“I was beginning to think you’d left Vienna, Tschernikoff.”
The Russian laughed. “With us the probable is always the improbable. I found out everything you wanted to know.”
Steiner emptied his glass. “Can you get papers?”
“Yes. Even very good ones. The best forgery I have seen in years.”
“I’ve got to get out of the country,” Steiner said. “I’ve got to have papers. I’d rather run the risk of a penitentiary with a false passport than stand this constant anxiety and these trips to the lock-up. What have you seen?”
“I was in the Hellebarde Café. That’s where the people do business now. They are the same ones as seven years ago. Reliable enough in their way. To be sure the cheapest papers cost four hundred schillings.”
“What can you get for that?”
“The passport of a dead Austrian. Good for one year more.”
“One year. And then?”
Tschernikoff looked at Steiner. “Abroad it might be extended. Or a skillful hand could alter the date.”
Steiner nodded.
“Besides, there are two passports that belong to dead German refugees. But they cost eight hundred schillings apiece. Completely forged ones are not to be had under fifteen hundred. I wouldn’t recommend them to you anyway.”
Tschernikoff tapped the ash off his cigarette. “For the time being there’s nothing to be expected from the League of Nations in your case. For those who have come into the country illegally without a passport, nothing at all. Nansen is dead; he was the one who got our passports for us.”
“Four hundred schillings?” Steiner said. “I have twenty-five.”
“You’ll be able to beat them down a little. To three hundred and fifty, I’d say.”
“Compared to twenty-five it’s all the same. But that doesn’t make any difference; I’ll see to it that I get the money. Where is the Hellebarde?”
The Russian drew a slip of paper out of his pocket. “Here is the address. Also the name of the waiter who acts as go-between. He calls the people up when you tell him to. He gets five schillings for doing it.”
“Fine. I’ll see how I make out.” Steiner put the slip away carefully. “A thousand thanks for taking so much trouble, Tschernikoff.”
“Not at all,” the Russian waved away the thanks. “One does what one can when there’s a chance. You never know when you’ll be in the same fix yourself.”
“Yes.” Steiner stood up. “I’ll look you up again here and tell you how it comes out.”
“Fine. I’m often here about this time. I play chess with the South German master. The man over there with the earlocks. Never thought in normal times that I’d have the good fortune to play with an expert like that.” Tschernikoff smiled. “Chess is a passion of mine.”
Steiner nodded to him. Then stepping over a few young people who were lying asleep with open mouths along the wall, he went to the door. At Circuit Judge Epstein’s table sat a pudgy Jewess. Epstein was lecturing unctuously and she sat with folded hands staring at him as though at an unreliable god. In front of her on the table lay fifty groschen. Epstein’s hairy left hand lay close beside them like a great spider in wait.
Outside Steiner took a deep breath. The soft night air seemed like wine after the stale smoke and gray misery of the café. I must get away, he thought, I must get away at any price. He looked at his watch. Although it was late he decided to try to find the cardsharp.
The little bar, which the cardsharp had told him was his hangout, was almost empty. Only two showily dressed girls were perched like parrots on high chairs with their feet on the nickel railing of the bar.
“Has Fred been here?” Steiner asked the barkeep.
“Fred?” The barkeep looked at him sharply. “What do you want with Fred?”
“I want to repeat the Lord’s Prayer with him, brother. What did you think?”
The barkeep reflected for a while. “He left an hour ago,” he said finally.
“Will he be back?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“All right, then I’ll wait. Give me a vodka.”
Steiner waited for about an hour. He thought over all the things he could turn into cash. But it didn’t amount to more than about seventy schillings. The girls had paid him only cursory attention. They sat around for a while longer, then strutted out. The barkeep began to shake and throw dice by himself.
“Shall we throw a round?” Steiner asked.
“Go ahead.”
They threw and Steiner won. They went on playing. Steiner threw four aces twice in succession. “I seem to have luck with aces,” he said.
“You have luck anyway,” the barkeep replied. “What sign were you born under?”
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to be a Lion. At least you have the sun in the constellation of Leo. I know a little about astrology. Last round, eh? Fred won’t be back. He never comes as late as this. Needs sleep and steady hands.”
They shook and Steiner won again. “See?” said the barkeep in a satisfied tone, pushing over five schillings. “You are most certainly a Lion, with Neptune in the ascendant, I should say. What month were you born in?”
“August.”
“Then you’re a perfect Lion. You’ll have magnificent luck this year.”
“To make up for that I’m taking on a whole forest full of lions.” Steiner emptied his glass. “Tell Fred I was here, will you? Say that Steiner asked for him. I’ll stop in tomorrow about eight.”
“Right.”
Steiner went back to the rooming house. The way was long and the streets empty. Above him hung the star-studded sky, and over the walls drifted from time to time the heavy scent of lilacs in bloom. My God, Marie, he thought, this can’t go on forever.
