The Sleepwalkers (44 page)

That was, indeed, a remarkable solution of the problem, and although Esch had himself suggested it, he yearned to retort that it was merely a second-rate and partial solution compared with the much better, more radical, and as it were spiritual solution he now had an inkling of. What good would it do to lock up Teltscher for a month or two when Ilona would be exposed once more to knife-throwing? It struck him for the first time that Ilona wasn’t present, although she really ought to have been there; almost as if it were intended that she should not see him until his task was accomplished. Anyhow, task or no task—here he was, promising to pay up profits in full, even while he was thinking of the great sacrifice he was to make! If the balance was ever to be truly struck the wrestling matches simply would have to be a dead loss. And since that implied that the wrathful Erna’s money would be thrown away after all, he had a sense of guilt that was at bottom not at all unpleasant; but since it was no business of theirs he began to hector the others: so that was all the thanks he got, he was sorry he had ever troubled to bring the money, since that was how he was welcomed, but in any case he would write to Gernerth about the balance. He could do as he pleased, said Fräulein Erna spitefully. Then she would be good enough to write about it herself, for he had expressly disclaimed all responsibility. She certainly would not. Very well, then he would do it, for he was an honest man. “Indeed?” remarked Fräulein Erna. And so Esch demanded pen and paper and departed to his room without another look at those present.

In his room he strode up and down as was his habit when agitated. Then he began to whistle, so that the others might not think he was annoyed, and perhaps also because he was feeling lonely. Soon he heard Erna and Lohberg coming into the lobby. They were very subdued;
obviously Lohberg, coward that he was, was still trembling and rolling his pale eyes helplessly from side to side. As so often, Lohberg’s image called up Mother Hentjen’s. She, too, was helpless now, and had to submit to everything, poor woman. He listened to hear if Lohberg and Erna were abusing him. A fine predicament Mother Hentjen had landed him in with her silly jealousy; he needn’t have been here, he might have been in Badenweiler hours ago. But in the lobby all was quiet. Lohberg must have gone; and Esch sat down and wrote in his clerkly hand: “To Herr Alfred Gernerth, Theatre Manager, Alhambra Theatre, Cologne. Kindly remit my capital of 780.75 marks, in return for which I shall send you a final quittance. Respectfully yours.” With the letter in one hand and the inkpot and pen in the other he went straight across into Erna’s room.

Erna, shuffling about in felt slippers, was just making down her bed, and Esch was amazed that she had managed to change her shoes so quickly. She was beginning to object to his intrusion when she remarked his equipment: “What are you doing with that rubbish?” He ordered her: “Sign here.” “I’ll sign no more for you.…” But meanwhile she had run her eye over the letter and went to the table with it: “All right,” with a shrug; it wouldn’t be of any use, the money was gone, thrown away, wasted, one would just have to put up with that; a man like Herr Esch, of course, didn’t give a straw. Her abuse of him once more roused his curious feeling of guilt towards her; oh, what about it, he would help her to get her money, and he seized her hand to show her where to sign. When she tried to snatch it from him he was again annoyed; he grasped her hand more firmly with most unloving force, and for the second time it happened that Fräulein Erna grew silent and defenceless. At first he did not notice this, but merely guided her hand for the signature, then, however, her oblique lizard-like glance as she looked up at him struck him as an invitation. And when he embraced her she laid her cheek close to his breast. The fact that she did so did not trouble him at all; he was little disposed to ask whether it was merely the echo of her old fancy for him, or whether she wanted to revenge herself for Lohberg’s lack of manliness, or—and that would have seemed most probable to Esch—whether she simply submitted because he happened to be there, because it was fated to happen, because they no longer had to wrangle over marriage. The situation had been cleared up: Erna had an admirer and he himself was going to America with Mother Hentjen; even his anger against Lohberg was allayed, and he almost felt a kind of tenderness for the idiot
who was like Mother Hentjen in so many respects, and since Fräulein Erna must have taken over many of her wooer’s qualities, being so intimate with him, to embrace Erna was in a way, although in a far-off way, like embracing a piece of Mother Hentjen, and couldn’t be called unfaithfulness. Yet the recollection of their old quarrels was not yet quite banished, they still hesitated, there was a flash, as it were, of hostile chastity, and Esch was within an ace of returning to his own room, as of yore, without achieving anything. But of a sudden she said: “Hush!” and drew away from him: the main door outside had creaked, and Esch realized that Ilona had come in. They stood motionless. But when the footsteps outside died away and the door into the living-room, behind which Korn’s bedroom lay, was locked, they too were locked in each other’s arms.

