I Confess (10 page)

She had on a tight-fitting black evening dress and her red hair was combed up. I opened and closed my hand. I could still feel the pressure of her fingers. I felt it all evening. I spoke with other people, walked into other rooms. Whenever I turned around, I saw her, and she was looking at me. Seriously, thoughtfully, a little sleepily. In half

an hour I had reached the point when I saw no one but her.

She had been engaged as my secretary. She had aheady worked for two American film companies in Germany, spoke fluent Enghsh and was a perfect stenographer and typist. Clayton told me all this. I barely Ustened. I tried not to look in her dhection, then, of course, I looked. There she was, staring at me. And I stared back at her, in her black evening dress, only I didn't see the dress. I saw her naked every time.

Margaret enjoyed the evening. Hellweg was a nice fellow and they had a long talk about contemporary European hterature. It was Margaret's favorite topic. She had just read Orwell's 1984 and was crazy about it. A few of those present hadn't read it and Margaret told them, "A fantastic book! Beheve me. You've got to read it. It's unique. A great writer."

"He certainly is," said Hellweg. He spoke slowly and with a heavy accent as he sought the correct English words. "But I don't think you quite understood it."

"What do you mean?" asked Margaret, her eyes bright as she emptied her glass. She liked to show off her intellectual side. I filled her glass again. We were drinking cocktails. We were drinking a lot. The radio was playing softly.

"Do you know who Coue was?" a voice asked.

Everybody turned in the direction of the voice. It was Yolanda who had asked the question. She had come up to our table and sat down on the arm of a chair. She was smoking, short, hasty puffs, her glass in her other hand. I stared at her. I saw her naked.

"Of course," replied Clayton. "Coue . . . wasn't that some French doctor or other who tried to tell his patients they were only imagining their illnesses? Am I right?"

"You're right," said Hellweg, and to Yolanda, "What makes you bring him up?"

"Coue," said Yolanda, "was a fanatic. When one of his patients was in bad shape, he wouldn't allow any of his

colleagues to say so. In such cases they were not to say: Mr. X. doesn't feel well; they had to say: Mr. X. imagines he doesn't feel well."

A tall dark man with a secretive face, who had been listening, now said, "And one day they reached the point where they had to tell Professor Coue, 'Mr. X. imagines that he has died.' "

Everybody laughed, Clayton loudest of all. He slapped the man on the shoulder and explained to all present, "Mr. Mordstein is our adviser on specifically German matters. He attends to all our business with the government, does our banking. ..."

"Maid of all work," said the man whose name was Mordstein. He looked at Yolanda. "Excuse me. I interrupted you."

She shook her head. "Not at all. You took the words right out of my mouth. All of us in Europe are in the same position as Mr. X. The patient Europa imagines he is dead."

"Bravo!" said Hellweg.

"I don't think I understand," said Margaret.

"You come from another world, Mrs. Chandler," said Hellweg. "You won't understand a lot of what's going on here. But Miss Caspari is right." Hellweg spoke on, but I couldn't follow him. I was watching Yolanda. And suddenly I had the feeling I was getting drunk. Rapidly and terribly drunk. I hadn't really had much to drink, still everything was revolving around me. Mechanically I lighted a cigarette and stopped looking at Yolanda. I wanted to listen to what Hellweg was saying.

I didn't listen.

I looked at Yolanda aeain. And T saw her as T had seen her every time I had looked at her—naked.

She put out her cigarette, leaned forward and returned my gaze. Her eyes were serious, green and veiled. Her gaze held mine like a magnet, embraced mine, wouldn't let go, and again I could hear Hellweg's voice fading away as things began to grow dim and the room began to revolve around me. I made a fist of my right hand. Then I heard a sound and felt a stabbing pain. I had broken the stem of the glass I was holding. The top lay on the floor and my drink was running out on the carpet, making a dark spot.

"I'm sorry," I said, and picked up the glass.

"Your hand!" cried Joe.

I had cut my thumb. Blood was seeping from the wound, and I took out my handkerchief.

"I'll get some iodine."

