Little Apple (5 page)

"Why did you invite the others - the financial consultant, for instance?"

"The financial consultant
..."
mused Emperger. "Yes, I'm beginning to ask myself the same thing. Have you seen the way he operates? He's making a play for little Bella. He may be a conceited old fool, but he's getting places. See how she's falling for his line of patter?"

"Were you in the army too, Professor?" the civil engineer inquired from the other end of the table.

"Oh no, it never came to that with me. I was simply arrested. The Russians hauled me out of bed and detained me. It was my misfortune to be on a sabbatical in Southern Turkestan when the war broke out."

"Turkestan?" Fräulein Hamburger exclaimed delightedly. "What's your special field of study, oriental art?"

"Far from it, my dear. I lecture on grasses and seeds at the Agricultural College. Not a subject to appeal to young ladies."

"This may interest you, Professor," said the civil engineer. "Just before the outbreak of war my firm marketed a manure spreader and grain drill - a brand-new model capable of sowing all types of seeds in precisely measurable quantities."

He asked for a pencil and paper and demonstrated with the aid of a small diagram how the machine could be converted into a manure spreader by removing the seed hopper.

The Professor, having taken the diagram and examined it, raised his eyebrows and nodded several times. The financial consultant proceeded to deplore the workers' exorbitant wage demands. God alone knew where they would lead, he said. Feuerstein, on the other hand, took a highly optimistic view of the future and declared that money was to be made out of anything termed merchandise. He planned to concentrate exclusively on the import-export business and had no intention of manufacturing anything. He expounded his ideas to the financial consultant with great eloquence, the word "merchandise" taking on a note of quasi religious fervour whenever it escaped his lips. The Professor continued to examine the sketch of the manure spreader. The ladies, who could muster little interest in the current discussion, demanded to know when they would at last be able to obtain fresh supplies of Swiss chocolate, fine silks, French fashion magazines, and English bath soap.

Vit¬torin stared furiously into his empty teacup, driven to distraction by this never-ending flow of verbiage. Feuerstein and the financial consultant might almost have been in league against him. They talked incessantly of tariff concessions, foreign tenders, export markets and stock market quotations as if deliberately intent on keeping the subject of Selyukov at bay. As for the women with their inane chatter and their stupid, fatuous laughter, they were quite intolerable. Vit¬torin wondered why he'd come at all. He signalled covertly to Emperger, but his host affected not to notice.

Kohout's friend was meanwhile outlining a programme for future implementation by the Workers' and Soldiers' Councils. Ensconced at the far end of the table, he held forth in a stentorian voice and brandished his glass in an alarming fashion.

"Comrades," he cried, "this is it! It's our turn now. We've stood there long enough - shut up and let me speak, Kohout, or I'll scramble your brains! - we've stood there long enough and taken it on the chin. Now it's our turn to call the tune. First we'll take the exploiters of the masses and their girlfriends and flay their profiteering hides for fun. Then we'll confiscate all the cars. Everyone'll go by shanks's pony in the new Republic."

"Forgive me for saying so," Feuerstein broke in, "but you're jumping the gun. To the best of my knowledge, no final decision has yet been taken about our future system of government. For the present, we're still living in a monarchy."

Blaschek was prepared to concede this point.

"Call it what you like," he said. "Afterwards, we'll ride around in the cars and search folks' homes. All the stuff they've hoarded - all the coal and flour and fat - will be given to the working classes."

"And the people you've taken it from can starve, eh?" interjected the financial consultant.

"When did you ever ask
us
if we had enough to eat?" Blaschek  bellowed.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, -why get so heated?" Emperger looked thoroughly dismayed. "Calm yourselves, please! Comrade Blaschek, you're absolutely right - any reasonable person can see that — but the ladies want no talk of politics tonight, they want to dance. You'll dance too, comrade, won't you?"

"You bet," said the tribune of the people.

"There you are, then. Choose yourself a partner. What shall I play, ladies and gentlemen, a waltz or something more
à la mode'?
A one-step? A foxtrot?"

"A foxtrot, a foxtrot! You're driving me crazy!" cried Frau-lein Hamburger, this being the title of a current hit, not a reproach.

