Little Man, What Now? (34 page)

‘But it’s true,’ said Mr Jänecke. ‘It’s to your credit that you stand by your friend. Though it doesn’t say much for your knowledge of people.’

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Pinneberg. ‘Nude photos on the street?’

‘We can’t be seen to employ a salesman whose nude picture may have fallen into our customers’ hands, even our lady customers. With such a memorable face, I ask you!’ And with that Jänecke went on his way, smiling amiably at Pinneberg, presumably with the intention of encouraging him, so far as the distance between them permitted.

‘So, he told you what happened to your precious Heilbutt? Pretty filthy, I think. Could never stand him myself. Big-mouthed so-and-so.’

‘I liked him,’ said Pinneberg loudly. ‘And if you say anything like that again …’

No, Kessler couldn’t show Pinneberg the famous nude photo in person, much as we would like to have read its effect on his
face. Pinneberg got to see it in the course of the afternoon. The sensation it had created in Gentlemen’s Outfitting had quickly spread far beyond the bounds of that department, the salesgirls in Silk Stockings on the right and Cosmetics on the left were talking about it nineteen to the dozen, and the picture was doing the rounds.

It eventually reached Pinneberg, who had been racking his brains all morning to think how Heilbutt could have nude photos of himself sold on the street. But that wasn’t actually it. Mr Jänecke was only partly right; it was in fact a magazine, one of those where you can’t tell whether their aim is to be salacious, or to promote the natural life.

On the cover of the magazine, in an oval frame, was Heilbutt, quite unmistakably he, in warlike pose with a spear in his hand. It was an artistic amateur photo, and the subject certainly had a very handsome body—he also just as certainly had not a stitch on. It must have been very exciting for the little salesgirls, many of whom had a crush on Heilbutt, to see him so delightfully unclothed. No one’s expectations can have been disappointed. But it was highly revolutionary.

‘But who buys that sort of paper?’ said Pinneberg to Lasch. ‘It’s no grounds for dismissal.’

‘It’ll be Kessler again, sniffed it out,’ was Lasch’s opinion. ‘He had the magazine anyway, and he knew about it before anyone else.’

Pinneberg determined to go to Heilbutt, but not that very evening. That evening he had to talk it over with Lammchen. Pinneberg was only human, and good friends though he and Heilbutt might be, the story did titillate him rather. He bought a copy of the magazine and took it to Lammchen by way of illustration.

‘Of course you must go and see him,’ she said. ‘And don’t let anyone slander him while you’re around, do you hear?’

‘How d’you think he looks?’ asked Pinneberg anxiously; he
was a touch jealous of his friend’s handsome figure.

‘He’s well built,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘You’re getting a little bit of a belly. And you haven’t got such nice hands and feet.’

Pinneberg was embarrassed. ‘D’you think so? I think he looks simply marvellous. Couldn’t you fall in love with him?’

‘I don’t think so. Much too dark for me. And then …’ she put her arm round his neck and smiled at him. ‘I’m still in love with you.’

‘Still?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

‘Still,’ she said. ‘Really.’

The next evening, however, he did go to Heilbutt’s. The latter was not in the least abashed. ‘You heard what happened, Pinneberg? This “summary dismissal” is going to get them into hot water. I’ve already lodged a complaint with the industrial tribunal.’

‘D’you think you’ll win?’

‘Bound to. I’d win even if I had given permission for them to print the picture. But I can prove that it was published without my consent. They can’t hold that against me.’

‘But then what? You get three months’ pay and you’re unemployed.’

‘My dear Pinneberg, I’ll find something else, and if I don’t, I’ll set up on my own. I’ll survive. I’m not going to live on the dole.’

‘I believe you. Will you take me on, if you get your own business?’

‘Naturally. You’d be the first I’d ask.’

‘And no quotas?’

‘Absolutely no quotas! How’s it going? It must be difficult. Will you manage on your own?’

‘I’ll have to,’ said Pinneberg, with a blithe confidence he did not entirely feel. ‘I’ll get by. These last few days have been fine. I’m a hundred and thirty in hand.’

‘There you are,’ said Heilbutt. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing for you that I’m out of the way.’

‘No, it would be better if you were there.’

Then Johannes Pinneberg went home. It was a funny thing, but after a while there was nothing more to say to Heilbutt. He was very fond of him, he was an outstandingly decent fellow, but he wasn’t, couldn’t be an intimate friend. You never got really close to him.

And so he let a long time go by before looking him up again. In fact he had to be actually reminded of him, which happened when he heard them saying in the shop that Heilbutt had won his case against Mandels.

But when he got to Heilbutt’s place, he found Heilbutt had moved out.