"Don't bother, please," I said. "It's just a scratch.**

Yolanda said nothing. I turned my back on her and leaned forward, determined to listen to Hellweg. He had started to speak again. "And this is the cultural atmosphere in which the youth of Europe is growing up, an atmosphere of absolute hopelessness. And our intellectuals are the chronologists of this hopelessness." He raised his voice; he was quite evidently off on his favorite theme. Everybody was listening to him as he slowly, carefully chose the rieht English expressions. The radio was playing "An American in Paris." Mordstein saw to it that our glasses were filled. The light of the standing lamp at my side was warm and golden. A good atmosphere for talking about the end of the world.

85

I had been unfaithful to Margaret more than once. She knew it. And I knew that she knew it. I never tried too hard to hide it from her. That evening two thoughts ran through my mind: I knew I was going to be unfaithful to her with Yolanda Caspari, and that this time I was going to do my best to hide it from her. The only thing I didn't know was why I wanted to hide it from her this time. What was different about this time? What was worrying me? Because something was worrjang me. I couldn't say what. Not my conscience. I was afraid.

"You're not drinking," somebody beside me said. It was Mordstein. He had the decanter in his hand and was smiling.

"Oh, but I am," I said and emptied my glass.

"That's better," he said and refilled it. It was a gin, rum and juice cocktail and burned lightly on the tongue. I looked at Yolanda. She hadn't taken her eyes oflf me. Now she lifted her glass and drank to me. I smiled weakly. She smiled too, for a moment. AU right then, I thought. But I was afraid.

"Leave the decanter here," I said.

"Sure thing," said Mordstein and put it down in front of me.

Yolanda crossed her legs, stuck a cigarette in her mouth; I offered her a light. My hand was trembling. She looked at my hand, at me, then at my hand again. I could have struck her. Then at last she took my light, but she was too late. The match had burned my finger. It was a finger of the hand around which I had tied my handkerchief.

Hellweg and Margaret were still discoursing. "For the communists," the German writer was saying, "western anti-communist literature is triumphant proof of the rightness of the way they have chosen and of the certainty of their final victory," after saying which, Hellweg drank too. It was his first drink, yet his face was already flushed. He had found a topic that was dear to his heart. This seemed to be the case with practically everyone in Ger-

many. You couldn't be anywhere without becoming involved within minutes in a poHtical discussion, carried on as if it were a matter of life or death. It was a mania, a plague. Europe was drowning in politics. No, Margaret really had no conception of the continent of Europe. None of us, used to the peace and self-satisfaction of the United States, had any idea. "And how did we get into this mess?" asked fat, good-natured Joe. His cigar had gone out. He was seated facing Hellweg as if the latter were already his commissar. "That's easy to understand," said Hellweg. "The horrors of the war were not all that bad. We could have recovered from them. Dire were the disappomtments of the peace. You promised us—and not only us—peace, human dignity, freedom from fear and want, freedom of speech and religion, and so on and so forth. Do I need to say more?"

"No," said Mordstein, "you really don't."

"Do go on," I said.

"Do you really want to hear it?" By now all of us were slightly drunk, Hellweg too. "So after we had swallowed all that," he continued, "The Voice of America, the BBC and the Moscow radio, after having put all our hopes in you and your freedom, then we got your freedom. And you let us down. You Ued to us. Peace had just arrived and already you came to blows. Peace had just arrived and we could start fearing all over again, of being deported, beaten up, imprisoned. And even you, the AlHes, got into each other's hair and preferred to fraternize with the old Nazis rather than shake hands with your friends who had fought with you. We haven't forgotten what Churchill said."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'We slaughtered the wrong pig.' '*

Clayton laughed.

"Very funny," said Hellweg, "isn't itr*

Qayton stopped laughing.

"So you understand, I hope," said Hellweg, and drank again, "why books like that are written in Europe."

"I begin to understand," said Margaret.

"And on top of all that the tormenting thought that you're part of an economic system that's obsolete and fatally ill. You have to be a communist to know that capitalism is not going to be the social reform system of the future. And still—the era of the Geiger counter and the false passport has not yet come!" He interrupted himself, smiled boyishly and said, "Oh God, a typical Boche. Holds speeches at the drop of a hat. I apologize."

He turned the radio on louder. Dance music filled the air. Hellweg got up, went over to Yolanda and asked, "Shall we dance?"

