“What is it?” he asked in German. Greck could feel the sweat trickling into his mouth; he licked his lips, wiped the palm of his hand across his face, and said, “The swings, I’d like to go for a ride.”
The man in the doorway screwed up his eyes, then nodded. He ran his tongue over his teeth. Behind him appeared his wife; she was in her petticoat, sweat was dripping down her face, and the dark-red shoulder straps were sweat-stained. In one hand she was holding a wooden spoon, in the other arm a child. The child was dirty. The woman was very dark, somber, Greck thought. There was definitely something sinister about these people. Perhapsthey were suspicious of him. Greck no longer wanted a ride on the swingboats, but the man, whose tongue had finally settled down, said, “Well, if you really want to—in this heat—at midday.”
He came down the steps; Greck moved aside and followed him the few paces to the swingboats.
“How much?” he asked feebly. They’ll think I’m nuts, he thought. The sweat was driving him crazy. He wiped his sleeve across his face and climbed the wooden steps to the iron framework. The man released a brake, one of the swingboats in the middle swayed gently to and fro.
“I guess,” said the man, “you’d better not go too high, or I’ll have to stay here and watch. It’s the law.”
Greck found his German repulsive. It was an odd mixture of softness and impudence, as if he were uttering an entirely foreign language with German words.
“I won’t,” Greck said. “You can go … How much?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Give me one pengö,” he said. Greck gave him his last pengö and carefully climbed in.
The little boat was wider than he had thought. He felt quite safe and began to use the technique he had so often been able to watch but not use. He held on to the iron stanchions, unclasped his fingers to wipe off the sweat, then straightened his knee, bent it, straightened it, and was amazed to feel the swingboat move. It was very simple, all you had to do was make sure the bending of your knee did not interfere with the rhythmic movement set up by the swing: you had to increase the rhythm by throwing your weight back, with straight legs, as the boat swung forward, and by letting yourself fall forward as the boat swung back. Greck saw that the man was still standing beside him, and he shouted, “What’s the matter? You don’t have to stay.” The man shook his head, and Greck ceased to pay attention to him. All of a sudden he knew he had been missing something vital in his life: riding a swingboat. It was glorious. The sweat dried on his forehead, and the gentle coolness of the rocking motion even dried the sweat on his body: the air blew through him, fresh and exquisite, with every swing, and furthermore the world was changed. One minute it consisted merely of a few dirty planks with broad grooves running along them, and on the downward swing he had the whole sky to himself. “Watch out!” cried the man down below. “Hold tight!” Greck could feel the man putting on the brake: a gentle jolt that severely hampered his swinging.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted. But the man shook his head. Greck quickly swung himself up again. This was the glorious part: to stand parallel to the earth as the little boat swung back—to see those dirty planks that signified the world—and then, plunging forward again, to kick your feet into the sky, to see it overhead as if you were lying in a meadow, only this way you were closer to the sky, infinitely closer. Everything in between was insignificant. On his left the woman was carefully packing away her apricots; her pile never seemed to get any less. On the right stood that fat blond fellow who had to obey the law and slow him down; a few chickens waddled across his field of vision, over there was a road. His cap flew off his head.
Deny it, he thought, as he calmed down, simply deny it; they won’t believe it if I deny it. I don’t do things like that. No one would believe I could do a thing like that. I’ve got a good reputation. I know they don’t think much of me because I’ve got chronic indigestion, but they like me in their way, and no one would believe I could do a thing like that. He was both proud and timid, and it was a glorious feeling to find he had the courage to go on this swingboat. He would write to his mother about it. No, better not. Mama didn’t understand about things like that. Whatever life may bring, always behave with dignity! was her motto. She would never understand how her son, an attorney, Lieutenant Greck, could take a ride in a swingboat, in the middle of a broiling hot day in a dirty Hungarian market square, in full view of anyone—anyone at all—who happened to be passing by. No, no—he could picture her shaking her head, a woman without humor; he knew that and it was no use trying to fight it. And that other thing: oh, God! Although he didn’t want to, he couldn’t help thinking about it, how he had undressed in the Jewish tailor’s back room: a stuffy little hole with scraps of patching material lying around, half-finished suits with buckram tacked onto them, and a repulsively large bowl of cucumber salad with drowning flies floating around in it—he could feel fluid rising into his mouth, and he knew he was turning pale, disgusting fluid in his mouth—but he could still see himself, taking off his pants and revealing his second pair, taking the money, and the toothless old man’s grin following him as he hurried out of the shop.
