Havoc

by Havoc (retail) (epub)

  “Yes, of course. What a fool I am not to have thought of that!” replied Jastrau. Everything was infinite. A toast to the infinitude of the soul.

  “You mustn’t fix any food for me, Anna Marie,” he went on. “I’ll be home later. I’m doing something sensible.”

  He laughed. A toast to the soul’s infinitude. Then a person was not faithful to his friends. Was that right, Steffensen? For faithfulness had nothing to do with infinity.

  “I’m doing something sensible,” he sang into the phone.

  “I don’t believe that,” came her voice, faint and uneasy.

  “No, you had better not.”

  “But Herr Jastrau—you promised. You said—that we were two against his one, and now I’ll be alone.” He heard her whimpering.

  Jastrau bent over close to the telephone mouthpiece as if he were kissing her on the forehead. How afraid and unhappy she was. Tears came to his eyes.

  “But I’m coming back, little girl. But later. I’m very definitely coming back.”

  The sound of suppressed weeping bubbled in the receiver.

  “We are two together, aren’t we? We are two, aren’t we? I’m depending on you. I don’t have anyone else, Herr Jastrau. And you’re coming back.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’m depending—on you.” He hung up.

  But why had he said he was going home later? All he had to do was take the review up to the composing room. And then—ah yes—he wanted to gather his strength. For what? A dinner with snaps and beer, all by himself. Just to give his face a rest. But he must not let her down.

  When he had been up to the composing room and left hurried instructions, he quietly left Dagbladet.

  In the revolving door he met the copy editor.

  “Listen, Ole Jastrau, it’s a shame to take all the material away from Vuldum.”

  “But I haven’t done that.”

  “Well, it seems that you have. He was in to see me a moment ago and spoke about a book—I don’t remember who it was by—and I suppose he was right in feeling that he had been shoved aside.”

  Jastrau laughed.

  “Have you ever known anyone strong enough to shove Vuldum aside?” he asked.

  The copy editor smiled.

  “But now remember this the next time, Ole Jastrau,” he remarked and waved good-bye.

  So quiet and undramatic, then, was to be Ole Jastrau’s departure from Dagbladet. He was to vanish like a ghost.

  No one knew anything about it.

  And he could not help smiling at the soundlessness of his exodus. The silence rang in his ears.

  But now for a dinner with snaps and beer. He smiled again.

  He must not fail her. Not let her down.

  In front of the hotel entrance next door to the Bar des Artistes, two deep wicker chairs had been placed. The hotel was pretending it was summer. And in one of them lay sprawled Little P., the one who liked to play matches for drinks. He waved a pale hand when he caught sight of Jastrau.

  “What are you doing out here—in all this fresh air?” Jastrau asked.

  “I’m sitting and observing life—as it goes rushing by,” came the feeble voice from the depths of the chair.

  “I thought you were in Canada.”

  “No, maestro, I got scared when I saw the North Sea. It’s an ugly body of water.” He raised himself up in the chair. “But look, maestro, how about slipping inside and playing matches for a gin and tonic?” He carefully smoothed out his thin hair.

  “No. I need food.”

  “Well, maybe later then,” said Little P. with a faint smile. “And in that case I’ll just remain sitting here for the time being and observing life—as it goes rushing by.”

  His vacant, glassy eyes followed a streetcar that was going toward the Town Hall Square. It was a very ordinary streetcar.

  7

  TRA LA LA! Yes, the sun is going down.

  Jastrau kicked out skittishly with one leg. Light-colored, checked trousers. A Negro jazz-band player or a ship’s cook on shore leave.

  Istedgade! Infinity! The houses lay so that the street looked like a long blue gorge in the last red puddle of the sunset. The fifth-story windows mirrored a violet-blue sky.

  And harp music filled the air. The sounds of distant trolly cars vibrated through the summer evening. Up between the rooftops the angels sang, because up there songs resounded so clearly, so clearly:

  And where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?

  And where have you been, charming Billy?

  No, it was not he who was singing. It was the angels. A hoarse male duet and a nasal phonograph, high, high up among the rooftops. Open windows. A breeze blowing through his apartment. A curtain fluttered outside a window.

