They were shown many entertaining things. Martha found the program very acceptable, Dreyer thought it a jolly good show, Franz loved every bit of it. A man in a top hat juggled dummy bottles to which he suddenly added his hat; four Japanese flew hither and thither on rhythmically creaking trapezes and while pausing in between stunts tossed to each other a bright handkerchief with which they fastidiously wiped their hands; a clown, constantly on the point of losing his baggy trousers, flopped all over the stage emitting a sharp whistle as he skidded before falling with a whack on his face; a horse, so white it might have been powdered, delicately played pace in time to music; a crazy family of cyclists extracted all that was humanly possible and more from the properties of the wheel; a black lustrous seal gave throaty cries like a drowning bather, and then slithered smooth and slick as if greased down a board into the green water of a pool where a half-naked girl greeted the happy beast with a kiss on the nose. Now and then Dreyer grunted with pleasure and nudged Franz. After the seal had received its ultimate reward, a live mackerel which it succulently snapped up in mid-air, and galloped off on its flippers, the curtain was drawn for the public to re-pick themselves, as the French say; when it opened again, a woman in silver shoes and a spangled evening dress stood bathed in light in the center of the darkened stage with a luminous violin to which she applied a star-flashing bow. The spotlight diligently drenched her now in pink now in green; a diadem shimmered on her brow. Her playing was languorous and really delicious and suffused Martha with such excitement, such exquisite sadness that she half-closed her eyes and found Franz’s hand in the darkness; and he experienced the same sensation—a poignant rapture in harmony with their love. The musical phantasmagoria (as that item was listed) sparkled and swooned, the violin sang and moaned, the pink and the green were joined by blue and violet—and then Dreyer could stand it no longer.
“I have my eyes and ears closed,” he said in a weepy whisper, “let me know when this obscene abomination is over.”
Martha gave a start; Franz thought that all was lost, that he had seen them holding hands. At the same moment the stage grew black and the house thundered in an avalanche of applause.
“You understand absolutely nothing about art,” said Martha dryly. “You only disturb other people who want to listen.”
Dreyer exhaled in noisy relief. Then, with fussy gestures, with swift jerks of his eyebrows, like a man who is in a hurry to forget, he looked up the next number on the program.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” he said. “The Gutter-Perchers, whoever they are, and then a world-famous conjuror.”
“Close call,” Franz was thinking at that moment. “That time it was really a close call. Phew!… We’ve got to be extremely careful.… Of course, it’s wonderful sitting here and knowing she’s mine, and he sitting next to us and not knowing. But it is all so dangerous.…”
The performance concluded with a motion picture, as was still customary in circuses and music halls ever since the first “bioscope” was shown there as a fascinating curiosity. On the flickering screen, strangely flat after the live stage, a chimpanzee in degrading human clothes performed human actions degrading to an animal. Martha laughed heartily, remarking: “Just look how smart he is!” Franz clucked his tongue in amazement, and insisted in all seriousness that it was a dwarf in disguise.
When they came out into the frosty street lighted like yet another scene by the theater’s electric signs, and the faithful Icarus rolled up with a kind of clownish zeal, Dreyer reproached himself for having neglected lately to observe his chauffeur’s behavior. Now was the perfect moment to make a little check. As the chauffeur was hurriedly pulling on his fur gauntlets, Dreyer tried to catch with his nose the steam issuing from the man’s mouth. The chauffeur met his glance and, baring his bad teeth, innocently raised his eyebrows.
“Chilly, chilly, isn’t it,” said Dreyer quickly.
“Not too bad,” replied the chauffeur, “not too bad.”
“Can’t smell anything,” thought Dreyer. “And yet I’m sure that while he was waiting.… Flushed face, merry eyes. Well, let’s see how he is going to drive.”
The chauffeur drove remarkably well. Franz, respectfully perched on the edge of one of the two folding seats of the luxurious vehicle, listened to the smooth hum of its speed, examined the artificial daisies in their little silver vase, the speaking tube hanging on its steel hook, the travelling clock which had its own concept of time, and the ashtray with one gold-tipped cigarette butt in it. A snowy night with aureoled street lights ran past the wide windows.
