The Sleepwalkers (25 page)

Nevertheless after some eighteen months they had their first child. It actually happened. How this came about cannot be told here. Besides, after the material for character construction already provided, the reader can imagine it for himself.

T
HE
2nd of March 1903 was a bad day for August Esch, who was thirty years old and a clerk; he had had a row with his chief and found himself dismissed before he had time to think of giving notice. He was irritated, therefore, but less by the fact of his dismissal than by his own lack of resourcefulness. There were so many things that he could have flung in the man’s face: a man who didn’t know what was happening under his very nose, a man who believed the insinuations of a fellow like Nentwig and had no idea that the said Nentwig was pocketing commissions right and left—unless, indeed, he was shutting his eyes deliberately because Nentwig knew something shady about him. And what a fool Esch had been to let the pair of them catch him out like that: they had fallen foul of him over an alleged mistake in the books that wasn’t a mistake at all, now that he came to think of it. But they had bullied him so insolently that it had simply turned into a shouting match, in the middle of which he suddenly found himself dismissed. At the time, of course, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but guttersnipe abuse, whereas now he knew exactly how he could have scored. “Sir,” yes, “Sir,” he should have said, drawing himself up to his full height, and Esch now said “Sir” to himself in a sarcastic voice, “have you the slightest idea of the state your business is in …?” yes, that’s what he should have said, but now it was too late, and although he had gone and got drunk and slept with a girl he hadn’t got rid of his irritation, and Esch swore to himself as he walked along beside the Rhine towards the town.

He heard steps behind him and, turning, caught sight of Martin, who was swinging along between his crutches with the foot of his game leg braced against one of them. If that wasn’t the last straw! Esch would gladly have hurried on, at the risk of getting a wallop over the head from one of the crutches—serve him right too if he did get one over the head—but he felt it would be a low-down trick to play on a cripple, and so he stood waiting. Besides, he would have to look round for another job, and Martin, who knew everybody, might have heard of
something. The cripple hobbled up, let his crooked leg swing free, and said bluntly: “Got the sack?” So he had heard of it already? Esch replied with bitterness: “Got the sack.” “Have you any money left?” Esch shrugged his shoulders: “Enough for a day or two.” Martin reflected: “I know of a job that might suit you.” “No, you won’t get me into your union.” “I know, I know; you’re too high and mighty for that.… Well, you’ll join some day. Where shall we go?” Esch was going nowhere in particular, so they proceeded to Mother Hentjen’s. In the Kastellgasse Martin stopped: “Have they given you a decent reference?” “I’ll have to call for it to-day.” “The Central Rhine people in Mannheim need a shipping clerk, or something in that line … if you don’t mind leaving Cologne,” and they went in. It was a fairly large, dingy room that had been a resort of the Rhine sailors probably for hundreds of years; though except for the vaulted roof, blackened with smoke, no sign now indicated its antiquity. The walls behind the tables were wainscoted in brown wood half-way up, to which was fixed a long bench that ran round the room. Upon the mantelpiece was an array of Munich quart-jugs, among which stood an Eiffel Tower in bronze. It was embellished with a red-and-black-and-white flag, and when one looked more closely the words “Table reserved” could be deciphered on it in faded gold-lettering. Between the two windows stood an orchestrion with its folding-doors open, showing its internal works and the roll of music. Actually the doors should have remained closed, and anyone who wished to enjoy the music should have inserted a coin in the slot. But Mother Hentjen did nothing shabbily, and so the customer had merely to thrust his hand into the machinery and pull the lever; all Mother Hentjen’s customers knew how to work the apparatus. Facing the orchestrion the whole of the shorter back wall was taken up by the buffet, and behind the buffet was a huge mirror flanked on either side by two glass cabinets containing brightly hued liqueur bottles. When in the evening Mother Hentjen took her post behind the buffet, she had a habit of turning round to the mirror every now and then to pat her blond coiffure, which was perched on her round, heavy skull like a hard little sugar-loaf. On the counter itself stood rows of large wine and Schnapps bottles, for the gay liqueur bottles in the cabinet were seldom called for. And finally, between the buffet and the glass cabinet, a zinc washing-basin with a tap was discreetly let into the wall.