Suddenly the world began to spin around him. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop!” The man down below jammed on the brake, he felt it, the hard rhythmic jolting. Then the swing came to a standstill; he knew he looked ridiculous and pathetic, and he carefully stepped out, walked behind the framework, and spat: his stomach had settled down but he still had that disgusting taste in his mouth. He felt giddy, sat down on a step, and closed his eyes; the rhythm of the ride was still in his eyes, he could feel his eyeballs twitching, he had to spit again. It took quite a while for the movement of his eyeballs to calm down.
He rose and picked up his cap from the ground. The man was standing beside him, looked at him impassively; then his wife appeared. Greck was surprised to see how small she was. A tiny, swarthy little thing with a gaunt face. She was holding a mug. The blond fellow took the mug from her and held it out to Greck. “Drink,” he said without emotion. Greck shook his head. “Drink,” said the man, “it will do you good.”
Greck took the mug; the stuff tasted very bitter, but it helped. The couple smiled, they smiled mechanically because they were used to smiling at this kind of thing, not because they cared for him or pitied him.
“Thanks very much,” he said. He felt in his pocket for coins, there were none left, only that terrible great hundred-pengö bill, and he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He could feel himself flushing. “Okay,” said the man, “that’s okay.” “Heil Hitler,” said Greck. The man merely nodded.
Greck did not look back. The sweat was beginning to flow again. It seemed to come boiling out of his pores. Across the square was a tavern. He longed for a wash.
Inside the tavern the air was oddly chilly yet stuffy. The room was almost empty. Greck noticed that the man standing behind the bar looked first at his medals. The man’s gaze was cool, not unfriendly, but cool. In the corner to the left sat a young couple with dirty dishes on the table in front of them and a carafe of wine, there was a beer bottle on the table too. Greck sat down in the corner to the right so he could look out on the street. He felt a sense of relief. His watch showed one o’clock, and he didn’t have to be back until six. The man came out from behind the bar and walked slowly over to him. Greck wondered what he should drink. He really didn’t want anything. Just a wash. He wasn’t one for alcohol; besides, it didn’t agree with him. Not for nothing had his mother warned him against it, just as she had against riding swingboats. Once again the innkeeper, now facing him, looked first at the left side of his chest.
“Afternoon,” said the man. “What can I get you?”
“Some coffee,” said Greck, “d’you have any coffee?” The man nodded. The nod said everything: it said that the glance to the left side of Greck’s chest and the word “coffee” had told everything. “And a schnapps,” said Greck. But it seemed to be too late.
“What kind?” asked the man
.
“Apricot,” said Greck.
The fellow went off. He was fat. His pants made fat rolls across his backside, and he was wearing slippers. Sloppy—like everything else here, thought Greck. He looked across at the young lovers. Swarms of flies were perched on the dirty plates with remains of food, chop bones, little mounds of vegetables, and wilted lettuce in earthenware bowls. Disgusting, thought Greck.
A soldier came in, looked nervously around, saluted Greck across the room, and walked over to the bar. The soldier had no medals at all. And yet there was a warmth in the innkeeper’s eyes that annoyed Greck. Maybe, he thought, because I’m an officer they expect me to have more medals, splendid gold and silver affairs, these knuckleheads here in Hungary. Maybe I look as though I ought to be wearing medals: I’m tall and slim, blond. Hell, he thought, what a revolting business. He looked out the window.
