Little Apple

by Leo Perutz

  It was now taken for granted that Kohout would accompany Vit¬torin to Russia. However, his father must know nothing of this decision until confronted with it at the last minute, so extreme discretion was the order of the day. Kohout looked around for potential eavesdroppers - he claimed to have enemies and rivals everywhere - and his voice sank to a whisper.

  "He won't let me go without a fight, that's for sure," he said, wringing his hands. "You mustn't breathe a word to anyone, you hear? In Moscow I'll have prospects - reliable comrades and intellectuals are at a premium there. Here? Here I've been chucked on the scrapheap. The money for the trip'll be forthcoming when I need it, never fear. I'll get it all right. How? Leave that to me. And now, please excuse me, my opponent's getting fidgety. It's my only form of amusement, an occasional game of billiards in the evening."

  Vit¬torin's interview with Herr Bamberger took place one day toward the end of November. Lola, who had engineered it, lingered in the room for a while, patting cushions and straightening chairs. She gave her brother an encouraging look - he was standing there rather forlornly - before going out and shutting the door quietly behind her.

  "Do sit down, Herr Vit¬torin."

  Herr Bamberger, his shoulders hunched against the cold, was pacing to and fro in the confined space between his desk and the stove. Short and slight, he had a pallid, sickly face alight with intelligence. He did not seem to attach much importance to clothes. He wore an ill-fitting suit, obviously bought off the peg, and an old-fashioned knitted tie. His dainty patent leather shoes struck the only note of almost foppish elegance.

  "I don't propose to beat about the bush," he said, "and you yourself would doubtless prefer us to get to the point right away. I have a position to fill, as you know. Your sister was kind enough to inform me of your qualifications and experience. You're familiar with customs regulations and the freight business. You write French and Italian -"

  "I speak Russian too," Vit¬torin put in, settling himself on the sofa.

  Herr Bamberger registered this information with an appreciative nod.

  "Russian too, excellent. Most important of all from my point of view, you're also acquainted with standard practices in the various stock and commodity exchanges. Can you by any chance tell me the terms governing transactions in tin on the pre-war London market?"

  "Tin?" said Vit¬torin. "Let me see. One moment, please ..."

  The question had whetted his ambition. His memory was functioning perfectly: he could show off his paces. If only Selyukov had asked him such a question, but no. Out with him - pashol!

  "Tin," he repeated. "For delivery as follows: Class A, Singapore tin, Penang tin, Australian tin, English refined tin. Class B, ordinary tin of recognized quality, at least 99 per cent pure. Available in bars, slabs and ingots. Payment: net cash on receipt of contract. Further terms in conformity with the Rules and Regulations of the London Metal Exchange. Minimum quantity: five tons or a multiple thereof. The discount on Class B-"

  "Stop!" exclaimed Herr Bamberger. "That's enough, that's enough. My knowledge of such matters is nil, to be frank, but this much I can tell: you're just the man for the job I mentioned."

  "What kind of job is it?" Vit¬torin inquired.

  "Personal assistant to myself," Bamberger replied without interrupting his tour of the room. "You'd have to be available whenever I'm doing business - in other words, at any hour of the day. In the evenings too, sometimes - even at midnight if need be."

  "Evenings would be fine," Vit¬torin told him, gratified by Bamberger's tribute to his expertise, "but I couldn't manage the daytime. As you may or may not be aware, I'm already employed by the Mundus Corporation. I've every prospect of promotion to deputy head of department in two or three years' time."

  Herr Bamberger came to a halt, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and looked Vit¬torin in the eye.

  "Deputy head of department, eh? Congratulations. Five hundred kronen a month and a full pension after thirty-five years' service. Very nice. The prospects I can offer you are of a different order. I intend to go places within the next six months and take you with me."

  "I don't understand," Vit¬torin said. "Take me where?"

  "Where? What an odd question. To the table d'hôte of life, Herr Vit¬torin. Or, to be more precise: to the Riviera in my limousine, if you prefer."

  As if the thought of the Riviera had reminded him just how cold the room was, Herr Bamberger went over to the stove and warmed his hands at it. Vit¬torin laughed aloud.

