Breathing heavily, I go out of the room. My conversation with the young lady is carried on in a completely down-to-earth, businesslike manner. She receives me in the drawing-room, looks with a sigh at her watch, and I realize that some of the eight minutes have already passed—probably half of them. As a result, my speech, which I cautiously begin with “Sorry,” turns out to be somewhat confused, but she smiles in spite of it all, accepts my gift of three English pound notes, and finally says: “Please don’t overestimate my influence—I’m willing to try simply because I’m convinced of your abilities. You will receive an answer in about three months.” A glance she casts at her watch tells me that it is time for me to leave. I toy briefly with the notion of kissing her hand, but refrain, whisper my most humble thanks, and stagger out. Three months. Incidentally, she was pretty.
I return to the tea party and on the faces of the three young scoundrels, whose chocolates were almost totally ignored, I discern poisonous envy. Soon there is an impatient honking outside, and the young lady’s mother announces that her daughter has been summoned back to Bonn by telegraph in order to relieve the cabinet minister of his calluses; his golf game was to begin at nine tomorrow morning and it was already five o’clock, and with those calluses he would not be able to play. We look out into the street to see the minister’s car; it is powerful but not particularly elegant. The young lady leaves the house with a charming little leather case and a briefcase. The tea party breaks up.
When we get home my wife, who has taken careful note of everything, tells me that I was the only one to be alone with “her”. The question as to what “she” is like, I answer with: “Charming, my dear, quite charming.”
I do not tell my wife about the three-month waiting period. Instead I discuss with her what further courtesies we can show “her”. My idea of offering “her” three months’ salary is rejected by my wife as an appalling lack of good taste. We finally agree on a motor scooter to be delivered to her anonymously but in such a way that she will know who sent it. Surely she would find it practical if she were motorized and would be able to ride from house to house with her charming little leather case. If she succeeds in treating the cabinet minister successfully (the fellow seems to have an advanced case of fallen arches), perhaps my intolerable waiting period of three months will be curtailed. Three months is more than I can manage, our credit is not all that great—I hope that the motor scooter, which I shall buy on instalments, will tip the balance, and that after only one month I will be sitting in those red leather armchairs. For the time being we both—my wife and I—feel completely down, and we sincerely regret that there is no such thing as an eighteen-pfennig cigarette—that would now be the very thing for our nerves …
AT THE BORDER
At the time, when I declared my desire to join the Customs service, the whole family was indignant. Only Uncle Jochen was sensible: “Go ahead,” he said, “go ahead and join it.”
One must make allowances for a certain degree of indignation: I had completed high school, taken a few terms of philosophy, was an ensign first-class in the Reserve—and now merely wished to become a Customs officer.
I have an excellent figure, am healthy and intelligent; moreover, I have always been obedient, so my career was off to a good start. A sense of duty was coupled in me with what I would almost like to call a calm broadmindedness.
By the time I had completed my training period and gone home for a few days’ leave, with three shirts, three pairs of underpants, three pairs of socks, a nice uniform and the title “Customs Probationer”, the family’s indignation had somewhat subsided. My father unbuttoned a bit and was to be heard saying publicly: “My son, you know, the one who was an ensign first-class—my son is now with the Customs.”
My first day on duty I guarded the barrier at Bellkerke. It was hot and completely quiet—an afternoon; nothing was happening and, although I was tired and moody, numerous thoughts crossed my mind. After being relieved, I sat down, put those thoughts into some useful order and wrote a short treatise: “Possible Border Incidents During Border Duty”, a completely theoretical essay, I must admit, but one which as a modest tract aroused the attention of my superiors. In addition, the essay led to my promotion (out of turn) to Customs Assistant. This proves that my studies in philosophy had not been altogether in vain. I was transferred to the internal Customs service.
