Despair (19 page)

Oh, my reader! He had been told to get off at Koenigsdorf and march north following the highway as far as the tenth kilometer marked by a yellow post; and now I was tearing along that road: unforgettable moments! Not a soul about. During winter the bus ran there but twice a day—morning and noon; on the entire ten kilometers’ stretch all that I met was a cart drawn by a bay horse. At last, in the distance, like a yellow finger, the familiar post stood up, grew bigger, attained its natural size; it wore a skullcap of snow. I pulled up and looked about me. Nobody. The yellow post was very yellow indeed. To my right, beyond the field, the wood was painted a flat grey on the backdrop of the pale sky. Nobody. I got out of my car and with a bang that was louder than any shot, slammed the door after me. And all at once I noticed that, from behind the interlaced twigs of a bush growing in the ditch, there stood looking at me, as pink as a waxwork and with a jaunty little mustache, and, really, quite gay—

Placing one foot on the footboard of the car and like an enraged tenor slashing my hand with the glove I had taken off, I glared steadily at Felix. Grinning uncertainly, he came out of the ditch.

“You scoundrel,” I uttered through my teeth with extraordinary operatic force, “you scoundrel and double-crosser,” I repeated, now giving my voice full scope and slashing myself with the glove still more furiously (all was rumble and thunder in the orchestra between my vocal outbursts). “How did you dare blab, you cur? How did you dare, how did you dare ask others for advice, boast that you had had your way and
that at such a date and at such a place—Oh, you deserve to be shot!”—(growing din, clangor, and then again my voice)—“Much have you gained, idiot! The game’s up, you’ve blundered badly, not a groat will you see, baboon!” (crash of cymbals in the orchestra).

Thus I swore at him, with cold avidity observing the while his expression. He was utterly taken aback; and honestly offended. Pressing one hand to his breast, he kept shaking his head. That fragment of opera came to an end, and the broadcast speaker resumed in his usual voice:

“Let it pass—I’ve been scolding you like that, as a pure formality, to be on the safe side.… My dear fellow, you do look funny, it’s a regular makeup!”

By my special order, he had let his mustache grow; even waxed it, I think. Apart from that, on his own account, he had allowed his face a couple of curled cutlets. I found that pretentious growth highly entertaining.

“You have, of course, come by the way I told you?” I inquired, smiling.

“Yes,” he replied, “I followed your orders. As for bragging—well, you know yourself, I’m a lonely man and no good at chatting with people.”

“I know, and join you in your sighs. Tell me, did you meet anyone on this road?”

“When I saw a cart or something, I hid in the ditch, as you told me to do.”

“Splendid. Your features anyhow are sufficiently concealed. Well, no good loafing about here. Get into the car. Oh, leave that alone—you’ll take off your bag afterwards. Get in quick, we must drive off.”

“Where to?” he queried.

“Into that wood.”

“There?” he asked and pointed with his stick.

“Yes, right there. Will you or won’t you get in, damn you?”

He surveyed the car contentedly. Without hurry he climbed in and sat down beside me.

I turned the steering wheel, with the car slowly moving. Ick. And once again: ick. (We left the road for the field.) Under the tires thin snow and dead grass crackled. The car bounced on humps of ground, we bounced too. He spoke the while:

“I’ll manage this car without any trouble (bump). Lord, what a ride I’ll take (bump). Never fear (bump-bump) I won’t do it any harm!”

“Yes, the car will be yours. For a short space of time (bump) yours. Now, keep awake, my fellow, look about you. There’s nobody on the road, is there?”

He glanced back and then shook his head. We drove, or better say crept, up a gentle and fairly smooth slope into the forest. There, among the foremost pines, we stopped and got out. No more with the longing of ogling indigence, but with an owner’s quiet satisfaction, Felix continued to admire the glossy blue Icarus. A dreamy look then came into his eyes. Quite likely (please, note that I am asserting nothing, merely saying: “quite likely”) quite likely then, his thoughts flowed as follows: “What if I slip away in this natty two-seater? I get the cash in advance, so that’s all right. I’ll let him believe I’m going to do what he wants, and roll away instead, far away. He just can’t inform the police, so he’ll have to keep quiet. And me, in my own car—”

I interrupted the course of those pleasant thoughts.

