The Post Office Girl (12 page)

But how could she think, when would she think? She has no time to herself. No sooner does she appear in the lounge than someone from the merry band is there to drag her along somewhere—on a drive or a photo excursion, to play games, chat, dance; there’s always a shout of welcome, and then it’s bedlam. The pageant of idle busyness goes on all day. There’s no end of games played, things to smoke, nibble on, laugh at, and she falls into the whirl without resistance when any of the young fellows shouts for Fräulein von Boolen, for how can she say no, and why would she, they’re all so warm, these fresh-faced guys and gals, young people of a sort she’s never known, always boisterous and carefree, always nicely dressed in new ways, always joking, always with money to spend, always thinking of new things to do; as soon as you sit down with them
the gramophone starts up with music for dancing, or the car is there and five or six of them squeeze in and streak sixty, eighty, a hundred kilometers, so fast it pulls your hair. Or you loll in the bar with your legs crossed, nurse a cold drink, a cigarette in your mouth, casually, indolently lounging about without lifting a finger while listening to all sorts of delightful, funny stories, it’s all so easy to get used to and so wonderfully relaxing, and she drinks in this tonic air as if with new lungs. Sometimes it seems like sheet lightning in her blood, especially in the evening when she’s dancing or when one of the lithe young men presses close in the dark. Behind the companionship they have romance on their minds too, but it’s different, more open, bolder, more physical, a pursuit that sometimes frightens the inexperienced Christine when she feels a firm hand on her knee in a dark car or when strolls arm in arm take a more affectionate turn. But the other young women, the American and the Mannheim girl, good-humoredly put up with all of it, not bothering themselves beyond discouraging excessively daring fingers with a friendly slap. Why be prissy—yet it’s always well to keep in mind how the engineer starts up a little more relentlessly every time or the little American fellow tries to lure you gently toward the woods on hikes. She doesn’t go, but she feels a small new pride, aware of being desired, knowing now that her body, bare, warm, and untouched beneath her dress, is something men would like to breathe in, feel, stroke, enjoy. She senses some subtle
narcotic
within her, compounded of unknown alluring substances. Constantly courted by so many charming and elegant strange men, dizzy from being the center of such an intense circle of admirers, she shakes herself awake for a moment and wonders in bewilderment, “Who am I? Who am I really?”

“Who am I? And what do they all see in me?” Day after day she asks herself this question, continually astonished. New and
different attentions make themselves felt every day. The
moment
she wakes up, the maid comes into her room with flowers from Lord Elkins. Yesterday her aunt gave her a leather
handbag
and a charming little gold wristwatch. The newcomers, the Trenkwitzes from Silesia, have invited her to their estate; the little American quietly slipped a small gold pocket lighter that she’d admired into her leather handbag. The little Mannheim girl is warmer than her own sister, bringing chocolates up to her room in the evening and chatting with her until midnight. Christine is almost the only one the engineer dances with, and every day there’s a swirl of new people, all of them pleasant and respectful and warm. The minute she comes down or comes in, someone’s there to ask her on a drive, to the bar, to go dancing, on some escapade, she’s never alone for a moment, never has a boring empty hour. And continually she asks herself in
bewilderment
, “Who am I? For years people on the street walked past without a glance, for years I’ve been sitting there in the village and no one gave me anything or bothered about me. Is it because the people there are all so poor, their poverty makes them tired and mistrustful, or is there suddenly something in me that was always there and yet not there, something that just couldn’t get out? Can it be that I was actually prettier than I dared to be, and smarter and more attractive, but didn’t have the courage to believe it? Who am I, who am I really?” She asks herself this question in the brief moments when they leave her alone, and something strange happens that she herself is unable to understand: confidence turns into insecurity again. In the first few days she was just bewildered and surprised that all these distinguished, elegant, charming strangers had accepted her as one of their own. But now that she feels she’s been particularly well received, now that, more than the others, more than the strawberry blond American who’s so fabulously dressed, more than the amusing, high-spirited, sparklingly clever Mannheim girl, she is exciting the interest, the curiosity,
the eagerness of all these men, she’s troubled again. “What do they want from me?” she asks herself, and in their presence becomes even more troubled. It’s so strange with these young men. At home she never paid any attention to men and never felt troubled in their presence; among those provincials, with a stolidity that only beer could take the edge off, with their gross clumsy hands, their crude jokes rapidly turning vulgar, and their blatant forwardness, sensual thoughts never crossed her mind. When one of them, lurching out of the tavern, made a suggestive noise, or someone at work would try to sweet-talk her, she felt nothing but disgust: they were animals. But these young men here, their hands manicured, always meticulously shaven, so suave that the most risqué remarks seem casual and amusing, who can put a caress into even the most fleeting touch, they sometimes arouse her interest, yet trouble her in a way that’s quite new. Her own laughter sounds strange to her—she realizes she’s backing off anxiously. She feels
somehow
uneasy in this company; it seems so friendly, yet she has a feeling of danger. Particularly with someone like the engineer, who is unabashedly putting himself forward and making a play for her, sometimes the atmosphere of sensuality makes her feel slightly dizzy.

