Little Apple (11 page)

It was an insult he wouldn't have tolerated from anyone else, but he repeated it, masochistically hurling it at himself again and again as he stared glumly into the fire. Yes, he was a contemptible coward - he didn't retract a syllable of it. Where had his courage fled to while she was in the room with him? He hadn't got a word out, and time was going by - inexorably ticking away. He had only a few minutes left. He must tell her, he couldn't put it off any longer. The opening words would be terribly hard to say, but once they were said the worst would be over. He
had
to come out with it. Ten-thirty at the station, and she still knew nothing . . .

All at once he heard a delighted laugh from the hall: Franzi had spotted his knapsack. She flung the door open with an air of triumph.

"I almost tripped over it," she exclaimed. "Your knapsack! Of course, I never thought of that! You had to pretend you were going away, or your family would have been suspicious. Where
are
you supposed to be off to, Georg? Tell me."

"Russia," he replied, but his courage failed him, and he uttered the fateful word so quietly that she didn't hear. She put her arms around his neck.

"Did they believe you?" she asked. "I'll tell you something, Georg: I don't care if they know you're with me or not, I really don't. What's the point of playing hide-and-seek? Whatever I do, I'm prepared to take the consequences. I've never been a coward."

She looked up at him with her girlish mouth set in a determined line and a radiant smile in her eyes, ready to forget the whole world in his arms, but he was blind, deliberately blind, to her expression.

She picked up his knapsack and put it on the table.

"My goodness, it's heavy. Let's see what you've got in there."

She undid the draw-string, and the first thing that came to light was the red notebook containing Vit¬torin's Russian vocabulary lists. She peered at the unfamiliar script.

"What's that," she asked, "Greek?"

"No," he said curtly, harshly, "it's Russian."

"You mean you've brought some homework with you? What odd ideas you have, George. I doubt if you'll get much Russian learnt tonight or tomorrow!"

A photograph fell out of the notebook as she deposited it on the table. It showed a tall, stern-faced young woman stiffly posed in front of a painted backcloth - a tulip bed. Her narrow-waisted gown had puffed sleeves.

"Who's this?" Franzi asked.

"It's a photo of my mother as a young woman," said Vit¬torin. "You never knew her. I'm supposed to look like her. I always take it with me when I . . ."

The moment had come. He'd reached the point of no return.

". . . when I go away for any length of time," he went on. "Women used to wear puffed sleeves in those days, around 1900. It wasn't the prettiest of fashions, but that's the only picture of her I've got. I had it with me all the time, in the trenches and later in the prison camp."

Franzi stared at him in sudden alarm.

"You don't mean you're really going away, Georg? Answer me!
Are
you, seriously? You are, and you only tell me now? Where are you off to?"

Vit¬torin took his mother's picture from her and replaced it in the red notebook.

"Russia," he said. "Don't look so upset. I'll be back in a week or two."

"You once mentioned wanting to go back to Russia some time. So you really meant it," Franzi said in a low, dejected voice. "What do you plan to do there?"

"I can't tell you - it's not the kind of thing one discusses with a woman. There's something I've volunteered to do — unfinished business, if you like. Don't ask me any more. You needn't worry, I'm not going alone - there are two of us - and I'll be back in a few weeks' time. I've got a new job to come back to, too - personal assistant to a business tycoon. At least, I may have second thoughts. He's a rather shady character

in fact, to be quite honest, I suspect he's a bit of crook, but who isn't these days? He pays well, that's the main thing, and he's going to keep the job open till January ist - I fixed it with him."

"When are you leaving?" asked Franzi, thoroughly subdued by this torrent of words.

"My train goes at half-past eleven," he said swiftly, trying to sound off-hand, "but I'll have to be at the station by half-past ten. You'd better get ready quickly if you want to see me off. I can't stay much longer."

She gazed at him in silence, her eyes filling with tears. Stung by the sight because he knew he was in the wrong and wanted to forestall her reproaches, he adopted a harsh, hostile tone.

"If you want to make a scene go ahead, but it's pointless, I can tell you that right now. I don't have the time. I'm not going to miss that train on your account."

