The Berlin Stories (20 page)

Kuno joined me for breakfast. He was dressed, with scrupulous informality, in grey flannel trousers, a blazer and the knotted silk scarf of his Oxford college colours.

“You slept well, I hope?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“I, not so well.” He smiled, flushed, slightly abashed. “It doesn’t matter. In the night-time I had something to read, you see?”

Bashfully he let me see the title of the book he was holding in his hand. It was called Billy the Castaway.

“Is it good?” I asked.

“There is one chapter which is very nice, I find..,”

Before I could hear the contents of the nice chapter, however, a waiter appeared with our breakfast on a little wheeled car. We reverted at once to our self-conscious honeymoon manners.

“May I give you some cream?”

“Just a little, please.”

“Is this how you like it?”

“Thank you, that’s delicious.”

Our voices sounded so absurd that I could have laughed out loud. We were like two unimportant characters in the first act of a play, put there to make conversation until it is time for the chief actor to appear.

By the time we had finished breakfast, the immense white slopes were infested already with tiny figures, some skimming and criss-crossing like dragon-flies, some faltering and collapsing like injured ants. The skaters were out in dozens on the lake. Within a roped enclosure, an inhumanly agile creature in black tights performed wonders before an attentive audience. Knapsacked, helmeted and booted, some of the more active guests were starting out on long, dangerous tours of the upper heights, like soldiers from a luxury barracks. And here and there, amidst the great army, the wounded were to be seen, limping on sticks or with their arms in slings, taking a painful convalescent promenade.

Attentive as ever, Kuno took it for granted that he was to teach me to ski. I should have much preferred to mess about alone, but my attempts at polite dissuasion were in vain. He regarded it as his duty; there was no more to be said. So we spent two perspiring hours on the beginners’ slope; I slithering and stumbling, Kuno admonishing and supporting. “No, excuse me, this is again not quite correct… you hold yourself in too stiff a manner, you see?” His patience seemed inexhaustible. I longed for lunch.

About the middle of the morning, a young man came circling expertly among the novices in our neighbourhood. He stopped to watch us; perhaps my awkwardness amused him. His presence rather annoyed me; I didn’t want an audience. Half by accident, half by design, I made a sudden swerve at him when he least expected it and knocked him clean off his feet. Our mutual apologies were profuse. He helped me to get up and even brushed some of the snow off me with his hand.

“Allow me… van Hoorn.”

His bow, skis and all, was so marvellously stiff that he might have been challenging me to a duel.

“Bradshaw… very pleased.”

I tried to parody it and promptly fell forward on my face, to be raised this time by Kuno himself. Somewhat less formally, I introduced them.

After this, to my relief, Kuno’s interest in my instruction considerably decreased. Van Hoorn was a tall, fair boy, handsome in the severe Viking manner, though he had rather spoilt his appearance by shaving off most of his hair. The bald back of his head was sunburnt to an angry scarlet. He had studied for three semesters, he told us, at the University of Hamburg. He was furiously shy and blushed crimson whenever Kuno, with his discreetly flattering smile, addressed him.

Van Hoorn could do a turn which interested Kuno extremely. They went off for some distance to demonstrate and practise it. Presently, it was time for lunch. On our way down to the hotel, the young man introduced us to his uncle, a lively, plump little Dutchman, who was cutting figures on the ice with great skill. The elder Mr. van Hoorn was a contrast to his grave nephew. His eyes twinkled merrily, he seemed delighted to make our acquaintance. His face was brown as an old boot and he was quite bald. He wore side-whiskers and a little pointed beard.

“So you’ve made some friends already?” He addressed his nephew in German. “That’s right.” His twinkling eyes regarded Kuno and myself. “I tell Piet he should get to know a nice girl, but he won’t; he’s too shy. I wasn’t like that at his age, I can tell you.”

Piet van Hoorn blushed, frowned and looked away, refusing to respond to Kuno’s discreet glance of sympathy. Mr. van Hoorn chattered away to me as he removed his skates.

“So you like it here? My word, so do I! I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years. I bet I’ve lost a pound or two already. Why, I don’t feel a day over twenty-one, this morning.”

