The Sleepwalkers (50 page)

When he was about to append his signature he stopped suddenly, for he had been on the point of adding: “In the name of his bereaved relatives and friends,” and although he could not help smiling at this, he was startled. Finally, however, he added his name and address to the communication, and having carefully folded it, deposited it in his pocket-book. Until to-morrow, he told himself, a last respite. The picture postcard from Badenweiler was also sticking in his pocket-book. He considered whether he could present it to Mother Hentjen that night, and felt forlorn. But then he saw before him the alcove, saw her again in her painfully submissive readiness to receive him, and as he passed the buffet he said, and his voice was hoarse: “Well then, to-night.” She sat stiffly in her chair and seemed to have heard nothing, so that filled with new rage, a different rage however from the first, he turned back again, and raising his voice recklessly, said: “Be so good as to remove that portrait over there.” She still sat immobile, and he slammed the door behind him.

When later he returned and made to open the house door he found it barred from inside. Without considering whether the maid might hear him, he rang the bell, and as nobody answered he went on ringing furiously. That did the trick; he heard footsteps; he almost hoped that it might be the little maid; he would tell her that he had forgotten something in the restaurant, but apart from that the maid would not disdain him, and that would be a lesson for Mother Hentjen. But it was not the maid, it was Frau Hentjen in person; she was still fully dressed and she was crying. Both circumstances increased his rage. They climbed the stairs in silence, and up in her room he fell upon her at once. When she submitted, and her kisses became tender, he asked threateningly: “Is that portrait going to be removed?” She did not know at first of what he was speaking, and when she did she did not quite understand for a moment: “The portrait?… oh, the portrait? why? don’t you like it?” In despair before her inability to understand he said: “No, I don’t like it … and there’s a lot of things besides that I don’t like.” She replied complaisantly and politely: “If you don’t like it I can easily hang it up somewhere else.” She was so unutterably stupid that it would probably take a thrashing to make her understand. However, Esch restrained himself: “The portrait must be burned.” “Burned?” “Yes, burned. And if you pretend to be so stupid much longer, I’ll set fire to the whole place.” She recoiled from him in terror, and, pleased with the effect of his threat, he said: “You should be glad; it isn’t as if you had any great love for the place.” She made no reply, and even if her mind was probably blank, and she only saw the flames rising from her roof-top, yet it was as though she were trying to conceal something. He said sternly: “Why don’t you speak?” His harsh tone completely paralysed her. Could this woman not be driven by any means to drop her mask? Esch had risen and now stood threateningly at the entrance to the alcove as though to prevent her from escaping. One would have to call things by their real names, otherwise one would never make anything out of this lump of flesh. But when he asked: “Why did you marry him?” his voice was hoarse and strangled, for with the question so many wild and hopeless emotions surged up in him that in thought he had to fly to Erna for comfort. He had left her, though she did not torment him and it had been completely immaterial to him what phallic images she carried in her memory. And it had been equally immaterial to him whether she had children, or prevented them by artificial devices.
He dreaded Mother Hentjen’s answer, did not want to hear it, yet he shouted: “Well?” And Mother Hentjen, her fear that she had given herself away too much reawakened, perhaps also dreading that the nimbus surrounding her, on whose account she imagined Esch loved her, might be in danger of vanishing, gathered herself together: “It’s so long ago … you don’t need to let that worry you.” Esch pushed forward his under jaw and bared his strong teeth: “It shan’t worry me … it shan’t worry me …” he shouted, “it doesn’t worry me in the least.… I don’t give a hang for it.” So this was how she requited his absolute and untiring devotion and his torments. She was stupid and callous; he, who had taken her fate upon him, he, who wanted to take upon him her life although it had been aged and defiled by death, he, August Esch, who was prepared to make the decision and give himself absolutely to her, who longed that all his strangeness might be merged in her, so that all her strangeness and all her thoughts, no matter how painful to him, might become his as it were by way of exchange: it needn’t worry him! Oh, she was stupid and callous, and being so he had to beat her; he went up to the bed and hit out at her and struck her on the fat immobile cheek, as though by doing so he might reach the immobility of her spirit. She did not defend herself, but remained lying rigid, and even if he had flung knives at her, even then she would not have moved. Her cheek was red where he had struck her, and when a tear trickled down over it his anger was softened. He sat down on the bed, and she moved to the side to make room for him. Then he said imperiously: “We must get married.” She simply answered, “Yes,” and Esch was on the point of flying into a new rage, because she did not say that she was glad at last to be rid of the hated name. But the only reply she could think of was to put her arm round him and draw him to her. He was tired, and submitted; perhaps it was all right, perhaps it did not matter, for where the kingdom of salvation was concerned everything was uncertain, every hour uncertain, every figure and every reckoning. Yet he felt embittered again; what did she know about the kingdom of salvation? And did she even want to know about it? probably as little as Korn! it would certainly take some time to hammer it into her head. But meanwhile one must simply allow for that, must wait until she could understand it, must let her carry on her life as she was doing. In the land of justice, in America, it would be different; there the past would fall away like tinder. And when she asked him constrainedly
whether he had stopped at Ober-Wesel, he was not annoyed, but shook his head seriously and growled: “Of course not.” And so they celebrated their marriage night, and agreed to sell the business, and Mother Hentjen was grateful to him for not setting fire to anything. In a month’s time they might be on the high seas. To-morrow he would see Teltscher and set the American project going again.

