Life Goes On: A Novel

by Hans Keilson

  But the next time it happened, the landlord sent a shopgirl over from his shop four days after the agreed-upon due date, with a bill he had already signed.

  “I’ll come over in person after we close,” he answered the shopgirl. She had stood in the doorway, shy and embarrassed, while he read the letter; she had only reluctantly carried the message.

  Later, when Herr Seldersen went to see the landlord, he was deathly pale with rage.

  “Just file a lawsuit why don’t you, send the courts after me?” he screamed. “Make sure everyone knows that I’m late on my payments, after I’ve paid every penny on time for twenty-five years! Now you really have reason to worry!”

  Now that was over the line; his anger was making him exaggerate. “What are you talking about?” the landlord asked. “I sent a warning, don’t you do that to people who owe you money?”

  Herr Seldersen realized that he had gone too far; did he really have to scream out his fears to the world and reveal to everyone his real circumstances? So he retreated, but cautiously, since he still had something on his mind.

  “Why did you send me that letter?” He held it in his shaking hand. “When I have the money I’ll pay the rent, you just need to accommodate me a little.”

  “Yes, of course, I only wanted to remind you.”

  “I see, just remind me, nothing more.”

  These words kept running through Herr Seldersen’s head the whole rest of the day. It had gotten to the point that people thought they needed to remind him of what he owed, when he had always paid everything on time for who knows how many years. All of a sudden people were afraid he might simply have forgotten the first of the month for some reason. He thought about the people who owed him money too, how he sent warning letters to them and still they brought their cash to someone else the next time, walking contemptuously past his shop, not deeming him worthy of a single glance—the truth was, they were ashamed.

  When Herr Seldersen walked down the street, looked in the shop windows, and then stood in front of his own selection and compared it to the others, he felt as if someone had jumped out at him and was strangling him. He lay awake all night, tossing and turning in bed, until his wife woke up next to him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, still half asleep.

  No answer.

  After a while:

  “I’m going to redo the shop windows tomorrow, I just thought of it.”

  “And you wake me up for that?” At the same time, she felt bad for him. “Yes, you’re right, the display is already three weeks old. You can rearrange everything inside too. But now you should try to get a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  She turned over onto her other side and closed her eyes. They lay quietly next to each other, each one listening to the other’s breathing, but neither one could get back to sleep.

  When October was over, Herr Seldersen took up the iron stove and the long pipes from the floor. Now he had something to do for several days. He degreased the stove, cleaned the pipes, and reinstalled the heating himself. He knelt on the floor, stood on a ladder, hammered nails into the ceiling until the plaster flaked off onto his suit, and was too busy with his project to think of doing anything else. Anyone who spoke to him got whatever answer took the least thought. His clothes were dirty, his hands were dirty, he never stopped working even on nights and weekends. He wiped the dust off only in a token way, and wore the rest as a badge of honor from his hard work.

  “Everyone can see I’ve been working,” he said. He had such strange ideas.

  Frau Seldersen was extremely upset. “Still, you could at least keep clean,” she said. “What will people think of me, letting you walk around like that? I won’t work downstairs with you anymore, I’m too ashamed.”

  Herr Seldersen rudely stormed off. Mother stayed home, crying, and talking to herself through her tears: “I think he’s losing his mind.…”

  * * *

  One afternoon, Herr Dalke sent his youngest shopgirl over to Herr Seldersen and invited him over for an evening. His wife was traveling, he was alone in the big apartment and bored, and would love some company. At first Herr Seldersen wanted to refuse; he wasn’t in the mood for a night out that would end, he knew, very late. But Frau Seldersen, who was standing there when the shopgirl brought the invitation, conveyed to him that he couldn’t say no to Herr Dalke. And what would his reason have been? Father couldn’t decide. Yes, he’ll be there right on time, best regards, she said to the girl without a moment’s hesitation. Many thanks. Herr Seldersen was paralyzed. The shopgirl left the store and crossed the street; Father saw her walk into Herr Wiesel’s. So, Wiesel too, there’d be three of them for the evening, it might be fun. But still, he didn’t feel any great desire to go. And what made his wife think she could go over his head and accept the invitation for him if he didn’t want to go?