By the time I next went on leave, the family was already completely reconciled. In my free time I pondered on a short treatise for which I had as yet no title. In bold moments I almost considered “The Frontier of Philosophy” but, while I was still uncertain as to the title, the work progressed well. I submitted it for publication in The Customs Service News Letter, where, under the title of “The Philosophy of the Frontier”, it reinforced my reputation as an analytical Customs officer and resulted in my appointment to full clerk.
Meanwhile I expanded my practical experience and planned to add to my essay an appendix entitled “The Burdens of a Functionary”. I had high hopes of this work: it was to show the complexity of our existence at the border as well as in the internal service, and to demonstrate that a uniform does not impair the free flow of thought. I wear the smart green uniform with pride.
Needless to say there is no dearth of envious colleagues, most of whom come from the raw ranks of the mere practitioners, crude types to whom the beauty of the written word cannot be conveyed. There are actually those among them of whom I know for a fact that they have never yet read the literary supplement of a newspaper. Not without a strong inner hesitation I have meanwhile started on a third essay: “Safety of the Frontier, or The Frontier of Safety?” Into this essay, in order to stop the mouths of the envious, I intend to weave much practical knowledge: above all, my experience that it is almost always the diplomats and the riffraff who get away with it, and I have found that the riffraff smuggle so diplomatically and the diplomats so riffraffishly that I will take the liberty of closing my essay with the words: Germans, stay at home and make an honest living! Actually I cannot see why—except in wartime!—one should bother to visit countries other than one’s own. French morals and English perfidy infiltrate our country, nothing else.
Under the influence of certain intimate occurrences, my appendix, “The Burdens of a Functionary”, became so copious that it almost threatened to turn into a little book of its own. But I persisted and continued my polishing efforts.
My promotion to inspector was made conditional upon demonstration of my practical qualities, and I did not hesitate to report immediately to the front line: I posed as a coffee buyer at a large West German railway station, penetrated the very heart of a gang of which I became a member, and gradually let the current of this gang carry me onward and upward. I slept in extremely dubious dumps, was obliged to consort—in the service of the state—with women as seductive as they were dangerous, drank with thieves, ate with sinners, smoked with criminals and played cards with hard-boiled villains. Stubbornly, patiently, I soldiered on, towards the top, and one day—oh bliss of mission accomplished!—I could give the agreed signal: seventeen men, eleven women, were arrested, and among those captured was the head of the gang.
Although the security of commerce was not completely restored, it was now raised to a higher level. I was given special leave; none of the envious now dared to accuse me of inadequate practical experience. When shortly afterwards I submitted my just completed essay, my triumph was complete: I was promoted to chief inspector and am presumably justified in regarding my career as secure. Moral: let no one be prevented from following the career of his choice!
THE SURFER
After travelling thirty-six hours the young man arrived dead tired in Cologne; it was a hot Sunday afternoon in summer. The station square was crowded; large posters and decorative banners proclaimed a pharmacists’ convention. The young man plodded from hotel to hotel, moving farther and farther away from the station, and finally found accommodation at the edge of the old part of the city. The
hotel clerk told him he could share a room with another gentleman who had offered to give up the second bed in his room.
The young man climbed up the hot, narrow stairs carrying his only luggage: a briefcase and a bottle of lemonade he had asked for downstairs. On hearing a grumpy “Come in,” he opened the door; the first thing he saw was a small white table on which lay many little pieces of paper and a pile of loose, dark-brown tobacco. The room faced the street. The windows were open, the shutters pushed out, and in the wan light the tobacco took on a purplish look. Opposite the door was a mirror; the washbasin had a long, black, yellow-edged crack in it, and in an open wardrobe he first saw only musty darkness but then distinguished a crumpled raincoat and a shabby briefcase from which a leg of some underpants protruded. To the left of the door was an iron bedstead with a white counterpane on which lay a black jacket. He finally made out his roommate lying on the second bed in the shadows of the farthest corner: a stout, unshaven fellow, his blue and white striped shirt arching tautly over his belly. The young man took him for one of the many pharmacists who were filling up all the hotels.