As he crept later into his own bedroom he could not help thinking of Mother Hentjen, and that he had got off at Mannheim only to allay her jealous suspicions. That was all she got from her silly jealousy. Of course it had been only in joke, his threat to be unfaithful to her that very day. Yet it had turned out to be true, and it wasn’t his fault. Besides, it wasn’t really unfaithfulness; one could not so easily be unfaithful to a woman like that. All the same, it was a dirty thing to do. And why? Because he should have made a clean sweep of things and gone straight to the point; because in all decency he should have gone to Badenweiler instead of pandering to a woman’s silly jealousy. That was what he got for it. A fine predicament, but it couldn’t be helped now. Esch turned his face to the wall.

He opened his eyes and recognized his old room; the bright morning sun was streaming through the curtains, and like a lance the fear transfixed him: wasn’t he late for the warehouse? but he remembered then that he was quit of the Central Rhine Shipping Company, that he was free and on holiday. Nobody had the power to waken him for judgment. He went on lying in bed, although it rather bored him, simply because he could lie as long as he chose. It was very likely, too, that Mother Hentjen would do him in, for she would never understand that he had been true to her after all; she would want to kill him, in any case, and that alone brought a comforting assurance of freedom. The man who is about to die is free, and he who is redeemed into freedom has taken death upon him. He could see the battlements of a castle on which a black flag drooped quietly, yet it might have been the Eiffel
Tower, for who can distinguish the future from the past? In the park was a grave, the grave of a girl, the grave of a girl transfixed by a knife. In the face of death all things are permissible, free, gratis, so to speak, and strangely inconsequent. A man might make up to any woman in the street and ask her to sleep with him, and it would have the same pleasant inconsequence as sleeping with Erna, whom he would leave behind to-day or to-morrow when he journeyed into the darkness. He could hear her bustling about in the flat, the bony little creature, and he lay waiting for her to come in as she used to, for one must make hay while the sun shines. That the freedom to be unfaithful had first to be paid for by an act of unfaithfulness, and that all the same one desired to be killed for it, was certainly more than Mother Hentjen would ever understand; what did she know of such complicated balancing? Or how could she ever trace the falsifications that are so cunningly insinuated into the world, that only a skilled accountant could dare to die a redeemer’s death? For the slightest error if overlooked could make the whole structure of freedom totter. At that point he heard Fräulein Erna’s voice from the kitchen: “May I bring my lord his coffee now?” “No,” shouted Esch, “I’ll be there in a minute,” sprang out of his bed, had his clothes on in a twinkling, drank his coffee and was down at the tramway stop in no time, himself astounded at the speed with which he had moved. The tram bound towards the prison had not yet arrived, and it was only because he had to wait that Esch wondered whether it was merely the thought of his visit to Martin that had driven him out of bed so quickly, or whether it was Erna’s voice that was responsible. It wasn’t a pleasant voice, especially when she was scolding, as on the previous evening. But Esch wasn’t the man to be spurred by a sharp tongue. So it couldn’t have been her voice, or else he would have been driven out of the flat long ago, as on that occasion, for instance, when she had called him into the kitchen to look at the sleeping Ilona. As for Ilona, he had no need to set eyes on her again, neither here nor anywhere else. And it would be best to keep these things at a distance, to refuse to admit that he had probably fled from Erna and her evil lusts, from that inconsequent lust in which he was to be involved henceforward, but which could not face the daylight, since night alone was the time for freedom.

At the jail he discovered that visitors were allowed only three times weekly; he must apply again next day. What was he to do? Go on to
Badenweiler without further delay? He began to swear at this interference with the freedom of his movements. At length, however, he said: “Oh well, a reprieve,” and the word “reprieve” stuck to him, haunting his mind, and gave him even a proud and comforting sense of brotherhood with a man so powerful as Bertrand, for the reprieve concerned both of them. He could not go off into the darkness without having seen Martin first, and it would have been ridiculous, even degrading, to let his visit to Mannheim mean nothing but a night with Erna. When a man takes a long journey he should leave no loose ends behind him, he should rather greet all his friends and say good-bye. So he went first down to the docks to look up his acquaintances in the warehouses and in the canteen. He felt almost like a long-lost relative returning from America, a little shy in case people should not know him again. For instance, it was quite possible that the watchman wouldn’t even let him through the gates. But his reception was very amiable, perhaps because all those he met probably felt they no longer had a hold on him; the customs men at the gate welcomed him at once with light friendliness, and he had a short talk with them. Yes, they said, laughing, now that he wasn’t with the Shipping Company he had no business there, and Esch said, he would soon let them see whether he had no business there, and they did not make the slightest attempt to prevent him from going in. Nobody hindered him from looking at all the sheds and cranes, warehouses and goods trucks, to his heart’s content, and when he shouted in at the warehouse doors, the storekeepers and stevedores came out and stood like brothers before him. Yet he did not regret leaving it all, he merely impressed it with great clearness on his memory, sometimes caressing a goods wagon and sometimes a gangway, so that the feeling of dry wood clung to his hard palm. Only in the canteen was he disappointed; he looked for Korn but Korn was not there; Korn was stupid and kept out of the way, and Esch had to laugh, for he was no longer jealous of Ilona; Ilona would be spirited out of Korn’s clutches into an inaccessible castle. So he merely drank a brandy with the policeman and betook himself along the accustomed street, no longer accustomed and yet more familiar than ever, till he came to a corner where the tobacco-shop regarded him expectantly, as if Lohberg had been waiting within for him with great impatience, waiting to have a chat.