  Yes—the janitor and Steffensen. They were having a blowout. Well, well.

  Jastrau sang as he went up the stairs. A summer atmosphere outside all the stairway windows. He hummed as he let himself in. Doors and walls vibrated with the singing and stamping of feet and the incessant sound of the phonograph.

  And where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?

  And then he saw Anna Marie standing in the dark hallway.

  “Oh, it’s good you finally came,” she said breathlessly and leaned against him.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” he sang.

  “But—have you been drinking too? Yes, I can smell it,” she exclaimed in dismay, giving him a shove.

  “No, no, no—I’ve been eating,” he hummed.

  “And I, who thought we’d stick together,” she whimpered. “You promised me. You promised me so very definitely.”

  She leaned against the wall, and he could discern only her eyes in the darkness. They shone like a pool of water at night.

  “Little girl, little girl,” Jastrau said comfortingly, and wanted to pat her on the cheek.

  “And where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” They were shouting in the rooms upstairs. Chairs were being shoved about. Then one of them overturned.

  “Oh, they’re so drunk,” Anna Marie sighed.

  Jastrau exhaled a miasma of snaps fumes. “Don’t worry—I’ll protect you,” he said hoarsely. It was difficult to speak out of rhythm with the strains of Billy Boy. And then he pushed the door open, stood suddenly inside the half-darkened room, where two shadowy men were stomping around in a bearish foxtrot, jubilantly placed one foot on an overturned chair, raised both arms in the air, and let out a yell.

  Steffensen shoved the janitor away and joined in, shrilly and inarticulately, and the janitor, who in his blue overalls seemed completely shapeless, resembling more closely than anything else an ogre with elephant’s legs, doubled up with laughter and slapped his hands against his thighs.

  “Oh, what a life,” he moaned.

  Three bottles of port stood on the table.

  “It’s your wine,” Steffensen said with a grin. “I—I’ve sold some of your books.”

  “Oh, yes—the fine books,” sighed the janitor. He flung open his arms, Steffensen again tumbled into them and up against his overall breast, and the clubfooted foxtrot was noisily resumed in the darkness. And where have you been, charming Billy? Jastrau could distinguish their faces only as two yellowish ovals devoid of expression. Only their eyes shone, as if tears were glistening in them.

  “They’re crazy,” Anna Marie whispered. She stood beside Jastrau in the folding doorway.

  “And she won’t drink. She’s become too genteel for that,” Steffensen shouted scornfully as he went on stomping through the dance. A cool summer breeze blew through the rooms.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Jastrau sighed as he poured a glassful of port and raised it in a toast.

  “To the infinitude of the soul—skål!” he shouted. At the same moment the record ran out, so that his voice rang out far too loudly through the room.

  “Ho ho,” whispered the janitor. “This won’t do.”

  The phonograph needle wobbled back and forth over the record, and the room was filled wit
h a hideous noise like that of a streetcar on worn-out rails.

  Anna Marie stopped it.

  “Why isn’t she drinking? What did you do to her while I was away?” shouted Steffensen.

  “Hush, hush,” whispered the janitor, motioning for quiet with his big paws.

  “We’ve been to Tivoli,” Jastrau hummed, and took a drink.

  “Where have you been?” snarled Steffensen.

  “And where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?” the janitor quipped in a stage whisper, and then broke into laughter. “Oh, what a life! But hadn’t we better shut the window, you drunken louts?”

  “No damn it—if we do we won’t be able to breathe in here,” Steffensen shouted.

  “Quiet, quiet!” said the janitor.

  “Quiet, quiet!” Jastrau repeated mechanically.

  “I have a right to open my mouth if I want to,” Steffensen shouted. “You can open your mouth as much as you like, but you have to pour something into it,” the janitor said in a reassuring whisper as he laid a heavy hand on Steffensen’s shoulder. In the darkness their figures merged in fraternal proximity.

  “Hadn’t we better turn on the lights?” Anna Marie suggested from the background.

  “No! To hell with that!” Steffensen yelled.

  A general shushing, a whispered “skål,” and a silent emptying of glasses.