“Well, Felix, the great moment has come. You’re to change your clothes and remain in the car all alone in this wood. In half an hour’s time it will begin to grow dark; no risk of
anyone intruding upon you. You’ll spend the night here—you’ll have my overcoat on—just feel how nice and thick it is—ah, I thought so; besides, the car is quite warm inside, you’ll sleep perfectly; then, as soon as day begins to break—But we’ll discuss that afterwards; let me first give you the necessary appearance, or we’ll never have done before dark. To start with, you must have a shave.”

“A shave?” Felix repeated after me, with silly surprise. “How’s that? I’ve got no razor with me, and I really don’t know what one can find in a wood to shave with, barring stones.”

“Why stones? Such a blockhead as you ought to be shaven with an axe. But I have thought of everything. I’ve brought the instrument, and I’ll do it myself.”

“Well, that’s mighty funny,” he chuckled. “Wonder what’ll come of it. Now, mind you don’t cut my throat with that razor of yours.”

“Don’t be afraid, you fool, it’s a safety one. So, please.… Yes, sit down somewhere. Here, on the footboard, if you like.”

He sat down after having shaken off his knapsack. I produced my parcel and placed the shaving articles on the footboard. Had to hurry: the day looked pinched and wan, the air grew duller and duller. And what a hush.… It seemed, that silence, inherent, inseparable from those motionless boughs, those straight trunks, those lusterless patches of snow here and there on the ground.

I took off my overcoat so as to operate with more freedom. Felix was curiously examining the bright teeth of the safety razor and its silvery grip. Then he examined the shaving brush; put it to his cheek to test its softness; it was, indeed, delightfully fluffy: I had paid seventeen marks fifty for it.
He was quite fascinated, too, by the tube of expensive shaving cream.

“Come, let’s begin,” I said. “Shaving and waving. Sit a little sideways, please, otherwise I can’t get at you properly.”

I took a handful of snow, squeezed out a curling worm of soap into it, beat it up with the brush and applied the icy lather to his whiskers and mustache. He made faces, leered; a frill of lather had invaded one nostril: he wrinkled his nose, because it tickled.

“Head back,” I said, “farther still.”

Rather awkwardly resting my knee on the footboard, I started scraping his whiskers off; the hairs crackled, and there was something disgusting in the way they got mixed up with the foam; I cut him slightly, and that stained it with blood. When I attacked his mustache, he puckered up his eyes, but bravely made no sound, although it must have been anything but pleasant: I was working hastily, his bristles were tough, the razor pulled.

“Got a handkerchief?” I asked.

He drew some rag out of his pocket. I used it to wipe away from his face, very carefully, blood, snow and lather. His cheeks shone now—brand new. He was gloriously shaven; in one place only, near the ear, there showed a red scratch running into a little ruby which was about to turn black. He passed his palm over the shaven parts.

“Wait a bit,” I said, “that’s not all. Your eyebrows need improving: they’re somewhat thicker than mine.”

I produced scissors and neatly clipped off a few hairs.

“That’s capital now. As to your hair, I’ll brush it when you’ve changed your shirt.”

“Going to give me yours?” he asked, and deliberately felt the silk of my shirt collar.

“Hullo, your fingernails are not exactly clean!” I exclaimed blithely.

Many a time had I done Lydia’s hands—I was good at it, so that now I had not much difficulty in putting those ten rude nails in order, and while doing so I kept comparing our hands: his were larger and darker; but never mind, I thought, they’ll pale by and by. As I never wore any wedding ring, all I had to add to his hand was my wristwatch. He moved his fingers, turning his wrist this way and that, very pleased.

“Now, quick. Let’s change. Take off everything, my friend, to the last stitch.”

“Ugh,” grunted Felix, “it’ll be cold.”

“Never mind. Takes one minute only. Please hurry up.”

He removed his old brown coat, pulled off his dark, shaggy sweater over his head. The shirt underneath was a muddy green with a tie of the same material. Then he took off his formless shoes, peeled off his socks (darned by a masculine hand) and hiccuped ecstatically as his bare toe touched the wintry soil. Your common man loves to go barefoot: in summer, on gay grass, the very first thing he does is take off his shoes and socks; but in winter, too, it is no mean pleasure—recalling as it does one’s childhood, perhaps, or something like that.

I stood aloof, undoing my cravat, and kept looking at Felix attentively.

“Go on, go on,” I cried, noticing that he had slowed down a bit.

It was not without a bashful little squirm that he let his trousers slip down from his white hairless thighs. Lastly he took off his shirt. In the cold wood there stood in front of me a naked man.