She made no reply, just went to fetch her hat and coat.

The last tram had gone, so they had to walk. Franzi didn't utter a word the whole way to the station.

Once in the booking hall they were accosted by Kohout, who
was carrying a wooden army suitcase and sweating with excite
ment. All he spared Franzi, when introduced, was a cursory, uninterested glance, a clumsy little bow, and a swift, rather moist handshake.

He deposited his suitcase on the ground beside him.

"You might have turned up a bit sooner," he told Vit¬torin, peering nervously in all directions. "I was here on the dot. It really wasn't necessary to invite Emperger to see you off. I don't like that man - never did. You haven't told him I'm going too, have you?"

"Of course not," Vit¬torin assured him, "since you didn't want me to."

"I hope you haven't told anyone else," Kohout pursued with a wary glance at Franzi, who was standing a few feet away. "What about your girl-friend?"

"She only met you two minutes ago and she probably didn't even catch your name," Vit¬torin said soothingly. "I can't understand why you're so jumpy. What are you scared of? You're your own boss, after all. You're answerable to no one but yourself."

Kohout broke out in another sweat. He screwed up his eyes and wrung his hands.

"Another few minutes and the train'll be in," he said. "Do me a favour and go and claim the seats, will you? I'll leave my suitcase with you."

"Why," asked Vit¬torin, "are you off somewhere?"

"Of course. I was only waiting for you. You don't think I want to bump into Emperger, do you? I'll leave that pleasure to you. Me, I'm boarding the train at half-past eleven, not a minute before. Don't worry, I'll make it - and keep an eye on my case."

He waved his crumpled hat and strode briskly off.

Emperger was late. He appeared on the platform only minutes before the train pulled out, waving and smiling as he came. Agreeably surprised to find Vit¬torin in the company of a young woman, he kissed Franzi's fingertips with exaggerated gallantry.

The three of them stood outside the compartment in which Vit¬torin had successfully battled for his seats.

"It was a real struggle to get here in time," Emperger reported. "I'm much too much in demand, I'm afraid. At half-past ten I had to collect a young lady from the opera and escort her home - not my type at all, incidentally, but one can't shirk one's obligations. She lives in the suburbs, to make matters worse, but luckily I borrowed a car. Some friends are expecting me at twelve. I simply couldn't cry off- one doesn't like to hurt people's feelings. And so it goes on, night after night. It's a mystery to me how I ever manage to get any sleep."

In token that he really wasn't exaggerating, Emperger loosened his silk scarf to reveal the dinner-jacket under his opera cloak.

Vit¬torin drew him aside.

"Will you inform the others that I've gone to Moscow?" he asked.

"Of course, tomorrow without fail," Emperger assured him. "That's to say, I'm rather out of contact with the Professor. Incredible how quickly one loses touch with people -it's simply that they all have interests of their own. So you're really serious, eh? You're off to Russia to carry on the war single-handed,
pour ainsi dire.
My respects, Vit¬torin, I envy your determination and strength of character. As to the practical value of your mission, everyone's entitled to his own opinion ..."

A menacing scowl appeared on Vit¬torin's face.

"But speaking for myself," Emperger said hastily, "I'm behind you all the way. A man's word is his bond, and when I think what that swine Selyukov . . . What a delightful girlfriend you have, Vit¬torin - a pleasure to behold. A recent acquisition? I congratulate you on your good taste, anyway. From the way you spoke, I always assumed you were a recluse."

Vit¬torin had ceased to listen. In his mind's eye, he had just brushed past Grisha, Selyukov's orderly, and marched into the staff captain's office to demand satisfaction. He could picture the uniform, the St George's Cross, the cigarette between the slender, faintly tanned fingers, the smoke rings, the fire on the hearth, the books on the desk. All these he could visualize quite clearly, but Selyukov's face remained vague and insubstantial. He searched his memory in vain: he had forgotten the face of his mortal foe. Just as this agonizing realization dawned on him, the locomotive emitted a shrill whistle. He jumped on to the step and the train got under way. Franzi clung to his hand for a moment longer.

"Will you write to me?" she asked, sounding as if she had just emerged from the depths of a dream.

