Amerika (11 page)

Having consoled himself a little, he turned around. Klara, who now stood before him, said: “So you don't like it here? You don't even want to feel a little bit at home? Come, I'll give it one last try.” She led him right across the room to the door. The two gentlemen sat at a side table over tall glasses filled with lightly foaming drinks that Karl had never seen before and would have gladly sampled. Mr. Green, who sat with his elbow propped up on the table, swung his head around so as to be as close as possible to Mr. Pollunder; anyone who had not known Mr. Pollunder might have readily assumed that the affairs they were discussing were of a criminal rather than a business nature. Whereas Mr. Pollunder kept a friendly eye on Karl as he headed toward the door, Green did not even turn to look at Karl—even though one does instinctively tend to meet the eyes of the person opposite—and Karl thought that this behavior reflected Green's belief that each of them should try to get by on the strength of his own abilities—Karl for himself, Green for himself—and that it would take the victory or the annihilation of one or the other before the inevitable social relationship could be established. “If that's what he thinks,” said Karl to himself, “then he's a fool. I certainly don't want to have anything more to do with him, and he too should leave me in peace.” No sooner had he stepped into the corridor than it struck him that he had probably been impolite, for in keeping his eyes fixed on Green, he had practically let Klara drag him out of that room. So now he was all the more willing to walk beside her. At first he could not believe his eyes as they passed through the corridors, for every twenty paces or so stood a servant in ornate livery, holding the thick stem of a candelabra in both hands. “The new electric wiring has only been installed in the dining room,” explained Klara. “We've only recently bought this house and have had it completely renovated, at least as much as one can with such an old house.” “So there are old houses in America,” said Karl. “Why, of course,” said Klara, laughing and pulling him along. “You do have some odd ideas about America.” “You shouldn't make fun of me,” he said irritably. After all, he was acquainted with Europe and America, she only with America.

Barely reaching out her hand in passing, Klara pushed open a door and without stopping said: “You'll be sleeping here.” Karl naturally wanted to take a look at the room right away, but Klara declared impatiently, almost shouting, that there would be sufficient time for that later and that for now he should go with her. For a while they pulled each other back and forth in the corridor, until at last Karl said to himself that he needn't always follow Klara's wishes and, tearing himself free, entered the room. It was surprisingly dark outside by the window, probably on account of a treetop swaying to and fro in its full expanse. One could hear birds singing. But in the actual room, which the moonlight had not yet penetrated, one could scarcely distinguish anything; Karl regretted not having taken along the electric flashlight that his uncle had given him as a present. Here in this house a flashlight was quite indispensable; if one had a few such lamps, one could simply send the servants to bed. He sat down on the windowsill, looked out, and listened. A startled bird appeared to break through the foliage of the old tree. Somewhere in the countryside the whistle of a New York suburban train rang out. Otherwise all was quiet.

