The Berlin Stories (12 page)

Some premonition or pang of conscience made me hurry. I reached the Courbierestrasse in record time, ran quickly upstairs, and, still panting, rang the bell. After all, Arthur was no longer young. The life he had been leading was enough to break anybody down; and he had a weak heart. I must be prepared to hear serious news. Supposing… hullo, what was this? In my haste, I must have miscounted the number of floors. I was standing in front of a door without a nameplate: the door of a strange flat. It was one of those silly embarrassing things which always happen when one lets oneself get flustered. My first impulse was to run away, up or down stairs, I wasn’t quite sure which. But, after all, I had rung these people’s bell. The best tiling would be to wait until somebody answered it, and then explain my mistake.

I waited; one minute, two, three. The door didn’t open. There was nobody at home, it seemed. I had been saved from making a fool of myself, after all.

But now I noticed something else. On both the doors which faced me were little squares of paint which were darker than the rest of the woodwork. There was no doubt about it; they were the marks left by recently removed nameplates. I could even see the tiny holes where the screws had been.

A kind of panic seized me. Within half a minute, I had run up the stairs to the top of the house, then down again to the bottom; very quickly and lightly, as one sometimes runs in a nightmare. Arthur’s two nameplates were nowhere to be found. But wait: perhaps I was in the wrong house altogether. I had done stupider things before now. I went out into the street and looked at the number over the entrance. No, there was no mistake there.

I don’t know what I mightn’t have done, at that moment, if the portress herself hadn’t appeared. She knew me by sight and nodded ungraciously. She plainly hadn’t much use for Arthur’s callers. No doubt the visits of the bailiff had got the house a bad name.

“If you’re looking for your friend,” she maliciously emphasised the word, “you’re too late. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. Two days ago. The flat’s to let. Didn’t you know?”

I suppose my face was a comic picture of dismay, for she added unpleasantly: “You aren’t the only one he didn’t tell. There’ve been a dozen round here already. Owed you some money, did he?”

“Where’s he gone to?” I asked dully.

“I’m sure I don’t know, or care. That cook of his comes round here and collects the letters. You’d better ask him.”

“I can’t. I don’t know where he lives.”

“Then I can’t help you,” said the portress with a certain vicious satisfaction. Arthur must have neglected to tip her. “Why don’t you try the police?”

With this parting shot she went into her lodge and slammed the door. I walked slowly away down the street, feeling rather dazed.

My question was soon answered, however. The next morning I got a letter, dated from a hotel in Prague:

My dear William,

Do forgive me. I was compelled to leave Berlin at very short notice and under conditions of secrecy which made it impossible for me to communicate with you. The little operation about which I spoke to you was, alas, the reverse of successful, and the doctor ordered an immediate change of air. So unhealthy, indeed, had the atmosphere of Berlin become for one of my peculiar constitution, that, had I remained another week, dangerous complications would almost certainly have arisen.

My lares and pénates have all been sold and the proceeds largely swallowed up by the demands of my various satellites. I don’t complain of that. They have, with one exception, served me faithfully, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. As for that one, I shall not permit his odious name to pass my lips again. Suffice it to say that he was and is a scoundrel of the deepest dye and has behaved as such.

I find life here very pleasant. The cooking is good, not so good as in my beloved and incomparable Paris, whither I hope, next Wednesday, to wend my weary steps, but still far better than anything which barbarous Berlin could provide. Nor are the consolations of the fair and cruel sex absent. Already, under the grateful influence of civilised comfort, I put forth my leaves, I expand. To such an extent, indeed, have I already expanded that I fear I shall arrive in Paris almost devoid of means. Never mind. The Mammon of Unrighteousness will, no doubt, be ready to receive me into habitations which, if not everlasting, will at least give me time to look round.

Please convey to our mutual friend my most fraternal greetings and tell him that I shall not fail, on arriving, to execute his various commissions.

Do write soon and regale me with your inimitable wit.