  "Bravo!" he said. "I'm your man. Menton, Cannes, Monte Carlo - I wouldn't mind that. How soon do we leave?"

  Bamberger seemed deaf to the derision in his voice.

  "I've one or two things to attend to first," he said without looking round. "As I told you, I aim to make my fortune in the next six months - a fortune sufficient for my needs."

  "In Monte Carlo, I suppose," said Vit¬torin.

  "No, the risk factor in Monte Carlo is too great," Bamberger replied as earnestly and matter-of-factly as ever.

  "But getting rich in Vienna is a dead certainty, eh?" Vit¬torin sneered.

  "For someone who can foresee how things will develop in the next few months, yes."

  "Really? Then perhaps you'd tell me how you plan to get to - what was it? - the table d'hôte of life?"

  Bamberger tossed two briquettes of compressed wood shavings and sawdust into the dying embers. Then he straightened up.

  "Far be it from me to resent your sceptical reaction to my proposal," he said. "I never expected us to agree terms right away. My position in regard to you is anything but easy. I'm asking you to give up a modest but reasonably secure job, just like that. The only security I can offer you in return is an assurance that I've weighed up my chances of success with the utmost care, and that I'm fully aware of my responsibility toward you."

  He paused to inspect the stove, which had now gone out completely, and resumed his pacing of the room.

  "It's possible, Herr Vit¬torin, that you underrate yourself and your abilities. I can't believe that a person of your education would be content with the humdrum existence of a glorified clerk. You're still a young man."

  "I'm twenty-nine years old."

  "Two years my senior, in other words. Does a 'steady job', so called, really represent the pinnacle of your ambitions?"

  "I'm not worried about my steady job," said Vit¬torin. "There's even a chance that something may happen in the near future to make me give it up, but that's only by-the-by - I'd rather not go into it now. In any case, it's only one aspect of the matter. The other, if you'll pardon my saying so, is that you're asking me to hitch my wagon to a virtual stranger. May I be absolutely frank? I've no idea what form your commercial objectives take. I don't know the extent of your business or how sound it is, nor do I know whether or where you've been in business previously. I should have to be clear on all those points before reaching a decision, surely you can see that?"

  "Of course I can," Bamberger replied. "Perhaps it's time I told you a bit about myself. I went to university, but the subject I studied bears no relevance to the matter in hand. I've never been actively engaged in business. I inherited a small income that enabled me to watch and wait for the ideal moment to embark on my operations. As I see it, that moment has come. I've obtained orders from a number of major foreign firms and I'm currently negotiating the bank loans I require."

  "You could be right," Vit¬torin said. "Now that frontiers are opening up again and international trade links have been restored -"

  Bamberger raised his hand.

  "Say no more!" he exclaimed. "International trade links, forsooth! Open frontiers have always existed. I know Aus-trians who exported timber to Italy during the war. During the war, mark you! In return we got - I can't recall exactly what our Italian enemies sent us in return, but no matter. International trade links? No, I have totally different grounds for believing that the ideal moment has arrived. We've just had a successful revolution, and hard on it
s heels will come - as it has throughout history - bad money. All revolutions are born in blood and expire in a sea of paper. Hamstrung by a gigantic deficit, the government will try to print its way out of trouble. I don't know if our new banknotes will be adorned with the Goddess of Liberty. The only certainty is that this flood of new money will sweep away long-established fortunes and destroy existing rights of ownership. All the possessions we now covet will become ownerless assets ripe for acquisition by those with a proper sense of timing. The war may appear to be over, Herr Vit¬torin, but with us it's only just beginning. It'll be a merciless war - a war of each against all. Speaking for myself, I intend to win it."

  He paused and glanced at the clock.

  "Forgive me," he said, "I still have two letters to post. We'll talk again tomorrow or some other time. I must hurry or they'll slam the window in my face."