The room was unheated, and its coldness stank. The two men chafed
their hands, and while Esch sat down dully on a bench Martin put his hand into the works of the orchestrion, which blared out
The March of the Gladiators
into the cold atmosphere of the room. In spite of the din they could presently hear a wooden stair creaking under someone’s footsteps, and the swing door beside the buffet was flung open by Frau Hentjen. She was still in her morning working-garb, an ample blue-cotton apron was tied over her dress, and she had not yet donned her evening corset, so that her breasts lay like two sacks in her broad-checked dimity blouse. Her hair, however, was still as stiff and correct as ever, crowning like a sugar-loaf her pale, expressionless face, which gave no indication of her age. But everybody knew that Frau Gertrud Hentjen had thirty-six years to her credit, and that for a long, long time—they had reckoned a little while ago that it must certainly be fourteen years—she had been the relict of Herr Hentjen, whose photograph, yellow with age, gazed out over the Eiffel Tower between the restaurant licence and a moonlit landscape, all three in fine black frames with gold scroll-work. And although with his little goat’s beard Herr Hentjen looked like a snippet of a tailor, his widow had remained faithful to him; at least nobody could say anything against her, and whenever anyone dared to approach her with an honourable proposal she would remark with disdain: “Yes, the business would suit him to a T, no doubt. No, I’d rather carry on alone, thank you.”

“Morning, Herr Geyring. Morning, Herr Esch,” she said. “You’re early birds to-day.” “We’ve been long enough on our legs, though, Mother Hentjen,” replied Martin, “if one works one must eat,” and he ordered wine and bread and cheese; Esch, whose mouth and stomach were still wry with the wine he had drunk yesterday, took Schnapps. Frau Hentjen sat down with the men and asked after their news. Esch was monosyllabic, and although he was not in the least ashamed of his dismissal, it annoyed him that Geyring should publish the fact so openly. “Yes, another victim of capitalism,” the trade-union organizer concluded, “but now I must get to work again; of course the Duke here can spread himself at his ease now.” He paid and insisted on settling for Esch’s Schnapps at the same time—“One must support the unemployed”—grasped his crutches, which he had propped beside him, braced his left foot against the wood, and swung himself out through the door between his two supports with a great clatter.

After he had gone the two of them remained silent for a little; then
Esch jerked his chin towards the door: “An anarchist,” he said. Frau Hentjen shrugged her plump shoulders: “And what if he is? He’s a decent man.” “He’s a decent man, right enough,” Esch corroborated, and Frau Hentjen went on: “but they’ll lay him by the heels again sooner or later: he’s done time for six months already …” then: “Well, it’s all in his day’s work.” Once more they became silent. Esch was wondering whether Martin had been a cripple since his childhood; misbegotten, he thought to himself, and said: “He would like to land me among his socialist friends. But I’m not having any.” “Why not?” asked Frau Hentjen without interest. “It doesn’t suit my plans. I want to get to the top of the tree; law and order are necessary if you want to get to the top.” Frau Hentjen could not but agree with that: “Yes, that’s true, you must have law and order. But now I must go to the kitchen. Will you be having dinner with us to-day, Herr Esch?” Esch might as well dine here as anywhere else, and after all why should he wander about in the icy wind? “Strange that the snow hasn’t come yet,” he said, “the dust fairly blinds you.” “Yes, it’s dismal outside,” said Frau Hentjen. “Then you’ll just stay here?” She disappeared into the kitchen, the swing door vibrated for a little longer, and Esch dully followed its vibrations until it finally came to rest. Then he tried to sleep. But now the coldness of the room began to strike into him; he walked up and down with a heavy and rather unsteady tread and took up the newspaper that lay on the buffet; but he could not turn the pages with his stiff fingers; his eyes too were painful. So he resolved to seek out the warm kitchen; with the newspaper in his hand he walked in. “I suppose you’ve come to have a sniff at the saucepans?” said Frau Hentjen, suddenly remembering that it was cold in the eating-room, and as it was her custom not to put on a fire there until the afternoon she suffered him to bear her company. Esch watched her bustling about the hearth and had a longing to seize her beneath the breasts, but her reputation for inaccessibility checked his desire at once. When the kitchenmaid who helped Frau Hentjen with her work went out he said: “I can’t understand your liking to live alone.” “Aha!” she replied, “you’re beginning that song too, are you?” “No,” said Esch, “it isn’t that. I was just wondering.” Frau Hentjen’s face had taken on a strangely frozen expression; it was as though she were disgusted at some thought, for she shook herself so violently that her breasts quivered, and then went about her work with the bored and empty face with which she
always confronted her customers. Esch, sitting at the window, read his newspaper and afterwards looked out into the yard, where the wind was raising little cyclones of dust.

Later the two girls who acted as waitresses in the evening arrived, unwashed and unslept. Frau Hentjen, the two waitresses and the little kitchenmaid and Esch took their places round the kitchen table, stuck out their elbows, hunched themselves over their plates, and ate their dinner.

