The Post Office Girl (2 page)

Here’s what happened. Anthony van Boolen, born in Holland but for many years an established cotton broker in the American South; Anthony van Boolen, a good-natured, phlegmatic, and when you come down to it utterly
insignificant
man, had just finished his breakfast on the terrace (all glass and light) of the Palace Hotel. Then came the nicotine-laden culmination of the meal, the tuberous brownish-black Havana that he’d had specially imported in an airtight tin. This rather
stout gentleman rested his legs on a wicker chair as he took the first and most invigorating puff with the schooled pleasure of the experienced smoker, then unfurled the paper spinnaker of the
New York Herald
and sailed off into the vast typeset sea of the stock market and brokerage listings. Meanwhile, across from him at the table, his bored wife, Claire (formerly Klara), divided her grapefruit into sections. She knew from many years of experience that any conversational sally against the usual early-morning wall of paper would have no hope of success. Thus the comical bellhop, brown-capped and apple-cheeked, was not unwelcome when he suddenly pivoted sharply in front of her with the morning mail. The tray held a single letter. But it was evidently something of great interest, for, ignoring long experience, she tried to interrupt her husband’s morning
reading
: “Anthony, excuse me a moment,” she said. The newspaper did not move. “I don’t want to disturb you, Anthony, but listen for just a second, it’s urgent. Mary” (she automatically gave the name its English form) “Mary has just sent her regrets. She can’t come, she says, she’d like to but she’s in a bad way with her heart, it’s serious, and her doctor thinks she couldn’t stand the two thousand meters. He says it’s out of the question. But if it’s all right with us she’d be glad to send Christine here for two weeks in her place, you know who that is, the youngest one, the blond. You saw a photo of her once before the war. She works in a post office, but she’s never taken a proper vacation, and if she puts in for it she’ll get it immediately, and of course after so many years she’d be glad to ‘pay her respects to you, dear Klara, and Anthony,’ etc., etc.”

The newspaper did not move. Claire became impatient. “So what do you think, should we ask her to come? … It wouldn’t hurt the poor thing to get a breath or two of fresh air, and anyway it’s only right. As long as I’m over here I really ought to meet my sister’s child, we’re hardly family anymore. Do you have any objections to my inviting her?”

The newspaper rustled a little. A smoke ring rose over the top edge of the paper, round, a pretty blue; then, in a ponderous and indifferent tone: “Not at all. Why should I?”

