Fru Lund did not reply. She was in no mood for joking. She placed a bucket of water beside the window.
“Is the roof burning?” Jastrau asked. He bent forward and peered up through the banner of smoke that fluttered against the summer night’s sky. Now and then a puff of whirling sparks burst forth and flickered red and yellow against the background of pale and peaceful stars while the reddish-brown smoke rose ever higher.
Then there was a hissing, seething sound. A stream of water smashed against the window frames across the street, and a cloud of white steam rose slowly from them. He could see a head with a fire helmet, a fireman on a ladder.
“No, apparently it’s only my apartment that’s burning,” Jastrau said.
Fru Lund said nothing. But suddenly it dawned on her that it really was Jastrau’s apartment that was afire. His remark had the effect of an insult, and she bridled with indignation. Furiously, she turned abruptly around and slapped a wet mop cloth against a spark that flew in over the windowsill.
“What a fathead!” she exclaimed.
Just then the doorbell rang.
Fru Lund hastened out into the hallway. It was a relief to be rid of her. They could hear her groaning.
Jastrau and Black Else coughed as they walked about the room, which was illuminated by a faint red light, now very faint because the fire was now restricted to the farther end of the rooms across the way. It was being brought under control, and from the windows with their charred wooden frames only clouds of steam and smoke issued, with now and then a whirl of sparks.
“Oh, my furniture!” Black Else moaned, spitting and clearing her throat.
Jastrau struggled to get his breath. The taste of smoke was almost closing off his windpipe.
They moved the chairs over toward the farthest wall.
“Oh, it will be so scratched up,” she complained.
“Just think of my furniture,” Jastrau said.
“I don’t understand you at all,” she replied, irritated.
Jastrau coughed.
From out in the hallway came the sound of men’s voices, and a fireman entered. The masses of smoke were now so dark that the room lay in obscurity. But the fireman switched on a flashlight and let its pale beam play over the furniture.
The light came to rest on the bucket.
“A wise arrangement,” he said, puffing. “They’re as pesky as flies—these damned sparks.”
He glanced over at the clouds of smoke.
“But now, thank God, there’s nothing but smoke and the mess left by the water.”
He remained standing with the flashlight lighted. They could hear him puffing like a tired horse. He was quite content to remain standing there.
“Was anything saved?” Jastrau asked. His voice was intense but unruffled.
“Not a thing.”
His hand, which moved in a graphic gesture, could just be distinguished near the cone of light coming from the flashlight.
“You see—” Black Else sputtered. But suddenly a spark landed on her skin.
And then Jastrau abruptly asked in a harried, perturbed tone, “Was anyone burned to death?”
“No-o—not so far as I know,” and the beam of light shifted. The fireman was getting ready to leave. Else stood clearly illuminated in her red kimono. She rubbed a foot against her bare shin.
“Well—are you quite sure of that?” Jastrau sprang toward the fireman and grasped him by the arm. His voice was ready to break, as if he meant to get cantankerous. “Are you quite sure nobody was burned to death?”
“No, but that will be investigated,” came the patronizing reply, as the fireman freed his arm.
“Because anything can happen in that apartment,” Jastrau went on, pursuing him.
“Yes, so it damn well seems,” the fireman said, coming to a halt. He had nothing against taking a breather. “But the family over there has apparently gone away. It’s supposed to be a journalist—a bundle of nerves, according to the janitor at any rate. Ha ha, the janitor must have had his toes toasted up there in his apartment, right above the fire. But I have to go. Apparently not so much as a canary bird was burned to death.”
“How did the fire start?” Jastrau sounded agitated.
“A short-circuit, most likely. There’s been no one in the apartment for the last couple of days—not even the roomer.”
“Yes, yes. Ha ha. Are you quite sure of that?” Again Jastrau grasped the fireman’s arm. “Because a short-circuit—ha ha—that’s what they always say when they can’t find the reason. But just imagine a lighted cigarette on a sofa spread—what about that? It lies there smoldering—what? It could start a fire—couldn’t it?” Jastrau laughed wildly and tugged at the fireman’s arm. “And then imagine that a murdered woman is lying on the sofa, so that she gets burned up. And then the murder is never discovered.”