Chapter Four
KERN WAS STANDING in a drugstore near Wenceslaus Square. He had spied in the window a couple of bottles of toilet water bearing the label of his father’s laboratory.
“Farr’s Toilet Water!” Kern fondled the bottle the druggist had brought out of the case. “Where did you get this?”
The druggist shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember now. It comes from Germany. We’ve had it for a long time. Do you want to buy that bottle?”
“Not just this one. Six—”
“Six?”
“Yes, six to begin with. More later on. I sell it. Of course I must have a discount.”
The druggist looked at Kern. “Are you an emigree?” he asked.
Kern put the bottle down on the counter. “Do you know,” he said angrily, “that question is gradually beginning to bore me—when it’s asked by someone who is not a member of the police. Especially when I have a permit in my pocket. All you have to do is tell me what discount you’ll give.”
“Ten per cent.”
“That’s ridiculous. How can I make any money that way?”
“You can have the bottle at twenty-five per cent discount,” said the owner of the store coming in from the back room. “Thirty per cent if you take ten. We’d be glad to get rid of that old stuff.”
“Old stuff?” Kern gave the man an offended look. “That’s very fine toilet water, don’t you know that?”
The owner of the store indifferently dug into his ear with his little finger. “Maybe so. In that case, of course, you’ll be satisfied with twenty per cent.”
“Thirty is the very least. That hasn’t anything to do with the quality. You can give me thirty per cent and it can be good toilet water just the same, can’t it?”
The druggist made a face. “All toilet waters are the same. The only thing that makes some better than others is advertising. That’s the whole secret.”
Kern looked at him. “It’s perfectly certain that there’s not going to be any more advertising for this. And so according to you it’s very bad. In that case, thirty-five per cent would be the right discount.”
“Thirty,” the owner rejoined. “Now and then someone asks for it.”
“The formula? Dear God, as if we didn’t have enough trouble!” Bureck lifted his hands in despair.
“The formula?” Kern pricked up his ears. “Who is it that wants to sell you the formula?”
The druggist laughed. “Someone or other. He says he formerly owned the laboratory himself. All lies of course! The things these emigrees think up!”
Kern was breathless for an instant. “Do you know where the man lives?” he asked.
The druggist shrugged his shoulders. “I think we have the address lying around somewhere. He has given it to us a couple of times.”
“I think it’s my father.”
The two stared at Kern. “Really?” said the druggist.
“Yes, I think that’s who it is. I’ve been looking for him for a long time.”
“Bertha!” the owner shouted excitedly to a woman who was working at a desk in the back of the store. “Have we still got the address of the man who wanted to sell us a formula for toilet water?”
“Do you mean Herr Strna? Or that old windbag who’s been in here loafing around a couple of times?” the woman shouted back.
“Hell!” The proprietor looked at Kern in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.” He went quickly to the back of the store.
“That comes from sleeping with the help,” the druggist remarked sneeringly behind his back.
The owner came back snorting after a while with a slip of paper in his hand. “Here’s the address. It is a Herr Kern, Siegmund Kern.”
“That’s my father.”
“Really?” The man gave the paper to Kern. “This is the address. The last time he was here was about three weeks ago. You understand, of course—”
“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference. But I’d like to go there right away. I’ll come back later about the bottles.”
“Of course. There’s time enough for that.”
———
The house to which Kern had been directed was situated in Tuzarova Street, near the covered markets. It was dark and musty and smelled of damp walls and boiled cabbage. Kern climbed slowly up the stairs. It was strange, but he was a little afraid to see his father again after so long a time—experience had taught him that things never got any better.
On the third floor he rang. After a while there was a sound of shuffling footsteps behind the door and a piece of cardboard was pushed away from a round peephole. Kern could see one black eye peering at him.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice inquired sullenly.
“I want to see someone who lives here,” Kern said.
“No one lives here.”
“That’s not true, you live here, don’t you?” Kern looked at the name on the door. “Frau Melanie Ekowski? But I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well then?”
“I want to talk to a man who lives here.”
“There’s no man living here.”
Kern stared at the round black eye. Perhaps it was true that his father had left long since. He felt suddenly empty and discouraged.
“What’s his name supposed to be?” asked the woman behind the door.
Kern lifted his head with reawakened hope. “I’d rather not shout that through the whole house. If you’ll open the door I’ll tell you.”
The eye disappeared from the peephole. A chain rattled. This is a regular fortress, Kern thought. He was pretty sure now that his father still lived here; otherwise the woman wouldn’t have questioned him.
The door opened. A powerful Czech woman, with a broad face and red cheeks, stood there examining Kern from head to toe.
“I want to speak to Herr Kern.”
“Kern? Don’t know him. He doesn’t live here.”
“Herr Siegmund Kern. I am Ludwig Kern.”
“Ah?” The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Anyone could say that.”
Kern took his permit out of his pocket. “Here—please look at this paper. The first name has been purposely changed; but you can see the other one.”