  “You’ll wear your blue suit and go,” Mother said, without giving any further explanation. He had to spend a little time with other people, these days he only rarely even tried, he’d rather just shut himself off and stay home alone, brooding over his own thoughts.

  That evening, Herr Seldersen brushed his work suit, which had been mended in so many places that it had taken on a strange, colorless appearance. But he refused to let Frau Seldersen convince him to change suits. “It’ll be dark anyway,” he said, “and no one will be looking at me.” And away he went.

  The three of them sat at the small round table in a warm room, with cigars on a side table, bottles of liquor set out. Herr Dalke had provided for everything well. Everyone was in a good, social mood. Herr Dalke didn’t wait long before he started shuffling the cards—he was a passionate but extremely bad card player. Playing cards brought him extraordinary pleasure. He was so eager! He sat there the whole time with his face flushed, bent over the table, holding his cards so close to his body that he couldn’t see them himself without difficult twists and contortions, he always thought people were cheating. He gave a long speech about every card he played, an endless dialogue with himself that Herr Wiesel only nodded at, now and then throwing in a little joke, which only got Herr Dalke more worked up, while Herr Seldersen sat quietly in his chair and said nothing. He held his own cards carefully arranged, straight in front of his face with his elbows resting on the table. He preferred people who played in Wiesel’s style: carefully, silently, but dangerously. How carried away Herr Dalke could get! If he lost, he would hunker down in his chair full of sorrow, as though he had just suffered the defeat of his life; he never stopped talking out loud to himself, long explanations of how he could have played better and then won after all. He had a drink and then returned to battle. And so it went until the early hours of the morning. Herr Seldersen leaned back in his chair, a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray, and the hand he held his cards in rested tiredly on the table; he could barely keep his eyes open. He had known in advance that this evening would run late, and now he looked at the clock—he had been here more than five hours, and hadn’t spoken three sentences. Herr Wiesel was fading too, he still nodded at all of Herr Dalke’s rambling but maybe he was nodding off to sleep, he had to take care not to let his head slip too far down and hit the table. Only Herr Dalke was as fresh and alert as ever. He was losing, and irritation kept him awake. Herr Seldersen added everything up and passed him the sheet of paper for him to check; Herr Dalke only nodded his head to say he was sure it was right, and slid him the money. Thanks—to be honest, Herr Seldersen was embarrassed to take the money, but after all, he had won. Herr Dalke slid Herr Wiesel some money too, but he took it with a laugh: “That means business will be good today, you know what they say,” he said to console him, “and now at least I’ve brought in something.” Herr Dalke had to laugh at the joke, but he said, Business will be good, yes. He wished he would be able to say that again. He wanted to tell them something: A high official had come by the day before—he refused to name names, but they would be shocked—and had taken him into his confidence. He needed
some things for himself and his family, he had always shopped at Herr Dalke’s, he gave a long speech about necessities, how pleased he had always been with the goods and service there, and at the end he said he couldn’t pay for it all at once and asked Herr Dalke for consideration. Herr Dalke had agreed. But that was just one example, he could list dozens more.

  Herr Seldersen was on tenterhooks. Herr Wiesel said it was the same with him, giving credit almost finishes us off and makes the borrower careless and lazy at the same time. He had stories he could tell too. Now he always added some money on top, to cover the interest he had to pay. Then, when the payments stopped coming and he had to request payment from the debtors, they walked right past his store as if they were insulted, and didn’t even give him the courtesy of a single glance. They must be ashamed. Well, Herr Wiesel couldn’t worry about that. Or else they just stayed away altogether, went to someone else, and started to get credit there.