Fortunately she’s rarely alone with him. Usually there are two or three other women present, and she feels more secure. At difficult moments she glances at them out of the corner of her eye to see if they are coping better, and can’t help picking up all sorts of little tricks from them: how to feign indignation or brightly look away when somebody goes a bit too far, and
especially
how to call a halt when things are really getting too close for comfort. But she’s soaking up the atmosphere now even when she’s not with the men, especially in her conversations with the little Mannheim girl, who talks about the most ticklish subjects with a frankness that’s new to Christine. A chemistry student, intelligent and shrewd, high-spirited, sensual but able
to exercise self-control at the last moment, her sharp black eyes take in everything. From her Christine learns about all the
affairs
going on in the hotel. That the little thing with the garish makeup and the peroxided hair is not at all the daughter of the French banker as she makes out but his paramour, that they may have separate rooms, but at night … She’s heard it herself from next door … And that the American had something going with the German movie star on the boat, three American women were in competition for him, and that the German major is a homosexual, the elevator boy told the upstairs maid all about it. Just nineteen years old to Christine’s twenty-eight, she runs down the entire scandal sheet in a casual, conversational tone of voice, with no hint of outrage, as though these were quite
natural
things, just a matter of course. And Christine, afraid that any overt astonishment might betray her inexperience, listens with curiosity, occasionally glancing at the spirited girl with a strange kind of admiration. That slender little body, she thinks, must already have done all sorts of things I know nothing about, or she wouldn’t be talking that way, so naturally and sure of herself. Just thinking about all those things makes Christine uncomfortable. Her skin burns sometimes as though she were soaking up warmth through a thousand tiny new pores, and on the dance floor her head spins. “What’s wrong with me?” she asks herself. She has begun to find out who she is, and, having discovered this new world, to discover herself.

Another three days, four days, an entire mad week has flashed by. Sitting at dinner in his smoking jacket, Anthony says
peevishly
to his wife, “I’ve had it now with all this being late. The first time, well, it can happen to anyone. But to gallivant around all day, making you sit and wait, that’s just bad manners. What on earth is she thinking?” Claire tries to mollify him: “My God, what do you expect. They’re all that way nowadays, forget it,
it’s the postwar generation, all they know is being young and having fun.”