The woman read the whole document through slowly. It took a long while. Then she gave it back. “Relative?”
“Yes.” Something kept him from saying more. He was now practically certain that this was where his father lived.
The woman had made up her mind. “Doesn’t live here,” she declared curtly.
“All right,” Kern said; “then I shall tell you where I live. In the Hotel Bristol. I shall only be here for a couple of days; I should like to see Herr Siegmund Kern before I go. I am not going to be a burden to him. I have something to give him,” he added, glancing at the woman.
“Really?”
“Yes. The Hotel Bristol. Ludwig Kern. Good day.”
He went down the stairs. Good heavens, he thought, a pretty Cerberus he has guarding him! However—it’s better to be guarded than betrayed.
He went back to the drugstore. The owner rushed up to him. “Did you find your father?” His face was full of the curiosity of a man whose life is completely lacking in excitement.
“Not yet,” Kern said, suddenly displeased. “But he lives there. He wasn’t at home.”
“Think of that! That’s a real piece of luck, isn’t it?”
The man folded his arms on the counter and launched into a discourse on strange coincidents in life.
“That’s not the way it is with us,” Kern said. “With us it’s a strange coincidence when anything goes normally. And how about the toilet water? I can only take six bottles right now. I haven’t money for any more. What discount will you give me?”
The owner reflected for a moment. Then he announced magnanimously, “Thirty-five per cent. Something like this doesn’t happen every day.”
“All right.”
Kern paid and the druggist wrapped up the bottles. The woman named Bertha had meanwhile come out from the back of the shop in order to look at the young man who had found his father. She was excitedly munching something.
“Look here,” said the owner. “There’s something I wanted to say—the toilet water is very good. Really very good.”
“Thanks!” Kern took the package. “In that case I’ll hope to be back soon to get the rest.”
Kern returned to the hotel. He planned to fetch some cakes of soap and bottles of perfume and try peddling them in town. The man from the concentration camp who lived in the same room had loaned him money with which to lay in a stock.
As he stepped into the hall he saw someone come out of the room next to his. It was a girl of medium height, wearing a bright dress and carrying a couple of books under her arm. At first Kern paid no attention to her. He was busy figuring out the prices for his toilet water. But suddenly he realized that the girl had come out of the room into which he had blundered the night before, and he stopped short. He had a feeling that she might even now recognize him.
The girl went quickly down the stairs without looking around. Kern still waited for a while, then he went quickly down the corridor after her. He had suddenly become very curious to know what she looked like.
He went down the stairs and looked about, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. He went to the door and looked up and down the street. It lay empty in the afternoon sunlight. There were only a couple of police dogs romping on the sidewalk. Kern went back into the hotel.
“Didn’t someone just go out?” he asked the doorman, who was also the waiter and handyman.
“Only you!” The doorman stared at him. He expected Kern to burst into laughter at his joke.
Kern did not laugh. “I mean a girl,” he said. “A young lady.”
“No ladies live here,” the doorman replied sullenly. He was offended because his wit had been wasted. “Only women.”
“So no one went out?”
“What do you mean
by all these questions? Are you from the police?” The doorman was now openly hostile.
Kern looked at him in amazement. He could not understand what had got into the man. He had completely missed the joke. He got a package of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to the doorman. “Thanks,” the latter said frostily. “I smoke a better brand.”
“I can believe that.”
Kern put the cigarettes away. He stayed there for a moment reflecting. The girl must still be in the hotel; perhaps she was in the sitting room. He went back.
The sitting room was long and it opened on a cement terrace which, in turn, led to a walled garden in which grew a couple of lilac bushes.
Kern glanced through the glass door. He saw the girl sitting at a table. She was leaning on her elbows reading. There was no one else in the room. Irresistibly drawn, Kern opened the door and stepped in.
The girl glanced up as she heard the door. Kern was embarrassed. “Good afternoon,” he said tentatively. The girl looked at him. Then she nodded and went on reading.
Kern took a seat in one corner of the room. After a while he stood up and got a couple of newspapers. Suddenly he seemed ridiculous in his own eyes and wished that he were outside again. But it seemed almost impossible to get up again so soon and walk out.
He unfolded the newspapers and began to read. After a while he saw the girl reach for her handbag and open it. She took out a silver cigarette case and snapped it open. Then she closed it without taking out a cigarette and put it back in the bag.
Kern quickly laid the paper aside and got up. “I see you’ve forgotten your cigarettes,” he said. “May I help you out?”
He drew out his package. He would have given a great deal to have a cigarette case. The package was crushed and torn at the corners. He offered it to the girl. “Of course I don’t know whether you like this kind. The doorman just refused them. They weren’t good enough for him.”
The girl looked at the label. “They’re the same kind I smoke,” she said.
Kern laughed. “They’re the cheapest you can buy. That’s almost like telling the story of your life.”
The girl looked at him. “I guess this hotel tells it anyway.”
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