“I’ll get out here,” he said, recognizing a square and a statue. “It’s just a short walk to my house from here.”
“Oh, I’ll take you there,” replied Dreyer with a little yawn. “What’s your exact address?”
Martha caught Franz’s eye and shook her head. He understood. Dreyer, accustomed as he was to seeing his nephew nearly every evening at his house, had never bothered to ask where he actually lived, and this should be left in silent and propitious obscurity. Franz nervously cleared his throat and said:
“No, really, I’d like to stretch my legs.”
“As you wish,” said Dreyer in the middle of a yawn and, leaning across Franz, knocked on the glass partition with his fist.
“Why knock?” Martha observed crossly; “there’s a tube for this purpose, isn’t there?”
Franz found himself in a deserted white square. He put up the collar of his raincoat, thrust his hands into his pockets and, hunching over, walked quickly in the direction of his house. On Sundays, on the elegant street in the western section of the city, he would wear his new overcoat and walk quite differently. Now, however, was not the moment for that—the cold was intense. That big-city Sunday walk had not been easy to copy. It consisted of stretching one’s arms well down and crossing one’s hands (good gloves were essential) below the last button of one’s overcoat as if to keep it in place as one advanced at a very slow strut, with toes pointing out at each step. Thus promenaded the Kurfürstendamm dandies, sometimes in pairs, now and then looking around at a girl without changing the position of their hands but merely giving a slight backward jerk of the shoulder.
Despite the cold, Franz felt multiplied and exaggerated as one does after a show, and he even began to whistle. “To hell with her husband. One must be braver. Such bliss is not bestowed on everyone. What was she doing now? She must be home and undressing. That yellow-bristled pig. Pestering her, no doubt. To hell with him! Now she is sitting on the bed, peeling off her stocking. Three or four houses more, and she will be naked. I should buy her a lacy nightdress. Keep it among my pajamas. When I reach that street lamp, she will lower her head on the pillow. I cross the street, and she turns off the light. They share the same bedroom. No, he is getting old, he will leave her alone. One more block: she has fallen asleep. That’s my street. Wonderful violinist—and so beautifully staged, there was really something heavenly about it. The conjuror was good too. Simple tricks, no doubt: make good money by deceiving people. Now she is sound asleep. She sees my house in dream and hears the divine violin. Damn this key. Always starts by behaving as if it had never been in this lock before. Stair light not working again. You could really come crashing down if you happened to trip. And this key is acting up, too.”
In the dim corridor, by the slightly brighter door of his room, stood old Enricht shaking his head disapprovingly. He wore a mouse-gray dressing gown and checkered booties.
“Oh-oh-oh,” he said. “Going to bed after midnight. Shame on you.”
Franz was about to walk on but the old man clutched at his sleeve.
“I can’t be angry tonight,” he said with feeling. “It’s a joyful occasion for me: the wife is back!”
“Congratulations,” said Franz.
“But no joy is perfect,” Enricht went on without releasing Franz’s sleeve. “My little old lady arrived sick.”
Franz gave a commiserating grunt.
“There she
is,” cried the landlord. “Sitting there in the armchair. Have a look.”
He opened the door wider and over the back of the chair Franz glimpsed a gray head with something white pinned to its crown.
“See what I mean?” said the old man, staring at Franz with shining eyes. “And now good night,” he added and, slipping into his room, closed the door.
Franz proceeded on his way. But then stopped short and went back. “Listen,” he said through the door. “How about that couch?”
A hoarse, strained, old-womanish voice replied: “The couch is already in your room. I gave you my own couch.”
“Two old crackpots,” thought Franz with a squeamish grimace. True enough, the furniture family in his room had grown. It was a hard decrepit couch of a drab gray, patterned with forget-me-nots. Still, it was a couch. When Martha came the next day she wrinkled her nose and, keeping it wrinkled, felt the stuffing, located a sick spring, and raised the shabby fringe.
