, little Buster-boy—highballs!”

  Finally his bulky frame was shoved into a chair, and he sat staring at Jastrau with moist, lusterless oyster-eyes.

  “You’re a tax collector,” he said. “I can tell by your looks. Ho! But you look like a nice fellow. Ooh—the way you’re wobbling around, Buster-boy!” The waiter was wiping off the drenched table top. “And you,” he went on, turning to Steffensen, “no—you’re certainly no tax-collector—ha ha—and it was you who called me a buffalo. But look—what’s happened to those drinks?”

  Steffensen laughed loudly.

  “Are you buying cigars too, grandpa?”

  “Now, now—no sponging young man—no sponging.” Jastrau shoved back his chair.

  “I’d better be getting home,” he said.

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Steffensen.

  “Right you are. Pure nonsense,” philosophized Larsen, the lingerie man. “Who said ‘home?’ We never go home—we never go home,” he hummed.

  At this point, Jastrau noticed Steffensen looking at him speculatively. He was still sober.

  “Look,” Steffensen said, “I forgot
to get the key from Bernhard. I don’t suppose I could spend the night on your sofa again?”

  Jastrau nodded.

  *Names of Danish political parties are not necessarily descriptive of their rightist or leftist orientation. The Radical Liberals were somewhat to the right of the Social Democrats. The Left Agrarians and the Conservatives were to the right of the Radical Liberals. The Communists represent the extreme left.

  6

  THE FOLLOWING morning Johanne came into the bedroom in a rage. “We can’t go on letting him stay here forever. Now the Social Democrats have won, he has nothing to be afraid of.”

  Jastrau was looking at himself in the mirror as he shaved. His face was puffy and his eyes looked red under their heavy lids.

  “No,” he snarled.

  “But we really can’t,” Johanne repeated emphatically. She was pale with fury. “Adolf is coming for lunch, and what will he think?”

  “Hell, that’s right. And he’ll probably hang around all afternoon.”

  “There you go again!” exclaimed Johanne. “That’s always the way it is when it’s someone from my family who’s coming. I tell you, I can’t stand it!” She turned suddenly and walked away, slamming the door behind her.

  Jastrau rinsed the soap from his face and dried it, looked into the mirror again, and shook his head. They had gotten pretty tight the night before. The election-night atmosphere. On the way home they had bought the morning papers and confirmed that the Social Democrats had won. Hurrah! “Now you’re a free man, Stefan,” Jastrau had said with idiotic sincerity.

  Now he had to go in and see to him.

  “Father! The man is snoring,” Oluf said, wide-eyed, as he ran toward him when he entered the dining room. “He’s going ‘rr—uuu.’ ”

  Jastrau moved the boy gently out of his way and went on into the living room.

  Steffensen lay on the sofa, fully clothed and in such an unsightly, distorted position that it looked as if his legs and belly had been screwed crookedly onto the rest of his body.

  “Ho there! You’ve got to get up,” Jastrau roared, shaking him. There was an ill-natured growl, and Steffensen slowly opened his eyes. They had a glazed and baleful look.