  THE SUMMONS

  Vit¬torin's sisters were sitting in the living-room on the afternoon of November 30th, Vally pretending to read a book from the lending library, Lola plying her needle. The autumn weather was damp and chill. Outside, street lamps floated in a sea of mist and raindrops trickled down the windowpanes; inside, all that broke the silence was the gentle hiss of the gas lamp and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

  Georg Vit¬torin was so remote from the world around him that the oppressive hush did not impinge on his consciousness. He was getting ready to go out. Standing in front of the mirror, he knotted his tie with care. There was plenty of time. Franzi, who had still to complete her preparations at home, wanted him to find the table laid and the room warm and snug. They had arranged that he would turn up at seven, not a minute before, and tap discreetly on the door of the apartment. "Don't ring the bell," she had impressed on him. "I'll hear you all right, and there's no need for the neighbours to know I've got company ..."

  The clock struck six. Vally went to the window and looked down into the street. Everything was glistening wet with mist and rain: kiosks, shop signs, cars, pavements, tram lines. Figures hurried past, emerged from the shadow of buildings into the glow of the gas lamps, acquired faces — weary and indifferent, morose or carefree - and vanished into the darkness again. From the end of the street came a honking of horns and the raucous cries of newspaper sellers.

  "By the way," said Vit¬torin as he parted his hair and slicked it down with a wet brush, "you mustn't worry if I don't come home tonight. The friend I'm dining with lives right out at Hietzing - well, Ober-St-Veit, actually. I'll probably beg a bed off him. He isn't on a tram route, and the thought of walking home in this weather ..."

  He thought he detected a half-indulgent, half-mocking smile on Lola's face, unaware that she wasn't listening to him at all. His elaborate excuse for staying overnight seemed suddenly threadbare and implausible. It annoyed him that he hadn't concocted something better.

  "It's pointless, going out in this lousy weather," he improvised, "but since I said I would . . . Besides, this is my last free evening. From Monday onwards my time belongs to Herr Bamberger. Tu l'a voulu, Lola dear. What'll come of it remains to be seen."

  "There they are at last!" Vally called from the window.

  Lola looked up from her embroidery. A flicker of suspense and apprehension crossed her face, but she suppressed it.

  "Thank God," she said quietly. "Waiting, that's the worst part."

  "They came by cab," Vally reported. "I only caught a glimpse of Father - he went straight in. Herr Ebenseder's still down there, talking to the cabbie."

  "What's the matter?" Vit¬torin asked.

  Lola didn't reply. Vally glanced at her hesitantly, uncertain whether to tell him or not.

  "What is this?" Vit¬torin demanded impatiently. "A secret? All right, keep it to yourselves."

  "I think," said Vally, "- that's to say, Lola thinks that the decision on Father's retirement came through today."

  Vit¬torin was in no mood to take much interest in anything that obtruded on his own concerns.

  "You think, Lola thinks!" he exclaimed, glancing at the clock, which now said a quarter to seven. "Don't be so silly, Father would have told me."

  "You know Father - he didn't say anything to me either," Lola retorted. "But Ebenseder was here twice yesterday. They closeted themselves in the study and talked for ages - didn't you notice? - and this morning Father got a registered letter. He took it and ..."

  There was the sound of the front door closing. Voices could be heard in the hall.

  "Do me a favour, Georg: don't ask any questions," Lola said in a hurried whisper. "Pretend you know nothing. He'll come out with it himself soon enough if things went the right way." And she bent over her needlework again with an unaffectedly casual air.

  Preceded by the corpulent figure of Herr Ebenseder, who was somewhat out of breath after hurrying up the stairs, Herr Vit¬torin strode in wearing an expression from which it seemed clear that he was pleased with himself. He saluted with his walking stick, sword-drill fashion, and cried "Servitore!" Herr Vit¬torin had always, ever since his army days in Trieste, favoured the use of certain Italian phrases. He would say "Ecco mi pronto" when answering the telephone, herald his departure with an "Avanti" or an "Andemo", and enjoin someone to drop an unwelcome subject with a curt, incisive "Basta cosi".