The civil engineer favoured "Au Revoir, Sweetheart" and Fräulein Hoffman requested a boston entitled "The Skirt with the Brown Stripes". Bella Roth declared that, if she couldn't have a tango, she'd rather not dance at all. They finally settled on a waltz.

Dancing took place in the room next door. The financial consultant and the fine arts student, who formed the "island"

around which the couples rotated, exchanged muttered com
ments on the aesthetic merits of the ladies present. The soldiers'
councillor addressed Fräulein Hamburger as "comrade" and proved to be an adept at reversing.

Vit¬torin, who had remained behind at the tea table with Feuerstein and the Professor, saw his chance at last. He got up and closed the door.

"There," he said, "let's hope we won't be disturbed. I've waited long enough, God knows."

The Professor looked surprised.

"Bored, Vit¬torin?" he inquired. "Why? I'm quite enjoying myself. The only one who gets on my nerves is the engineer and his tiresome manure spreader. I'm not the least bit interested in removable seed hoppers. I didn't come here to-"

"Aren't you interested in knowing why
I'm
here?" Vit¬torin cut in angrily. "Do you really think I don't have anything better to do than sit around all evening with a bunch of. . ."

He groped in vain for a word that would fully express his contempt for this type of social function.

"You're a trifle hard to please, Vit¬torin," said the Professor. "What sort of entertainment were you expecting? The Indian rope trick? An aria for coloratura? A belly-dancer, perhaps? Personally, I'm having a whale of a time. Feuerstein, you should have seen the look on your face when our comrade from Hernals went to work on you. It was a scream!"

"I didn't find it half as amusing," Feuerstein said testily. "The cheek of the fellow! Who does he think he is, talking to me like that?"

The Professor chuckled. "To a man of a people, there must be something provocative about your smooth, rosy, well-fed face. These are hard times for the fuller figure, Feuerstein."

"Please, please don't let me interrupt," said Vit¬torin, suppressing his fury with an effort. "I've got something to tell you, that's why I came, but finish your conversation first by all means. I can wait."

The Professor stared at him.

"You sound positively acrimonious, Vit¬torin. What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" said Vit¬torin with feigned indifference. "Nothing, except that I've just had some news from Russia: Selyukov's in Moscow."

Having lobbed this announcement at the others like a hand grenade, he Ht a cigarette to hide his agitation and waited for it to take effect.

"Really?" said the Professor. "So Selyukov's in Moscow, eh? Interesting - very interesting. Tell me, old friend, are you really still obsessed with the man?"

Vit¬torin took a short, sharp pull at his cigarette.

"What do you mean, Professor? I don't understand."

"You don't understand? Very well, cast your mind back for a moment. Chernavyensk, the camp, homesickness, fits of depression, the monotony of the passing days, the ban on mail, no news from home, the knowledge that we were at the mercy of the commandant's every whim. It knocked us sideways when that poor devil of an air force lieutenant died of malaria. We not only felt sick, Vit¬torin, we
were
sick - mentally sick. We took refuge in the typical prisoner's pipe-dream: some day we would return and settle the score. It was a very therapeutic idea, to be sure - it helped us over some difficult times - but a symptom of mental disorder just the same. Hasn't that dawned on you yet?"

Vit¬torin had tossed his cigarette away and sprung to his feet. He glared at the Professor in silence.

Comrade Blaschek emerged from the room next door, where dancing was still in progress. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stripped off his woollen sweater.

"It's stinking hot in there," he said. "'Scuse me, folks, I'm on my way again."

He left the the door open. The waltz came to an end, and Kohout, accompanied on the mouth organ by Blaschek, took advantage of the ensuing interval to warble some marching songs in a maudlin tenor.

Who'll mourn me when trouble and strife

have finally ended my life?

Glass, bottle and plate,

Wine and beer by the crate,

and the landlord's embraceable wife . . .

