“Thanks for the invitation.” The janitor looked down at himself and grinned. He was wearing blue overalls. “I’m not one to say no—never. But can’t I carry the bottles? I’m more used to that sort of thing than you are.”
And a moment later he was prancing up the stairs in his rustling overalls with gay but flat-footed dance steps.
“I’m feeling better already,” he said each time he reached a landing. “Oh—I sure do feel better.”
But he stopped thoughtfully outside the hallway door.
“What do you think your wife will say?” he whispered.
“She’s not here,” Jastrau replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “She won’t be back. We’ve separated, damn it.”
The janitor gaped at him.
“No—really? And the little boy—he’s gone too? Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes, indeed it does, and what is there to say? The only fun a person has is what he makes for himself. But what the devil—you’re not going to drink these three bottles here alone, are you? You’re not as crazy as all that, Herr Jastrau, I don’t suppose. Maybe you have company.”
“Well, yes. But come on in.”
The janitor followed him in self-consciously. In his blue overalls his gait was like that of a bear. And he was a little embarrassed when he set the bottles down.
“My name is Edwin Jacobsen, and I’m the janitor of the building here.”
Anna Marie dried her eyes. She had been crying. As she acknowledged the janitor’s introduction, she curtsied.
Steffensen stuck out his hand over the table and muttered his name. He very nearly upset the roses.
“Well, draw up a chair, Jacobsen,” Jastrau said.
“Ha ha.” The janitor sat down at the table and gave a little bounce of enthusiasm in his chair. “A fellow stands there in the entranceway and thinks it will be a long time until he gets a drink—doesn’t even dare dream of it—and then it comes swinging right in to him off the street—three bottles, no less. Tra la la la la.”
Steffensen was indifferent. When the bottles had been uncorked, he reached for one of them and placed it in front of him. His expression was blank. His eyes were watering.
But Anna Marie was mindful of domestic responsibilities and brought out the green glasses.
“So there’s the phonograph, Herr Jastrau,” exclaimed the janitor, grinning knowingly. “Yes, sometimes I’ve heard it in the middle of the night.” He had to say something for he held a glass of port in his hand. “But that’s all right, Herr Jastrau—it doesn’t make any difference. Skål. But it makes one feel so frisky to lie in bed and listen to it, and I can’t afford to have any more children right now, so you must promise me to play it only now and then—just one record. Oh, pardon me, Frøken—I wasn’t thinking about—”
“It’s all right,” Anna Marie quickly replied.
Embarrassed, he smiled.
“But shouldn’t we play a number?”
Jastrau went over to wind the phonograph.
“Whoa now, is that any way to do it?” the janitor exclaimed, offended. “Guzzling it like that?”
Jastrau turned around and saw that Steffensen had placed one of the bottles to his lips and was taking a long swig from it. His Adam’s apple protruded above his soft collar like a clenched fist.
“What a drunken lout,” said the janitor, laughing. “I’ve seen a good many things, yes, indeed I have. But such a tippler I’ve only seen in Riga. He drank and then fell on his face. He wasn’t a human being, but a Russian—”
Steffensen was unconcerned. He took the bottle from his lips with a deep sign and set it down heavily.
“Ha ha, what a drunken lout.” The janitor laughed again and slapped his hand against his blue overall thighs.
Steffensen glanced across at him with a forced, ingenuous smile, but said nothing.
“Stefan!” Anna Marie burst out. She wanted to interfere. But then suddenly shook her head. “No, it’s no use,” she sighed and emptied her glass.
But Jastrau only shoved his hat back on his head and started the phonograph. He was enjoying himself. He must not forget. The record began with dissonant notes, and then the rhythm broke in. Mustn’t forget. He was at last going to give notice that his contract with the paper was about up. Oh, evening star!
The reflection of the afternoon sun shone in on them through the dirty windows.
“Does the young lady dance?” asked the janitor, who gallantly had gotten up and was shuffling his feet.
Anna Marie brushed the hair away from her forehead.
“Ah, yes,” she panted. “But isn’t it frightfully warm here? Or am I already feeling the wine?”