He remained longer than usual. Nor did they descend the stairs on tiptoe this time. And when she let him out there were already people in the streets. That filled him with pride.

Next morning he betook himself to the Alhambra. Of course nobody was there. He rummaged among the correspondence on Gernerth’s desk, found an unopened envelope which bore his own handwriting, and was so taken aback for a moment that he did not recognize it: it was Erna’s letter that he had himself written in Mannheim. Well, she would raise another fine outcry if she had received no reply all this time. And really not without justification. A careless lot, those theatre people.

At last Teltscher came wandering in. Esch was almost glad to see him again. Teltscher was in a gracious mood: “Well, high time for you to be back,—everybody disappears on private business and Teltscher is left to do all the measly work.” Where was Gernerth? “Oh, in Munich with his precious family—grave illness in the family, they’ve got colds in the head or something.” He would soon be back, Esch supposed. “He’ll have to come back soon, the Herr Manager; last night there were scarcely fifty people in the theatre. We’ll have to talk it over with Oppenheimer.” “Right,” said Esch, “let’s go and see Oppenheimer.”

They agreed with Oppenheimer that they would have to announce the end of the show. “Have I warned you, or haven’t I?” said Oppenheimer. “Wrestling is all right, but nothing but wrestling! who would come to see that?” The decision suited Esch very well; all that he need do was to have his share paid to him when Gernerth returned, and the sooner the end came, the sooner they would get to America.

This time he asked Teltscher of his own accord to lunch with him, for now it was a matter of setting about the American project. Hardly were they on the pavement before Esch drew the list from his pocket
and ticked off the girls whom he had earmarked for the journey. “Yes, I’ve got a few too,” said Teltscher, “but first Gernerth must pay me back my money.” Esch was surprised, for Teltscher should surely have been satisfied with Lohberg’s and Erna’s contributions. Teltscher said in exasperation: “And whose money have we been financing the wrestling matches with, do you think? Gernerth’s money is tied up, don’t you know that? He gave me the stage properties in pledge, but what can I do with them in America?” All this was somewhat surprising, but all the same when the business was liquidated Gernerth’s money would be released, and then Teltscher could go to America. “Ilona must come too,” decided Teltscher. That’s where you make your mistake, my dear fellow, thought Esch, Ilona won’t be mixed up with these things again; for though she might still be attached to Korn, that would not last much longer; soon she would be living in a distant, inaccessible castle, in whose grounds the deer grazed. He said that he must visit the police headquarters, and they made the necessary detour. In a stationer’s shop Esch bought several newspapers and an envelope; he stuck the papers in his pocket, and with many flourishes addressed the envelope on the spot. Then he took out of his pocket-book the carefully folded sheet of paper, stuck it into the envelope and went over to the police buildings. As soon as he emerged again he continued his conversation; there was no need for Ilona to go with them. “Don’t talk stuff,” replied Teltscher, “in the first place, think of the splendid engagements we could get over there, and secondly, if the American idea should come to nothing, we must set to work here. She’s idled long enough; besides, I’ve written to her already.” “Nonsense,” replied Esch rudely, “if you’re dealing in young girls you can’t take a woman with you.” Teltscher laughed: “Well, if you think I shouldn’t, you’ll have to indemnify me for the damage to my prospects. You’re a big capitalist now … and one generally brings back money from a business excursion, doesn’t one?” Esch was alarmed; it seemed to him that Teltscher had glanced knowingly across at the police buildings—what could that mean? What did the Jewish conjurer know? he himself knew nothing of this business excursion; he turned on Teltscher: “Go to the devil! I haven’t brought back any money.” “No harm intended, Herr Esch, don’t take it in that way, I didn’t mean anything.”

