Little Apple (25 page)

"What if I ask you this, Franzi? Will you come home with me - will you start a new life with me? Well, answer!"

The question took her by surprise. She was so bewildered she didn't know what to say.

" 'What if?' - that's what you said, but you don't have any intention of asking me, not really."

"Yes I do! I want to know. In two day's time my mission will be over. Two days from now I'll be free. I'll work, I'll earn a living. That's the situation. And now, answer me."

Back to the dreary daily grind? Back to the typewriter? Up at seven every morning to brew the breakfast coffee on a gas ring? Living as a twosome in a back room overlooking an air well? Could she? It was unthinkable - he didn't have the first idea! However, she refrained from turning him down flat.

"Do I have to decide right away, Georg?"

"Yes, you do. I can't wait."

"It would be lovely," she said, "but it wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think! What would my friends say if I simply walked out on them? And besides -"

"So you won't?"

"No, Georg, it really wouldn't do. Don't be angry with me."

They were like two strangers all of a sudden. Neither of them spoke a word. Vit¬torin glanced at the clock - time was getting short. Franzi glanced oyer at Mario, uncertain how to say goodbye. There was nothing left
to
say.

There was the young Belgian at last! He paused in the doorway, smitten with indecision at the sight of her in the company of a man he didn't know - not her type at all.

"Please excuse me, Georg," Franzi said quickly, "I'm meeting someone. Will we see each other again?"

Vit¬torin had risen.

"I doubt it. My train leaves in forty minutes."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrows. "Forty minutes, eh? You're still the same as ever - always leaving on the next train out. Goodbye, Georg."

The young Belgian escorted her to the ballroom. She turned in the doorway and gave a little wave before settling herself in her partner's arms. Other couples glided past. Vit¬torin spotted the mauve-trimmed neckline of Franzi's dress and the gleam of her hair. Then she disappeared from view.

He continued to stand there, waiting for a final glimpse of her. Five minutes went by, then six. He would have to go. Numerous couples had passed the door, swaying to the music as they stared straight through him with an air of total indifference. Franzi might have been among them, he couldn't say for sure.

SELYUKOV

There were only three other people in the compartment from Innsbruck onwards. The old woman in the headscarf was bound for Bischofshofen to take up a post as cook at a Gasthaus there. The plump, bald, cheerful man, who travelled for a wholesale wine firm, had samples of numerous South Tyrolean wines in his case. As soon as they pulled out of Innsbruck he begged a slice of bread from the Gasthaus cook and cut it into four equal portions. Then he produced a tasting cup from his case and invited the others to sample his Terlaner, Traminer and St Mag-dalener. The young man in the sports jacket, a power station engineer, announced that he was off to South America in a couple of years' time. Brazil - that was the land of the future.

The wine salesman nodded. There was still money to be made in South America, he said. He used to have a relative in Lima, a maternal great-uncle to whom he would always be grateful for the remittances that had helped to finance his education. There were worse preparations for life than five years in high school. A certain standard of education was essential in his job. You had to be able to communicate with customers, find out what their interests were and what they liked to talk about; then the orders came by themselves. He'd been in the wine trade for five years. Before that he'd travelled for a typewriter manufacturer, but that was an absolute dog's life.

"Are you going to Vienna on business?" he asked, turning to Vit¬torin.

Vit¬torin, staring into space, didn't answer right away. He was picturing a room with red curtains, and standing in the room was Selyukov. The book on the desk was a French novel with a frontispiece depicting a naked woman. A shot! Selyukov had fired. The bullet ploughed into the door panel and splintered it. He had no time to fire again. It was Vit¬torin's turn now, but what if there was a woman in the room? Selyukov had a woman on the premises, that was absolutely certain; he'd got her hidden behind the screen. She would scream - she would call for help. Well, let her. Let her scream - let her telephone the police, it didn't matter what happened afterwards. Selyukov collapsed and lay quite still. He'd pulled the screen over on top of him as he fell . . .

"No," said Vit¬torin, "I'm going to Vienna for purely personal reasons."

The train made a longish stop at Salzburg. A little man with a remarkably pallid complexion was pacing the platform, his shoulders hunched up against the cold. His smart patent-leather shoes contrasted oddly with an unfashionable hat, an ill-cut overcoat, and a pair of excessively baggy trousers displaying only vestiges of a crease. He was muttering to himself as he went. Vit¬torin accosted him. The pale-faced man glanced at him, raised his hat, and walked on. Vit¬torin caught him up.