Yolanda nodded and he danced away with her.

The party around the table broke up. Margaret danced with Clayton. The other guests paired off. I remained behind with Mordstein, and we watched the dancers.

"So now you know what it's all about," he said. He really was extraordinarily swarthy. I noticed it only now when he came closer. He wore a'lot of rings.

"It was very informative," I said, "to see conditions through the eyes of a German."

He looked at me with curiosity.

"What is it?"

"Nothing, Mr. Chandler. Why?"

"You're looking at me so strangely."

"I was just thinking how easy it is to impress Americans."

I turned my back on him and said nothing.

Yolanda was dancing with Hellweg. She danced well. Every time they passed us, she looked at me, and every time I felt fear.

Mordstein went on speaking. "I don't really understand what's going on. You think you have the power and we Germans are your creatures. If only you knew. But no. Ten minutes of Hellweg's nebulous talk, and you're hearing the gospel." He imitated Hellweg's voice. "The era of the Geiger counter and the false passport has not yet come." He drank and laughed heartily. "Have you any

idea how much money is being earned in Germany right now with Geiger counters? And with bunkers, armament, and radar?"

The dance was over. Hellweg bowed before Yolanda, a little stiffly, in true German style. She nodded and left him and walked over to the door. In the doorway she stopped and turned around. Her eyes were dark, deep and dangerous. I stared at her. Qayton and Margaret wandered off into the next room, chatting.

"As for false passports, for which, according to HeU-weg, the time has also not yet come—^who knows when you may want one, Mr. Chandler."

"I don't need one."

"Who can say that? The day may come—and then who's going to help? To whom do you turn? But don't be afraid, Mr. Chandler—^when the time comes, just come to old Uncle Mordstein. We'll see what we can do for an American brother."

Yolanda turned and left the room.

I got up. Now I really was drunk. "Excuse me," T said.

"But of course," said Mordstein, looking satisfied, and filled his glass. I walked to the door. I didn't want to. My legs took me there. I could see Yolanda, Yolanda who wasn't there anymore. The radio was still playing dance music. I went out into the hall.

The hall was poorly Ughted and empty. A wooden staircase led down to the front door. I could hear it close.

I walked past a closet and down the stairs. The front door opened soundlessly. I stepped out into the garden. It lay in the unreal, white light of a full moon that was just rising above the trees. It was still and warm. My head ached suddenly and I couldn't see well. In front of me a figure was moving toward the greenhouse. I followed it. At the greenhouse I caught up with it. It was Yolanda.

She went ahead of me down the two stone steps that led into the empty greenhouse. The moon was shining through the windows. There was a table, garden tools, a few plants in clay pots. In the middle stood a dilapidated

old couch, Yolanda walked over to it. We didn't speak a word.

I grasped hold of her, drew her to me, and we kissed. She slipped her dress off her shoulders and we sank down on the dirty couch. Our hands moved in unison. In the moonlight Yolanda's face was white, her cheekbones stood out and her eyes lay in deep hollows. Her mouth looked like a gaping w^ound. Her breasts were two round discs in the milky twilight. She was breathing heavily, but she said nothing.

I too was silent. Once she moaned. My hands were under her shoulders and I pressed her to me, when suddenly I heard a rushing sound that quickly became louder and louder until it had reached an unbearable roar. A formation of American jets on night patrol were streaking low over the garden. The earth trembled; a flower pot fell to the floor.

The roar increased. In the end it sounded as if the planes were going to crash into the greenhouse. I thought I would lose consciousness from excitement and fear. At that moment Yolanda bit wildly into my lip. I screamed. I felt the blood flow into my mouth. It tasted warm and bitter.

15

"What do the doctors say?"

Half an hour had passed. Yolanda was stretched out on my hospital bed and the sun was shining into the room. Nobody had interrupted us. I felt heavy, tired and confused.

"The examination has only just begun."

I sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her thoughtfully. Her hair was spread across the pillow, her clothes, which she had taken off hastily, lay scattered on the floor. Her breasts rose and fell regularly. She breathed deep. Why had I permitted her to stay? Why did we always fall into each other's arms like animals when we hadn't seen each other for a few days? Why couldn't we do without each other? What was it that united us?