Little Apple (8 page)

Kohout shut the door of the inner office and turned to Vit¬torin.

"It's like that all the time here. I'm not going to be able to stand it for long, believe me. I mean, did you see those people outside in the waiting-room? Some clients, eh? What faces! If you sentenced them all to three years' hard labour you wouldn't be doing them an injustice. All right, here we go. Fräulein Gusti, give that typewriter a bit of a rest, would you? I can't hear myself speak."

He extracted a folder from the stack of files on his desk and raised his voice in a stentorian bellow.

"Herr Jonas Eiermann, if you please!"

Out of the waiting-room came a short, stout, bearded man in a raincoat rather too small for him. He deposited his hat on Kohout's desk, bowed, washed his hands with imaginary soap, turned to Vit¬torin, said "Eiermann", and sat down.

"Herr Eiermann," Kohout began, "I gather you wish to be sued for the repayment of a debt of fourteen kronen in the district court at Innsbruck. May I ask you for something on account?"

"Why, don't you think my credit's good?" Herr Eiermann demanded.

"Good or bad, it makes no difference," Kohout told him. "We don't give credit and we make no exceptions. Money in advance, that's our rule. You fork out, we sue. I'm not lifting a finger till I see a hundred and sixty kronen on this desk in hard cash."

"I can't run to a hundred and sixty," Herr Eiermann replied after a pause for thought.

"All right, I'm prepared to accommodate you. How much
can
you run to?"

"A hundred at the outside."

"Very well, make it a hundred. Fräulein Gusti, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for —"

"But I can't raise the hundred for another three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Kohout exclaimed. "Out of the question. How much can you raise right away, today?"

Herr Eiermann grimaced as if he had swallowed something nasty. He was obviously in the throes of some internal convulsion.

"I might be able to manage sixty."

"Fräulein, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for sixty kronen and let's get this settled."

"But I don't have the sixty kronen on me," said Herr Eiermann.

"You don't have them on you? I guessed as much. You decline to pay, in other words?"

"I never said that!" Herr Eiermann protested, sounding hurt.

"I see, so you
are
prepared to pay. How much do you actually have on you, if I may make so bold?"

"I'm not sure. Thirty, maybe."

"A pleasure to do business with you," Kohout said wearily. "All right, for God's sake pay your thirty kronen and get it over."

Herr Eiermann produced a leather briefcase of indeterminate colour, rummaged in the various compartments, and brought out three crumpled banknotes.

Kohout took them between finger and thumb and dropped them into his open desk drawer. Then he ushered Herr Eiermann into Dr Eichkatz's office.

Dr Eichkatz, seemingly exhausted, was seated at the desk with his eyes shut and his massive bald head propped on his hairy fists. The Virginia cigarette that dangled from his flaccid lips had gone out. His gaunt frame came to life as Herr Eier-mann walked in.

"Herr Jonas Eiermann," Kohout announced. "Entry permit for Innsbruck, Tyrol.''

"So you want to go to Innsbruck, do you?" said Dr Eich-katz. "What's your nationality, Herr Eiermann?"

"I'm not Austrian," Eiermann replied.

"I didn't ask what you aren't, I asked what you are," the lawyer boomed. "You aren't an Eskimo either, or a member of the African race, or a Mohammedan, or a cowboy, or an English viscount, or a Hindu dancing girl. You're none of those things, I realize that. Now kindly tell me what you are."

"I'm a Polish citizen," Herr Eiermann replied, utterly intimidated.

"At last, God be praised! So you're a Polish citizen who wants to go to Innsbruck. That'll be all, Herr Kohout," said Dr Eichkatz, and Kohout withdrew.

The typist, who had finished her work, was single-mindedly devouring a cheese sandwich. Vit¬torin had risen and was striding up and down the room.

"Some clients, eh?" sighed Kohout. "Haggling with Herr Eiermann was no fun. 'Pick 'em clean!' - that's what Dr Eichkatz keeps telling me, but it's easier said than done. Extracting money from a man like that is like getting blood out of a stone."

It dawned on Kohout that Vit¬torin was growing impatient.