“One should never drink port when the sun is shining,” the janitor replied with a knowing smile. Then he led Anna Marie back and forth across the floor at a brisk but lumbering pace like a bear. Weak, unsteady knees.
“And here I was thinking there’d be nothing but meatballs to look forward to today,” he babbled. “What I mean is we were having meatballs up at our place at six o’clock. But then it didn’t turn out that way.”
The jazz filled the room. Jastrau took some awkward dance steps and waved his walking stick in tune with the music. He should go right away. But Steffensen had silently put the bottle to his lips again and tipped his head far back.
“Drunken lout,” giggled the janitor, and stopped his trotting. “But dancing does make a person thirsty.”
A deep flush was discernible beneath his sunburned complexion.
Jastrau put on another record. He heard Anna Marie moan, “Oh—I can already feel it.”
Then the janitor stood beside him.
“Now I suppose you’ll give up the apartment,” he said quietly, his eyes shining.
“Yes, I’ve already written to the landlord.”
“And all this nice furniture, I suppose you’ll sell it.”
His artless eyes shone with an even sharper brilliance.
The furniture. Jastrau could not think. The furniture was so unreal. It stood there in the apartment that floated through the air, a Noah’s ark with bits of wreckage from his past and liquor and dancing people whom he didn’t know.
“My kingdom is not of this world,” Jastrau replied.
“Ha ha,” the janitor laughed confidingly. “I don’t believe in God, either.”
Jastrau did not answer him. He felt as if he were floating. And over in his chair sat Steffensen, already looking the worse for wear.
“Skål,” Jastrau announced. “It seems to me we’re not drinking.”
Anna Marie looked up at him with listless eyes and shook her head.
“I get high so quickly,” she sighed, and took a firm hold on her glass with a kind of desperate courage.
“This is a dandy phonograph,” the janitor remarked, giving it a pat. “And good records. It’s a shame that you get practically nothing for them when you sell them. No, you don’t, as a matter of fact, Herr Jastrau,” he added sadly.
“Are you forgetting me entirely?” Anna Marie shouted.
“No—never!” exclaimed the janitor with a show of emotion, spreading his arms wide as he stood there in his overalls. “She’s a lovely woman,” he said to Jastrau with a grin, assuming a position like a bear who wanted to embrace everything, while Anna Marie flung herself into his arms.
Jastrau put his stick aside in order better to manage his drink.
“Ho,” said Steffensen, laughing for no good reason. His tall bony frame shook with merriment. “A red-faced janitor in blue—ho!”
Then he muttered something and reached out stupidly for the bottle.
Another jazz record. Another saxophone. The subconscious was lifted into a dark, cloudy, never-never land in response to the deep tones. A high-pitched instrument cut in sharply, dispelling the somber mood with a clear, sharp, soulless rhythm.
“It’s a fine phonograph!” It was the janitor who again stood beside him. “So often I’ve wished I could pick up a phonograph cheap—yes, i
ndeed I have.” He gave a subdued sigh.
“Then perhaps sometime you’ll get this one, Herr Jacobsen,” Jastrau exclaimed, slapping him on the shoulder.
Another record. A Negro song. A chorus. “Doo—doo-de-doo—doo. Wob-li-wob. I love you so dearly.”
“Oh, Ole.” It was Anna Marie who suddenly hung around his neck and pressed her heavy breasts against him. She leaned her head back and stared at him with glazed eyes and slack lips. “You don’t think anything bad about me, do you? You don’t think I’m sick, do you? Oh—I could really fall in love with you.”
And suddenly her eyes seemed to focus again.
“Ha ha ha! Isn’t it funny? Why don’t you laugh? I could love you,” she shrilled.
Then she pushed him away with a violent shove and stood wobbling unsteadily.
“Janitor—why don’t you seduce me?”
“No, let’s wait a little while, Frøken,” the janitor replied, winking at Jastrau.
Anna Marie was staggering. She was dead white, and fumbled for her chair.
Just then a glass was upset. Steffensen stretched his long arms across the table for another bottle.