‘I’ve no idea where to, my young sir. Probably to Dalldorf, or Wittenau they call it now. He was keen enough on the place. And would you believe it, he was still trying to persuade me into his dirty goings-on, at my age.’

Heilbutt was gone.

PINNEBERG IS ARRESTED AND JACHMANN SEES GHOSTS. RUM WITHOUT TEA

It was evening, a beautiful bright evening in late spring, or early summer. Pinneberg had finished his day’s work, he stepped out of Mandels Department Store, called ‘See you tomorrow’ to his colleagues and was on his way.

A hand descended on his shoulder. ‘Pinneberg, you’re arrested!’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Pinneberg, without turning a hair. ‘Why’s that? Good heavens, it’s you, Mr Jachmann! I haven’t seen you for ages!’

‘That’s a clear conscience for you,’ said Jachmann in a melancholy tone. ‘You didn’t even start. Good God, how I envy you young people!’

‘Steady on, Mr Jachmann,’ said Pinneberg. ‘What d’you mean: envy? You just try being in my shoes for three days. At Mandels …’

‘What about Mandels? I wish I had your job. It’s steady, it’s secure,’ said Jachmann gloomily, walking beside him at a lingering pace. ‘Things are so dreary now. So, how’s your wife, Romeo?’

‘She’s very well,’ said Pinneberg. ‘We’ve got a little boy now.’

‘Good heavens! Really? A boy?’ Jachmann was very surprised. ‘That was quick. Can you afford it? You’re lucky.’

‘We can’t afford it,’ said Pinneberg. ‘But if that was it, people like us would never have children. Now we have to manage.’

‘Right,’ said Jachmann, who had obviously not heard a word. ‘Now listen carefully, Pinneberg. Now, we’re going to look in the window of that bookshop …’

‘And?’ asked Pinneberg expectantly.

‘It’s a very instructive book,’ said Jachmann very audibly. ‘I learned a terrific amount from it.’ Then, softly: ‘Look to the left, unobtrusively. Unobtrusively, I said!’

‘And?’ asked Pinneberg again, finding it all very puzzling, and the gigantic Jachmann very much changed. ‘What am I meant to be looking at?’

‘The stout man in grey with glasses and bushy hair, can you see him?’

‘Of course I can. He’s walking that way.’

‘Good,’ said Jachmann. ‘Keep your eye on him. And now have an ordinary sort of conversation with me. Don’t name any names, especially not mine. Now talk to me!’

Pinneberg racked his brains. ‘What can be going on?’ he thought. ‘What’s Jachmann after? He’s not said a word about Mother, either.’

‘Come on, say something,’ Jachmann urged him. ‘It looks silly if we walk along without a word. It will be noticed.’

‘Noticed? Who by?’ thought Pinneberg, and said, ‘The weather’s quite nice isn’t it, Mr …’

He’d nearly come out with his name.

‘Oh, do be careful!’ hissed Jachmann, then continued, loudly: ‘Yes, it is really very fine.’

‘But a bit of rain wouldn’t do any harm,’ said Pinneberg, staring intently at the back of the man in grey three paces in front. ‘It’s terribly dry.’

‘Rain would be a good thing,’ Jachmann agreed readily. ‘But preferably not at the weekend.’

‘No, of course not!’ said Pinneberg. ‘Not at the weekend.’

There his inspiration ran out and nothing more was said. Once he cast a sidelong glance at Jachmann, and reflected that he didn’t look as breezily fresh as heretofore. He also noted that he too was staring intently at the grey back.

‘For heaven’s sake say something, Pinneberg!’ said Jachmann nervously. ‘You must have something to say. If I hadn’t seen a person for six months I’d certainly have a tale or two to tell.’

‘Now you’ve said my name,’ stated Pinneberg. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’

‘To your place, where else? I’m with you, that’s the point.’

‘But then we ought to have turned left,’ observed Pinneberg. ‘I live in Alt-Moabit now.’

Jachmann got annoyed. ‘So why don’t you turn left?’

‘I thought we were following the man in grey.’

‘Oh God!’ exclaimed the giant. ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’

‘No,’ confessed Pinneberg.

‘Well, go exactly the same way as if you were going home. I’ll explain everything. Now talk to me.’

‘We have to turn left again,’ said Pinneberg.

‘Well do it, then,’ said Jachmann irritably. ‘How’s your wife?’

‘We’ve had a little boy,’ said Pinneberg despairingly. ‘She’s very well. Please couldn’t you just tell me what’s going on, Mr Jachmann? I’m getting more and more idiotic.’

‘You just said my name, for heaven’s sake!’ scolded Jachmann.
‘Now he’s bound to follow us. Oh no! Can you manage not to look round at least.’