The woman with the apricots was almost through now, and all of a sudden he knew what he really wanted to eat: some fruit. Oh, that would do him good! His mother had always given him plenty of fruit when it was in season and cheap, and it had done him a lot of good. Fruit was cheap here, and he had money, and wanted to eat some fruit. He hesitated at the thought of the money; his thoughts hesitated. Sweat broke out heavily again. Nothing would happen, and if something did: deny it, deny it, just deny everything. Nobody was going to believe some dirty Jew that he, Greck, had sold him his pants. Nobody would believe it if he denied it, and even if they identified the pants as his, he could say they had been stolen or something. But nobody was going to go to all that trouble. And anyway, why should they find out in his particular case? The affair had opened his eyes in a flash: everyone sold something, damn it all. Everyone. He knew now what happened to the gasoline that the tanks were short of, what became of the warm winter clothing—and they were his own pants, after all, that he had sold, the ones that had been made for him, at his own expense, at Grunk’s, the tailor in Coelsde.
Where were all those pengös supposed to come from? Nobody’s pay was enough for the kind of extravagances that cocky little lieutenant managed to afford, the one who shared his room and ate cream pastries in the afternoon and drank real whisky in the evening, had all the women he wanted, and turned up his nose at anything but a particular brand of cigarette that by this time cost a lot of money.
What the hell, he thought, I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool all along. Always respectable and law-abiding, while everyone else—everyone else has been having himself a good time. What the hell.
The innkeeper brought the coffee and the apricot schnapps. “Anything to eat?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” said Greck.
The coffee smelled unfamiliar. He tried it: it was mild, with an odd mildness. Some quite pleasant substitute. The schnapps was sharp and burning but felt good. He sipped it slowly, drop by drop. That was it: he must take alcohol like medicine, that was it.
The apricot patch outside on the square had gone. Greck jumped up and ran to the door. “Just a minute,” he called to the innkeeper.
The old woman was slowly driving her cart across the square; now she was level with the swingboats, and she speeded up her horse to a comfortable trot. Greck stopped her as she turned into the street. She pulled in the reins. He looked at her face: a broad-boned, elderly woman with handsome features, her face suntanned and sturdy. Greck went up to the cart.
“Fruit,” he said, “give me some apricots, please.” She looked at him with a smile. Somehow her smile had no warmth. Then she glanced at her baskets and asked, “Bag?” Greck shook his head. Her voice was warm and deep. He watched while she climbed around her seat onto the cart; her legs were surprisingly sturdy. Noticeably so. Greck’s mouth watered at the sight of the fruit: it was magnificent. He thought of home. Apricots, he thought, those times when Mama had been able to get apricots! And here, here they got taken back from market. Cucumbers too. He took an apricot from the cart and ate it: it was tart yet at the same time sweet, already a shade too soft and warm, but he enjoyed it. “Very good,” he said.
The woman smiled at him again. She took some loose pieces of paper and deftly made a kind of bag into which she very carefully laid the apricots. The way she looked at him struck him as odd. “Enough?” she asked. He nodded. She folded over the ends of paper, tucked them in, and handed him the package. He took his hundred-pengö bill out of his pocket. “Here,” he said. Her eyes opened wide, and she said, “Oh, oh,” then shook her head. But she took the bill, and for an instant she held on to his hand, clasping it up by the wrist although there was no need to, up by the wrist, for the merest second; then she took the bill, stuck it between her lips, and rummaged around under her skirt to pull out her purse. “No,” cried Greck, “no, no, put it away.” He looked anxiously around. That great red bill was horribly conspicuous. The street was busy, even a streetcar was passing. “Put it away,” he cried, “put it away!” He tore it out of her mouth. She bit her lip, whether with anger or amusement he couldn’t tell.