“Oh well, there is nothing to be done,” she said at last. “I have no intention of quarrelling with his old lady. A pity she has returned. One more pair of ears. Put those two cushions there. Now it looks better.” And soon they grew used to it, to its modest coloration and to the disapproving creaks it emitted in rhythm to their ebullient love-making.
It was not only a couch, however, that enriched Franz’s room. Once, in a particularly benevolent moment, Dreyer gave him some extra cash from his waistcoat pocket (real green dollars!), and a fortnight later, just in time for Christmas, a new lodger appeared in Franz’s wardrobe: the long-awaited tuxedo.
“That’s all very well,” said Martha, “but it’s not all. You have to learn to dance. Tomorrow night after supper we’ll put a nice record on the phonograph, and I’ll give you your first lesson. It will be rather fun to have Uncle watch us.”
Franz arrived in his new dinner jacket. She reprimanded him for wearing it needlessly but found it very becoming. It was nine o’clock. Dreyer was expected any minute. He was very precise in this respect, always telephoning to say he would be so many minutes earlier or later, for he was extremely fond of hearing his wife’s soft, smooth, formal voice over the phone—her voice in a kind of early Florentine perspective, so different from matter-of-fact reality. Martha was always surprised at his telephoning about those trifling minutes and seconds, and despite her own careful attitude toward measured time, her husband’s punctuality in this respect puzzled and irritated her. Tonight he had not telephoned, and yet he was already half an hour late. Out of natural reverence toward the sacred crease of each trouserleg, Franz avoided sitting down and walked around the room, skirting Martha’s armchair but not daring to kiss her because of the maid’s proximity.
“I’m hungry,” said Martha. “I can’t understand why he does not come.”
“Let’s start the phonograph. You’ll teach me while we’re waiting.”
“I’m not in the mood. I said after supper.”
Another ten minutes passed. She got up abruptly and summoned Frieda.
A succulent omelette and a bit of liver revived her. “Close it,” she said to Franz, indicating the door left open by Frieda, whom a bad toothache had been afflicting all day. When Franz returned to his seat, Martha enveloped him in a smile of contented adoration. It so happened that this was the first time she was having supper at home alone with Franz. Yes, the dinner jacket could not be better. She must give him some nice cuff links instead of those stud-like horrors.
“Oh, my own big sweet darling,” she said softly, stretching her arm toward him across the dinner cloth.
“Careful,” whispered Franz, looking around. He did not trust the pictures on the wall—the old baron in the frock coat and his redoutable double staring down, ready to pounce. The glittering sideboard was all eyes. Cloaked eavesdroppers lurked in the folds of the drapery. A famous practical joker, Curtius Dreyerson, might be crouching under the table. Good thing at least that Tom had stayed in the front hall. And the maid might come back any moment. In this castle one must take no liberties. Nevertheless, powerless to oppose her smiling desire, he stroked her bare arm. She slowly caressed his nose with her fingers, beaming and wetting her lips. He had the awful sensation that at that very instant Dreyer would suddenly step from behind a curtain: the jester turned executioner.
“Eat, drink, my lord. We are chez nous,” said Martha, laughing.
She was wearing a black tulle dress, her lips were painted, her green earrings aflame, and her hair, divided by the mathematically pure line of its parting, glistened more than ever with the melanite lustre that was one of the jewels of her beauty. A low lamp with an orange shade cast a voluptuous light on the table. Franz, his worshipful glasses glinting at Martha, sucked on a leg of cold chicken. She leaned toward him, took the glossy-headed, half-bared bone out of his hand and, laughing with eyes alone, began gnawing at it with relish, holding it daintily, her little finger cocked, her lashes beating, her lips growing fuller and brighter. “You are ravishing,” Franz whispered. “I adore you.”
“If only we could sup like this every night, just you and I,” said Martha. With a toss of her head she chased a momentary frown and cried in a slightly false tone: “Would you pour me some of that precious cognac, please, and let us drink to our union.”
