Little Man, What Now? (39 page)

‘A bit more justice would do no harm at all,’ thought Lammchen.

This thought was interrupted by sounds of shouting outside. It was Puttbreese, arguing with a woman. Lammchen felt she knew the sharp, piercing tone of that voice, she listened; oh no, she didn’t, they were probably just haggling over a cupboard down there.

But then Puttbreese called her. ‘Young lady!’ he shouted. ‘Mrs Pinneberg!’ he bellowed.

Lammchen stood up. She went across the boards to the ladder and looked down. Yes, it was that voice. Down below stood Mr Puttbreese with her mother-in-law, Mrs Pinneberg senior, and they didn’t seem to be on friendly terms.

‘This old girl wants to see you,’ said the master-carpenter, pointing with his huge thumb, as he beat a hasty retreat. So hasty
in fact, that he slammed the outer door, leaving the two of them in semi-darkness. As her eyes adjusted to it, Lammchen found she was looking down on a familiar brown suit and smart little hat, and a chalk-white fat face.

‘Hello, Mama, have you come to call? Sonny’s not here.’

‘D’you mean to talk to me from up there? Or will you tell me how to come up to you?’

‘The ladder, Mama. Right in front of you.’

‘Is that the only way?’

‘It’s the only way, Mama.’

‘Very well. Why you wanted to move out of my house I can’t imagine. Well, we’ll talk about that.’

The ladder was negotiated without difficulty. Mrs Pinneberg wasn’t one to be put off by a thing like that. She stood on the roof of the cinema, looking up into the dark and dusty beams. ‘Do you live here?’

‘No, Mama. Through the door there. May I show you?’ She opened the door and Mrs Pinneberg went in and looked around. ‘Well, there you are, everyone knows best where they belong. I prefer Spenerstrasse.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ said Lammchen. Provided Sonny wasn’t doing overtime, he could be here in a quarter of an hour. She needed him badly. ‘Won’t you take your things off, Mama?’

‘No, thank you. I’m only stopping two minutes. I don’t see there’s much call for socializing, the way you treated me.’

‘We were really sorry about that …’ began Lammchen hesitantly.

‘I wasn’t,’ declared Mrs Pinneberg. ‘I’m not saying a word about it. But it was very thoughtless of you to leave me in the lurch suddenly like that, without any help in the house. And you’ve acquired a baby?’

‘Yes, we’ve had our little boy for six months now. He’s called Horst.’

‘Horst! I suppose it never occurred to you to be careful.’

Lammchen looked her mother-in-law straight in the eye. She was about to tell a lie, but this time her look stayed firm. ‘We could have been careful. We didn’t want to.’

‘Ha. Well, you must know best whether you can afford it. I consider it a bit irresponsible to bring a baby into the world with no prospects. But it’s neither here nor there to me. Have a dozen if you want to!’

She went to the cot and looked angrily at the baby. Lammchen had been aware for some time now that her mother-in-law wasn’t in a tractable mood. In the past she had at least been more or less polite to her, but now all she wanted was a fight. Perhaps it would be as well if Sonny didn’t come too soon.

Mrs Pinneberg had finished with her inspection of the baby.

‘What is it, boy or girl?’

‘A boy,’ said Lammchen. ‘Horst.’

‘Of course!’ said Mrs Marie Pinneberg. ‘I thought so. He looks just as unintelligent as his father. Ah well, if it gives you pleasure.’

Lammchen said nothing.

‘It’s no use sulking with me, child,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, unbuttoning her jacket and sitting down. ‘I’m only speaking my mind. Ah, there’s that expensive dressing-table! It still seems to be your only bit of furniture. I sometimes think one ought to be nicer to that boy; he’s really not right in the head. A dressing-table!’ And she gave the unlucky object a look fit to crack the veneer.

Lammchen said nothing.

‘When’s Jachmann coming?’ rapped out Mrs Pinneberg so sharply that Lammchen jumped, to her great satisfaction. ‘You see, I can find out anything, I found your hidey-hole, I know it all. When’s Jachmann coming?’

‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen, ‘stayed a night or two here several weeks ago. Since then he hasn’t been back.’

‘Is that so?’ sneered Mrs Pinneberg. ‘And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lammchen.

‘Oh, you don’t?’ said Mrs Pinneberg, slowly but inexorably gathering steam. She took off her jacket. ‘How much does he pay you to keep your mouths shut?’

‘I won’t answer any such question,’ said Lammchen.

‘I’m going to send the police round here, my dear child,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘They’ll soon get it out of you. I suppose that cardsharp, that con-man, has told you that he’s on the wanted-list, or did he say he was staying here for love of you?’