But not for long, since Klara came hurrying in. Visibly annoyed, she cried: “What's this?” and slapped her skirt. Before answering, Karl wanted to wait until she became more polite. But she approached him, taking large steps, and cried: “Well, are you coming or not?”; then, whether by design or simply out of excitement, she pushed his chest so forcefully that he would have fallen out the window had he not slipped from the windowsill and had his feet not at the last minute touched the floor. “I was about to fall out,” he said reproachfully. “It's a pity you didn't. Why are you so bad? I'll push you back down.” With a body steeled by athletics, she seized Karl, who was so bewildered that for a moment he forgot to go limp, and carried him to the window. But on approaching the window he came to his senses, freed himself by swiveling his hips around quickly, and then in turn seized her. “Oh, you're hurting me,” she said at once. Karl, however, thought that he should not release her now. He gave her sufficient freedom to move at will but kept following her about and did not release her. Besides, it was so easy to get an arm around her in that tight dress. “Let me go,” she whispered; her flushed face was now beside his, indeed so close that he had to strain his eyes to look at her. “Let me go, I'll give you something wonderful.” Why does she have to sob like that, Karl thought, it can't be hurting her, I'm certainly not squeezing her, and he did not release her. But then all of a sudden he felt her steadily increasing strength press against his body, and after quickly extricating herself, she caught him in a skillful tackle, warded off his legs with footwork from some unfamiliar wrestling technique, and drove him toward the wall while still taking splendidly even breaths. By the wall, however, was a settee, where she deposited Karl; then, bending down only slightly toward him, she said: “Now see if you can move.” “You cat, you wild cat,” Karl could barely cry out amid the muddle of anger and shame besetting him. “You're truly insane, you wild cat.” “Watch what you say,” she said, and slid one hand over his throat, then began to squeeze it so tightly that Karl could only gasp for air; she drew the other hand across his cheek, first touching it, and then withdrew her hand and raised it ever higher in the air, ready to let it fall at any moment with a great slap. “What would you say,” she asked, “if as punishment for treating a lady like this, you got a good slap in the face to take home with you? While it might be useful to you as you go through life, it wouldn't exactly leave you with fond memories. I do feel sorry for you—you're a tolerably handsome youth, and if you'd learned some jujitsu, you'd probably have beaten me up. But still—just seeing you lying there like that makes me hugely tempted to slap you in the face. I shall probably regret it; but if I do go ahead, mark my words, I'll be doing so almost against my will. And then of course I won't stop at one slap but shall go on hitting you left and right until your cheeks start swelling. And perhaps you are indeed a man of honor—I should almost like to think so—and after being slapped you simply won't want to go on living and will do away with yourself. But why were you so hostile toward me? Perhaps you don't like me? You think it's not worth your while to come to my room? Watch out! All of a sudden I almost let you have it. If you get off scot-free today, though, make sure you behave more decently next time around. After all, I'm not your uncle, whom you can evidently treat very brazenly. Besides, I'd like you to know that even if I let you off without a single slap, you shouldn't imagine that so far as your honor is concerned, this is quite the same thing as actually getting slapped; if that is what you really thought, I should prefer to give you an actual slapping. Goodness knows what Mack will say when I describe all this to him.” Remembering Mack, she released Karl, in whose indistinct thoughts Mack appeared as a rescuer. Still feeling the pressure of Klara's hand on his throat, he wriggled about a little, then lay still.

She demanded that he get up; he did not respond, nor did he move. Somewhere she lit a candle; the room lit up, a pattern of blue zigzag appeared on the ceiling, but Karl lay there quite motionless, his head leaning on the sofa cushion exactly where Klara had set it down, and he did not move it an inch. Klara walked about in the room, her skirt rustling around her legs, and then stood a long while, presumably by the window. “Had a good sulk?” one could hear her ask. Karl found it difficult to accept that he could find no peace in this room that Mr. Pollunder had after all set aside for him. That girl wandered about, then stopped and talked, and he was so indescribably sick of her. His only desire was to take a quick nap and get away. He no longer even wanted to go to bed, just to stay there on the settee. He was merely waiting for her to leave so that he could get up when she left, jump over to the door, bolt it, and then throw himself back down on the settee. He had such a strong urge to stretch out and yawn, though not in Klara's presence. And thus he lay, staring up into the air and sensing his face become increasingly motionless; a fly circling about him swam before his eyes, although he could not quite tell what it was.

Klara approached him again and bent down to catch his eye, and if he had not restrained himself, he would have had to look at her. “I'm leaving now,” she said. “You may feel like coming over later. My room is the fourth on this side of the corridor, beginning with this door here. So you pass three more doors, and then it's the next. I'm not going back down to the dining room and shall stay in my room. You've really tired me out. I cannot promise I'll wait up for you, but if you want to come, then do so. Remember that you promised to play something on the piano for me. But perhaps I have so unnerved you that you cannot move; then stay here and have a good sleep. I won't tell Father about our scuffle for now; I'm just saying this in case you're worried.” And in spite of her ostensible weariness she rushed out of the room in two bounds.

