Boys and Girls Come Out to Play (21 page)

They all shook hands gently with Mr. Grieg and walked down the old stone stairs into the hallway. The Rumanians pulled out their money again and paid for their books. Morgan stood wondering whether so brief an interview would justify his telling people that he “knew” or had “met” Melmoth Grieg.

“Did
you
pay for our lunch?” whispered Divver.

“I think so. Why?”

Divver was scrambling through his pockets. “I think I’ve been robbed.”

The Norwegian paid, and departed. Morgan and Divver were left with the secretary, who smiled suspiciously in a friendly way.

“Look in your breast pocket,” said Morgan.

“I always keep it in my hip.”

“Well, let me pay.”

“That’s not the point: someone’s stolen my wallet.”

“You had some before, didn’t you?”

“Only loose change.”

“Well, take mine.”

But Divver, suddenly red and stubborn, approached the secretary and said, “My wallet’s been stolen.”

“How unfortunate,” said the secretary. “The police must surely be informed.”

“I’ll give you my room number and name,” said Divver, and Morgan, looking at his guardian’s set face, knew that Divver had got some bug into him and was better left alone. “I am not a tourist,” Divver went on, repeating the fruitless movements through his pockets and dropping
Spartacus
and
His
Revolt
from under his arm. The secretary picked it up, and said: “The hotel is only across the square. Shall I keep the book until you come back?”

Morgan turned his face away.

Divver said: “You mean that if I don’t come back you can sell the signature to someone else?”

“Really, sir!” cried the secretary, clasping the book.

“You phoney!” said Divver, stepping up to him. “You and him—both of you goddam phonies! I didn’t expect to have to pay my way in the first place.”

“Pay way?” exclaimed the poor secretary.

“Robbery!” said Divver, and made for the door. Morgan, who was trembling with shame, longed to turn his head and flash suggestions of temporary insanity at the secretary. It was too late; the man was stiffly climbing the stairs. Divver burst out of the door, blinked in the sun for a moment and then raced toward the hotel. Morgan followed, cursing, red to the ears. For the first time in his life he knew what it was to be in a strange country with a friend who does the wrong things: a national vanity that he had never suspected writhed painfully inside him; he was terribly humiliated.

Sweat was pouring down Divver’s dark cheeks: he walked at a frantic pace, furious with himself and with his enemies.

“I didn’t leave my wife and child and come four thousand miles, approximately, to sit on my arse in the sun and get gypped … You get busy finding yourself something to do: I don’t mind
sleeping
in this dump, but I’m goddamned if I’m going to waste my
days
in it … Especially when I think of what’s going on only a few miles from here, in Danzig … I admit I behaved like a boy from Iowa, but I’d thought Grieg was a real person … And the trouble is, I really do want to get that book.”

People stared as they swept through the crowded lobby and up to the desk, Divver trembling with anger, Morgan cursing his misfortune. Divver drew some money from the safe and spoke to the manager about
Spartacus
and
His
Revolt.

“Perhaps a boy could go over?”

“Why certainly, Mr. Divver.” The manager took the bills Divver handed him, crooked a finger, and a page came running.

“I have
reasons
for not going myself,” said Divver, looking the manager strongly between the eyes.

“Of course.” The manager smiled in his customary vague way with guests, and directed the page.

“I
left
the book. Now I find I
need
it.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Divver.”

“I don’t apologize; I
explain
,” snapped Divver.

“As you wish,” replied the manager, still smiling but seeing Divver for the first time.

“… which is quite a different matter,” said Divver, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.

“Different as the waters of Elbe and Vistula,” said the manager, throwing little bows and smiles at passing guests in a haunted way.

“Pardon me?”

“Just one of our little folk-sayings … Good evening to you, Miss Schultz. How is Mr. Schultz’s ankle?”

“Well, he’ll bring
up
the book, eh?” asked Divver. “
Up
, to my room, that is, I mean.”

“Up, indeed, sir, without question.”

For a few seconds Divver seemed to have steadied himself; then, the resentful look came back into his face, and he went on in the same angry tone: “Yes, and one more thing, if you please: when does the mail leave? The U.S. mail?”

“Why, twice a day, Mr. Divver: 10 a.m. and 7 p.m.: the fact is inscribed on our post-box.”

“I mean not the mail that comes
from
America. I mean the mail that goes
to
America—the U.S.A.”

“
To
America, Mr. Divver, I quite understand. Of course; 10 a.m. and 7 p.m.”

“Well, it’s often not a question of ‘of course’ at all,” said Divver, “or otherwise I wouldn’t have thought of asking.”

They flew apart, mutually humiliated and despising one another.

Soon, I’ll be ashamed to show my face, Morgan thought miserably.

They went upstairs.

Divver’s wallet lay on his dresser. He snatched it up and thrust it into his pocket indignantly. Then he said sharply to
Morgan: “You’d better lie down and take a rest or you won’t be fit for human society.”

Why, you so-and-so! Morgan said to himself. And to think I once respected you.

Divver entered his own room and closed the communicating door. Soon, his muffled steps sounded through it, as he paced the carpet.

Mother was right for once, Morgan thought. Smart of her.