As always, your affectionate

Arthur

My first reaction was to feel, perhaps unreasonably, angry. I had to admit to myself that my feeling for Arthur had been largely possessive. He was my discovery, my property. I was as hurt as a spinster who has been deserted by her cat. And yet, after all, how silly of me. Arthur was his own master; he wasn’t accountable to me for his actions. I began to look round for excuses for his conduct, and, like an indulgent parent, easily found them. Hadn’t he, indeed, behaved with considerable nobility? Threatened from every side, he had faced his troubles alone. He had carefully avoided involving me in possible future unpleasantness with the authorities. After all, he had said to himself, I am leaving this country, but William has to stay here and earn his living; I have no right to indulge my personal feelings at his expense. I pictured Arthur taking a last hurried stroll down our street, glancing up with furtive sadness at the window of my room, hesitating, walking sorrowfully away. The end of it was that I sat down and wrote him a chatty, affectionate letter, asking no questions and, indeed, avoiding any remark which might compromise either him or myself. Frl. Schroeder, who was much upset at the news of Arthur’s departure, added a long postscript. He was never to forget, she wrote, that there was one house in Berlin where he would always be welcome.

My curiosity was far from being satisfied. The obvious thing was to question Otto, but where was I to find him? I decided to try Olga’s for a start. Anni, I knew, rented a bedroom there.

I hadn’t seen Olga since that party in the small hours of the New Year; but Arthur, who sometimes visited her in the way of business, had told me a good deal about her from time to time. Like most people who still contrived to earn a living in those bankrupt days, she was a woman of numerous occupations. “Not to put too fine a point upon it,” as Arthur was fond of saying, she was a procuress, a cocaine-seller and a receiver of stolen goods; she also let lodgings, took in washing and, when in the mood, did exquisite fancy needlework.

Arthur once showed me a table-centre she had given him for Christmas which was quite a work of art.

I found the house without difficulty and passed under the archway into the court. The courtyard was narrow and deep, like a coffin standing on end. The head of the coffin rested on the earth, for the house-fronts inclined slightly inwards. They were held apart by huge timber baulks, spanning the gap, high up, against the grey square of sky. Down here, at the bottom, where the rays of the sun could never penetrate, there was a deep twilight, like the light in a mountain gorge. On three sides of the court were windows; on the fourth, an immense blank wall, about eighty feet high, whose plaster surface had swollen into blisters and burst, leaving raw, sooty scars. At the foot of this ghastly precipice stood a queer little hut, probably an outdoor lavatory. Beside it was a broken hand-cart with only one wheel, and a printed notice, now almost illegible, stating the hours at which the inhabitants of the tenement were allowed to beat their carpets.

The staircase, even at this hour of the afternoon, was very dark. I stumbled up it, counting the landings, and knocked at a door which I hoped was the right one. There was a shuffle of slippers, a clink of keys, and the door opened a little way, on the chain.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked.

“William,” I said.

The name made no impression. The door began, doubtfully, to shut.

“A friend of Arthur’s,” I added hastily, trying to make my voice sound reassuring. I couldn’t see what sort of person I was talking to; inside the flat it was pitch black. It was like speaking to a priest in a confessional.

“Wait a minute,” said the voice.

The door shut and the slippers shuffled away. Other footsteps returned. The door reopened and the electric light was switched on in the narrow hall. On the threshold stood Olga herself. Her mighty form was enveloped in a kimono of garish colours which she wore with the majesty of a priestess in her ceremonial robes. I hadn’t remembered her as being quite so enormous.

“Well?” she said. “What do you want?”

She hadn’t recognised me. For all she knew I might be a detective. Her tone was aggressive and harsh; it showed not the least trace of hesitation or fear. She was ready for all her enemies. Her hard blue eyes, ceaselessly watchful as the eyes of a tigress, moved away over my shoulder into the gloomy well of the staircase. She was wondering whether I had come alone.

“May I speak to Frl. Anni?” I said politely.

“You can’t. She’s busy.”

My English accent had reassured her, however; for she added briefly: “Come inside,” and turned, leading the way into the sitting-room. She left me with entire indifference to shut the outer door. I did so meekly and followed.

Standing on the sitting-room table was Otto, in his shirtsleeves, tinkering with the converted gasolier.

“Why, it’s Willi!” he cried, jumping down and dealing me a staggering clap on the shoulder.

