Billiards at Half-Past Nine (35 page)

“No,” said Robert, “the entire door’s been replaced—it was riddled with shrapnel—only the pavement’s the same—the same one he used to walk on.”

“Do you remember that when you walk across it?”

“Yes,” said Robert, “I remember it, and perhaps that’s one of the reasons I collect stress and strain formulas—why didn’t you come back earlier?”

“Because I was afraid the city might not be alien enough to me. Twenty-two years, however, cushion things pretty well. And isn’t there room enough for what we have to say to each other, Robert, on postcards? I’d enjoy living near you, Robert, but not here. I’m scared. And am I kidding myself, or aren’t the people I’ve run into just as bad as those I left behind?”

“You probably aren’t kidding yourself.”

“What’s become of people like Enders? Do you remember him—the redhead? He was nice, certainly wasn’t a brute. What did people like him do during the war, and what are they doing today?”

“Perhaps you underestimate Enders; he wasn’t merely nice, he—well, why not simply put it as Edith used to—he never tasted the Host of the Beast. Enders has become a priest. After the war he preached what to me were some unforgettable sermons. It would sound bad if I were to repeat his words, but when he said them they sounded good.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“They’ve stuck him in a village the trains don’t even go to. And there he’s preaching away over the heads of the peasants and the schoolchildren. They don’t hate him, they simply don’t understand him, they even honor him after their fashion, like a likable fool. Does he really tell them that all men are brothers? They know better, and secretly think: ‘But isn’t he a Communist?’ Nothing else occurs to them—the list of stereotypes has dwindled, Schrella. No one would have had the idea of labeling your father a Communist. Not even Nettlinger was as stupid as that. Today they’d have no other category for your father. Enders would shepherd the lambs, but they only give him goats. He’s an object of suspicion because he makes the Sermon on the Mount the subject of his sermons so often.
Perhaps some day they’ll discover it’s an extraneous interpolation and have it struck out—we’ll go and visit Enders, Schrella, and when we take the evening bus back to the railway station, we’ll be taking more despair than comfort back. I’m closer to the moon than I am to that village—we’ll give our compassion a workout and visit him, people ought to visit prisoners—but what made you mention Enders?”

“I was thinking about whom I’d like to see again. You forget that I had to disappear right from classes. But I’m afraid of meeting people since I’ve seen Ferdi’s sister.”

“You’ve seen Ferdi’s sister?”

“Yes, she runs the lemonade stall at the No. 11 terminus. Haven’t you ever been there?”

“No, I’m afraid I might find Gruffel Street strange now.”

“It was more alien to me than any other street in the world—don’t go there, Robert. Are the Trischlers really dead?”

“Yes,” said Robert, “Alois, too. They went down with the
Anna Katharina
. They hadn’t been living at the harbor for some while. When the bridge was built they had to leave, but they didn’t go for living in a city apartment. They needed water and ships. Alois was going to take them to friends in Holland, on the
Anna Katharina
. The boat was bombed; Alois tried to get his parents out of the cabin but it was too late—the water was already rushing in from above, and they never got out. It took me a long time to find any trace of them.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“In The Anchor; I used to go there every day and question all the boatmen—until I found one who knew what had happened to the
Anna Katharina.
”

Schrella drew the curtains together again, walked over to the table and stubbed out his cigarette. Robert followed him.

“I believe,” he said, “it’s time we went up to my parents—or would you rather not come to the party?”

“No,” said Schrella, “I’ll come with you, but shouldn’t
we wait for the boy? Tell me, what are people like Schweugel doing now?”

“Are you really interested?”

“Yes. Why do you ask if I’m really interested?”

“Did you really think about Enders and Schweugel in your hotel rooms and boarding houses?”

“Yes, and about Grewe and Holten—they were the only ones who didn’t join in when the others attacked me on my way home. Nor did Drischka. What are they doing? Are they still alive?”

“Holten’s dead, killed in the war,” said Robert, “but Schweugel’s still alive. He’s a writer. And when he phones in the evening or rings the front door bell I have Ruth say I’m not at home. I find being with him unbearable and unproductive. I simply get bored with him. He’s always talking about bourgeois and non-bourgeois, and I suppose he thinks he’s the latter. What’s the use of it? It just doesn’t interest me. But he’s several times asked after you.”

