Little Man, What Now? (13 page)

And before Johannes Pinneberg could say a word, Emil had gone, slamming the door thunderously behind him. Just then Pinneberg saw his Lammchen disappearing around the corner of Market Place. He sighed deeply and looked at the clock. Three minutes to twelve. At two minutes to twelve Pinneberg was to be seen dashing across the courtyard to the seed-corn store. There he rushed up to Lauterbach and said breathlessly: ‘Lauterbach, get over to Kleinholz and give notice. Remember you gave your word of honour. He’s just given me notice.’

Ernst Lauterbach, however, slowly let go the handle of the winnow, looked in astonishment at Pinneberg and spoke: ‘First, it’s one minute to twelve, and after twelve I can’t give notice; second, I’d have to talk to Schulz first, and he is not here. And third, I just heard from Mariechen that you’re married, and if that’s true you’ve not been as frank with us as your colleagues. And fourth …’

But Pinneberg never learned what the fourth thing was; for the clock in the tower struck slowly twelve times and then it was too late. Pinneberg had been given notice, and there was nothing
more to be done.

MR FRIEDRICHS, THE SALMON AND MR BERGMANN, ALL IN VAIN: THERE IS NOTHING FOR PINNEBERG

Three weeks later—it was a cold, overcast, rainy September day, very windy—three weeks later Pinneberg slowly closed the outer door of the local office of the Clerical, Office and Professional Employees Association of Germany. He stopped for a moment at the top of the steps, and gazed absently at a notice calling for the solidarity of all white-collar workers. He sighed deeply and went slowly down the steps.

The fat man with the splendid gold teeth had conclusively proved to him that there was nothing to be done for him, that his lot was to be unemployed. ‘You know yourself, Mr Pinneberg, what it’s like in the clothing sector here in Ducherow. No vacancies.’ A pause, then more emphatically: ‘And there will be no vacancies.’

‘But the Association’s got offices all over the place,’ said Pinneberg timidly. ‘Perhaps you could get in touch with one of them. I’ve got such good references. Perhaps somewhere,’ he gestured plaintively into the beyond, ‘Perhaps somewhere there is something to be done.’

‘Out of the question!’ declared Mr Friedrichs definitely. ‘If a vacancy did occur, which it won’t because everyone who’s got a job sticks to it like glue, but if it did there’d be all those local members waiting for it. It wouldn’t be fair to put someone from outside in before them.’

‘But if the man from outside needed work more than they did?’

‘No, no, that would be highly unfair. Today, everyone needs work.’

Pinneberg didn’t pursue the question of what was fair. ‘What
else is there?’ he asked obstinately.

‘What else …’ Mr Friedrichs shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s nothing else. You’re not a fully qualified book-keeper, although you will have picked up a bit at Kleinholz’s. Now there’s a funny place … is it true that he gets drunk every night and brings loose women into the house?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pinneberg shortly, ‘I don’t work nights.’

‘Come on, Mr Pinneberg,’ said Mr Friedrichs rather crossly. ‘The Association is against that sort of thing: inadequately trained staff moving from one branch to another. The Association can’t support it; it undermines the status of the members.’

‘Oh dear,’ was all Pinneberg said. Then, still obstinate: ‘But you’ve got to find something for me, by the first, Mr Friedrichs. I’m married.’

‘By the first! In precisely eight days’ time. It’s quite out of the question, Pinneberg, how can I? You must know that, Mr Pinneberg. You’re a reasonable man.’

Pinneberg had no faith in reason. ‘We’re expecting a baby, Mr Friedrichs,’ he said quietly.

Friedrichs turned his eyes up to the applicant. Then he said in a kindly, comforting tone: ‘Ah well, children are a blessing. So they say. You will get the dole after all. There are so many people managing on less than that. It will be all right, you’ll see.’

‘But I must …’

Mr Friedrichs realized he had to do something. ‘Now listen, Pinneberg. I can see you’re in a spot. Look at this: I’m writing your name on my notepad: Pinneberg, Johannes, twenty-three years old. Salesman, address … What’s your address?’

‘Green End.’

‘Oh! Way out there! And your membership number? Good …’ Mr Friedrichs looked thoughtfully at the note. ‘I’m putting it here, next to my inkwell, you see, so it’s always in front of me. And so if anything comes up, you’ll be the first I’ll think of.’

Pinneberg started to say something. ‘I’m giving you special treatment, Mr Pinneberg. Actually it’s not fair on the other members, but I’ll answer for that. I’m doing it because you’re in a spot!’