He lay down, and his glance fell on his bottle of white pills. At once, he started up again from the bed, grasping the bottle tightly in his hand. Like a conspirator, he cocked his head toward Divver’s door, cautiously weighing the sound of the pacing feet as they passed back and forth in a monotonous, shuffling beat. He felt that if he obeyed his impulse and got rid of the pills immediately, he would at once rise into a world that was beyond reach of annoyance by anyone as small as Divver; but it humiliated him to think of wasting so grand a gesture on so small a matter, and he was also ashamed to find that although he was surrounded by the greatest good fortune he was capable of feeling sulky, spiteful depression when the smallest thing went wrong. The more he thought this over, the more astonishment he felt at his own smallness and childishness: here was an act of destruction which was planned to change the whole course of his life—and he was ready to throw it away on getting even with a moment’s brusqueness. He looked at the walls of the room and the strange furniture, and said to himself with sternness and amazement: Have you forgotten where you are? Don’t you know what all these things mean to you? At once, the trim hotel carpet and oyster-white walls took on a heavenly sheen, and hs spirits flew up in enthusiasm and thankfulness.

At that moment he heard a trumpet in the square, sounding a fanfare of loud, slow notes. Dropping the pills, he flew to the window and threw it up.

The procession was about to begin. All the Poland’s front windows were wide open: as far as Morgan could see from side to side there were tourists’ elbows and faces: everyone looked pleased and ready to be amused, and easy acquaintances were being started on the spot from window to window. Three very young Americans, in bouncing good humour, were lying backward out of the window next to Morgan’s and trying to catch the attentions of three American girls in one of the top windows. The spokesman for the young men shouted “Hi! Hi there! Won’t you look down, please, girls? Please look down, ladies!”—and though all the other faces in the Poland’s windows smiled and cocked an eye at the top floor, the three girls seemed to hear nothing; they were talking very seriously. “Altogether now!” cried the spokesman, and he and his chums shouted at the tops of their voices: “Hi there! Please look down!” All at once, the girls did so, with a show of delicate surprise. “May we ring your bell afterwards?” cried the spokesman; “soon as the procession’s over? O.K.,
we ring your bell
?” The girls looked shocked; they turned to each other with cool, knowing looks, as if they had guessed all along that Europe was going to be full of bandits; they then found it necessary to stare down at the young men with half-puzzled, half-disdainful smiles, in which adequate invitation was well hedged around with clauses of neither yes nor no. They did this flirtation so neatly that half the heads in the Poland’s windows broke into admiring grins, which the girls acknowledged by assuming very modest expressions and looking into the distance at some birds. “It’s in the bag, children,” said the male spokesman to his companions; “but let
me
do the talking, O.K.?” They then turned their bodies right side up and began violently throwing confetti into the square. Morgan’s heart beat faster; he stared at the self-assured spokesman and envied him from the bottom of his heart.

More heads and elbows showed in the windows of the
pensions
on the square; most of the faces were topped with paper hats. The crossed rows of flags now had numerous, coloured, paper streamers hanging over them: from time to time someone would draw back into his room to get arm-space and hurl another flying streamer through the air.

The debris fell on the inhabitants of Mell, who stood, staring upward at the staring-downers, in two banks, on either side of the route of the procession. Most of them were wearing black clothes. In front of the banks were little girls in white dresses, holding gilded prayer books. There were four policemen, in full dress, with capes; they gestured royally with the backs of their hands whenever the banks bulged forward. In the centre of the route stood the proud trumpeter, dressed like the jack of diamonds.

The mannikins hobbled out on to the cathedral balcony. The Devil gave off four ringing strokes.

Morgan remembered Divver. He ran to Divver’s door and called: “Time for the procession, Max.”

Divver shouted back: “When you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

“What?”

“I said, when you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.”

“Aren’t you going to see it, then?” screamed Morgan.

“You go on and see it, for Christ’s sake!” Divver bellowed back.

Silly bastard, thought Morgan, running back to the window; he’s worse than I was; sulking like a kid. At this recognition of Divver’s smallness, a quick trickle of self-satisfaction ran through him; he peered out of the window with great elation.

He couldn’t see the base of the cathedral, but he knew the big doors had been thrown open because there was the sudden rising, circling blast of escaping organ music. Then came the sound of motors starting; the sharp burst of the automobiles, the rumbling of the charabancs. With a sudden exasperation
and excitement Morgan ran to Divver’s door and banged on it.

“It’s started!” he shouted: “It’s actually started!”

“Go on! —— off!” Divver shouted.

And —— you too, said Morgan silently, dashing back to the window.

The trumpeter blew a last, tremendous peal, and scuttled out of the roadway.

The procession passed through the square in this order:

A policeman released the processional cord, the crowd of locals and visitors broke away in a mob and joined the tail of the procession, en route to the lakeside, where there was to be dancing and a feast. Remembering his promise, Morgan called:
“I’m joining the procession, Max. Be back soon.” Next minute he was down the stairs, and racing along the road, hearing just ahead of him the exhilarating shouts of the trippers and the lively, incomprehensible chorus of the peasant singers. Half the town and, indeed, half the population of Europe and America, seemed to be running with him, shouting, laughing, panting for breath: when he had caught up with the main body, Morgan had thought neither for Divver’s surliness nor his own hopes and achievements; he joined with the rest in a happy, brainless orgy of pleasure, and positively danced his way to the lake.

*

It was seven o’clock when he returned to the Poland, sweaty and dusty but still filled with exuberance. Divver was reading in his own chair, but he had left open the door into Morgan’s room. He at once began to explain his reason for doing so.

“I thought perhaps the boy might knock on your door by mistake when he brought up my book, and I wouldn’t hear him.”

“Sure. Did you get the book?”

Divver waved
Spartacus
and
His
Revolt.
He looked at Morgan in a half-friendly, half-troubled way, as though, as before at the café table, he had something to say. He spoke politely, in a tired way, but said nothing important. “It would have been silly to miss the book after so much furore.”

“You bet,” said Morgan, wondering why Divver should explain so much. He began to take off his clothes.