“I see. And what’s become of Grewe?”

“He’s a party member, but don’t ask me which party—it doesn’t matter anyway. And Drischka is making ‘Drischka’s Auto-Lions,’ a patented article that brings him in a lot of money. Don’t you know what an Auto-Lion is? Stick around a few days and you’ll find out. Anybody who thinks well of himself keeps one of Drischka’s lions in the back of his car, on the rear window ledge. And you’ll hardly find a person in this country who doesn’t think pretty well of himself. This has been drummed into all of them. They brought a great deal back home from the war, memories of pain and sacrifice, but today they just plain think about themselves—didn’t you see the people down there in the foyer? They were going to three different banquets: one banquet for the Left Opposition, one banquet for the Co-operative Welfare Society, and one banquet for the Right Opposition—but you’d have to be a genius to know who was going to which banquet.”

“Yes,” said Schrella, “I was sitting down there waiting for you while the first guests were coming in. I heard some talk about an Opposition. The first arrivals were the harmless kind, the good old Joe Blows of democracy, the business small fry who aren’t so bad when you get to know them, as they say. They were talking about different makes of cars and weekend villas, and telling each other the French Riviera was beginning to be fashionable precisely because it’s so overcrowded, and that in spite of all forecasts to the contrary it was becoming the fashion among intellectuals to go on package tours. Is that what they call inverse snobbery in this country, or dialectics? You’ll have to enlighten me on such matters. An English snob would say to you: ‘For ten cigarettes I’d sell you my granny.’ But here they actually would sell you their grandma, and for five cigarettes at that, since they take even their snobbism seriously. Later on they got talking about schools; some were for the Humanistic ones, some against, and so on. Well, all right. I listened because I’d have very much liked to hear something about their real problems. Again and again they whispered to each other reverently the name of the star they were waiting for this evening. Kretz—have you heard the name before?”

“Kretz,” said Robert, “in a manner of speaking, is an Opposition celebrity.”

“I kept on hearing the word ‘Opposition,’ but it wasn’t clear, from what they were saying, what Opposition they were talking about.”

“If they were waiting for Kretz they must have belonged to the Left Opposition.”

“If I got it right, this Kretz is what they call a ‘white hope.’ ”

“Yes,” said Robert, “they’re expecting a lot from him.”

“I saw him,” said Schrella, “he came last. If he’s their white hope, I’d like to know what their despair would be like. I think if ever I wanted to knock anybody off, he’d be the one. Are all of you blind? He’s clever and cultured, of course, he can quote Herodotus in the original, and to these little businessmen
who’ll never get over their education tick, this has the ring of heavenly music. But Robert, I hope you’d never leave your daughter or son alone with Kretz for one instant. He’s such a snob he’s forgotten what sex he belongs to. They’re playing going to hell in a hand bucket, Robert, but they’re not playing it well. All you need is a little slow music and you’ll have a third-class funeral.…”

Schrella was interrupted by the phone ringing, and he followed Robert to the corner as he picked up the receiver.

“Leonore?” said Robert, “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.”

Robert put down the receiver and turned back to Schrella. “I believe—” he said, but a very strange sound, not especially loud but short and brittle, interrupted him.

“Good God,” said Schrella, “that was a shot!”

“Yes,” said Robert, “that was a shot. I believe we ought to go upstairs now.”

Hugo read: ‘Declaration: claims waived by the undersigned: I hereby declare myself as having agreed that my son Hugo.…’ Underneath was an important-looking stamp, and signatures, but the inner voice he had held in such fear remained silent. Which voice had ordered him to cover his mother’s nakedness when she came home after her expeditions, and lay on the bed muttering that fatal litany,
whywhywhy
. He had felt compassion and covered her nakedness, and brought her something to drink, and—at the risk of being assaulted, beaten and called
Holy Lamb
—he had slipped into the shop and begged two cigarettes. Which voice ordered him to play canasta with
a thing like that should never have been born
. Warned him against going into the shepherd-priestess’s room, and now inspired
him to murmur the word to himself, “Father.”