  And then it suddenly happened that all three of them put their ivory-yellow faces together and formed a deaf-and-dumb group over in the faint light by the window. They shushed each other and held up their hands for silence, they poured and toasted with weird, soundless gestures, and opened and closed their mouths as if singing, while the sound of footsteps down on Istedgade’s sidewalk reached them through the open window.

  A hoarse croak issued from Steffensen’s throat.

  “But why isn’t she drinking?”

  “It’s best when the girlies don’t drink,” the janitor explained. “Then there’s so much more for those who are thirsty. Hee hee.”

  “But why isn’t she drinking?” Steffensen repeated fatuously. “You know the reason, Jastrau.”

  “Let’s drink in peace,” Jastrau replied with drunken placability.

  “But there’s a reason. What have you done to her?”

  “Ah-ha ha,” said the janitor with a subdued laugh as he whirled completely around on one heel so that his overalls flapped and the wine in his glass splashed over.

  “I? I haven’t done anything,” Jastrau replied. In the dim light he could catch a hint of the malicious manner in which Steffensen was squinting at him.

  And suddenly, with a jerk, Steffensen shoved his face close as if he meant to butt Jastrau in the head.

  “You didn’t dare,” he sneered, with his face close to Jastrau’s.

  “Hee hee,” snickered the janitor. His eyes were blinking with curiosity as he stood licking the wine from his fingers.

  “I dare to do everything,” Jastrau exclaimed, holding his head high and looking at Steffensen with a bleary smile. “Every—thing.”

  Just then a door slammed with a loud bang. Anna Marie had gone out into the kitchen.

  “Every—thing,” Jastrau repeated in befuddlement. “You needn’t laugh so scornfully.”

  In the semidarkness he could dimly see Steffensen’s set smile. The janitor stared anxiously at the closed door.

  “Now you had better behave, you two drunken louts. Why do we have to stand here glaring at each other? Let’s sit down for a while. You get so tired, standing up and drinking.” And when at last he had seated himself, he sighed, “Yes, you certainly do.”

  All three of them sat at the table and were silent. In the darkness, none of them could see what the others were thinking. But all three of them listened.

  Not a sound came from the kitchen.

  “Uh, it’s enough to make a person sober,” Jastrau said hoarsely, and reached for a bottle. It was empty. He grabbed for another. It too was empty.

  “What the hell, you can’t see a thing here in the dark. This—” Steffensen snatched up the third bottle.

  “Drinks disappear altogether too easily,” the janitor exclaimed philosophically.

  “We have to have more,” exclaimed Jastrau. They sat in the darkness and strained their eyes to see that the port was distributed impartially in the glasses.

  “Is it really worthwhile?” remarked the janitor. “This is turning into a regular brawl, and after all, I’m the janitor here. I’m the one who’s sort of responsible for the place.” He struck his hand against his chest. Then he relaxed from his briefly asserted position of authority. His overalls bagged like a flabby bosom. “But if you have money, Herr Jastrau, then—then of course I could get a little more to drink, whether it’s worthwhile or not,” he added in a wheedling tone.

  Steffensen sat with his elbows on the table and stared into the darkness. The outlines of the furniture were dimly visible. An indistinct light appeared beneath the ceiling. The streetlights were being turned on.

  “A person gets to feeling sad,” he muttered.

  “The phonograph,” Jastrau suggested. He sat staring down at the dark wine glowing in his glass.

  “I’ve found a buyer for it,” the janitor interjected quickly.

  “Nonsense.”

  “No, not at all. It’s really a damn fine phonograph.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Oh, stop putting on an act, Ole,” the janitor exclaimed raffishly. “Is it more to drink that you need, you drunken pig? If so I’ll get it right away.”

  He laid his big fist on the table, palm up.

  “But papa has to have the dough,” he said with firmness. With a sigh, Jastrau handed him a ten-krone note.

  “What’s so tragic about it?” Steffensen broke in. “I’m thirsty. And Edwin—”

  “Aha—you bet—a dry spot way down in my throat,” said the janitor, calmly closing his hand about the bill so that it crackled. “Ah,” he exclaimed when he heard the sound, and then got up.