Incredibly fast, with the flick and dash of a Fregoli, I undressed, tossed over to him my outer envelope of shirt and drawers, deftly, while he was laboriously putting that on, plucked out of the suit I had shed several things—money, cigarette-case, brooch, gun—and stuffed them into the pockets of the tightish trousers which I had drawn on with the swiftness of a variety virtuoso. Although his sweater proved to be warm enough, I kept my muffler, and as I had lost weight lately, his coat fitted me almost to perfection. Should I offer him a cigarette? No, that would be in bad taste.

Felix meanwhile had attired himself in my shirt and drawers; his feet were still bare, I gave him socks and garters, but noticed all at once that his toes needed some trimming too.… He placed his foot on the footboard of the car and we got in a bit of hasty pedicuring. They snapped loud and flew far, those ugly black parings, and in recent dreams I have often seen them speckling the ground much too conspicuously. I am afraid he had time to catch a chill, poor soul, standing there in his shirt. Then he washed his feet with snow, as some bathless rake in Maupassant does, and pulled on the socks, without noticing the hole in one heel.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” I kept repeating. “It’ll be dark presently, and I must be going. See. I’m already dressed. God, what big shoes! And where is that cap of yours? Ah, here it is, thanks.”

He belted the trousers. With the provident help of the shoehorn he squeezed his feet into my black buckskin shoes. I helped him to cope with the spats and the lilac necktie. Finally, gingerly taking his comb, I smoothed his greasy hair well back from brow and temples.

He was ready now. There he stood before me, my double,
in my quiet dark-grey suit. Surveyed himself with a foolish smile. Investigated pockets. Was pleased with the lighter. Replaced the odds and ends, but opened the wallet. It was empty.

“You promised me money in advance,” said Felix coaxingly.

“That’s right,” I replied withdrawing my hand from my pocket and disclosing a fistful of notes. “Here it is. I’ll count out your share and give it you in a minute. What about those shoes, do they hurt?”

“They do,” said Felix. “They hurt dreadfully. But I’ll hold out somehow. I’ll take them off for the night, I expect. And where must I go with that car tomorrow?”

“Presently, presently.… I’ll make it all clear. Look, the place ought to be tidied up.… You’ve scattered your rags.… What have you got in that bag?”

“I’m like a snail, I carry my house on my back,” said Felix. “Are you taking the bag with you? I’ve got half a sausage in it. Like to have some?”

“Later. Pack in all those things, will you? That shoehorn too. And the scissors. Good. Now put on my overcoat and let us verify for the last time whether you can pass for me.”

“You won’t forget the money?” he inquired.

“I keep on telling you I won’t. Don’t be an ass. We are on the point of settling it. The cash is here, in my pocket-in your former pocket, to be correct. Now, buck up, please.”

He got into my handsome camel-hair overcoat and (with special care) put on my elegant hat. Then came the last touch: yellow gloves.

“Good. Just take a few steps. Let’s see how it all fits you.”

He came toward me, now thrusting his hands into his pockets, now drawing them out again.

When he got quite near, he squared his shoulders, pretending to swagger, aping a fop.

“Is that all, is that all,” I kept saying aloud. “Wait, let me have a thorough—Yes, seems to be all.… Now turn, I’d like a back view—”

He turned, and I shot him between the shoulders.

I remember various things: that puff of smoke, hanging in midair, then displaying a transparent fold and vanishing slowly; the way Felix fell; for he did not fall at once; first he terminated a movement still related to life, and that was a full turn almost; he intended, I think, swinging before me in jest, as before a mirror; so that, inertly bringing that poor piece of foolery to an end, he (already pierced) came to face me, slowly spread his hands as if asking: “What’s the meaning of this?”—and getting no reply, slowly collapsed backward. Yes, I remember all that; I remember, too, the shuffling sound he made on the snow, when he began to stiffen and jerk, as if his new clothes were uncomfortable; soon he was still, and then the rotation of the earth made itself felt, and only his hat moved quietly, separating from his crown and falling back, mouth opened, as if it were saying “good-bye” for its owner (or again, bringing to one’s mind the stale sentence: “all present bared their heads”). Yes, I remember all that, but there is one thing memory misses: the report of my shot. True, there remained in my ears a persistent singing. It clung to me and crept over me, and trembled upon my lips. Through that veil of sound, I went up to the body and, with avidity, looked.