We shook hands. Olga lowered herself into a chair facing mine with the deliberation and sinister dignity of a fortuneteller. The bracelets jangled harshly on her swollen wrists. I wondered how old she was; perhaps not more than thirty-five, for there were no wrinkles on her puffy, waxen face. I didn’t much like her hearing what I had to say to Otto, but she had plainly no intention of moving as long as I was in the flat. Her blue doll’s eyes held mine in a brutal, unwinking regard.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“You’ve seen me in this room,” I said, “drunk.”

“So.” Olga’s bosom shook silently. She had laughed.

“Did you see Arthur before he left?” I asked Otto, at the end of a long pause.

Yes, Anni and Otto had both seen him, though quite by chance, as it appeared. Happening to look in on the Sunday afternoon, they had discovered Arthur in the midst of his packing. There had been a great deal of telephoning and running hither and thither. And then Schmidt had appeared. He and Arthur had retired into the bedroom for a conference, and soon Otto and Anni had heard loud, angry voices. Schmidt had come out of the bedroom, with Arthur following him in a state of ineffectual rage. Otto hadn’t been able to understand very clearly what it was all about, but the Baron had had something to do with it, and money. Arthur was angry because of something Schmidt had said to the Baron; Schmidt was insulting and contemptuous by turns. Arthur had cried: “You’ve shown not only the blackest ingratitude, but downright treachery!” Otto was quite positive about this. The phrase seemed to have made a special impression on him; perhaps because the word “treachery” had a definitely political flavour in his mind. Indeed, he quite took it for granted that Schmidt had somehow betrayed the Communist Party. “The very first time I saw him, I said to Anni, 1 shouldn’t wonder if he’s been sent to spy on Arthur. He looks like a Nazi, with that great big swollen head of his.’ “

What followed had confirmed Otto in his opinion. Schmidt had been just about to leave the flat when he turned and said to Arthur: “Well,. I’m off. I’ll leave you to the tender mercies of your precious communist friends. And when they’ve swindled you out of your last pfennig…”

He hadn’t got any farther. For Otto, puzzled by all this talk and relieved at last to hear something which he could understand and resent, had taken Schmidt out of the flat by the back of the collar and sent him flying downstairs with a hearty kick on the bottom. Otto, in his narrative, dwelt on the kick with special pride and pleasure. It had been one of le kicks of his life, an inspired kick, beautifully judged and timed. He was anxious that I should understand just how and where it had landed. He made me stand up, and touched me lightly on the buttock with his toe. I was a little uneasy, knowing what an effort of self-control it cost him not to let By.

“My word, Willi, you should have heard him land! Bing! Bong! Crash! For a minute he didn’t seem to know where he was or what had happened to him. And then he began to blubber, just like a baby. I was so weak with laughing at him you could have pushed me downstairs with one finger.”

And Otto began to laugh now, as he said it. He laughed heartily, without the least malice or savagery. He bore the discomfited Schmidt no grudge.

I asked whether anything more had been heard of him. Otto didn’t know. Schmidt had picked himself up, slowly and painfully, sobbed out some inarticulate threat, and limped away downstairs. And Arthur, who had been present in the background, had shaken his head doubtfully and protested.

“You shouldn’t have done that, you know.”

“Arthur’s much too kind-hearted,” added Otto, coming to the end of his story. “He trusts everybody. And what thanks does he get for it? None. He’s always being swindled and betrayed.”

No comment on this last remark seemed adequate. I said that I must be going.

Something about me seemed to amuse Olga. Her bosom silently quivered. Without warning, as we reached the door, she gave my cheek a rough, deliberate pinch, as though she were plucking a plum from a tree.

“You’re a nice boy,” she chuckled harshly. “You must come round here one evening. I’ll teach you something you didn’t know before.”

“You ought to try it once with Olga, Willi,” Otto seriously advised. “It’s well worth the money.”

“I’m sure it is,” I said politely, and hurried downstairs.

A few days later, I had a rendezvous with Fritz Wendel at the Troika. Arriving rather too early, I sat down at the bar and found the Baron on the stool next to my own.