With this laconic decision the conversation ended and a fate began to take shape. After an interval of decades a
family
tie was being renewed, for, despite the almost
aristocratic-sounding
name with its impressive but actually quite ordinary Dutch “van,” and even though the couple’s conversation was in English, this Claire van Boolen was none other than the sister of Marie Hoflehner and hence incontestably the aunt of the Klein-Reifling postal official. Her departure from Austria more than a quarter of a century earlier had come in the train of a somewhat shady business which she recalled only vaguely (memory is always happy to oblige) and of which her sister too had never given her daughters a clear account. At the time, however, the affair had caused quite a sensation and would have had still greater consequences had not prudent and clever men soon deprived public curiosity of the spark that would have inflamed it. At that time Mrs. Claire van Boolen had been plain Fräulein Klara, a simple dress model in an exclusive boutique on the Kohlmarkt. But, flashing-eyed and graceful as she was then, she’d had a devastating effect on an elderly lumber baron who had gone along with his wife to a fitting. Full of last-ditch impetuosity, the rich and still fairly well-preserved businessman fell for the lively, shapely blond within a matter of days and began courting her with a generosity that was rare even in his circles. Before long the nineteen-year-old model, much to the indignation of her respectable family, was riding in a hackney coach wearing the finest clothes and furs, items which until then she’d only modeled in front of mirrors for finicky and usually hard-to-please customers, but which were now her very own. The more elegant she became, the more she pleased her
elderly
benefactor, and the more she pleased the old businessman, who’d been thrown into a complete tizzy by his unexpected
success in love, the more lavishly he decked her out. After a few weeks she’d softened him up so thoroughly that divorce papers were already being secretly drafted and she was well on her way to becoming one of the wealthiest women in Vienna—but then the wife, alerted by an anonymous letter, intervened aggressively and foolishly. Understandably infuriated at being abruptly put out to pasture like a hobbled horse after thirty tranquil years of marriage, she bought a revolver and set upon the mismatched couple in their love nest, a recently established cheap hotel. She fired two shots at the home wrecker on the spot. One went wide; the other hit Klara in the upper arm. The wound would prove trivial, but everything else was awkward indeed: neighbors scurrying past, loud cries for help through smashed windows, doors flying open, swoons and scenes, doctors,
police
, investigations, and, looming at the end of it all, apparently unavoidable, the court hearing, feared by all parties because of the scandal. Fortunately, there are clever lawyers—not just in Vienna but everywhere—who are practiced in hushing up such troubling episodes for the well-to-do. Counselor Karplus, the proven master of them all, immediately dispelled the imminent dangers of the affair. He respectfully summoned Klara to his office. Looking extremely elegant, with a fetching bandage, she read with curiosity through the contract, which stipulated that she depart for America immediately, before anyone could serve her with a summons; once there she would receive a one-time payment for damages and a certain sum of money on the first of every month for five years, provided she kept her mouth shut. Klara, who in any case had little wish to go back to being a dress model in Vienna after this scandal, and whose own family had thrown her out, glanced through the four foolscap pages of the contract without protest, rapidly calculated the amount, found it surprisingly high, and thought she’d see what would happen if she demanded an additional thousand gulden. This too was granted. She signed the contract with a quick smile, traveled
across the sea, and never regretted her decision. Even during the crossing all sorts of marriage opportunities presented themselves, and a decisive one soon came along: in a New York
boardinghouse
she met Anthony van Boolen. At the time he was only a minor commission agent for a Dutch exporter, but he quickly resolved that he would set up on his own in the South using the small capital which she contributed and whose romantic origin he never suspected. After three years she had two children, after five years a house, and after ten years a considerable fortune (the same war that was wrathfully crushing the wealthy in Europe was causing wealth to grow by leaps and bounds everywhere else). By now their two sons, grown up and business-minded, were already taking the reins at their father’s brokerage, and
after
so many years the two older people could permit themselves a relatively lengthy and leisurely trip to Europe. And strangely: when the low shores of Cherbourg emerged from the fog, in that fraction of a second Claire suddenly felt her sense of home change completely. She’d long since become deeply American, yet she felt an unexpected pang of nostalgia for her youth just because this bit of land was Europe. That night she dreamt of the little cribs in which she and her sister had slept side by side, a thousand tiny details came back to her; suddenly realizing she hadn’t written a word for years to her impoverished, widowed sister, she felt ashamed. The feeling gave her no rest. She went straight from the landing to send her the letter inviting her to come, enclosing with it a hundred-dollar bill.

But now the invitation was to be passed on to the daughter. Mrs. van Boolen had only to beckon: the liveried bellhop was there like a brown ramrod. He heard and obeyed the brief request for a telegraph form and sprinted finally with the completed sheet to the post office, his cap tight over his ears. A few minutes later the symbols sprang from the clattering telegraph up to the roof and into the vibrating strand of copper, and, more quickly than the rattling trains, inexpressibly more
quickly than the automobiles with their trails of swirling dust, the message flashed through a thousand kilometers of wire. In no time it had crossed the border, had passed through
Vorarlberg
with its thousand peaks, through cute little Liechtenstein, the many valleyed Tyrol, and already the magically transformed communication was whizzing down from the glaciers into the middle of the valley of the Danube and into a transformer in Linz. There it paused a moment; then, quicker than quick, the message shot through the rooftop circuitry in Klein-Reifling and into the startled telegraph receiver, and from there straight into a heart that was stunned, confused, and brimming with feverish curiosity.

Around the corner, up a dark creaky staircase, and Christine is home in the small-windowed attic room she shares with her mother in a narrow farmhouse. A broad projecting gable, though it helps to keep the snow away during the winter, also deprives the upper story of any ray of sun; not until evening does a weak sunbeam sometimes creep as far as the geraniums on the sill. It’s always musty and damp in this gloomy garret, it smells of decayed roofing and mildewy varnish; ancient odors permeate the wood like fungus. In ordinary times the room would probably have been used only for storage, but the severe housing shortage of the postwar period has made people accept modest living conditions. It’s a good thing only two beds, a table, and an old chest have to squeeze in. The inherited leather armchair took up too much room, so it went to a junk dealer at a low price. Later this turned out to be a serious mistake, for now whenever old Frau Hoflehner’s bloated, dropsical feet fail her, the bed is the only place left for her to rest them.