  Herr Seldersen knew only too well what that shame felt like. Was it fundamentally any different for him? Didn’t he also try to keep an eye out for the main chance, didn’t he also start dealing with new people while he still had debts with the old ones?

  “What are we supposed to do?” he asked casually.

  Herr Dalke shrugged. What can we do? Nothing, absolutely nothing, just be careful. “I’d rather lose the sale than let myself in for such uncertainty, suspicions.… Once you start with that, you’re done for.” True, Herr Wiesel agreed. He gave credit and let his customers keep tabs, but only cautiously; he could still be choosy.

  Herr Seldersen thought to himself that there were many days when not a single item would leave his store if he didn’t give them away—trusting his customers to pay for them eventually. What did the other two men know of the deals he was forced to make?

  “It’s not easy,” Herr Wiesel said, shaking Herr Dalke’s hand. “Good night, thanks very much, sleep well.”

  “Good night, Herr Seldersen.”

  “Good night.”

  They walked through the dark streets. The city government had turned off the streetlights at one a.m.—to save money. Their footsteps were hesitant and tentative.

  “Be careful with giving credit, Herr Seldersen,” Herr Wiesel warned him. “It doesn’t get you anywhere. You heard what Herr Dalke just said.”

  Herr Seldersen was surprised. Dalke has to give credit too? He couldn’t believe it.

  “Why not? You think Herr Dalke is an exception? He probably does it more than he lets on.”

  “He takes a good look at his customers first, though. He can still pick and choose.”

  But Herr Wiesel had reached his house, and said goodbye.

  Herr Seldersen kept walking alone, playing over the conversation in his mind. The whole time, he had had the strange feeling that Herr Dalke and Herr Wiesel were communicating with each other on some kind of secret level. At first his suspicions seemed groundless: the conversation was following a normal track and everyone contributed to it, each saying whatever he thought, not keeping anything to himself. But then—Herr Seldersen couldn’t get free of the thought—Dalke and Wiesel started communicating with each other on some secret level, there was a mysterious understanding between them that Seldersen couldn’t quite put his finger on. But what? He was hell-bent on figuring it out, and refused to give up until he had gained some kind of clarity. He felt that he owed himself that.

  It was all very simple, in fact, and Herr Seldersen’s suspicion was in no way a figment of his imagination. The experiences he had had in the past few years had in many ways sharpened his senses, and they weren’t leading him astray here. He was right, although he was also exaggerating the consequences for himself and wrong to feel that the other two were that much better off than he was. There was one simple thing they had in common: they all had to give customers things without getting any cash in hand in return; they had to give credit. Herr Dalke primarily to officials, teachers, and members of the upper classes—he could be relatively sure he would get his money eventually. Likewise Herr Wiesel. But the only people who came to Herr Seldersen’s store—how could it be otherwise?—were the poor devils, broke and hopeless. There was something in the air that seemed to lure them to Herr Seldersen’s store: a kind of smell of decay, of corpses almost, the same kind of complicated, secret bond, in fact, that Herr Seldersen had just picked up on between Herr Wiesel and Herr Dalke. That’s what it was, nothing more. It didn’t matter so terribly much to those two whether they lost this or that customer, they’d survive either way, certainly for some time and probably for quite a while. Losing a little money here and there wouldn’t change anything with them, it wouldn’t make the whole edifice sway. But him? He was a poor devil himself, every penny mattered to him, and he had to go into every situation making sure that he would keep every single customer, now and in the future, under any circumstances, no matter what. He couldn’t afford to take any decisive measures, he was too embroiled in the whole mess. The others could keep a tab for four weeks, six weeks, two months, six months: it didn’t matter to them; they would just dip into their reserves. They could take vigorous and decisive action, send warnings to customers who were overdue, even sue them or repossess their property; in the end they’d come back, they relied on those stores. But Herr Seldersen?