But Anthony throws down his fork irascibly. “Confound this eternal fun. I was young once too and I cut loose, but I never permitted myself bad manners, not that it was even a possibility. The two hours in the day when that Little Miss Niece of yours deigns to grant us the honor of her presence, she’s got to be on time. And another thing I insist on—will you just tell her, give her a good talking to!—is that she stop bringing that crowd of kids to our table every evening. What do I care about the thick-necked German with his prison buzz cut and his Kaiser Wilhelm whiskers or the Jewish civil service candidate with his ironic quips or the flapper from Mannheim who looks like she just stepped out of some nightclub. It’s such a merry-go-round that I can’t even read my paper. How did I end up associating with these brats? Tonight, though, I insist on peace and quiet, and if anybody from that noisy bunch sits at my table I’m going to start smashing things.” Claire doesn’t argue—that can’t help when blue veins are pulsing on his brow—but what’s really annoying is that she has to admit he’s right. She herself was the one who pushed Christine into the social whirl to start with, and it was fun to see how smartly and gracefully the girl modeled the outfits. From her own youth she still has a confused memory of how delightful it was that first time when she dressed in style and lunched at the Sacher with her patron. But these last two days Christine has simply gone too far. She’s like a drunkard, aware of nothing but herself and her own state of exaltation, never noticing how the old man’s head nods in the evening, not even paying attention when her aunt admonishes her, “Come on, it’s getting late.” She’s startled out of her frenzy for no more than a second. “Yes, of course, Aunt, I’ve promised just this last dance, just this one.” But a moment later she’s forgotten everything, she doesn’t even notice that her uncle, tired of waiting, has gotten up from the table without saying
good night, doesn’t consider that he might be angry; how could anyone ever be angry and aggrieved in this wonderful world. In her giddiness, unable to imagine that everyone isn’t burning with enthusiasm, isn’t in a fever of high spirits, of passionate delight, she’s lost her sense of balance. She’s discovered herself for the first time in twenty-eight years, and the discovery is so intoxicating that she’s forgetting everyone else.

Now she bursts feverishly into the dining room,
unceremoniously
tearing off her gloves as she goes (who could find fault here?), merrily greets the two young Americans in English as she goes by (she’s picked up all sorts of things), and spins like a top across the room to her aunt, whom she hugs from behind, kissing her cheeks. Then a small surprise: “Oh, you’re so far along? I’m sorry!…I was just saying to those two, Percy and Edwin, that they wouldn’t make it to the hotel in forty minutes in their shabby Ford no matter how hard they tried! But they didn’t believe me…Yes, waiter, go ahead and serve, both courses, so I can catch up…So, yes, the engineer drove, he’s a great driver, but I noticed right away that the old jalopy wouldn’t go over eighty, with Lord Elkins’s Rolls-Royce it’s something else again, and what a ride…To tell the truth it might also have been because I tried taking the wheel, with Edwin next to me of course…It’s easy, all that black magic… And I’ll take you for a drive, Uncle, you’ll be the first, won’t you, you’ve got the guts… But Uncle, what’s the matter? You’re not mad at me because I’m a little late, are you?…Honestly, it wasn’t my fault, I told them they wouldn’t make it in forty minutes…But you can’t trust anybody but yourself…This vol-au-vent is excellent, and am I thirsty!… Oh, it’s easy to forget how nice it is here with you. Tomorrow morning they’re off again to Landeck, but I said I wouldn’t be going, I have to go out walking with you again, but you know the action just never stops…”

All this is like the crackling of flames in dry wood. Not until Christine begins to flag does she notice that her spirited
monologue is being met with a cold, hard silence. Her uncle is staring at the fruit basket as though the oranges interested him more than Christine’s chatter; her aunt is toying nervously with her silverware. Neither says a word. “You’re not annoyed with me, Uncle, not seriously?” Christine asks uneasily. “No,” he says gruffly, “but finish up.” It sounds so angry that Claire is embarrassed to see Christine instantly crestfallen, like a slapped child. She doesn’t dare to look up. She meekly puts the partly cut apple on her plate; her mouth quivers. Her aunt steps in quickly to distract her. She turns to Christine and asks, “So what do you hear from Mary? Do you have good news from home? I’ve been wanting to ask you.” But Christine grows paler yet, she trembles, her teeth even chatter. It hadn’t crossed her mind! She hasn’t received a single piece of mail in the entire week she’s been here, and she didn’t even notice. Or actually she’d sometimes wonder about it for a moment and think she ought to write, but then some flurry of activity would always intervene. Now everything she’s been neglecting comes home to her, like a blow to the heart. “I can’t explain it, but there’s nothing from home. Maybe something got lost?” Her aunt’s expression too has become sharp and severe. “Peculiar,” she says, “very peculiar! But maybe it’s because you’re Miss van Boolen here and the mail for Hoflehner is still with the desk clerk. Have you checked with him?” “No,” says Christine in a small, stricken voice. She remembers clearly, she’d been going to ask three or four times, every day actually, but there was always something going on and she always forgot. “Excuse me, Aunt, just a moment!” she says, jumping up. “I’ll go see.”