“Phew!” groaned the fireman. “All this heat has made me soft in the head, too.”
But Jastrau stuck his hands in his pockets and laughed. And through the darkness came the sound of Black Else’s gay, relieved laughter.
“All right, it’s a lot of nonsense,” Jastrau said.
“That’s my way of looking at it too,” the fireman replied sardonically, and then left.
“But Ole, you’re insane!” exclaimed Black Else.
“Am I?” Jastrau shook his head. “Am I? Quite possibly I am. But no—he did say that the roomer had not been there the last couple of days. No—then it didn’t happen. No—perhaps not. Don’t you have something I can drink, Else?”
They were standing in the darkness now. From the windows across the street now rose only black smoke, and from far inside could be seen occasional restless flames. The beams from firemen’s flashlights crossed each other like swords. They could still hear the sizzling of water. Down in the street it had grown quieter.
“Oh for something to drink!”
“Yes, let’s go out to the kitchen and see,” Black Else said. She took his arm, half-jocularly, half-protectively. “I know how you feel. But don’t you think it would be best if you went over and found out how many of your things have been burned? It must be terrible. Just think—all your furniture. But I didn’t know it was you who lived over there.”
Out in the kitchen she turned on the light, and Jastrau sat down, exhausted, on a kitchen chair. He sagged limply, in a state of collapse.
“But my Lord, what a lot of nonsense you rattled off to that fireman. A murdered woman on a sofa. Do you really know what you were talking about?” She laughed and opened the cupboard.
“By rights there ought to be a murdered woman there,” he said with a sigh, staring at the floor. He was sweating profusely. “Oh, you’ve no idea of what I’ve been through. There should be a murdered woman on the sofa.” His voice rose. “Yes! There was a murdered woman on the sofa—and the cigarettes—yes, it was all figured out with diabolical cleverness. They’ll never find out about it. Oh, Else, Else. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Now, now, now,” Black Else consoled him. “Drink this cognac—even though you drink too much.”
Jastrau emptied the glass.
“Yes, I realize it’s all fantasy. Of course it’s fantasy.” His voice grew calmer, rose now and then, tremulous and uncertain, but then subsided again. “Oh, I tell you, it was the queerest life we led in that apartment. It was something intangible; we were groping around with a psychological experiment. Steffensen—Stefani’s son—well—”
“Do you know Stefan?” she asked frantically.
“Yes, yes.” Jastrau smiled wearily and nodded. “I know him, and he deserves all the thrashings you’ve given him—but never mind that. It’s all so hopeless, so meaningless.”
“When I was telling you about it, did you know—?”
Jastrau nodded again.
“Yes, but I don’t give a damn. What does it all mean to me—the whole business? It’s no more real than the three black men. I could see through them, and they went away. And now I’ll so
on be able to see through all this, and then that will go away too and there’ll be nothing but black bookcases and a picture by El Greco, and then I’ll look at it more carefully, and then it will go away too—the bookcases, the El Greco, and everything.”
Else looked at him in alarm. She thought he was becoming hysterical.
“Look, wouldn’t you like to lie down and rest?” She put her hand on his forehead. “You’re so hot. You’re all upset. You’re sick.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “Just let me sit here. So I can see the fire.”
“But the fire’s been put out. You should go in and lie down on my bed—yes, you should.”
“I can’t stand to close my eyes. I see flames. Just let me sit here. It’s cool here, and the light is on. And everything is so clear in this white light. Oh, sometimes I go crazy, but just let me sit. Shouldn’t you go in and help Fru Lund? There’s no longer any danger.”
“I think you ought to lie down,” she went on obstinately.
But Jastrau’s voice broke, and he began to whimper. “No, let me alone. You mustn’t keep after me. It gives me a headache. Let me sit for a while—sit here alone so that—”
“All right, then I’ll go.” Meekly, but with an expression of slight chagrin, she shrugged her shoulders and left the room.