  That was what Seldersen learned, in an almost extrasensory way, from his conversation with Herr Wiesel and Herr Dalke.

  * * *

  It couldn’t go on, with the best will in the world it just could not go on. The end could not be any more terrible than the current situation. It had started with letters back then and it started with letters again this time. The mailman brought the mail twice a day, and carried in worry and care and despair with the letters; they had been through it all before. Things had gone well enough for eighteen months, and Herr Seldersen had known all along that it wouldn’t last forever. It was like a night’s sleep during a storm. He read the letters, he knew what they had to say, but this time they sounded a lot more drastic: the warnings were blunt and unambiguous, with no prospect for forbearance; the danger of losing their money was too clear, experience had made his creditors cunning and cautious and completely untrusting. Herr Seldersen wrote back, asked for forbearance, the same as before. A few days later he received as his answer a demand from a lawyer to pay the money within a set time, they threatened to take him to court and every step that might follow. But Father had already taken lawsuits into account too, they no longer scared him. He went to Herr Wiesel and borrowed money, he had hardened himself to that too. He satisfied his other creditors with little sums that he was able to send off in the next few days, but it was only cobbled together, a patch-up job, he would never in his life be able to take care of everything this way. The letters and threats piled up, their language grew more and more sharp and presumptuous. But the money, where was Herr Seldersen supposed to get the money?

  * * *

  One afternoon, Frau Seldersen secretly took a long walk. She went up to the apartment, took her purse, and then came back down to the store where Herr Seldersen was sitting and patiently waiting.

  “I’m going for a little walk,” she said, and her voice sounded firm and sure, she wasn’t trying to apologize for going out and leaving him there alone. He nodded to her, glad that she had worked up the energy for a walk. He would have liked to go with her. The sun was high in the sky, the air light and warm over the city.

  Frau Seldersen left the shop, but she wasn’t intending to just take a pleasant little walk—her goal was not the forest outside of town, rising full and magnificent up over the broad valley, or the parks where you could cheerfully wander at your leisure. She directed her steps to where the buildings were cramped and tightly crowded together on bumpy, potholed streets, where people lived in smoky rooms. She climbed a steep, run-down spiral staircase to the top floor, right under the roof, where she knocked on the door and went inside.

  The husband lay on the sofa, lazy and heavy, asleep. Flies were buzzi
ng around his face and he swiped at them in his sleep. The wife was sitting at the table; when Frau Seldersen came in, she jumped up.

  “Frau Seldersen!” she cried in surprise. She took a couple of steps toward her, greeted her, and sat back down at the table.

  “Shh,” Mother said, “not so loud, your husband is sleeping. He must be tired. Is he working again? A night shift?”

  “Working!” his wife said sarcastically. “He’s picked up bad habits, he’s tired all the time, he drinks. He came home this afternoon in that state. We can talk to each other in a normal voice, don’t worry.”

  Frau Seldersen felt sorry for her. By then she had recovered from climbing the stairs.

  Pause.

  They sat across from each other and looked at each other, embarrassed. This unexpected visit was quite a surprise for the woman; she wanted to find out to what she owed this great honor, many thanks, and so on, but Frau Seldersen would not have climbed the four flights of stairs without a specific reason.

  “It’s a very nice place you’ve got here, really…” Frau Seldersen said slowly as her gaze wandered around the room.

  Is that why she’d come, to convince herself of that?

  Silence.

  Frau Seldersen searched desperately for a way to start.

  “And the curtains, it was so hard for you to decide, but you’re happy with them?”

  The woman nodded. “I just washed them, they’re still fresh from the stretcher.”

  Pause.

  Frau Seldersen was still thinking when the other woman came to her assistance.

  “I think there’s still something on my tab from the curtains,” she said haltingly, as though only remembering with difficulty.

  Frau Seldersen nodded and suddenly felt the courage to go on.

  “Not only from the curtains.” She raised her gaze and looked straight at the woman.