Lammchen Pinneberg stood and stared out of the window. No, it would be better if Sonny did come soon. She wouldn’t be able to throw his mother out; he would.

‘You’ll soon see what kind of trouble he’s got you into. He has to deceive everybody. What he’s done to me …’

Her voice had taken on another tone.

‘I haven’t seen Mr Jachmann for over two months,’ said Lammchen.

‘Lammchen,’ said Mrs Pinneberg, ‘Lammchen, if you know where he is, tell me, Lammchen!’ She paused. ‘Lammchen, please tell me: where is he?’

Lammchen looked around and then at her mother-in-law. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, Mama!’

The two looked at each other.

‘Well, all right then,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘I’ll believe you. I believe you, Lammchen. Did he really only stay here two nights?’

‘I think it was only one,’ said Lammchen.

‘What did he say about me? Tell me, did he speak very badly of me?’

‘He didn’t say anything,’ said Lammchen. ‘He didn’t speak to me about you at all.’

‘Oh,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘Not a word.’ She stared into space. ‘Your son’s a pretty little boy actually. Can he talk yet?’

‘At six months, Mama?’

‘No? Don’t they talk at that age? I’ve forgotten it all. I never knew it properly. But …’ Then she paused. It was a long pause, and it grew longer and longer, weighted with something terrible: rage, fear, menace.

‘There!’ she said, pointing to the cases which were on top of the wardrobe. ‘I know those cases. They’re Jachmann’s. They’re his cases. You liar. You blond, blue-eyed liar, and I believed you! Where is he? When’s he coming? You’ve taken him for yourself, and that dish-rag of a Hans knows all about it. Liar!’

Lammchen was dumbfounded. ‘Mama!’

‘Those are my cases. He owes me hundreds, thousands, those cases belong to me. He’ll soon come if I’ve got them.’

She pulled a chair up to the wardrobe.

‘Mama,’ said Lammchen nervously, trying to stop her.

‘Will you leave me alone? Leave me alone this instant! Those are my cases!’

She stood on the chair, and pulled on the handle of the first case, but the cornice of the wardrobe was in the way.

‘He left the cases behind!’ cried Lammchen.

She didn’t hear. She pulled. The cornice broke off and the case came down. She could not support its weight and it fell, crashing against the cot. The Shrimp began to scream.

‘Leave that alone at once!’ shouted Lammchen, with blazing eyes, rushing to her child. ‘I’ll throw you out.’

‘They’re my cases!’ cried her mother-in-law, pulling at the second one. Lammchen held the crying child in her arms, and forced herself to calm down. He was due for his next feed in half an hour, and she must not get agitated.

‘Leave the cases, Mama!’ she said. ‘They don’t belong to you. They have to stay here.’

And to the little boy she hummed:

‘Lullaby, sleep in Mummy’s bed,
Or will you sleep in Dad’s instead? Lullaby,
baby, sleep.’

‘Leave the cases alone, Mama,’ she repeated loudly.

‘He’ll be pleased when he gets back to you tonight.’

The second case fell.

‘Ah, there he is now!’

She turned around to face the door as it opened.

However, it was not Jachmann but Pinneberg whom she saw.

‘What’s going on here?’ he asked quietly.

‘Mama wants to take Mr Jachmann’s cases. She says they belong to her. Mr Jachmann owes her money.’

‘Mama can work that out with Jachmann himself, the cases stay here,’ said Pinneberg, with a self-control that filled Lammchen with unwonted admiration.

‘I knew it,’ said Mrs Pinneberg. ‘You’d stand up for your wife whatever! You Pinnebergs have always been like that: ninnies. Aren’t you ashamed to be such a weakling?’

‘Sonny, my love,’ implored Lammchen.

But it wasn’t necessary. ‘It’s time for you to go, Mama,’ said Pinneberg. ‘No, just leave the cases where they are. D’you seriously believe you’ll get them down the ladder without me? Now, get moving. D’you want to say goodbye to my wife? You don’t have to.’

‘I’ll set the police on you.’

‘Be careful, Mama, mind the doorstep.’

The door banged shut, Lammchen listened to the receding noise, sang ‘Lullaby’. ‘I hope it hasn’t spoiled my milk.’

She bared her breast, the Shrimp smiled and pursed his lips.

He was already feeding when Sonny came back. ‘There, she’s gone. I wonder if she will send the police? Tell me what happened.’

‘You were splendid, Sonny my love,’ said Lammchen. ‘I’d never have thought it of you. Such self-control!’