To lessen the fear which beset him, he spilled out other words after it, brother and sister, grandfather, grandmother and uncle, but those words did nothing to lessen his fear. He cast forth more words, dynamics and dynamite, billiards and correct, scars on the back, cognac and cigarettes, red-green, white-green, but the fear was not alleviated. Action perhaps might assuage it: and he opened the window and looked down at the murmuring crowd. Was their murmur menacing or friendly? Fireworks were exploding against the deep blue sky. Claps of thunder from which giant flowers blossomed. Orange shafts of light, like searching fingers. Window down. He ran his hands over the violet uniform hanging on the coat hanger behind the door. He opened the door into the corridor, and sensed the excitement which had spread even up to his floor—someone in Room 211 had been seriously wounded! He heard a buzz of voices, steps here, steps there, steps going up, steps going down and again and again a police officer’s penetrating voice saying: “Make way there, make way there!”

Make way! Away! Hugo was afraid, and he whispered the word, “Father.” The manager had said, we’ll miss you, do you have to go like this, so suddenly? And he hadn’t said it out loud, only thought, yes, I have to, like this, suddenly, the time is ripe. And when Jochen had brought in the news of the attempted assassination, the manager had forgotten his surprise at Hugo’s giving notice. The manager had received Jochen’s news not with horror but with delight, not shaking his head sadly but rubbing his hands, ‘None of you has any idea what this means. This kind of sensation can send a hotel zooming. It’s the only way to hit the headlines. Murder isn’t suicide, Jochen, and political murder isn’t just any murder. If he isn’t dead yet, we must act as if he will be soon. You’ve no idea what it means; at least we must get a “Life in Grave Danger” into the headlines. I want all phone calls put straight through to my line, so I can
see to it we don’t foul up this chance. Good God, don’t all look at me like a bunch of sadsacks! Keep cool. What I want you to do is put on a look of restrained commiseration, like someone in mourning, but comforted by the coming legacy. Okay, boys, get to work. There’s going to be an avalanche of wired reservations. M., of all people; you’ve no idea what this means. I only hope we don’t get a suicide to cross us. Phone the gentleman in Room 11 right away. As far as I’m concerned he can get angry and leave—goddamn, the fireworks ought to have waked him up. Okay, boys, man the guns.’

‘Father,’ thought Hugo, ‘you’ve got to come and get me, they won’t let me through to Room 212.’ Flashbulbs were popping in the gray, shadowy stairwell. The elevator was in the shaft, a square of light, bringing up guests to Rooms 213–226, who, because of the police barricade, had to ride up to the third floor and walk down the service stairs. The elevator door as it opened released a loud buzz of voices, dark suits and bright dresses, bewildered faces and petulant lips forming the words, “It’s too much, really, it’s scandalous.” Hugo pushed his door shut. Too late; she’d detected him, had begun to hurry down the corridor toward his room. He had just managed to turn the key on the inside when the handle shook violently.

“Open the door, Hugo, come on, open the door,” she said.

“No.”

“I order you to.”

“I stopped working for this hotel a quarter of an hour ago, Madam.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To my father’s.”

“Open the door, Hugo, open the door, I won’t hurt you and I won’t frighten you any more. You can’t leave. I know you haven’t got a father, I know very well you haven’t. I need you, Hugo. You’re the one they’re waiting for, Hugo, and you
know it. You’ll see the whole world and they’ll lie at your feet in the best hotels. You won’t need to say anything, you’ll only need to be there. Your face, Hugo—come on, open the door, you can’t leave.”

Her words were interrupted by shakes of the door handle, punctuating her voice’s pleading flow.

“… it’s not for my sake, really, Hugo, forget all I’ve said and done. It was just despair made me do it—come now, Hugo, for their sake—they’re waiting for you, you’re our lamb.…”

The door handle shook again.

“What do you want here?” the woman outside asked.

“I’m looking for my son.”

“Hugo’s your son?”

“Yes. Open the door, Hugo.”

For the first time he forgot to say ‘please,’ thought Hugo. He turned the key and opened the door.