“I don’t think I’ll have any. I’m afraid I would not learn to dance afterwards,” said Franz, carefully tipping the diminutive decanter.
But what did she care about dancing.… She longed to remain in this oval lake of light, basking in the certainty that it would be thus again tomorrow, and the next night, and thus to the end of their lives. My dining room, my earrings, my silver, my Franz.
Suddenly she snatched at her left wrist, to turn the tiny face of her watch, which always contrived to slip around to where a blue vein trifurcated.
“More than an hour late. Something must have happened. Ring the bell, please—there, it’s hanging above you.”
It irked him that her husband’s absence alarmed her. What in hell did it matter if he were late. All the better. She simply had no right to be alarmed.
“Why must I ring?” he said, thrusting his hands into his coat pockets.
Martha opened her eyes wide. “I think I asked you to press that bell button.”
Under the long ray of her gaze he gave way as usual, and rang the bell.
“If you have had all you want, we can move to the drawing room. Have some grapes, though. Here, this bunch.”
He started upon the grapes, which were large and expensive-looking but not half as good as the vulgar “crams” of his native town. The shadow of the electric bell swinging on its cord moved like a ghostly pendulum across the tablecloth. Frieda came in, looking pale and dazed.
Martha asked: “My husband did not call while I was out, did he?”
Frieda froze still for an instant, then clutched at her temples. “Goodness,” she said. “Herr Direktor did call about eight—said he was just leaving for home, and to go ahead with supper. I’m so sorry.”
“An abscessed tooth,” said Martha, “should not have made you insane.”
“I’m so sorry,” repeated the maid helplessly.
“Completely insane,” said Martha.
Frieda remained silent and, blinking with suspicious frequency, started gathering up the used plates.
“Later,” snapped Martha.
The maid hurried out, no longer containing her sobs.
“Incredible female,” muttered Martha angrily, leaning her elbows on the table and propping her chin between her joined fists. “Didn’t she see us sitting down to table? Didn’t she bring the omelette herself? Wait a minute—I didn’t realize that she had actually served it.” Martha’s glittering finger pointed. “Ring once more, please.”
Franz obediently raised his hand.
“No, don’t bother,” said Martha. “I’ll have a good talk with her before she goes to bed.”
An extraordinary agitation had seized Martha.
“Unle
ss my watch and that clock are as dotty as she, it is now half past eleven. Uncle is certainly taking his time driving home.”
“Something must have delayed him,” Franz responded glumly. He was deeply hurt by her agitation.
She turned off the dining-room lights. They went into the parlor. Martha picked up the telephone receiver, listened, then slammed it down again. “It’s in order,” she said, “I simply don’t understand. Maybe, I ought to ring up—”
With his hands clasped behind his back, Franz was walking to and fro about the room. The poor fellow’s eyes smarted. He wondered if he had not better leave, slamming the door after him. Martha flipped through her telephone index (“fits neatly under the phone, holds five hundred entries”), and found the home number of her husband’s secretary.
Sarah Reich had just fallen asleep, and now the first pill of the night was thrown away.
“That’s certainly odd,” she replied. “I saw him leave myself. Yes. In the Icarus. It was—wait a minute—yes, about eight—and it is now only midnight.… I mean, almost midnight.”
“Thanks,” said Martha, and the cradle of the telephone jangled.
She went to the window and drew aside the blue curtain. The night was clear. The day before it had started to thaw, then the freeze had set in again. That morning a cripple walking in front of her had slipped on the bare ice. It was frightfully funny to see his wooden stump erect while he sprawled on his stupid back. Without opening her mouth, Martha broke into convulsive laughter. Franz thought she had uttered a sob and went to her side in confusion. She clutched his shoulder, her cheek rubbed against his face.
“Careful—my glasses,” mumbled Franz—not for the first time in the course of the last weeks.
“Start the music,” she cried, letting him go. “We’ll dance, we’ll enjoy ourselves. And don’t you dare be frightened—I’ll speak to you as tenderly as I wish any time I feel like it—do you hear?”
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