He could hear a subdued sound of motors far in the distance, and fire engines honking their horns. They were returning to the fire station. Then he suddenly caught sight of the cognac bottle, and with a rapidity that surprised even him he leapt up, seized the bottle, and poured still another drink.
He was in a state of utmost excitement.
With a bound he reached the door. There was no one in the hallway. Back to the kitchen table again. He emptied the glass. Back again to the door. He helped Fru Lund move some furniture. There was his hat, hanging on the hall rack. He slipped out to get it. Stole back to the kitchen again. Grabbed the cognac bottle. Went out in the hallway. Opened the foyer door noiselessly. Closed it without a sound, and started down the stairway with long strides. The bottle—yes, the bottle!
He tucked it away in the inner pocket of his jacket and carefully gathered the jacket about him.
He was on the lower floor. Opened the street door. People were standing about on the sidewalk, staring up at the smoking windows. A fire engine was getting ready to pull away. It was still half dark. He could steal away close to the buildings and disappear around the corner.
He had slipped away unnoticed.
The gentle break of day. The houses were still dark. The streets lay as if submerged in bluish water, and doors and windows seemed obscured in a submarine dimness, behind which there was a stirring of invisible life. Overhead the sky was clear and bright. Morning had arrived up there, but it had not yet descended to the earth.
Odors emanated from the pavements.
Jastrau trudged along. He felt like a shadow. He trudged on—it mattered not where. He stopped at a street corner, raised the bottle to his lips, and took a swig.
He must gather his thoughts. To be alone and think. Steffensen—he had murdered her. Now he had done it, he must have done it. But it was a frightful thought. Had it given him the cold shivers? It was terrifying. Had Steffensen strangled her? Choked her? To have the sensation of a soft throat between one’s hands! And a warm female body that grows limper and limper. At first a struggle, terror in her eyes. Mouth obstructed, unable to scream, because I am tightening my hands around her throat. Her head rolls back and forth. What was it like? Did her face turn blue? Did her eyes bulge, her tongue slip out of her mouth? What was it like?
Jastrau stood in the deserted street, absorbed in a gruesome pantomime, as if afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance.
So Steffensen had murdered her. That animal! That beast! His eyes. That ominous glassy luster. The abnormal forehead. The teeth of a criminal—altogether too many of them, and far too small. The pale, sweaty, bony face with its brutish, protruding lips. But Anna Marie? How was it now that she looked? He could not form a mental picture of her. How was it she looked?
Jastrau closed his eyes and saw red flames.
Fire. Yes, his home and furniture. Nothing was left. Memories. Oh, let them go up in flames or—sprinkle them like rose petals. One and the same thing—flames and rose petals—one and the same. And Vesterbro Passage lay unobstructed and clear in the morning light. The obelisk of the Freedom Statue was rose-colored granite. At times, under a certain light, there were roses in the stone. Rose petals and flames—one and the same. Did the corpse have red cheeks? The corpse? Anna Marie? No, she was alive. Of course Steffensen had not killed her. It was impossible when the Freedom Statue was rose-colored.
He wanted to turn away and go on. He did not want to enter the Town Hall Square, which lay suffused in soft, delicate shades of reddish brown. Why hadn’t it burned—the entire Town Hall Square? All memories ought to go up in flames. He wanted to turn off and skirt Tivoli, go across Long Bridge and over into Amager. The countryside with its green trees would be cooling, and he needed a cool atmosphere in which to think. His lips were hot and swollen. He had no tobacco. But he did have cognac.
He stood motionless on the sidewalk, raised the bottle to his lips, and tilted his head back. All alone on a long, long pavement. An endless succession of concrete sidewalk sections. A ladder to the heavens that had fallen to the ground. The morning was as white as light reflected from chalk.