"It was a severe psychosis," the Professor went on. "Not a normal condition, that's for sure, but one has to get over it some time. You're back home again - it's all behind you. Get down to work, start from scratch, forget about the war- that's the answer now. Damn Kohout and his sentimental ditties, one can't hear oneself speak! We've got to forget about the war and everything we went through - erase it from our memories. Siberia was just a bad dream and Chernavyensk a nightmare. Why the hell should you give damn about Selyukov now? Wherever he is, Moscow or some other place, leave him be."

"Have you finished?" Vit¬torin asked.

A medley of sounds drifted in from the room next door: laughter, the clink of glasses, the wail of the mouth organ, and Kohout's voice.

What things on my grave will they lay,

and what on my stone will it say?

A sausage, a loaf,

and: "Here lies a poor oaf

of a soldier who drank all his pay ..."

"If you're through, Professor," Vit¬torin blurted out, pale with fury, "I'll tell you something. I find it deplorable — yes, I'll say it to your face: shabby and deplorable of you to begin by joining in and giving your word of honour and God knows what else, and then to back out on the grounds that we were suffering from a psychosis or whatever you choose to call it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, that's all I can say. You're a coward - you're scared, that's the truth of the matter. All this talk of psychoses and symptoms and starting again from scratch - there's nothing behind it but fear. It's sad that people like you should exist, but at least I know you for what you are. At least I know -"

"Attention, comrades!" roared Blaschek. "Now for something really up-to-the minute! Carry on, Kohout!"

"Ready when you are," said Kohout, and he launched, with mouth organ accompaniment, into:

And who will now sweep the streets clean,

and who will now sweep the streets clean?

Gentlefolk of the best

with stars on their chest:

they're the ones who'll now sweep the streets clean.

"Bravo!" cried the financial consultant, whose war service had consisted of two months' desk work. "Bravo!" he repeated in high delight. "And so they damn well should. Let them earn a crust like the rest of us!"

"At least I know where I stand with you and how much your word of honour is worth," said Vit¬torin, whose anger had given way to profound depression.

The Professor strove to make light of it.

"I realize, of course, that I've lost all claim to your respect," he said, "but what can I do? I shall have to live with the thought as best I can. My one consolation is that in two months you'll feel just as I do. By the way, do you really think it'll be as simple as all that, getting back into Russia at this of all times?"

Vit¬torin fixed him with a hostile, contemptuous gaze.

"Simple or not, that's my concern," he said. "You've no need to worry about it, not now. Anything's possible if one wants it enough. Determination is the sole requirement, not that someone of your kind would understand that. Believe me, I'll deal with Selyukov even if you all let me down — even if I have to beg my way to Moscow on foot!"

"Say no more, Vit¬torin," the Professor broke in. "You've just revealed the true nature of your hatred. It's an obsession, that's what it is. I strongly advise you to —"

"Hey, Kohout!" yelled Blaschek. "Whassa matter with you? Aren't we going to grease the guillotines tonight?"

"Patience, comrade," said Kohout. "All in good time, all in good time."

He went to the piano and picked out the tune of the executioner's song with his left hand. Blaschek joined in at the top of his voice.

Grease the guillotines,

grease the guillotines,

grease the guillotines with princes' fat!

Seize the -

"For God's sake stop, comrade!" Emperger cried desperately. "What are you thinking of? This really won't do. There's a senior civil servant living upstairs. He'll come and complain - he's already banged on the floor twice."

"Let him come, the reactionary swine!" roared Blaschek. "Let him come, if he's got the guts - I'll knock him into the middle of next week! Come on, comrades, all together now: 'Seize the concubines, seize the concubines . . .'"

The three girls withdrew to the outer room, arm in arm. Fräulein Hamburger shut the door behind her.

"There's no holding them," she said. "Poor Rudi, he'll have some explaining to do tomorrow. Personally, I've had enough ofit."

Vit¬torin turned to Feuerstein.

"What about you?" he demanded. "Are you backing out too?"

Feuerstein, who had once, not so long ago, declared that he could be relied on to the hilt, shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

"So be it," Vit¬torin growled. "I wash my hands of you both. There's nothing more to be said."

Fräulein Hoffmann sidled up with an inquisitive air.

"Have you had an argument?" she asked. "It almost looks that way. What was it about?"