As we entered the dining-room, Kuno suggested that the van Hoorns should come and sit at our table; he gave a meaning glance at Piet as he spoke. I felt rather embarrassed. Kuno was certainly a bit crude in his advances. But Mr. van Hoorn agreed at once, most heartily. He appeared to find nothing odd in the proposal. Probably he was glad enough to have some extra people to talk to.

During lunch, Kuno devoted himself almost entirely to Piet. He seemed to have succeeded in thawing the ice a little, for, several times, the boy laughed. Van Hoorn, meanwhile, was pouring into my ear a succession of the oldest and most childish smoking-room stories. He related them with extraordinary gusto and enjoyment. I scarcely listened. The warmth of the dining-room made me sleepy, after the sharp air outside; behind palms, the band played dreamy music. The food was delicious; seldom had I eaten such a lunch. And, all the time, I was vaguely wondering where Margot was, when and how he would appear.

Into my coma intruded, with increasing frequency, a few sentences of French. I could understand only a word here and there: “interesting,”

“suggestive,”

“extremely typical.” It was the speaker’s voice which caught my attention. It proceeded from the table next to our own. Idly I turned my head.

A large, middle-aged man sat facing an exotically pretty blonde girl of the type which Paris alone produces. Both of them were looking in our direction and speaking in carefully restrained tones, obviously about us. The man seemed par-ticulary interested. He had a bald, egg-shaped head; bold, rudely prominent, round, solemn eyes; yellowish-white hair brushed back round the base of the skull like a pair of folded wings. His voice was vibrant and harsh. About his whole appearance there was something indescribably unpleasant and sinister. I felt a curious thrill pass through my nervous system; antagonistic, apprehensive, expectant. I glanced quickly at the others; but no, they seemed entirely unaware of the stranger’s cynical, unconcealed inspection. Kuno was bending over to speak to Piet; fishy, caressing and suave. Mr. van Hoorn had stopped talking at last and was making up for lost time on a grilled steak. He had tucked his napkin into his collar and was chewing away with the abandonment of one who need no longer fear gravy-stains on his waistcoat. I fancied I heard our French neighbour pronounce the word “dégoűtant.”

I had frequently pictured to myself what Margot would look like. I had imagined him fatter, older, more prosaic. My imagination had been altogether too timid; I hadn’t dreamed of anything so authentic, so absolutely, immediately convincing. Nobody’s intuition could be at fault here. I was as certain of his identity as if I’d known him for years.

It was a thrilling moment. My only regret was that nobody could share its excitement with me. How Arthur would have enjoyed it! I could imagine his ill-concealed, gleeful agitation; his private signals which everybody would observe; his ludicrously forced attempts to cover up the mystery with bright chat. The very thought of them made me want to laugh out loud. I didn’t dare risk another glance at our neighbours, lest they should see from my face what I knew. Long ago, I had made up my mind that never, at any stage in the proceedings, would I betray my complicity by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Margot had kept his part of the bargain; I would show him that I, also, could be trustworthy and discreet.

How would he deliver his attack? This was a really fascinating question. I tried to put myself in his position; began to imagine the most extravagant subtleties. Perhaps he, or the girl, would pick Kuno’s pocket and introduce themselves later, pretending to have found his note-case on the floor. Perhaps, that night, there would be a sham alarm of fire. Margot would plant smoke-bombs in Kuno’s bedroom and then rush in to rescue him from the fumes. It seemed obvious to me that they would do something drastic. Margot didn’t look the man to be content with half measures. What were they up to now? I could no longer hear their voices. Dropping my napkin somewhat clumsily on the floor, I bent down to pick it up and get a peep, only to find to my disappointment that the two of them had left the dining-room. I was disappointed, but, on thinking it over, not particularly surprised. This had been merely a reconnoitre. Margot would probably do nothing before the evening.

After lunch, Kuno earnestly advised me to rest. As a beginner, he explained, it would be most unwise for me to exert myself too much on the first day. I agreed, not without amusement. A few moments later, I heard him arranging with Piet van Hoorn to go out to the toboggan runs. Mr. van Hoorn had already retired to his room.