They turned into Mother Hentjen’s restaurant, and to Esch it seemed again as though Teltscher possessed some secret knowledge, and might
suddenly turn on him and say, “Murderer.” He was afraid to look round the room. At last he raised his eyes and beheld a white patch, edged with cobwebs, where Hentjen’s portrait had hung. He glanced across at Teltscher, but Teltscher said nothing, for he obviously had not noticed anything, had not noticed anything at all! Esch felt almost exultant; partly out of high spirits, partly to distract Teltscher’s attention from the disappearance of the portrait, he went up to the orchestrion and set it noisily going; in response to the din Mother Hentjen appeared, and Esch felt a strong temptation to greet her with affectionate and tempestuous ardour; he would have liked to introduce her as Frau Esch, and if he refrained from this tender jest, it was not only because he felt grateful to her and prepared to respect her shyness, but also because Herr Teltscher-Teltini was quite unworthy of such a mark of intimacy. On the other hand Esch did not feel in the least bound to push discretion too far, and when after lunch Teltscher prepared to leave he did not accompany him as usual, to return afterwards by circuitous ways, no, he said quite openly that he would stay for a little and read his papers. He pulled the newspapers out of his pocket, put them back again, and remained sitting with his hands resting peacefully on his knees. He did not want to read. He contemplated the white patch on the wall. And when everything was quiet he went up the stairs. He felt grateful to Mother Hentjen and they had a pleasant afternoon. They spoke again of selling the business, and Esch thought that perhaps Oppenheimer might find a purchaser. And they tenderly discussed their marriage. There was a spot on the ceiling of the alcove that looked like a dark butterfly, but it was only dirt.

In the evening he dutifully set out on his search for girls. On his way it struck him that he should first look in to see what that lad Harry was doing. His search was in vain and he was about to leave the wretched place when Alfons entered. Fat Alfons presented a comical picture; his greasy dishevelled hair was sticking to his skull, his silk shirt was open, showing his white hairless breast, and one was reminded somehow of rumpled pillows. Esch could not help laughing. Alfons sat down beside a table near the door and groaned. Esch went up to him still laughing, yet in doing so it was as though he were trying to stifle something: “Hullo, Alfons, what’s the matter?” The fat musician gazed at him with dull and hostile eyes. “Have a drink, and tell me what’s wrong.” Alfons drank a glass of brandy and remained silent. Finally he said: “Good God
 … it’s past belief … he’s to blame for it himself, and he asks what’s wrong!” “Don’t talk nonsense. What is wrong?” “Good God! Why, he’s dead!” Alfons put his hands under his chin and gazed in front of him; Esch sat down at the table. “Well, who is dead?” Alfons stammered: “He loved him too much.” Now it sounded funny again. “Who loved whom?” Alfons’s voice suddenly broke: “Don’t talk like that; Harry’s dead.…” So, Harry was dead. Esch could not really take it in and gazed somewhat blankly at the fat musician, down whose cheeks tears were running: “You put him quite beyond himself with your silly talk last time … he loved him too much … when he read it in the papers he locked himself in … this afternoon … and now they’ve found him … veronal.” So, Harry was dead; in some way that fitted in, it was bound to come. Only Esch could not see how it fitted in. He said, “Poor chap,” and suddenly he saw it and was filled with relief and joy because that forenoon he had handed in his letter at the police headquarters; here murder and counter-murder, debit and credit cancelled each other, here was for once an account that balanced itself perfectly. Funny to think that in spite of this he himself seemed to be in some way to blame. He said again: “Poor chap … why did he do it?” Alfons glared at him in blank astonishment: “But he saw it in the newspapers.…” “Saw what?” “There,” Alfons pointed to the bunch of newspapers peeping from Esch’s coat-pocket. Esch shrugged his shoulders—he had forgotten the newspapers. He pulled them out; there it was, in large letters, and with many circumlocutions, on the black-bordered last page, for all the firms with which he was connected, and his staff officials, and his workers, had insisted on the melancholy privilege of divulging the sad news that Herr Eduard von Bertrand, Chairman of the Board of Directors, a knight of various distinguished orders, etc., after a short serious illness had passed away. On the front page, however, along with a highly eulogistic obituary notice, was the information that, it was supposed in a sudden fit of mental aberration, the deceased had put an end to his life with a revolver shot. Esch read all this, but it did not very much interest him. It merely proved to him how right it was that the portrait had been removed that day. Funny that a man like this musician, who was not implicated at all, could make such a song about it. With a faint ironical grimace he clapped the fat musician benevolently and comfortingly on the flabby shoulder, paid for the brandy, and went back to Frau Hentjen. Stepping out complacently with long strides, he thought of Martin and reflected that now
the cripple would no longer pursue him and menace him with his hard crutches. And that too was good.