Lohberg was really there behind his till with the large cigar-cutter in his hand, and as Esch came in he amiably laid the instrument down,
for he had much to beg Esch’s pardon for, and yet neither of them mentioned it, for Esch was ready to forgive and did not want Lohberg to burst into tears. Perhaps it was against the spirit of this agreement that Lohberg began to speak of Erna, but it was such a paltry infringement that Esch barely noticed it. Who could waken him until he chose? He was free! “She’s a fine comrade,” said Lohberg, “and we have many interests in common.” And since Esch was free to say what he chose, he said: “Yes, she would never do you in.” And he looked up at Lohberg’s worried face that Mother Hentjen could have squashed merely with her thumb, and he was sorry for Erna because she wasn’t big enough even to do that. Lohberg, however, smiled timidly, he was a little scared by the grisly jest, and under the eyes of his grim visitor he shrank and diminished. No, he was no fit opponent for a man like Esch; it is only the dead that are strong, though in life they may have looked like miserable snippets. Esch stalked about the shop like a ghost, sniffing the air, opening first one drawer and then another, and sliding the palm of his hand over the polished counter. He said: “When you’re dead you’ll be stronger than I am … but you’re not the kind to be done in,” he added contemptuously, for it struck him that even a dead Lohberg would be negligible; he knew the fellow too well, he would always be an idiot, and it was only those one didn’t know, those who had never existed, who were omnipotent. Lohberg, however, still suspicious where women were concerned, said: “What do you mean? Do you mean would my widow be provided for? I’ve insured my life.” That would certainly be a good reason for poisoning him off, said Esch, and could not help laughing so loudly that the laughter somehow stuck in his throat and hurt him. Mother Hentjen, now, that was a woman. She would have no truck with poison, she would simply spit a man like Lohberg on a pin as if he were a beetle. She was a woman to be regarded with consideration and respect, and it amazed Esch that he had ever thought of comparing her with Lohberg. And he was a little touched, because for all that she put on an air of weakness, and was probably quite right in doing so. Lohberg’s skin prickled, and he rolled his pale eyes: “Poison?” he said, as if it were the first time he had ever heard the word, though it was always on his tongue, or at least as if it were the first time he had actually understood it. Esch’s laughter became condescending and somewhat scornful: “Oh, she won’t poison you, Erna’s not that kind of woman.” “No,” said Lohberg, “she has a heart
of gold; she wouldn’t hurt a fly.…” “Or spit a beetle on a pin,” said Esch. “I’m sure she wouldn’t,” said Lohberg. “But if you’re ever unfaithful to her she’ll do you in all the same,” threatened Esch. “I’ll never be unfaithful to my wife,” announced the idiot. And suddenly Esch realized, and it was a pleasant and illuminating realization, why he had thought of comparing Lohberg and Mother Hentjen: Lohberg was merely a woman, after all, a kind of natural freak, and that was why it didn’t matter if he slept with Erna: even Ilona had slept in Erna’s bed. Esch rose to his feet, stood firmly and robustly on his legs, and stretched his arms like a man newly awakened from sleep or nailed to a cross. He felt strong, steadfast and well endowed, a man whom it would be worth while to kill. “Either him or me,” he said, and felt that the world was at his feet. “Either him or me,” he repeated, striding about the shop. “What do you mean?” asked Lohberg. “I don’t mean you,” replied Esch, showing his strong white teeth: “As for you, you’re going to marry Erna,” for that seemed right and proper: the fellow had a fine and highly polished shop, complete with life-insurance policy, and should marry little Erna and go on living in peace; he himself, on the other hand, had wakened up and accepted the task laid upon him. And since Lohberg went on singing Erna’s praises, Esch said what was expected of him, and what the other had long been waiting for as a sign from on high: “Oh, you and your Salvation Army twaddle … if you hum and haw much longer she’ll slip through your fingers. It’s high time you took hold of her, you milksop.” “Yes,” said Lohberg, “yes, I think the time of probation is now fulfilled.” The shop looked bright and friendly in the light of that dull summer day; its yellow-oak fittings made a solid and enduring impression, and beside the patent till lay a ledger with neatly added columns. Esch sat down at Lohberg’s desk and wrote to Mother Hentjen that he had arrived safely and was well on the way to settle all his business.