Now he was being praised for a real achievement, he was
embarrassed. ‘Oh no. Go on, tell me what happened.’

And she told him.

‘It is possible the police are after Jachmann. I think that bit’s true. But if so, Mama will be in it as well. So she’s not going to send the police. They would have been here by now anyway.’

The Pinnebergs sat and waited. The baby had his feed, was laid in his cot and went to sleep.

Pinneberg put the suitcases back on top of the wardrobe, got some wood-glue from the master carpenter, and stuck the cornice back on. Lammchen made the evening meal.

And no police came.

SCHLÜTER THE ACTOR, AND THE YOUNG MAN FROM ACKERSTRASSE. IT’S ALL OVER

On the twenty-ninth of September Pinneberg was standing behind his counter in Mandels’ Department Store. Today was the twenty-ninth of September and tomorrow was the thirtieth, and there was no thirty-first. Pinneberg was doing some calculations, with a grey and gloomy face. From time to time he took from his pocket a slip of paper on which he had written down his daily takings, looked at it and did some adding-up. There wasn’t much to add up. The total remained immutably the same: by the end of tomorrow he would have to have sold five hundred and twenty three and a half marks’ worth in order to fulfil his quota.

It was impossible, but of course he had to fulfil it, or what was to become of Lammchen and the child? It was impossible, but when facts are immutable, one hopes for miracles. It was just like in the dim distant past when nasty old Heinemann was giving back their French homework, and Johannes Pinneberg the schoolboy prayed under his desk: ‘Oh God, make me only have three mistakes!’ (And he knew of seven for certain.)

The salesman Johannes Pinneberg prayed: ‘Oh God, make someone come in who wants a set of tails. And an evening coat. And … and …’

Colleague Kessler sidled up: ‘Now then Pinneberg, how are your accounts?’

Pinneberg didn’t look up. ‘All right, thanks.’

‘Really?’ drawled Kessler. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Because Jänecke told me when you bungled a sale yesterday that you were very behind and he was going to get rid of you.’

Pinneberg said: ‘Thanks for nothing. I’m all right. Jänecke was probably only saying that to spur you on. How are you doing then?’

‘Oh, I’m there for this month. That’s why I asked you. I wanted to make you an offer.’

Pinneberg stood silent. He hated this man Kessler, this smarmy self-important creep. He hated him so much that even now he couldn’t say a word to him, even to ask a favour. After a long pause he said: ‘Well, you’re home and dry, then.’

‘Yes, I don’t need to bother now. I needn’t sell anything for the next two days,’ said Kessler proudly, giving Pinneberg a superior look.

And perhaps, perhaps, Pinneberg might have opened his mouth and asked for help, but at that moment a gentleman came up.

‘Could you show me a smoking-jacket, please? Something really warm and practical. It doesn’t matter too much about the price, but I don’t want a showy colour.’

The man, who was elderly, had looked at both salesman, Pinneberg thought, in fact, that he had looked more at him. So he said ‘Of course. If you would …’

But colleague Kessler pushed in between. ‘If you will come this way, sir. We’ve got some very nice smoking-jackets in thick wool with a discreet all-over pattern. Let me …’

Pinneberg watched them go, thinking to himself: ‘Kessler’s reached his quota but he still snaffles my customers. But it would have been thirty marks more for me, Kessler.’

Mr Jänecke passed by: ‘Not busy? It’s getting to be a habit with you. All the others are selling. Anyone would think you were looking forward to the dole.’

Pinneberg looked at Mr Jänecke. It should have been an angry look, but he was so helpless, so cast down, he felt the tears come into his eyes as he whispered: ‘Mr Jänecke … Oh, Mr Jänecke …’

A strange thing then happened, Mr Jänecke, spiteful, ugly Jänecke, realized how helplessly forlorn this human creature was. He said encouragingly: ‘Now then, Pinneberg, don’t throw in the towel. It will work out. We aren’t monsters, after all, you can talk to us. And anyone can have a run of bad luck.’

Then he moved swiftly aside. A gentlemen was coming towards them, looking as though he wanted to buy, a gentlemen with an expressive face, an impressive face. No, he couldn’t be a customer, that was a tailor-made suit he was wearing. He wouldn’t buy something off the peg.

But the man went straight up to Pinneberg, and Pinneberg was wondering where he had seen him before. Because he had seen him, though he had looked quite different then, and the man said to Pinneberg, touching the rim of his hat: ‘Greetings, sir! Greetings! May I ask what you have in the fantasy line?’

The man had a very impressive way of speaking, he rolled his r’s and made no attempt to lower his voice, he seemed not to mind that others could hear him.