Esch had drawn up his application for the Mannheim post; he now needed only the reference to enclose with it. Actually he was glad that things had turned out as they had. It wasn’t good for a man to vegetate all the time in one place. He felt he must get out of Cologne, and the farther the better. A fellow must keep his eyes open; as a matter of fact he had always done that.

In the afternoon he went to the office of Sternberg & Company, wholesale wine merchants, to get his reference. Nentwig kept him waiting at the counter, and sat at his desk, fat and slouching, totting up columns. Esch tapped impatiently with his strong finger-nails on the counter. Nentwig got up: “Patience, patience, Herr Esch,” and he stepped to the barrier and said condescendingly: “Oh, about your reference?—that can’t be so very urgent. Well? Date of birth? Date of employment here?” With his head averted Esch supplied this information and Nentwig took it down. Then Nentwig dictated to the stenographer and brought the reference. Esch read it through. “That isn’t a reference,” he said, handing the paper back. “Oh! Then what is it?” “You must certify to my ability as a book-keeper.” “You—a book-keeper! You’ve shown us what you can do in that line.” Now the moment of reckoning had come: “It’s a very special kind of book-keeper that’s needed for the inventories you draw up, I happen to know.” Nentwig was taken aback: “What do you mean?” “I mean what I say.” Nentwig changed his tune, became friendly: “You only harm yourself with your obstreperousness; here you had a good post, and you had to get into a row with the chief!” Esch tasted victory and began to roll it on his tongue: “I mean to have a talk with the chief later.” “For all I care you can say what you like to the chief,” Nentwig countered. “Well, what do you want me to put in your reference?” Esch decreed that he should be described as “conscientious, reliable and thoroughly versed in all
matters relating to book-keeping.” Nentwig wanted to be rid of him. “It isn’t true, of course, but as far as I’m concerned—” He turned again to the stenographer to dictate the new version. Esch grew red in the face: “Oh, so it isn’t true? … then please add: ’We heartily recommend him to any employer who may be in need of his services.’ Have you got that?” Nentwig bowed elaborately: “Delighted, I’m sure, Herr Esch.” Esch read the new copy through and was appeased. “The chief’s signature,” he commanded. But this was too much for Nentwig, who shouted: “So mine isn’t good enough for you?” “If the firm authorizes you I’ll let that pass,” was Esch’s large and magnanimous reply, and Nentwig signed.

Esch stepped out into the street and made for the nearest pillar-box. He whistled to himself; he felt rehabilitated. He had his reference, good; it was in the envelope with his application to the Central Rhine Company. The fact that Nentwig had given in showed that he had a bad conscience. So the inventories were faked then, and the man should be handed over to the police. Yes, it was simply one’s duty as a citizen to give him in charge straight away. The letter dropped into the post-box with a soft, muffled thud, and Esch, his fingers still in the aperture, considered whether he should go at once to the police headquarters. He wandered on irresolutely. It had been a mistake to send off the reference, he should have given it back to Nentwig; to force a reference out of a man and then give him in charge wasn’t decent. But now it was done, and besides, without a reference he had little chance of getting a post with the Central Rhine Shipping Company—there would be absolutely nothing left for him but to go back to his old job in Sternberg’s again. And he saw a vision of the chief discovering the fraud, and Nentwig languishing in prison. Yes, but what if the chief himself was involved in the swindle? Then of course the public interrogation would bring the whole concern toppling down. And then there would be another bankruptcy, but no post for a book-keeper. And in the newspapers people would read: “Revenge of a dismissed clerk.” And finally he would be suspected of collusion. And then he would be left without a reference and without a job, for nobody would take him on. Esch congratulated himself on the shrewdness with which he drew all the consequences, but he was furious. “A fine bloody firm!” he swore under his breath. He stood in the Ring in front of the Opera House, cursing and swearing into the cold wind which blew the dust into his
eyes, and could not come to any decision, but finally resolved to postpone the affair; if he didn’t get the post with the Central Rhine there would still be time left to act the part of Nemesis. He went through the darkening evening, his hands buried in the pockets of his shabby overcoat, actually went, indeed, as a matter of form, as far as the police headquarters. There he stood looking at the policemen on guard, and when a police wagon drove up he waited until all the prisoners had got out, and felt disappointed when the policeman finally slammed to the door without Nentwig’s having put in an appearance. He remained standing for a few moments, then he turned resolutely and made for the Alt Markt. The two faint vertical lines on his cheeks had deepened. “Wine faker,” he muttered in a fury, “vinegar tout.” And morose and disillusioned over his poisoned victory, he ended the day by getting drunk again and sleeping with another girl.