Tired and worn out before her time, she blames her sick legs, thick and swollen lumps with ominous blue veins under flannel bandages, on two years spent working as a caretaker
in a basement room, with nothing between her and the cold earth, in an infirmary to which she was assigned during the war (everyone had to make a living). Since then the heavy woman has moved with a labored wheezing; any exertion or excitement makes her clutch her heart. She knows she won’t last long. It’s a good thing that, amid all the confusion after the breakup of the monarchy, her brother-in-law the privy councillor had no trouble finding the Post Office job for Christine, miserably paid though it is and in such an out-of-the-way hole. But still: a little bit of security, a roof over your head, room to breathe, just barely; might as well get used to it—after all, the casket’s an even tighter fit.

It always smells of vinegar and damp in the cramped box, of sickness and confinement to bed. The door to the tiny adjoining kitchen doesn’t close properly, so the insipid fumes of reheated food creep in like a stewing fog. Coming in now, Christine automatically flings open the window. The sudden noise awakens the old woman on the bed, and she can’t help moaning, the way a broken-down trunk might creak when anyone even approaches it: her rheumatic body knows pain is coming and dreads it, the pain that any movement causes. So first the unavoidable moan; then she lurches to her feet. “What is it?” she asks. Even asleep, she knew it couldn’t be noon yet, couldn’t be lunchtime. Something must have happened. Her daughter hands her the telegram.

The weathered hand gropes among the drugstore articles on the night table and with effort (every movement hurts) finds the steel-rimmed glasses. But once she’s made out what’s on the sheet of paper, it’s as though an electric shock goes through her heavy body. She gasps, struggles for breath, sways, and finally collapses with all her weight onto Christine. She clings fiercely to her startled daughter, quakes, laughs, wheezes, tries to speak but can’t. Finally, hands pressed to her heart, she sinks exhaustedly into the chair. She takes a deep breath and pants
for a moment. But then a confused torrent of broken,
half-intelligible
sentences bursts from her toothless, working mouth, interspersed with floods of wild triumphant laughter. Tears roll down her cheeks and into her sagging mouth as she stammers and waves her hands, hurling the jumble of excited words at her bewildered daughter. Thank God, it’s all turned out well, now she can die in peace, a useless, sick old woman like her. That’s the only reason she made the pilgrimage last month, in June, that’s all she asked for, the only thing, that her sister Klara would come back before she died and look after Christl, poor child. So now she’s happy. See, she didn’t just send a letter, no, she spent good money on a telegram, saying that Christl should come up to her hotel, and she sent a hundred dollars two weeks ago, yes, Klara always had a heart of gold, she was always good and kind. And Christine can use that hundred dollars for more than just travel, yes, she can dress up like a princess before she goes to visit her aunt at that posh resort. Oh, she’ll get an eyeful there, she’ll see how those high-class people live it up, the people with money. For the first time she’ll have it as good as the rest, thank heavens, and by the saints she’s earned it. Because what has she ever gotten out of her life—nothing, just the job and responsibility and slaving away on top of having to take care of a useless, sick, unhappy old woman who should have been dead and buried long ago and who if she had any sense would finally just give up once and for all. It was on her account and because of the damned war that Christl’s entire girlhood was ruined, it always tore her old mother’s heart out to see her missing the best years of her life. But now she can make her fortune. She should just make sure to be polite to her aunt and uncle, always polite, always humble, and not be frightened of her aunt Klara, she always did have a heart of gold, she’s good, and she’ll certainly help her get out of this stifling hole, this one-horse town, once she herself is dead and buried. No, Christine shouldn’t think twice if her aunt ends by offering to
take her along, she should just get out of this rotten country, away from these no-goods, don’t worry about her. She can always find a spot in a nursing home and when you get down to it how much time does she have left … Ah, now she can die in peace, everything will be fine now.