Pinneberg said nothing, and after this outburst Jachmann said no more either. They went one block further, then round a corner and another block further, crossed a road and were then once more on Pinneberg’s accustomed route home.

The traffic lights turned red, and they had to wait a moment.

‘Can you still see him?’ asked Jachmann anxiously.

‘I thought I wasn’t meant to … No, I can’t see him any more. He went straight on just now.’

‘He did, did he!’ said Jachmann, sounding highly relieved and gratified. ‘I must have been wrong. You see ghosts sometimes.’

‘Couldn’t you please tell me, Mr Jachmann?’ began Pinneberg.

‘No. That is, later. Of course, later. We’ll go to your place first. To your wife. It’s a boy you’ve got, is it? Or a girl? Splendid! Terrific! Did it all go well? Of course it would, with a woman like that! D’you know, Pinneberg, I’ve never understood how your mother happened to have a son. It must have been heaven that slipped up, not just the condom factory. Oh, I beg your pardon. You know me. Is there a flower-shop anywhere round here? We must pass one somewhere. Or would your wife prefer sweets?’

‘It really isn’t necessary, Mr Jachmann …’

‘I know that, young man, but I’m the one who decides.’ And then he was off! ‘Flowers and chocolates. They work on every female heart. That’s to say, they don’t work on your mother, but that’s another story, don’t let’s talk about it. Flowers and sweets. Wait, I’ll go in here.’

‘You mustn’t …’

But Jachmann had already disappeared into the sweetshop. In two minutes he was out again. ‘D’you have any idea what kind of sweets your wife likes? Cherries in brandy?’

‘Nothing alcoholic, Mr Jachmann,’ said Pinneberg reproachfully. ‘My wife’s nursing.’

‘Oh, nursing. I see. Who’s she nursing? Ah, of course, the baby. And that means you can’t eat cherries in brandy? I never knew. What a life. Must be one of the toughest, believe you me!’ He disappeared into the shop, still talking.

After a while he came out again, sporting a hefty parcel.

‘Mr Jachmann!’ said Pinneberg dubiously. ‘What a lot. I’m not sure my wife would want …’

‘Why not? She doesn’t have to eat them all at once. I just don’t know her taste. There are so many kinds. Now look out for a flower shop …’

‘Please stop, Mr Jachmann. It’s quite unnecessary.’

‘Unnecessary? You’re too young to know. What d’you mean?’

‘You don’t need to bring my wife flowers as well.’

‘Ah, it’s the unnecessary that’s needed the most. There’s a joke about that, but I won’t tell it to you. You don’t appreciate that kind of thing. Aha, here’s a flower shop …’

Jachmann stopped and thought. ‘I don’t want to take her cut flowers. Too much like beheaded corpses. I’d rather take her a pot plant. That’s more her style. Is she as blonde as ever?’

‘Mr Jachmann, please …’

But he was already off. After a lengthy interval, he returned.

‘Now, a flower shop, that would be something for your wife. I ought to set her up in one. In a good area, where the clients appreciate being served by a beautiful woman.’

Pinneberg was embarrassed. ‘Well, I don’t know if you’d call my wife beautiful …’

‘Don’t talk nonsense Pinneberg. Talk about things you understand. I wonder what you do understand? Beauty—I expect you believe in the beauty of the movie stars; manicured flesh on the outside, greed and stupidity on the inside?’

‘I haven’t been to the cinema for ages,’ said Pinneberg in a melancholy tone.

‘Why not? It’s essential to go to the cinema. As often as
possible. Every night if you can stand it. It builds up your self-confidence. No one can put me down: I know they’re ten times stupider than I am. So let’s go to the cinema. Straight away! This very evening! What’s on? We’ll have a look at the next pillar of adverts.’

‘But first you were going to buy my wife a shop,’ grinned Pinneberg. ‘Yes, of course. Actually it’s a good idea. It would earn its money back in no time. But …’ he sighed deeply, gathered two pots of flowers and a parcel of chocolates in one arm, and linked the other through Pinneberg’s. ‘It’s impossible, young man. I’m in shtuck …’ ‘Then you shouldn’t be buying up all these shops for us!’ cried Pinneberg indignantly.

‘Don’t talk rubbish! It’s not money. I’m stinking rich. For the time being. But I am in shtuck. In other ways. I’ll tell you all about it later. You and your Lamb. But I’ll tell you one thing …’ he bent to whisper in Pinneberg’s ear: ‘Your mother is a bad lot.’

‘I’ve always known that,’ replied Pinneberg calmly.

‘Oh, you get things all wrong,’ said Jachmann, withdrawing his arm. ‘She’s a bad lot, a real bitch, but she’s a splendid woman! No, I’m afraid the flower shop isn’t on for the moment.’