"It's Herr Bamberger, isn't it? Don't you remember me?"

The man came to a halt.

"Yes, I think so. That's to say, my memory's not of the best. Can you give me a little help?"

"My name is Georg Vit¬torin."

"Georg Vit¬torin - of course. Please forgive me for not recognizing you right away. What can I do for you, Herr Vit¬torin?"

"I had a conversation with you a couple of years ago, Herr Bamberger. I've often thought of you since. All I really wanted to ask you was: did you win your war?"

"My war?" Herr Bamberger looked mystified.

"Yes, you predicted the collapse of our currency, and you were right. You said there was going to be a war of each against all, and you were determined to win it."

"Forgive me, but I'm still not absolutely . . . what was your name again?"

"Georg Vit¬torin. You were renting a room in my father's apartment at the time."

Herr Bamberger smote his brow.

"I've placed you at last! My memory really does let me down sometimes. How are your sisters, Herr Vit¬torin?"

The power station engineer walked past. He respectfully raised his hat, but Herr Bamberger failed to notice.

"One of them got married," Vit¬torin improvised. "The elder of the two, but you probably knew that." He paused. "Or aren't you still in touch with my family?"

"I fear we've drifted apart," Herr Bamberger said politely.

"You grew tired of the room, I suppose?"

"Not at all. I simply found it more convenient to rent a small apartment near my office. What about you, Herr Vit¬torin?"

"I've been travelling for the past two years. France, Spain, Turkey, Russia."

"An educational tour?"

"Not really. I had some personal business to attend to abroad."

"And now? What are your future plans?"

"That's what I'd like to discuss with you, Herr Bamberger. I don't want to go back to the old routine - I've developed an aversion to the phrase 'a steady job'. I want to be free and independent. I want to work for myself, not help to line someone else's pockets."

Herr Bamberger stared silently, thoughtfully, into the middle distance.

"You want my opinion? Well, if I may offer you a word of advice -"

He broke off. A smartly dressed young man had just hurried up.

"Excuse me," the young man said with a little bow. "We're not leaving for eight minutes. Your call to Vienna will be through in another two. Would you like me to -"

"Thanks," Herr Bamberger cut in. "I'll take it myself."

He turned back to Vit¬torin.

"Do forgive me, I have to speak with Vienna urgently. Please remember me to your family. Ah yes, you asked my advice. I don't take too rosy a view of the immediate future - there's a cold wind blowing. If you want my opinion, obtain a modest but secure position in some well-established firm - that's your
best hedge against the years to come. Delighted to have met you
again, Herr Vit¬torin. My regards to your charming sisters."

And he set off for the stationmaster's office.

The engineer was waiting in the doorway of the compartment.

"Are you personally acquainted with President Bamberger?" he asked as Vit¬torin resumed his seat.

"Slightly acquainted, yes," said Vit¬torin. "Is he a president these days? What does the title signify?"

"He's the boss of C. L. F. Holdings, didn't you know? One of our biggest industrial tycoons."

"I see. What about the young man with him?"

"His private secretary, at a guess. An enviable job. Some folk have all the luck. He probably earns a minister's salary, goes on nice trips in a private railway carriage —"

"A private carriage?"

"Of course. That's why we're six minutes late, because we waited at Schwarzach for President Bamberger's private carriage. I doubt if we'll make up the time before we get to Linz."

Vit¬torin brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and made no comment. He had only a fleeting recollection of the elegant young man who had inherited his share of life's
table d'hôte.

"Bamberger's a dollar millionaire many times over," the engineer went on. "I read in the paper last week that he's acquired a majority holding in our company as well. I'm with Elektro-Union, by the way. How did you get to know him?"

"He once offered me a place in his private carriage," Vit¬torin said pensively, "but I turned it down. Our destinations were entirely different."

Suburban roofs and windows reflected the light of a bleak winter's morning. The puddles of melted snow had become coated with a thin film of ice overnight. Vit¬torin strode briskly along, shivering in his thin overcoat but heedless of the wind that drove watery snowflakes into his face and the damp chill that penetrated his clothing. Oskar tried hard to keep in step. Every now and then he glanced sideways at his long-lost brother, alarmed by the strange, set expression on his face. This was his third attempt to engage Georg in conversation.