“Now things are getting really cozy here,” Jastrau remarked. He felt a painful sense of depression and thought he was sober. But there was a movement in the room, as if a ripple of light were playing over the surface of the furniture.
“Oh—I’m beginning to feel sick,” Anna Marie moaned, leaning against the chair for support. “Right here—oh, right here under my chest.”
“You should lie down here on the sofa, Frøken,” said the janitor. “I’ll take care of her,” he nodded over to Jastrau. “But get a pail right away.”
Jastrau hurried into the kitchen, stopped suddenly at the sink, and began whistling a tune. It was badly off key. Then he turned around and was about to go back. But the pail. It was the pail he was after. He reached under the sink for it and tossed a dry mop rag onto the kitchen table. It was stiff as a board.
Anna Marie lay on the sofa in the dining room, pale as a corpse. Her lips drooped, her features were limp.
“No, I can’t throw up,” she barked at the janitor, who was fussing over her.
“Try now—just try, little Frøken,” he said gently, placing the pail near the head of the sofa. “Stick your finger down your throat, little Frøken, then everything will be all right. You’ll see how much better you’ll feel.”
But just then Steffensen got up, his face yellow and his eyes staring blankly, and grabbed the roses in the vase with both hands. He crushed the flowers between his fingers and carried the bouquet like a head of cabbage over to the sofa. The water dripped from the stems.
“My darling,” he babbled, and threw the wet roses down over her. “Dar—dar—ling.” He was going to kneel down beside the sofa, but then he fell down. A sound of sobbing came from his lips, as if he were about to burst into tears. And then he passed out.
“What a drunken lout,” exclaimed the janitor, giving him a contemptuous shove with his foot. Then suddenly he could not keep from laughing. “Ha ha, damn it, the only fun a person has is what he makes for himself. But shouldn’t we drag him in and put him on the other sofa, Herr Jastrau?”
Jastrau staggered as they carried Steffensen away. But the fedora was still on his head.
3
IT WAS getting dark in the courtyards. Jastrau lay on his back on top of the bed covers and stared up at the dim quadrangle of the ceiling, which drifted so strangely. Everything was drifting. Steffensen was right. They were aboard a ship that was sailing into infinity, into the unbounded. Through the open bedroom window came a cool breeze.
Into infinity? But did that mean drinking oneself into a stupor? Ah yes, there was something religious about drinking oneself into insensibility. All feeling of emptiness vanished. A person filled the room with his boisterous, babbling, drunken self—filled the entire room.
But it would have been good if he had been able to sleep. He couldn’t. Anna Marie lay in the dining room, happily unconscious. Steffensen was stretched out in the living room, as if someone had hit him over the head with a club. He too was happy. And from the floor above came the sound of a guitar strumming incessantly. The janitor evidently had managed to digest his meatballs and was now strumming away his hangover, with dreams of acquiring a phonograph cheaply.
On the lookout for cheap loot, the red fox.
Jastrau screwed his features into a malicious frown. The janitor was going to be disappointed. This was not a wreck to be plundered, even though a four-room apartment was drifting away before wind and wave with fine furniture aboard. Oh, nonsense. It was perhaps a false suspicion. He was very decent, the red rascal. An ideal janitor, in fact. He could tolerate as much commotion in the building as anyone might make. And the more insane the commotion the better. Didn’t he play the guitar? Didn’t he stamp his feet on the floor up there in time to the music? An able-bodied seaman aboard this craft that was sailing on into infinity.
Yes, indeed. Either listen to music or get dead drunk. Life became so unbounded. A kind of shore leave.
But his present condition was intolerable. He was awake. Not sober and not drunk—his insides agglutinated by old, stagnant liquor that must have time to evaporate. And harassed by thoughts of a practical nature. He had to remember to hand in his resignation, had to remember to do so. Now that had been postponed because he had insisted on wearing a hat when he went to do it.
The hat hung on the bedpost.