Mr Friedrichs looked at the note with narrowed eyes, took a red pencil and added a thick, red exclamation-mark for good measure. ‘There you are,’ he said, satisfied, and laid it beside the inkwell.

Pinneberg sighed, and resigned himself to leaving. ‘You will think of me, Mr Friedrichs, won’t you?’

‘I’ve got the note. I’ve got it here. Good day Mr Pinneberg.’

Pinneberg stood on the street wondering what to do next. He ought really to go back to the office at Kleinholz’s. He only had a couple of hours off to look for a job. But he hated the thought, particularly being with his dear colleagues, who hadn’t resigned, weren’t even giving it a thought, but still asked sympathetically: ‘Still no job, Pinneberg? Get up a bit of steam then. The children are crying for bread, the honeymoon’s over.’

‘Stuff it …’ said Pinneberg emphatically, and set off for the town park.

It was cold, windy, and empty. Desolate flower-beds! Puddles everywhere! And too windy even to get a cigarette alight! Just as well, soon there’d be no more smoking anyhow. What an idiot! No one ought to have to give up smoking six weeks after getting married.

Then there was the wind. When you got to the place where the town park met the fields, it fairly jumped out at you. It shook you, your coat flapped, you had to grab at your hat to hold it on. The fields were thoroughly autumnal: wet, dripping, cheerless, in a mess … So, go home. There was a silly saying round here: ‘It’s a good thing houses are hollow, so people can live inside.’

So, home to Green End. But when Green End was at an end, there’d be somewhere else. Somewhere cheaper, well, four walls at any rate, a roof over their heads, warmth. A woman, oh yes, a
woman! It was so lovely to lie in bed with another person snuffling next to you in the night. So lovely to read the newspaper with someone sitting in the corner of the sofa, sewing and darning. So lovely to come home and hear someone say: ‘Hello, Sonny, love. How was it today? Was it all right?’ It was lovely to have someone to work for and care for … well, to care for, even when you hadn’t any work. It was lovely to have someone who allowed you to comfort them.

Suddenly Pinneberg had to laugh. That salmon. That quarter of a salmon. Poor Lammchen. How unhappy she had been! To comfort someone, that was the thing.

One evening they were just sitting down to dinner when Lammchen declared that she couldn’t eat anything, that she was nauseated by everything. But today she had seen a smoked salmon in the delicatessen, so juicy and rosy pink: if only she had that!

‘Why didn’t you get it?’

‘What! Just think what it would cost.’

So they’d talked about it and talked about it, and of course it would be idiotic, it was far too expensive. But if Lammchen couldn’t eat anything else! Right away—supper was put off for half an hour—he was going to town for it right away.

Certainly not! Lammchen would go herself. What was he thinking of? Walking was very healthy, and anyway, did he imagine she’d want to stay here worrying in case he bought a piece off the wrong salmon? She had to see the woman in the shop slicing off the pieces, one by one. She had to go herself.

‘All right. You go.’

‘And how much?’

‘An eighth. No. It’s only once we’re lashing out, bring a quarter.’

He watched her set out: she had a beautiful long sturdy stride, and in that blue dress she was dazzling. He followed her with his eyes, leaning out of the window until she had disappeared, and
then he wandered up and down. He reckoned that by the time he had wound his way round the room fifty times she would be back in sight. He ran to the window. Yes, he’d got it right. Lammchen was just coming into the house; she didn’t look up. Only two or three minutes more. He stood and waited. He thought he heard the hall door open. But Lammchen did not come.

What in the world was the matter? He’d seen her come into the house, but she wasn’t here.

He opened the door onto the hall, and there, next to the outer door, stood Lammchen, pressed against the wall with a frightened face streaming with tears, holding out a wax-paper wrapper shining with grease-marks but with nothing in it.

‘Oh gosh, Lammchen, what’s the matter? Did the salmon fall out of the paper?’

‘I ate it,’ she sobbed. ‘I ate it all, by myself.’

‘Like that, out of the paper? Without any bread? The whole quarter? But Lammchen!’

‘I ate it,’ she sobbed. ‘All by myself.’

‘Now come on here, Lammchen; tell me what happened. Come in. It’s nothing to cry about. Start from the beginning. So you bought the salmon …’

‘Yes, and I had such a craving for it. I couldn’t watch while she was slicing it and weighing it. I was barely outside, but I went into the nearest doorway and quickly took out a slice and it was gone.’

‘And then?’