But yes, Steffensen had murdered Anna Marie. A crime had been committed. He could feel it in his bones. A major catastrophe had occurred. Catastrophe—Kata and strophe. Finally, finally, it had happened. Thank God! But what was there to thank God about? Jastrau walked on as if in a frenzy. It was gruesome. Bestial. Alive, then dead. Alive one second, dead the next. And it had taken place in his rooms, among the objects he knew so well—the oak furniture, the phonograph, the Shrove Monday rod had all been witnesses to it. Oluf had seen it. He—the boy—had seen it. Those figures pitching and tossing about, Steffensen’s brutal yellowish hands, and Anna Marie, who had no chin. Now he remembered—she had had no chin. Why had he never kissed her on that weak chin that so revealed her helplessness. A murder had been committed, a murder of a child. Help! Help!
It ought to be reported.
I want to report a case of arson and murder—no, murder and then arson.
But had Steffensen really murdered her? Wasn’t it his imagination? No. A crime had been committed. He knew that devil Steffensen. Hadn’t he planned it, gone around watching for his opportunity, noticed how careless she was about lying on the sofa and smoking, then tossing the lighted cigarette butts aside? And the crime—that, of course, was an example of the boundlessness of the soul. Steffensen had murdered her.
Otherwise the thing had no meaning whatsoever.
A cool breeze emanating from Kalvebodstrand swept over him. What was that bristling iron sphere? A morning star? A forbidding-looking gray building ornamented with two morning stars. And a sidewalk as broad as a public square.
A granite wall.
He edged farther and farther away from it. That monolithic building—how brutal it looked! It was the police headquarters. He panted for breath. Now he should go in there to a police officer and say, “Arrest me.” No, he shouldn’t ask to be arrested, but he should say, “There’s been a fire in Istedgade—a case of homicidal arson, or so I think.”
He should—but should he?
A policeman with a smug mustache came toward him, and now was the time—yes, this was the time—for him to speak up. The policeman stared at him.
“Good morning,” said Jastrau, taking an uncertain step nearer.
Homi—homicidal arson. Was that the word? Yes, that was it.
“Good morning,” came the gruff reply. “You’re just a little high, aren’t you?”
“A fine police station,” Jastrau said abruptly.
“Watch out that you don’t get better acquainted with it,” the policeman said in a tone of truculent authority.
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br /> Jastrau drew himself up indignantly and went on.
Nasty. Overbearing. That mustache and the gruff voice. No, now the police could find out about it themselves. Now it was their affair. They could track down their homicidal arsonist themselves. Why should he help them? It would only make them conceited.
Nor was there any reason for him to report it. Who was he—Jastrau—that he should dare to report a murder? A crime? Did he know what a crime was? Did he have a moral right to report a crime? Was he going to report a crime? No, he was not going to report a crime.
That was society’s job, and consequently not his. For he was not the state.
A cool morning breeze over Long Bridge. The state—that he was not. And alongside an old embankment with green trees, a moat with water that shone like pewter. Farther along, an elegant fenced-in embankment like a park. But he would go up on the decrepit part, take refuge under the bedraggled trees, and shake himself loose from society. He did not belong in fine company. The turf there was worn away in large patches. Deep furrows and paths had been worn in the embankment so that it looked like an emaciated whale with its ribs protruding. And down alongside the water was the Thieves’ Walk. One did not report crimes. Just lie down here and empty the cognac bottle.
How fragrant the water and the sky. The birds moved about in the foliage. He found a patch of grass and a tree that leaned out over the moat beside the embankment. The tree made a good footrest, so that he could lie down and see the pale, blue sky. There were some restless, dark clouds. Beneath the clouds cold breezes were stirring. And he was homeless and without shelter. A flophouse for down-and-outers. That was how things could turn out.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. A down-and-outer with dirt and withered grass on his clothes. A ne’er-do-well under the open sky, and . . .
a bottle lay beside him,
but the brandy was inside him.
He recognized the bottle. Now the birds began to sing. He closed his eyes. Sure enough. Didn’t it sound as if a copper wire were being swung through the air? A bird in a certain tree begins to sing, “Now we’re getting up.” Birds have bird habits. And then the sound spreads through the treetops and becomes absolutely unbearable.
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