"Now to business," he went on. "The folks outside can wait." He glanced at Fräulein Gusti and lowered his voice. "If only that creature would push off and leave us to talk in peace. She's usually out of here like a shot at half-past five. She's got a railwayman boyfriend - he waits for her downstairs. They're engaged, more or less, but he'll never marry her."

"Tell me something," said Vit¬torin. "You stayed on for a while at Emperger's the other night. Was any more said about the matter?"

"You bet. They all poked fun at you." Kohout shifted from foot to foot and wrung his hands. "That knucklehead Emperger claimed you'd become infatuated with a Russian officer - those were his very words. The Professor said you were going to Russia to increase the sum of human suffering - you know what he's like, always trying to impress people with his philosophical turns of phrase. As for Feuerstein, he called the whole idea plain stupid."

Vit¬torin chewed his lip and stared into space.

"A thing can be stupid and necessary just the same," he said.

"Of course," said Kohout. "Have you got the money?"

"Yes, six hundred kronen."

"You must change them into dollars right away. Your best bet is to go to the Café Élite, buttonhole one of the foreign exchange racketeers in the back room, and say you want some American noodles - that's their slang term for dollar bills. Mind you don't pick a con artist, though - perhaps I'd better go with you. As for a Russian visa, you won't get one through normal channels, I've made careful inquiries. The Russian Red Cross mission in Vienna issues visas, but they can take months to come through. We'll have to handle this another way, and I know how: Galatz — that's where you're going."

"Galatz? Won't I need a Rumanian visa?"

"Yes, the Rumanian military mission will issue you with one. That won't be easy either, but money talks. Getting across the Russian border will be no problem once you're in Galatz. You can go on foot, by road, or, if you really want to play it safe, there are passport factories all over Rumania-Braila, Focshani, Bottoshani, Galatz itself. It'll cost you two hundred kronen - a tidy sum, admittedly, but you'll have to allow for that. Herr Eiermann's problem is far simpler. He only wants to go to the Tyrol, not Russia."

"Herr Eiermann?" said Vit¬torin. "You mean he's also after an entry permit?"

"Of course, didn't you hoist that in? The provincial authorities in the Tyrol won't let anyone domiciled in Galicia across the border. Herr Eiermann has urgent business in Innsbruck, so what does he do? He gets us to sue him in the local district court for non-payment of some trivial sum - fourteen kronen or whatever - and produces his summons at the checkpoint. All in order, nothing to be done. They have to let him across."

Vit¬torin was horrified.

"And that's the sort of sharp practice you engage in here?" '

"My dear fellow, what do you expect? Transactions like these are relatively kosher. People come to us with the most outrageous requests and proposals, you've no idea! I sometimes wonder why I ever studied law for four terms - a course in picking pockets would have been more to the point, but never mind, I ought to be grateful that Eichkatz took me on. I wouldn't find another job too easily, not with this arm of mine. As for home . . . My father's remarried and I don't get on with my stepmother - she makes some spiteful remark every time she puts a bite of food in front of me. If only I could go back to university and get my degree, but no: I've got to earn, earn, earn! Isn't it enough to turn you into a Bolshevik, the lousy, rotten, putrid society we're living in today?"

Vit¬torin rose. "You ought to come to Russia with me," he said.

"Yes," said Kohout, "I'd thought of that too."

On Kohout's advice Vit¬torin sold everything of value he possessed: his bicycle, two gold rings, the classics and deluxe editions in his bookcase, the Goertz binoculars he'd bought before the war and paid for by monthly instalments, a Kodak camera, a walking stick with an ivory handle, a tie-pin set with two small sapphires - a birthday present from his father - and, last but not least, a Domb oboe and a pair of Halifax skates. His sisters failed to notice the gradual disappearance of these articles, the proceeds of which, added to his existing nest egg, were sufficient to cover his travelling expenses. Now that nothing humanly foreseeable could prevent him from putting his plan into effect, Vit¬torin regained his peace of mind and emotional poise. The phantom that had taken possession of his brain granted him a brief spell of relaxation before plunging him into a world of adventure.

He had resolved to give no further thought to his mission, as he termed it, until that mission summoned him away. He was on leave, so to speak, but there were obligations to fulfil even now. He wanted to devote his remaining days of freedom to the people who had a claim on him: his father, his sisters, his employer, and the girl who loved him. He would give none of them cause for complaint.