At tea-time, there was dancing in the lounge. Piet and Kuno didn’t appear; neither, to my relief, did Mr. van Hoorn. I was quite happy by myself, watching the guests. Presently, Margot came in alone. He sat down on the opposite side of the big glass veranda, not more than a couple of yards from my table. Stealing a glance in his direction, I met his eyes. They were cold, prominent, rudely inquisitive as ever. My heart thumped uncomfortably. The situation was getting positively uncanny. Suppose I were to go over and speak to him now? I could save him, after all, a great deal of trouble. I had only to introduce him as an acquaintance of mine, met here by chance. There was no earthly reason why Kuno should suspect anything pre-arranged. Why should we go on performing this rather sinister charade? I hesitated, half rose to my feet, subsided again. For the second time my eyes met his. And now it seemed to me that I understood him perfectly. “Don’t be a little fool,” he was saying. “Leave this to me. Don’t try to meddle in things you don’t understand.”

“All right,” I mentally told him, with a slight shrug of my shoulders. “Do as you like. It’s your funeral.”

And, feeling rather resentful, I got up and walked out of the lounge; I couldn’t stand this silent tęte-ŕ-tęte any longer.

At dinner that night both Kuno and Mr. van Hoorn, in their different ways, were in high spirits. Piet looked bored. Perhaps he found his evening clothes as stiff and uncomfortable as I did mine. If so, he had my hearty sympathy. His uncle rallied him from time to time on his silence, and I reflected how much I should dislike to travel with Mr. van Hoorn.

We were near the end of our meal when Margot and his companion came into the dining-room. I saw them at once, for I had been subconsciously keeping my eye on the door ever since we had sat down. Margot was wearing a tail-coat, with a flower in his button-hole. The girl was dressed magnificently, in some shimmering material which gleamed like silver armour. They passed down the long lane between the tables with many eyes following them.

“Look, Piet,” exclaimed Mr. van Hoorn, “there’s a pretty girl for you. Ask her for a dance this evening. Her father won’t bite you.”

To reach their table, Margot had to pass within a few inches of our chairs. As he did so, he briefly inclined his head. Kuno, ever gracious, returned the bow. For a moment, I thought Margot would follow up this opening, even if only with a conventional remark about the weather. He did not. The two of them took their places. Almost immediately, we rose to go and drink our coffee in the smoking-room.

Here, Mr. van Hoorn’s conversation took a surprising turn. It was as if he’d realised that the heartiness and the doubtful stories had been overdone. He began, quite suddenly, to talk about art. He had a house, he told us, in Paris, which was full of old furniture and etchings. Although he spoke modestly, it soon became clear that he was an expert. Kuno was greatly interested. Piet remained indifferent. I saw him cast more than one furtive glance at his wrist-watch, presumably to see whether it wasn’t time for bed.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The harsh voice startled all of us; nobody had seen Mar-got’s approach. He towered above us, an elegant, sardonic figure, holding a cigar in his mottled, yellow hand.

“It is necessary that I ask this young man a question.”

His bulging eyes fixed upon Piet with a concentration which suggested that he was observing some minute insect, scarcely visible without the aid of a magnifying glass. The poor boy literally began to sweat with embarrassment. As for myself, I was so amazed at this new turn in Margot’s tactics that I could only stare at him, my mouth hanging open. Margot himself evidently enjoyed the effect which his dramatic appearance had created. His lips curved in a smile which was positively diabolic.

“Have you the true Aryan descent?”

And before the astounded Piet could answer, he added: “I am Marcel Janin.”

I don’t know whether the others had really heard of him, or whether their polite interest was merely pretended. As it happened, I knew his name quite well. M. Janin was one of Fritz Wendel’s favourite authors. Fritz had once lent me a book of his—The Kiss Under the Midnight Sun. It was written in the fashionable French manner, half romance, half reportage, and gave a lurid, obviously imaginative account of the erotic life of Hammerfest. And there were half a dozen others, equally sensational and ranging in milieu from Santiago to Shanghai. M. Janin’s particular brand of pornography, if one was to judge from his clothes, appeared to have hit the public taste. He had just finished his eighth, he told us: it dealt with the amours peculiar to a winter sport hotel. Hence his presence here. After his brusque self-introduction, he proved most affable and treated us, without further request, to a discourse on his career, aims and methods of work.