  No sooner had he entered the room than he filled it with noise and bustle. Pacing up and down in a stiffly military manner, he requested Vally to fetch his smoking jacket and an easy chair from the bedroom for Herr Ebenseder, Lola to brew some tea, "extra hot and strong and laced with rum if there is any; if not, slivovitz will do", Georg to inform him of his brother Oskar's whereabouts - "The young scamp is probably sauntering down the corso with his friends again - you really ought to take him in hand a little" -and everyone present to look cheerful.

  "You'll stay to supper, won't you?" he said, turning to Herr Ebenseder. "It's no trouble, I assure you. Only potluck, of course - a couple of sausages and a glass of beer. Vally, don't slouch! Where's Lola? Lola!" he called in the direction of the kitchen. "Forget about the tea, there's no point, we'll be having supper soon. Well, everyone, in case you didn't know, today was the day."

  Satisfied that his words had sunk in, he calmly lit his pipe while Herr Ebenseder, fidgeting around on his chair, endeavoured to attract the girls' attention by winking and signalling in a variety of other ways.

  "The committee took the form of a tribunal," Herr Vit¬torin went on. "There were three of them, with an undersecretary from the ministry in the chair. The undersecretary was a charming fellow, incidentally - a gentleman to his fingertips. 'Please speak quite freely,' he told me. That's why we're here, to listen.' Well, I'd come prepared. I said my piece at long last, and I didn't mince matters either, believe me."

  He turned to Herr Ebenseder in quest of confirmation and approval. Ebenseder, who had abruptly stiffened, gave several vigorous nods.

  "'Gentlemen,' I told them, 'mistakes do happen, I grant you. Far be it from me to paint myself in rosier colours than I deserve, but gentlemen, don't forget the most important thing of all: integrity! What do I mean by that? Well I've already given you a frank and uncompromising picture of the state of affairs prevailing in our department. For a start . . .'"

  He drew himself up, took a deep breath, and treated himself to the pleasure of repeating his speech for the prosecution to an admiring audience.

  " 'For a start, take the chief accountant - my superior, admittedly, and entitled to due respect. His personal circumstances are no concern of mine, but gentlemen, note this salient fact: he cycles to and from the office every livelong day, and who can afford to buy tyres on a chief accountant's salary these days? He has no private means - on the contrary, he's in debt, yet his wife waltzes around in silk stockings and expensive gowns and lord knows what else. Where does he get the money, I venture to ask? Another thing: he hasn't taken a day off since the outbreak of war. Why not? Because he's such an exceptionally conscientious public servant? Oh no! The chief accountant alone knows why he
never lets anyone peek at his books. Enough said - you gentlemen must draw your own conclusions.' That sank in! The undersecretary took my point - he was entirely on my side, I could tell - not, of course, that he could say so straight out, being the chairman. Absolute impartiality, that's the rule, but you should have heard how he asked me to send in the chief accountant for questioning! The man was as white as a sheet when I passed him on the way out. I wouldn't have been in his shoes for anything."

  "Well, what was the outcome?" Vit¬torin asked. "How did the chief accountant get on?"

  Herr Ebenseder, who had donned his silk skullcap, shrugged and knit his brow to indicate that he had his own opinion of the outcome.

  "It's still in the air, I'm afraid," Herr Vit¬torin said. "Today's session was purely informative, the undersecretary told me. I don't suppose they'll reach a decision before Monday . . . Wasn't that the doorbell? Who can it be at this hour? Oskar has his own key. Perhaps it's someone from the office. No, Vally, don't bother, I'll go myself."

  He hurried out. The two girls gazed anxiously at Herr Ebenseder, who was lolling back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling and shaking his head.

  "He hasn't the first idea," he said. "The whole thing was a farce, a mere formality. The decision to retire him had been taken in advance."

  There was silence for a moment. Vally looked at Lola, who had turned pale. Ebenseder stroked his chin with a meditative air.

  "We're all very sorry," he went on, "-especially yours truly. I tried to talk him out of it, but in vain. Forty per cent of his present salary if he's lucky - that's the most he can expect. No, it won't be easy. Fräulein Vally may have to deign to take a job as a secretary or shorthand typist. Then she can contribute something to household expenses instead of lounging around all day."