But why? Yes, of course. He was going to resign. It was like peeling a whole layer of opinions from himself. He no longer wanted a steady job as a producer of opinions. Infinity—was that not what he was seeking? He wanted to be an infinite person, one who was initiated into the mysteries. Oh, cut it out! Now the lively music in the twilight of the summer evening was making a liar out of him again. How blue and lovely was the sky above the dark rooftops—a fascinating violet-blue. And the black chimneys so sharply outlined. Like an armored ship lying at Rheden.*
Some day it would become a poem—some day, if poems could ever again have meaning for him. At the moment they were lies. So were they evidently to Steffensen.
Like an armored ship at Rheden—
A cruise into impossibility—
Everything was a lie, transparent as an opinion.
Opinions? Take Sanders, that idiot. Opinions? Why had Sanders gone directly from the bar up to Johanne with his gossip? Presumably it was his opinions that had impelled him. Or was it?
But it was indecent, vile. To repeat what a person says when he is sitting in a bar that way and is drunk. One is supposedly among friends, the brotherhood of the flowing bowl. Everyone sitting there by the brass bar rail and drinking is a member of the same fraternity.
He could stay away from bars. But oh, the restfulness he found there. There was comfort and adventure combined. Why was it that he knew peace only when he sat leaning over a bar? Home. Everything gone to hell. A boy, a son. Snatched away from him only because that blabbing Communist—What business was it of his? Was he in love with Johanne? Oh, the somber, syrupy quality of Sanders’s voice.
It seemed as if he could hear Sanders’s excuses. Disgusting. Glib. But he wanted to hear them. Now he wanted to hear them. Something had to happen. And suppose, now, that Sanders’s voice began to sound as if he were on the verge of tears, with a definite rise in pitch and a saccharine quality to it, and then broke down. That would be sweetest of all. Jastrau thrilled at the thought.
He must hear it. He had to have the memory of that voice breaking, nurse it and cherish it, hate it—
Steffensen knew where Sanders lived.
Jastrau jumped up from the bed and made his way through the dark rooms. The incandescent fog from the advertising lights above Vesterbro cast a faint flickering glow through the windows so that he could just distinguish the outlines of the furniture. Anna Marie lay in a murky huddle on the sofa. Her breathing filled the room with a profound stillness like the sound of w
aves washing in along a beach.
In the darkness he stumbled against some bottles standing on the floor. The noise did not wake her. And at once a feeling of gentleness came over him, as if she were a sleeping child. She should not be awakened, this sick little child.
“What is it?” It was Steffensen who had been aroused in the living room.
“You know where Sanders lives. Will you go along with me?” Jastrau said in a vehement whisper.
“What the devil do you want with him?” Steffensen muttered as he rubbed his eyes, only half awake.
Jastrau stood in the doorway to the dining room. “I want revenge.”
“You don’t mean it!” Steffensen exclaimed in surprise, leaping up with a start into the middle of the room, where he stood wobbling.
“I’m still drunk,” he announced.
“Will you go with me, Steffensen?”
“Yes.” His voice was a bit thick.
Together they jogged down the stairway in a daze. They forgot to press the button that would automatically turn off the light after they were gone.
“I’m still drunk,” Steffensen mumbled in bewilderment as he stopped short of breath in the entranceway. He leaned against the wall and passed his hand over his forehead.
“Let me see now,” he groaned. “Yes, that was it. Oh-h! But first I have to have a beer—”
“Yes, you’d like that, and then we’ll sit around and forget the whole thing,” Jastrau growled nervously.
“No, I won’t forget. We’re going out and beat up Bernhard. But listen”—Steffensen moved away from the wall with a jerk—”I have to have a beer first, otherwise I won’t be able to remember where he lives.”
A bemused smile spread over his face.
They floundered into a small pub on Istedgade. Some workmen in blue-striped shirtsleeves stood lost in solemn speculation around a billiard table. A waiter with a purple face and white jacket appeared.
Jastrau remembered that it was this waiter he had once heard calling somebody a bitch. But what a long time ago that was.
The waiter sized them up skeptically for some time. Why? Finally he decided condescendingly to serve them.
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