He approached the stout, motionless figure, who from time to time puffed out clouds of smoke, and quietly introduced himself: “My name’s Wenk.” Without looking up or stirring, the man on the bed mumbled something that sounded like “Welter” and “That’s okay,” and continued to drowse.
Wenk turned on the tap, placed his briefcase on the bed, hung the man’s jacket over a chair and his own over the brass knob of the bedpost, and took off his shirt. He washed slowly and thoroughly, cleaned his teeth and shaved. Welter neither moved nor spoke. His only movement consisted of occasionally opening his thick, swollen-looking lips and puffing out clouds of smoke. On either side of the projecting shutters, the smoke rose into the white triangles of sky.
Wenk felt much refreshed after his wash, lit a cigarette, then lay down on his bed and fell asleep. When he awoke, he found the other man had got up and was shaving. The air had cooled off, and a light breeze gently swayed the shutters. Outside the street was still quiet; somewhere in one of the neighbouring houses a girl was practising an étude, appropriately enough for a Sunday afternoon. She played badly, with many wrong notes, and at one place where the young man expected a cluster of semi-quavers she invariably stumbled or stopped.
Welter was standing in front of the mirror, vigorously swishing his foam-tipped shaving brush around on his face. He still had his pipe clenched between his teeth, but it seemed to have gone out. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and the movements of his hairy, powerful arms were brisk. Wenk got up, relit his cigarette, and stood by the window. The street was empty, grey and quiet; in the house across the street, a slight, deeply tanned man in a singlet was leaning on the window-sill smoking a black cigar. Farther back in the room he saw a woman in a red petticoat powdering under her arms. The girl at the piano was now playing a folk tune, but that too she played badly, although softly and almost shyly.
“I envy you,” Welter said suddenly in a warm, attractive voice, “being able to sleep in this heat.”
“When you’ve been travelling for thirty-six hours …” said Wenk, turning to Welter, who was just wiping the lather from his razor.
“Pharmacist?” asked Welter.
“No,” laughed the young man, “I thought you …”
“For heaven’s sake!” Now Welter was laughing. “Although I’ve nothing against pharmacists, in fact I wish I were a pharmacist … By the way,” he continued, lighting his pipe, “I’ve also been travelling thirty-six hours, yet I couldn’t sleep—I wish to heaven I were a pharmacist!”
After so many hints Wenk felt obliged to ask, out of politeness: “You mean your job’s such a terrible one?”
But Welter was busy rinsing the lather from his face and cleaning his brush. Outside in the street it was growing noisier and, leaning out, Wenk saw what seemed to be a victorious football team in yellow jerseys, surrounded by a crowd of fans, pass by below. Across the street the woman was now leaning out beside the man. She was plump and young, and both she and the man looked bored. Welter had finished now; he was just putting on his tie and asked casually: “Which route did you take?”
“Munich–Hamburg, Hamburg–Cologne.” Wenk had meanwhile removed his jacket from the bedpost.
“Good idea. Let’s go for a bite to eat, shall we? I hope I’m not intruding …” Welter asked.
The two men spent the whole evening together; they seemed to take to each other. They sat, drank some wine, strolled along the Rhine, and Wenk even persuaded Welter at one point to have an ice cream sundae. But he did not find out about Welter’s occupation until later, after they had returned to the hotel. The wind had subsided, and beyond the shutters there was now a heavy, oppressive heat. They were both lying on their beds smoking. From the street came a mild jumble of voices and the sounds of turned-down radios. For a long time they were silent. Wenk smoked his cigarettes quickly one after another, hastily, greedily, until they almost stuck to his lips; then he would toss them across the room into the wash basin. The glow of Welter’s pipe swelled from time to time in the dark, then contracted again, covered by ash.
“And why,” Welter finally said quietly, “why have you been travelling such a long way?”
Wenk hesitated for a moment, then said: “I’ve been following a woman …”
“Is she beautiful at least?”
“I think so, yes.”
