Billiards at Half-Past Nine (34 page)

“Good heavens,” said Marianne, “it’s a miniature model of St. Anthony’s.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Kroner, “look here—we didn’t even forget the mosaic above the main entrance—and there, there are the vineyards.”

Not only was the model accurately scaled, it was also accurately colored. The church was dark, the farm buildings light, the pilgrim’s lodge had a red roof and the refectory had its many-colored window.

“And it isn’t made of icing sugar or marzipan,” said Mrs. Kroner, “all of it is cake; our birthday present for His Excellency—the finest pastry. Don’t you think your grandfather might come over and look at it here before we take it up to his studio?”

“Definitely,” said Joseph, “he’ll definitely come over and look at it. Meanwhile, let me thank you on his behalf. There must be serious reasons to cause him to cancel the party, and you’ll understand.…”

“I quite understand that it’s time you left—no, don’t spread the cloth over it again, Miss, the television say they’re coming.”

“I’d like to do one thing,” said Joseph, as they crossed the square in front of St. Severin’s, “laugh or cry, but I can’t do either.”

“I know which I could do more easily,” said Ruth. “Cry. But I’m not going to. Who are those people there? What’s all the fuss about? What are they doing with those torches?”

There was a lot of noise, clopping of horses, whinnying,
and imperious voices barking out orders to assemble. The brass instruments were warming up. A short, brittle sound, not especially loud, broke through the noise, something very foreign to it all.

My God,” said Marianne fearfully, “what was that?”

“That was a shot,” said Joseph.

She was startled when she came through the city gate into Modest Street. The street was empty. No apprentices, no nuns, no life on the street. Only Mrs. Gretz’ white smock there behind the counter, scrubbing, pink-armed, pushing around soapsuds with the scrubbing brush. The printers’ door was locked fast, as if never again, in all eternity, would there be printed edification on white paper. The wild boar, its legs splayed out and the wound in its flank blackly encrusted, was being dragged slowly inside the shop. Gretz’ red face showed how heavy the animal was. Only one of the three rings had been answered; not in No. 7, not in No. 8, only in the Cafe Kroner. “Dr. Faehmel. It’s important.” “He’s not here. The party’s canceled. Miss Leonore? You’re expected in the Prince Heinrich Hotel.” The messenger had rung insistently while she was sitting in the bath. The wild noise had boded no good. She had got out of the bath, thrown on her bathrobe, wound a towel round her damp hair, gone to the door and took in the special-delivery letter. Schrit had written the address with his yellow pencil, made a big crisscross on the envelope and, no doubt, sent his eighteen-year-old daughter chasing off with it to the post office on her bicycle. Urgent.

‘Dear Miss Leonore, please try to reach Dr. Faehmel at once. The entire estimates for building project X-5 are wrong. Mr. Kanders, whom I have just telephoned, has moreover sent along the—incorrect—documents direct to the client, contrary to our usual practice. The matter is so urgent that if you do not let me know by 8
P.M
. that something is being done about it, I will come in myself on the night express. I hardly need point
out to you the scope and importance of project X-5. Yours sincerely, Schrit.’

She had already walked past the Prince Heinrich Hotel twice, and twice retraced her steps back into Modest Street, almost to Gretz’ shop, and twice again turned back; she was scared of the row that would ensue. Saturday for him was a sacred day, and he would tolerate interruptions for personal matters only, but interruptions for business matters on Saturdays he would never put up with. The ‘Stupid thing!’ still rang in her ears. It wasn’t seven yet, and Schrit could still be reached by phone in a few minutes. A good thing the old man had canceled the party. Seeing Robert Faehmel eating or drinking would have been desecration. She thought fearfully about building project X-5. This was no personal matter; nor was it a ‘Publisher’s house at edge of forest,’ or a ‘Teacher’s house on river bank.’ X-5—so secret she hardly dared think of it—was buried deep in the safe. She caught her breath; hadn’t he spent nearly a quarter of an hour on the telephone discussing it with Kanders? She was scared.

Gretz was still tugging at the wild boar, and by fits and starts managed to get the mighty animal over the steps. A messenger with a huge basket of flowers was ringing at the door of the printing press. The janitor appeared, took the flower basket, and shut the door again. The messenger looked at the tip in the palm of his hand, disappointed. ‘I’m going to tell him,’ she thought, ‘I’m going to tell that nice old man that his instructions to give every messenger a two-mark tip are clearly not being obeyed. That wasn’t any silver shining in the messenger’s hand, only dull old copper.’