Furious, he dug out a second apricot, sank his teeth into it, and waited. The sweat was standing in thick beads on his forehead. He was having a hard time holding the apricots together in the loose bag. It seemed to him that the old woman was deliberately taking her time—he even considered running away, but she would probably set up a terrible hue and cry and everyone would come running. The Hungarians were allies, not enemies. He sighed and waited. Across the street a soldier emerged from the tavern, not the one who had just gone in. This one had medals on his chest: three—as well as insignia on his sleeve. He saluted Greck, and Greck nodded in response. Again a streetcar passed, on the other side this time, people walked by, many people, and behind him, behind that dilapidated board fence, the swingboat calliope softly began to drone. The old woman smoothed out one bill after another until it looked as though her purse held no more. Then came the coins. Patiently she stacked up little nickel piles beside her on the seat. Then she carefully took the bill from him and handed him first the bills, then the nickel piles. “Ninety-eight,” she said. He turned to go, but she suddenly laid her hand on his forearm: her hand was broad and warm and quite dry, and her face came closer. “Girl?” she asked in a whisper, smiling at him. “Pretty girl, eh?”
“No, no,” he said hastily, “thanks all the same.”
She darted her hand under her skirt, drew out a scrap of paper, and quickly passed it to him. “There,” she said. “There.” He added it to the bills, she gave a flick to the reins, and he walked back across the street carefully carrying his loose package.
The table in front of the young couple had still not been cleared. He couldn’t understand these people: flies clustered in hordes on the plates, the rims of the glasses, and this young man was gesturing animatedly as he spoke in a low insistent voice to the girl. The innkeeper came toward Greck. “Can I have a wash?” asked Greck. The innkeeper stared at him. “A wash,” said Greck impatiently. “A wash, for God’s sake.” Infuriated at the man’s obtuseness, he rubbed his hands together. The innkeeper gave a sudden nod, turned, and beckoned Greck to follow him.
Greck followed, paused to let the innkeeper hold back the dark-green curtain for him—the fellow’s expression seemed to have changed. It looked as if he were asking something. They walked along a short narrow passage, and the innkeeper opened a door. “Here you are,” he said. Greck went in. The cleanliness of the washroom surprised him. The washbasins were neatly cemented to the wall, the doors were painted white. Beside the washbasin hung a towel. The innkeeper brought a cake of green army soap. “Here you are,” he repeated. Greck felt at a loss. The innkeeper left. Greck sniffed the towel, it seemed clean. Then he quickly removed his tunic, washed his neck and face all over, and ran water over his arms. He hesitated a moment, then put on his tunic again and slowly washed his hands. The soldier he had seen before came in, the one with no medals. Greck stepped aside so the soldier could get to the urinal. He buttoned his tunic, picked up the soap, and left. At the bar he gave the i
nnkeeper the soap, said “Thanks,” and sat down again.
The innkeeper’s expression was stony. Greck wondered what was keeping the soldier. The young couple in the corner had gone. The table had still not been cleared, a jumble of dirty dishes. Greck drank the rest of his cold coffee and sipped the apricot schnapps. Then he began to eat his fruit.
He felt an insane craving for this juicy, fleshy stuff and ate six apricots in quick succession—and suddenly he felt nauseated: the apricots were too warm. He took another sip of schnapps; the schnapps was also too warm. The innkeeper stood behind the bar, smoking and somnolent. Another soldier came in. The innkeeper seemed to know him, and the two men whispered together. The soldier drank beer; he had one medal, the Cross of Merit. The soldier who had just been to the toilet came back, paid at the bar, and left. At the door he saluted. Greck returned the salute, and then the soldier who had just arrived went to the toilet. Outside, the swingboat calliope was droning away. The sound, wild yet sluggish, filled Greck with melancholy. He would never forget that ride. Too bad it had turned his stomach. Outside, things had begun to liven up a bit: across the square there was an ice-cream parlor, people were crowding in front of it. The tobacco shop next door to it was empty. The soiled green curtain in the corner was pushed aside, and out came a girl. At once the innkeeper’s eyes went to Greck. The girl looked at him too. He could only just make her out; she seemed to be wearing a red dress, in that dense, greenish light the color looked nondescript, and the only thing he could see clearly was her heavily made-up face, very white, the mouth painted startlingly red. He could not see the expression on her face, he thought she was smiling a little, but he could be wrong; he could hardly see her. She was holding some money, holding the bill out straight, like a child, the way she would have held a flower or a stick. The innkeeper gave her a bottle of wine and some cigarettes, without switching his gaze from Greck. He did not look at the girl at all, not a word passed between them.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 24