Karl immediately sat up straight; all that lying around had become quite intolerable. In order to move about a little, he went to the door and looked into the corridor. How dark it was out there! He was glad when he had shut and locked the door and could be at his table in the candlelight again. He resolved not to stay in this house any longer and to go downstairs to Mr. Pollunder and tell him openly how Klara had treated him—having to confess his defeat did not in the least disturb him—and, armed with this surely adequate explanation, ask for permission to drive or walk home. If Mr. Pollunder raised some objection to his going back at once, Karl would request that the servant at least take him to the nearest hotel. Although one did not generally treat amiable hosts as Karl intended to do, it was even rarer to treat a guest as Klara had done. She had even thought she was being kind in promising not to mention their scuffle to Mr. Pollunder for the time being, but that in itself was truly outrageous. Had Karl been asked to enter a wrestling contest in which it was shameful to be thrown about by a girl who had probably been learning wrestling tricks for most of her life? And besides, she had even been instructed by Mack. Well, she could go and tell him everything; he was certainly quite understanding, as Karl knew, although he had never really had a chance to experience this in person. Karl knew too that if Mack were to instruct him, he would make better progress than Klara; one day he would come back, probably without actually being invited, and after checking the layout first, of course, so as to acquire the precise knowledge that had given Klara such an advantage, use her to dust off the settee onto which she had just thrown him.

Now it was simply a matter of finding one's way back to the dining room, where in the initial confusion he had probably misplaced his hat. Of course, he intended to take along the candle, but even with a little light it was not easy to find one's way about. For instance, he could not tell whether this room was on the same floor as the dining room. On the way over Klara had dragged him, so that he hadn't been able to look around; Mr. Green and the servants carrying the candelabras had also kept him busy, and indeed he wasn't even able to say how many staircases they had passed, one, two, or perhaps even none. If the view from here was any indication, the room was fairly high up, and so he tried to imagine them taking the stairs, but even at the entrance they had had to go up several stairs; so why couldn't this side of the house be elevated also? If only there had been a glimmer of light from a door somewhere along the corridor or one could have heard a voice from afar, however faintly!

His pocket watch, a present from his uncle, indicated eleven; he took the candle and went into the corridor. In case the search should prove futile he left his door open, for he could then find his room again and also, in case of dire emergency, the door to Klara's room. For safety's sake, he blocked the door with a chair to prevent its blowing shut. In the corridor there was a most unfortunate draft blowing against him—he turned left, of course, away from Klara's door—and although it was actually a very weak draft, it could easily have blown out the candle, so Karl had to shield the flame with his hand and often halt for a moment to let the battered flame recover. Progress was slow, so the route seemed twice as long. Karl had already passed lengthy stretches of walls without any doors; one couldn't even picture what lay behind them. Then came one door after the other; he tried to open several, but they were locked, the rooms evidently uninhabited. This was an unbelievable waste of space, and Karl recalled the eastern neighborhoods of New York that his uncle had promised to show him, where several families apparently lived together in one little room, and a family home amounted to no more than one corner, where children flocked about their parents. And so many of these rooms stood empty, their only purpose being to make a hollow sound whenever anyone knocked. Mr. Pollunder seemed to Karl to be misled by his false friends, infatuated with his daughter, and thereby corrupted. Uncle Jakob's judgment about Pollunder had no doubt been correct, and it was merely his principle of not influencing Karl's judgments of other people that was responsible for this visit and all this wandering about through the corridors. Karl wanted to say so to his uncle first thing the following day, for in accordance with his own principle his uncle would be happy to listen patiently to his nephew's judgment of him. Besides, his uncle's principle was perhaps the only thing Karl disliked in him and even then not absolutely.

Suddenly the wall on one side of the corridor ended and gave way to an ice-cold marble balustrade. Karl put down the candle and leaned over cautiously. A dark void wafted toward him. If this was the main hall in the house—in the glimmer from the candle one could now distinguish part of the vaultlike ceiling—why hadn't they entered through this hall? What purpose could be served by this large, deep space? One stood as if in the gallery of a church. Karl almost regretted not being able to stay until the following day; he would have liked to be led around by Pollunder and have him explain everything to him in the daylight.