  And Jastrau and Steffensen were left alone in the darkness. They sat nipping at their drinks.

  Anna Marie opened the door quietly and came in.

  “Why aren’t you drinking, kiddo?” Steffensen began again.

  “Now—now you must be good to her, do you hear?” Jastrau interrupted in a gruff voice.

  “Are you feeling noble?”

  Steffensen shifted his elbows on the table so that he turned his face toward Jastrau. His face was an indistinguishable mass in the darkness.

  “I guess you didn’t dare.”

  “Stefan!” Anna Marie screamed, and Jastrau gave a start. Her voice could be heard far down in the street.

  “I tell you, you must be good to her,” he stammered.

  “It must be tough to be in love, and then not dare to do it,” Steffensen went on, laughing. The dark, sphinx-like figure’s shoulders were shaking as if he were enjoying the situation.

  Jastrau suddenly stood up and banged his fist on the table so that the glasses jumped. Anna Marie grabbed him from behind.

  “No, no, you mustn’t fight! You mustn’t fight!” she shrieked. “If you do, I’m going to leave.”

  “It would be better if you made some coffee,” Steffensen said, laughing.

  Jastrau felt taken back by the calm suggestion, and he sank back into his chair. He felt belligerent and ridiculous.

  “Shall I? Shall I make coffee, Herr Jastrau?”

  Anna Marie’s hands fumbled about as if seeking to avert a fight between the two of them.

  “Shall I, Herr Jastrau?” she repeated.

  “Herr Jastrau!” Steffensen sneered through his nose.

  “Yes, yes. Go ahead and make some,” Jastrau replied, trying to be calm. “And you might as well turn on the lights.”

  There was a click on the switch, and suddenly the lights went on, dazzling them. Jastrau and Steffensen both gave a start. Only with difficulty could they look at each other. They blinked. They rubbed their eyelids.
They tried to see. And their faces stood out clearly—Steffensen’s tense and grayish-yellow around the prominent cheekbones, hair rumpled and hanging down over the high pale forehead, lips protruding and half-open as if set in an expression of brutal anger—Jastrau’s sallow and pudgy, flabby about the jowls, eyes squinting half shut, slanting, and slightly Mongoloid. Two hostile faces, Steffensen’s prepared to attack, Jastrau’s lying in wait and inscrutable, but ready to take the offensive.

  Anna Marie had gone into the kitchen.

  “I guess you didn’t dare,” Steffensen began again.

  Jastrau did not reply, only shifted his glance as if looking for a weak spot at which to spring.

  “Because I’ve taken her over,” Steffensen snarled, moving his face closer. “Infected her,” he added with an abrupt brutality that made Jastrau see red.

  And Jastrau hit back blindly. “It wasn’t you who did it, but your father.” Through his mind flashed the thought: His mother is dead. An urn in a briefcase.

  A deep, abrupt noise came from Steffensen’s throat. Jastrau had to look at him, and his glance encountered a pair of wide-open eyes. Their glazed luster was almost white. It was as if Steffensen were staring and staring without being able to collect his thoughts.

  “So you know,” he finally said with a sneer. “You know about it, and—” He got up with a bound, then went on, “And now you’re laughing—like everybody else. Aren’t you? Aren’t you? It’s howlingly funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Yes, you are. Everybody does.”

  “No.”

  Steffensen sat down again with a forced and crafty smile on his lips. “Then it’s because you’re in love with her,” he drawled.

  Jastrau shook his head.

  “Yes,” Steffensen replied abruptly, and then uttered a brutal laugh. “But she’s sick, and she’ll never get well.”

  “You can’t tell. It might well happen.”

  Steffensen made a face and lapsed into a silence.

  For long, long minutes they sat as if frozen. True, their arms moved, their bodies continued to function mechanically, but their thoughts had come to a stop. For a second, their souls assumed solid form and cast a shadow out into the nothingness about them. Steffensen lit a pipe. He sat for a long time and toyed with the matchbox in his hand. Jastrau turned his wine glass around like an old wine connoisseur and sniffed at it as if to capture the aroma, but without appreciating it or even realizing what he was doing.