He was first in the office at eight each morning. Having still to be assigned specific duties, he helped out wherever he was needed. In an effort to make himself useful and pull his weight, he performed all kinds of menial work. He answered the telephone, added up long columns of figures, and typed letters dictated to him by junior colleagues. At home he was always ready to look through his brother's French exercises, fetch books and sheet music from the lending library for his sisters, or play a game of chess with his taciturn, pipe-smoking, careworn father, who had retired into his shell. When plans for the coming week - a visit to friends, for instance, or a Sunday afternoon outing - were under discussion in the family circle, he would listen in silence with an indulgent, almost imperceptible smile that gave no inkling of how remote he felt from all such concerns.

The evenings he spent with Franzi, who would emerge from her office to find him waiting at the end of the street in his old army tunic. They frequented cinemas, wine cellars, or small suburban inns, but wherever they went there were people. Never alone with him for a moment, Franzi grew tired of waiting. She would happily have shared a small bed-sitter with him as his wife or mistress, no matter which, but she realized that this wouldn't happen overnight. There were too many hurdles to surmount. Franzi became doubly impatient for the day when they would be all by themselves. She made cryptic allusions to that day, the first of December, without betraying any of the little surprises she had prepared for their assignation in her parents' apartment. She had borrowed a gramophone and some of the latest dance records from a girl at the office. Her other acquisitions included a small supply of wood and coal, a bottle of brandy, and the ingredients for a bowl of punch: rum, lemons and sugar - all of them things that had long possessed rarity value.

Two glasses of wine were enough to make Franzi frolicsome and exuberant. She would begin to take an interest in the other male customers and throw them flirtatious glances, and when these evoked a response - when someone covertly raised his glass to her or made some jocular remark - she would turn to Vit¬torin with a look of helpless bewilderment, as if to ask him what the man was after. Later, her high spirits abruptly gave way to dejection. She would rest her head on Vit¬torin's shoulder and sob till the tears streamed down her cheeks. She never omitted to explain the reason for her fit of the blues: she was crying because of the dismal autumn weather, or because her boss had shouted at her during the day, or because her mother wouldn't allow her to keep a canary, or simply because life was so sad and wonderful and short.

After walking her home, Vit¬torin often looked in at the Café Élite, where Kohout would interrupt his game of billiards to report progress. Things were shaping nicely. The Rumanian route had been abandoned because East Galicia was far more accessible: to obtain an entry permit you had only to feign a wish to visit the grave of a brother killed in action there. Once in East Galicia, Kohout declared, you were home and dry. All that remained was to get through the Red Army's lines, but for that no papers were needed. The new Russia was devoid of bureaucracy. Personal courage, resourcefulness and self-assurance - all would depend on those alone.

It was now taken for granted that Kohout would accompany Vit¬torin to Russia. However, his father must know nothing of this decision until confronted with it at the last minute, so extreme discretion was the order of the day. Kohout looked around for potential eavesdroppers - he claimed to have enemies and rivals everywhere - and his voice sank to a whisper.

"He won't let me go without a fight, that's for sure," he said, wringing his hands. "You mustn't breathe a word to anyone, you hear? In Moscow I'll have prospects - reliable comrades and intellectuals are at a premium there. Here? Here I've been chucked on the scrapheap. The money for the trip'll be forthcoming when I need it, never fear. I'll get it all right. How? Leave that to me. And now, please excuse me, my opponent's getting fidgety. It's my only form of amusement, an occasional game of billiards in the evening."

Vit¬torin's interview with Herr Bamberger took place one day toward the end of November. Lola, who had engineered it, lingered in the room for a while, patting cushions and straightening chairs. She gave her brother an encouraging look - he was standing there rather forlornly - before going out and shutting the door quietly behind her.

"Do sit down, Herr Vit¬torin."

Herr Bamberger, his shoulders hunched against the cold, was pacing to and fro in the confined space between his desk and the stove. Short and slight, he had a pallid, sickly face alight with intelligence. He did not seem to attach much importance to clothes. He wore an ill-fitting suit, obviously bought off the peg, and an old-fashioned knitted tie. His dainty patent leather shoes struck the only note of almost foppish elegance.