"I'll write you from Moscow," he called. He felt a sudden, burning desire to say something loving and affectionate, but the distance between them was already infinite.

He lingered on the step. It struck him as odd that the other two, who had only met a few minutes ago, should be standing side by side and waving to him as if they belonged together, but he didn't dwell on the thought. He turned away, content beyond measure to be leaving a city in which his life had become no more than a shadowy limbo.

He made his way to the compartment. Kohout was already there and had put his army suitcase, which was adorned with painted tulips and roses, on the luggage rack.

"Well, that's that," said Kohout. He drew a deep breath and mopped his perspiring brow. "All's well. We'll be over the border in another few hours."

Emperger insisted on driving Franzi home. It would give him the greatest pleasure, he assured her. He had time enough, and besides, he wasn't in the habit of letting young women walk home unescorted at this late hour.

Franzi remained thoroughly monosyllabic, so the task of making conversation devolved on him alone. He shone a torch in her face, pointed to her eyes, and quoted Shakespeare:

Here did she fall a tear. Here in this place

I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace . . .

Seeing that she knew no English, he changed the subject. He was on the threshold of a brilliant career in banking, he announced. He might even have a car of his own in a few months' time - quite something, eh? - but hadn't yet decided on any particular make. He had a nice little bachelor apartment, not that he was entirely satisfied with it, of course - he needed more room for his books, and besides, one liked to spread oneself- but it wasn't easy to find anything suitable in these dreary, Bolshevik-ridden days. He was no bourgeois - far from it: he found the right-wing politicos a trifle stupid, and he certainly wasn't "behind the times" - he used the English phrase - but he could not raise any enthusiasm for the left-wing extremists either.

Franzi was then informed that he had until recently been involved with an actress - a very well-known one, what was more. Relationships of that kind had their drawbacks, of course. Celebrated artistes tended to be capricious and one didn't always find it easy to indulge their more outrageous whims, so he'd broken it off with her. But although he was in the thick of society life - never a day without some invitation or other - he often felt extremely lonely.

When they pulled up outside Franzi's apartment, Emperger told her that he didn't really feel like going on to his party after all. To put it crudely, the people who were expecting him could lump it. He thought it would be far more amusing to go to a bar - in congenial company, of course, because drinking alone was no fun. Although his manner cooled perceptibly when Franzi ignored this hint, he prefaced his farewells by asking permission to look her up from time to time in his friend Vit¬torin's absence, inquired where she worked during the day, and made a note of her telephone number.

Once upstairs in the living-room Franzi slumped into a chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept with noisy abandon. Racked with sobs, she gave free rein to her bitter disappointment. At length, feeling better, she wiped away her tears and went over to the mirror, where she inspected her red and swollen eyes with a kind of wry satisfaction.

A defiant, despairing exuberance overcame her. She yearned for a wild orgy, a frenzied, self-destructive bacchanalia. Her eyes still brimming with tears, she hurried to the kitchen and made a bowl of punch. When it was standing ready on the table, she played the gramophone with a total disregard for the neighbours, who were, she told herself, welcome to hear what a good time she was having. And while the gramophone churned out operetta hits, jazz, and the overture from
Die Meistersinger,
she chain-smoked and drank punch - glass after glass of it - even though it turned out that she'd forgotten to add any sugar.

What with all the punch she'd drunk and all the crying she'd done, Franzi became drowsy. Around two in the morning she fell asleep on the sofa, fully dressed, between the Baron and the young man from Agram, whose umbrella had slid to the floor.

The train pulled into the frontier station three hours late. Vit¬torin awoke from a restless sleep, aching in every limb, to find that Kohout had climbed on the seat and was getting his case down.

"Where are we?" he asked, still half dreaming. "What time is it?"

"Five a.m.," Kohout replied hoarsely. "Neither night nor day. I've got a headache - do I look as if I hadn't slept a wink? Hurry up, we have to get out here. Passport control, customs inspection."

Carrying their luggage, they trudged across the track and joined a long line of waiting figures. The queue progressed slowly, step by step. The man at the door admitted only a handful of passengers at a time.