Courage, Leonore, courage, grit your teeth, get hold of yourself and go into the hotel. But once again, she shrank back round the corner. A girl with a food hamper walked up to the door of the printing press. She too stared at the palm of her hand. ‘That bastard of a janitor,’ thought Leonore, ‘I really will
tell Mr. Faehmel.’

Still ten minutes to seven. She’d been invited to the Cafe Kroner but ordered to the Prince Heinrich, and she would arrive with a business message, exactly what he hated on his sacred Saturdays. Would he, in this exceptional instance, react differently? She shook her head as, with blind courage, she finally pushed the door open and felt with a shock that it was being held open from within.

Child, child, I might allow myself a personal observation in your case too. Just come closer, now. I hope the cause of your timidity lies not in the purpose but merely in the fact of your presence here. I’ve seen plenty of young girls come in here before but never one like you; you don’t belong in this place, at the present moment there’s only a single guest in the house to whom I would admit you and not allow myself a personal observation—Faehmel; I could be your grandfather and therefore you won’t mind my personal comments. What do you want in this den of thieves? Leave a trail of breadcrumbs so you can find your way back. You’ve made a mistake, child. Whoever comes here professionally doesn’t look like you, and whoever comes here privately, even less so. Come closer. “Dr. Faehmel? Yes. His secretary? Urgent—wait a moment, please. Miss, I’ll have him called to the telephone … I hope the noise out there won’t disturb you.”

“Leonore? I’m glad Father invited you. And please excuse me for what I said this morning, will you, Leonore? My father’s expecting you in Room 212. A letter from Mr. Schrit? All the calculations on the X-5 documents wrong? Yes, I’ll look into it, I’ll telephone Schrit. Anyway, thank you, Leonore. And I’ll see you later.”

She laid down the receiver, went across to Jochen and was about to ask the way to the Faehmels’ room when a short, brittle sound that seemed very foreign, not especially loud, made her jump.

“Good God,” she said, “what was that?”

“That was a pistol shot, child,” said Jochen.

Red-green, white-green. Hugo was leaning against the white-lacquered door panel with his hands crossed behind his back. It seemed to him that the forms were less precise and the rhythm of the billard balls disrupted. But were the billiard balls not the same, and was the table not the same, of the finest make, kept in the finest condition? And had not Schrella’s hand become even lighter and his touch even more accurate, when he struck out a form from the green void? Yet still it seemed to Hugo that the rhythm of the billiard balls had been disrupted, the precision of the figures lessened. Was it Schrella who had brought the perpetual present with him and broken the spell? This was here, it was today, it was six-forty-four on Saturday, September 6, 1958. Here you were not carried thirty years back, four ahead, forty back again and then flung into the present. This was the perpetual present, moved steadily on by the second hand, here, today, now, as the commotion from the dining room came crowding in. The bill, waiter, the bill. They were all clamoring to leave, to watch the fireworks, to get to the window, to see the parade. To go to the Roman children’s graves. Are the flash bulb attachments in working order? Didn’t you know that M meant Minister? Clever, isn’t it? The bill, waiter, the bill.

The clocks did not chime in vain, and their hands did not move in vain. They piled up minute on minute and added them together into quarter-hours and half-hours, and the total would exactly account for the years and hours and seconds. And the question, ‘Robert, where are you, Robert, where were you, Robert, where have you been?’ did it not echo out in time to the rhythm of the balls? And did Robert not return the question with each stroke? ‘Schrella, where are you, Schrella, where were you, Schrella, where have you been?’ And was this game not a kind of prayer wheel? A litany struck out across the green
felt with billiard balls and cues?
Whywhywhy
and
Lord have mercy on us, Lord have mercy on us!
Each time Schrella stepped back from the edge of the table he smiled and shook his head, as he turned over the figure formed by the balls to Robert.

Hugo involuntarily shook his head too, after each shot. The spell had vanished, the precision diminished, the rhythm disrupted, while the clock so exactly answered the question of
when?
Six-fifty-one on September 6, 1958.

“Oh,” said Robert, “let’s quit, we’re not in Amsterdam any longer.”

“Yes,” said Schrella, “you’re right, let’s quit. Do we still need the boy here?”