"I'm usually at the office by now," he said with an involuntary gesure in the direction of the Schottentor. "We start work at eight, but I've taken the day off. It's a wonderful invention, the pneumatic post. You scribble a couple of lines -'flu or some other excuse - and you're off the hook. A schoolmate of mine died of'flu six weeks ago. I'd been out drinking with him on the Saturday night and they buried him the following Thursday -it's as quick as that, and I never even knew. All I thought was, where's old Max, why haven't I seen him around? No, but what I meant to say was, you must write a job application complete with a
curriculum vitae
and leave the rest to me - I'm
persona gratissima
at the office. But don't say anything about not having had a job for years. Gloss over that, or it might make a bad impression. Is it really so difficult, finding a job abroad?"

"I never stayed long enough in any one place," Vit¬torin replied. "You know me, I've got itchy feet. I'm a born idler -Ebenseder says so, so it must be true."

"Never you mind what Ebenseder says," Oskar told him. "I don't like him any more than you do. I begged Lola not to marry the man, over and over, but when they retired Father early, that settled it. 'What else can I do?' she said. 'I've got Father and Vally's future to think of.' Well, Father's properly provided for now - whatever he makes on his little business deals he keeps as pocket money, and Vally's studying at the Conservatory. Ebenseder isn't a bad lot, he's just unlikeable. Lola may even have grown fond of him by now. You can never tell with women."

There was the apartment house, a building like any other. On the right of the entrance was a glazier's, on the left a florist's and a public lottery office. A small china plate announced that a physician specializing in internal diseases had his consulting room on the first floor. A small black dog was cavorting with some other dogs in the middle of the road, deaf to the pleas of its owner, an old woman laden with a shopping bag and sheltering under a patched cotton umbrella. Barrels were being unloaded from a dray.

Vit¬torin had come to a halt.

"Are you going write that application today?" Oskar asked.

"I don't know."

"If you gave it to me today, you might get an interview tomorrow."

"I don't think I'd better make any plans at present."

"You could start work on the first."

"It's hard to say where I'll be on the first."

"Will I be seeing you again today?"

"I can't tell you that either."

Oskar eyed his brother uneasily. "Won't you let me come with you?"

Vit¬torin shook his head. "No, it's something I've got to do on my own. No one can help me."

"I'll stay here, then," Oskar said. "I won't go home, I'll wait in the coffee-house across the street."

"All right, but if I'm not out in half an hour, don't bother to wait any longer."

"What do you mean?" Oskar protested. "I don't understand. What are you up to? I tell you this much: if you aren't out in half an hour I'm going upstairs to find out what's happened to you."

"If you insist," said Vit¬torin.

He had a vision of the street transformed. Heads were craning out of every window, onlookers crowding around the entrance. A lanky policeman had stationed himself in the doorway and was holding the throng at bay.

"Move along there!" - "What happened? Has there been an accident?" - "Murder. The doctor's been shot by one of his patients." - "No, it was on the second floor." - "The Russian, you mean?" - "No, some other man, dead. Two ex-officers, a duel without witnesses. The Russian was wounded." - "Let me through, I live here!" - "Move along there!"

"Yes," said Vit¬torin, "if I'm not out in half an hour you can come and fetch me."

And he shook hands with his brother more warmly than he had ever done before.

The stairwell was dark. A faint sense of apprehension stole over him as he ascended the steep stairs. He had a sudden feeling that he was not alone. The gloom seemed alive with movement -there were shadowy figures and silent footsteps all around him. The dead had come too, eager to witness the culmination of the battle in which they had perished. Baron Pistolkors, leaning against the banisters in his cherry-red dressing-gown, gave a welcoming nod. "Killed in battle," said a voice, and Vit¬torin had a momentary vision of Count Gagarin's laughing, boyish face. Artemyev addressed him out of the darkness in a whisper: "Is that you, comrade? I've been expecting you. Now show us what you're made of." Shuffling footsteps, groans and moans: they had come too, the Red soldiers whom he had led into a hail of shot and shell at Miropol. They stood at his back in serried ranks, ready to follow him once more.