They fell silent again and continued to smoke. From the hot streets and the scorching pavements, the heat rose in oppressive clouds.
“Ah yes,” Welter sighed. “You see, I’d say you were twenty-eight years old, fair hair, about six feet tall. What would you do if you had five thousand marks?”
Wenk was silent, but the silence was suddenly different. “Yes,” Welter sighed again. “What would you do? The thing is, I’m looking for someone who’s about six feet tall, twenty-eight years old, with fair hair. My boss relies on my intuition. ‘Welter,’ he said, ‘go and look for him. We must have him. Your intuition will help you.’ Oh,” he gave a scornful laugh, “my own intuition makes me sick. In this heat everything makes me sick. But tell me, what would you do?”
Wenk remained silent for a while. When he began to speak, his voice was subdued, tired, slightly ironic. In the darkness he had flushed and was smiling. From outside still came that gentle, impersonal hum, and Wenk lit another cigarette. He said: “I think I would do as they do in movies. Become a surfer or some such thing … Riviera … Florida … surfing. D’you know about surfing?” Welter didn’t answer. Only the glow of his pipe swelled in the dark and subsided again.
“Just for once, to have no worries for three weeks or three hours,” Wenk continued, “or three minutes, three seconds, like those rich whores with their johns who go surfing. Can you understand that?”
“Oh yes,” Welter said softly.
Again they were silent for a while as they smoked. Then Welter asked suddenly: “You wouldn’t take the girl along, the one you’ve been following?”
Wenk burst out laughing. In the dark he groped for his jacket, threw it across to Welter’s bed, and said: “You win, it’s been in my breast pocket the whole time—it’s all there …”
Welter did not stir or make any move to pick up or search the jacket. After a minute he merely asked: “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”
“No,” said Wenk.
“Then we might as well get started.”
IN FRIEDENSTADT
By the time I reached Friedenstadt, it was too late to phone Sperling. The station was surrounded by darkness, the little square filled with the kind of silence that even in small towns doesn’t begin to descend until around eleven. Once again I had miscalculated, just as, while gambling that afternoon, I hadn’t won, as I’d expected to, but had lost everything. To look up Sperling at eleven at night would have meant the permanent loss of his favour. That big hunk of a man, almost six foot six, slept at this hour as if pole-axed, wh
ile his brutish snoring filled the heavily curtained bedroom.
During the two minutes I stood hesitating on the topmost step outside the station, the few people who had got off the train with me had disappeared. I walked slowly back into the musty, semi-dark hall and looked round for somebody, but there was no one there except the man at the barrier, who seemed to be lost in thought as he stared out at the platform. His shiny cap gave him an air of solidity. I approached him; he raised a peevish face to me.
“Excuse me, sir,” I stammered, “I find myself in a predicament. I wonder if you …”
He interrupted me, coolly waved his ticket punch past my nose, and said in a bored tone of voice: “You’re wasting your time—you can take my word for it. I haven’t a penny in my pocket.” The expression in the fellow’s eyes was icy.
“But …” I tried again.
“You’re wasting your time, I tell you. I don’t lend money to strangers—even if I had any. Besides …”
“The fact is …”
“Besides,” he went on imperturbably, pronouncing each syllable like a veritable lead weight, “besides, even if—and you can take my word for it—even if I was a millionaire, I wouldn’t give you anything, because …”
“Good heavens …”
“… because you’ve cheated me. No, don’t go away!” I turned back and watched him take the used tickets out of his pocket and carefully search through them, as if counting the little bits of pasteboard like money.
“Here,” he said, holding up a pale blue object, “a platform ticket, and it came from you.”
“Sir!”
“And it came from you! You should be grateful I’m not having you arrested, but instead … instead you’re trying to cadge money from me. Don’t go away!” he shouted at me, since I was trying again to sneak off in the dark. “Do you deny it?” he asked in a cold, insistent voice.
The Collected Stories of Heinrich Böll Page 82