“Yes,” Robert said, “I still need him, unless you’d rather go, Hugo? No? Please stay. Put the cues on the stand, put the balls away, and bring us something to drink—no, stay, son. I have something to show you. Look here, here’s a whole bundle of papers. By affixing stamps and signatures they’ve been turned into documents. All they need is one more thing, Hugo. Your signature at the foot of this page—when you write it in, you’ll be my son! Did you see my mother and father up there, when you took up the wine? They’ll be your grandparents, Schrella will be your uncle, Ruth and Marianne your sisters and Joseph your brother. You’ll be the son Edith was no longer able to give me. What will the old man say when I present him with a new grandson for his birthday—with Edith’s smile on his face? Do I still need the boy, Schrella? Yes, we need him, and we’d be glad if he needed us. Better still—we’re suffering from the want of him.… Listen, Hugo, we’re in want of you. You can’t be Ferdi’s son, yet you have his spirit. Hush, boy, don’t cry, go up to your room and read these through. Be careful when you go through the halls, careful, son!”

Schrella drew back the curtain and looked out onto the square. Robert offered him a cigarette and Schrella struck a light; they both began smoking.

“Haven’t you left your hotel room yet?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to live with us?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Schrella. “I’m afraid of houses you move into, then let yourself be convinced of the banal fact that life goes on and that you get used to anything in time. Ferdi would only be a memory, and my father only a dream. And yet they killed Ferdi, and his father vanished from here without a trace. They’re not even remembered in the lists of any political organization, since they never belonged to any. They aren’t even remembered in the Jewish memorial services, since they weren’t Jews. Ferdi, perhaps, lives on at least in the court records. Only we two think of him, Robert, your parents and that old desk clerk down there—not even your children, any longer. I can’t live in this city because it isn’t alien enough for me. I was born here and went to school here. I tried to free Gruffel Street from their spell. I carried within me the word I never uttered, Robert, never even when I talked to you, the only one that I expect to do anything for this world—I won’t even say it now. Perhaps I’ll be able to say it to you at the station, when you take me to the train.”

“Do you want to leave today?” asked Robert.

“No, no, not today; my hotel room’s exactly right. Once I shut the door behind me, this city becomes as foreign as all the others. There I can imagine I must soon be getting ready to go out and give my language lessons somewhere, in a schoolroom perhaps, wiping the arithmetic homework off the blackboard and then chalking on it: ‘I bind, I bound, I have bound, I shall bind, I had bound—you bind, you bound.’ I love grammar the way I love poetry. Maybe you think I don’t want to live here because this country seems to me to have no political future, but I’m more inclined to believe I couldn’t live here because I always have been, and still am today, completely unpolitical.” He pointed toward the square outside and laughed. “Those people down there aren’t scaring me off. Yes, yes, I know the whole story, I see them all down there, Robert—Nettlinger,
Vacano, and I’m not afraid because those people there exist but rather because the other kind do not exist. What kind? Those who think the word, sometimes, or perhaps whisper it. I once heard it from an old man in Hyde Park, Robert: ‘If you believe in Him, why don’t you obey His commands?’ Silly, isn’t it, and unrealistic, eh, Robert?
Feed my lambs
, Robert—but all they do is breed wolves. What did you bring home from the war, Robert? Dynamite? It’s a wonderful toy to play with, I understand your passion for it. Hate, for the world which had no room for Edith and Ferdi, no room for my father or for Groll or the lad whose name we never learned, or for the Pole who raised his hand to strike Vacano. And so you collect statistics the way others collect baroque madonnas, and file your formulas in card indexes, while even my nephew, Edith’s son, is sick of the smell of mortar and out looking for the formula for the future somewhere else than in St. Anthony’s patched-up walls. What’s he going to find? Will you be able to give him that formula? Will he find it in the face of his new brother whose father you want to be? You’re right, Robert, one can’t
be
a father, one
becomes
a father. That feeling in the blood is false, the other feeling alone is true—that’s the reason I never married, I didn’t have the courage to rely on becoming a father; I couldn’t have stood it if my children had grown as alien to me as Otto became to your parents. Even the memory of my own mother and father didn’t give me courage enough, and you don’t yet know what Joseph and Ruth will grow into one day, or of what host they’ll partake—you can’t even be sure of Edith’s and your children; no, no, Robert, you’ll understand if I don’t leave my hotel room and move into the house where Otto lived and where Edith died. I couldn’t stand seeing that letter box every day, where the boy used to put your messages—is it still the same old letter box?”