‘Yes, Sonny,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what I did all the way home, whenever a doorway came up. I couldn’t stop myself and went in. When I started I wasn’t going to cheat you out of any; I divided it up very carefully, half and half … But then I thought, one slice won’t matter to him, and I kept on eating yours, but I did leave one piece for you, and I brought it upstairs, right up here to the hall, as far as this door …’

‘But then you ate it?’

‘Yes, then I ate it, and it was so wicked of me, because there’s no salmon at all for you, Sonny love. But it’s not because I’m wicked myself,’ breaking out in new sobs, ‘it’s my condition. I’ve never been greedy. And I’m so unhappy in case the Shrimp turns out greedy now. And … shall I run quickly back into town and get some salmon for you. I’ll bring it back, I truly, truthfully will.’

He rocked her in his arms. ‘Oh, you great big baby, you silly little girl, if it’s nothing more dreadful than that …’

And he comforted her and calmed her and wiped away her tears, and gradually they got to kissing, and then it was evening and then it was night …

Pinneberg had left the windy town park. He was on his way through the streets of Ducherow towards a precise goal. He had not turned off into Feldstrasse and he was not going back to Kleinholz’s office. He had taken a great decision and was marching towards it. Pinneberg had discovered that his pride was idiotic. He now realized that nothing mattered but keeping Lammchen out of hardship and making the Shrimp happy. What did Pinneberg matter? Pinneberg wasn’t important, he could easily humble himself, provided all went well for them.

He marched straight into Bergmann’s shop, and straight into the little dark birdcage which was simply partitioned off from the shop. And there indeed sat the boss, taking a letter out of the letter press. That was the way things were still done at Bergmanns.

‘Well, if it isn’t Pinneberg!’ said Bergmann. ‘Life still treating you well?’

‘Mr Bergmann,’ said Pinneberg breathlessly. ‘I was a prize idiot to leave you. I’m very sorry, Mr Bergmann, and I would like the job back.’

‘Hold on,’ shouted Bergmann. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Mr Pinneberg. I didn’t hear what you’ve just said, Mr Pinneberg. There’s no need to apologize to me, I’m not taking you back.’

‘Mr Bergmann!’

‘Don’t speak! Don’t beg! Afterwards you’ll only be ashamed that you begged and it was all for nothing. I’m not taking you back.’

‘Mr Bergmann, you said at the time you were going to keep me in suspense for a month before taking me on again …’

‘I did say that, Mr Pinneberg, you’re right, and I’m sorry I said a thing like that. I said it out of anger because you’re such a decent chap, and so helpful, except for that business with the post, and then you go and work for that drunken womanizer. I said it out of anger.’

‘Mr Bergmann,’ Pinneberg began again. ‘I’m married now, and we’re having a baby. Kleinholz has sacked me. What shall I do? You know what it’s like here in Ducherow. There’s no work here in Ducherow. Take me back. You know I earn my money.’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Take me on again, Mr Bergmann. Please.’

The little ugly Jew, whose Maker had been less than generous in his creation, shook his head. ‘I’m not taking you back, Mr Pinneberg. And why? Because I can’t!’

‘Oh, Mr Bergmann!’

‘Marriage is no easy matter, Mr Pinneberg. You’ve started early. Do you have a good wife?’

‘Oh, Mr Bergmann!’

‘I see you do. I see you do. May she stay so. Listen, Pinneberg: I’m telling you the simple truth. I’d like to have you back, but I can’t; my wife won’t have it. She was incensed by what you said—”you can’t order me around”—and she refuses to forgive you. I’m not allowed to take you back on. I’m very sorry. It can’t be done.’

There was a pause. A long pause. Little Bergmann turned the letter press, took his letter out and looked at it.

‘Yes, Mr Pinneberg,’ he said slowly.

‘Supposing I went to your wife,’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘I would go to her, Mr Bergmann.’

‘And would that do any good? No, it wouldn’t do any good. Do
you know what she would do? She’d let you plead with her. She’d say to come back, she’ll think about it. But she wouldn’t take you on, and in the end I would still have to tell you there was nothing doing. Women are like that, Mr Pinneberg. Ah well, you’re young, you don’t know anything about all that. How long have you been married?’

‘A good four weeks.’

‘A good four weeks. Still counting in weeks. You’re going to be a good husband, that’s clear. You need not be ashamed to ask for something, it hurts nobody. If people just stay friends. Stay friends with your wife. Always think to yourself: she’s only a woman and she doesn’t understand. I’m sorry, Mr Pinneberg.’