Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (21 page)

And suddenly Geronimo stopped, so that Carlo also had to stop.

"Well, what is it?" said the gendarme, annoyed. "Go on, get going!"
But then he saw with amazement that the blind man had let his guitar fall
on the ground, raised his arms, and felt with both hands for his brother's
cheeks. Then he moved his lips close to Carlo's mouth, who at first
didn't know what was happening, and kissed him.

"Are you crazy?" asked the policeman. "Go on, go on already! I
have no desire to roast."

Geronimo picked up his guitar from the ground without saying a
word. Carlo breathed deeply and put his hand on the blind man's arm
again. Was it possible? His brother wasn't angry with him anymore? He
finally understood-? And, doubtfully, he looked at him from the side.

"Go on!" shouted the policeman. "Do you want a ..." And he gave
Carlo a jab between the ribs.

And Carlo, leading the blind man with a firm grasp, moved forward
again. He walked at a much faster pace than before. For he saw Geronimo smile in the mild, blissful way that he had not seen him do since
childhood. And Carlo also smiled. He felt as if nothing bad could happen
to him now-neither before the judge, nor anywhere else in the worldfor he had his brother again.... No, he had him for the first time....

HE HAD ALREADY BEEN WAITING for an hour. His heart was beating
fast, and sometimes it seemed to him that he had forgotten to breathe; he
took deep breaths, but that didn't make him feel any better. He really
should have been used to it by now, for it was always the same: invariably he had to wait, one, two, even three hours. How often altogether in
vain! And he couldn't even reproach her, since she didn't dare leave her
house if her husband happened to stay home longer than usual. Only
after he had left would she come running in, in despair, press a kiss on
his lips, and then immediately leave again, flying down the stairs and
leaving him alone once more. Then, when she had gone, he would lie
down on the sofa, completely exhausted from the tension of all these terrible hours of waiting, hours that made it impossible for him to work and
that were slowly ruining him. This had been going on now for three
months, ever since the end of spring. Every afternoon, from three o'clock
on, he was in his room with the shades drawn, unable to do anything. He
didn't have the patience to read a book or even a newspaper, was incapable of writing a letter, and did nothing but chain-smoke cigarettes until
the room was thick with a blue-grey haze. The door to the reception
room was always open, and he was always completely alone, as he
couldn't have his valet there when she came. And then, when the doorbell suddenly rang, he always started. But when it was her, when it really
was her, then everything was all right again. Then he felt as though freed
from a spell, as if suddenly he were human again, and sometimes he
would cry from pure joy that she was at last with him again and that he didn't have to wait any longer. Then he would quickly draw her into his
room, close the door, and they would be blissfully happy.

They had agreed that he would stay at home every day until exactly
seven o'clock, and that after that she couldn't come-he had explicitly
told her that he would leave precisely at seven every day because waiting
for her made him so nervous. Yet still he would stay at home longer, and
often wouldn't leave until eight. Then he would think of all the wasted
hours of waiting with a shudder and longingly remember the previous
summer when his time had been his own and he had often driven out to
the country on beautiful summer afternoons, had gone to the seashore in
August, and had been healthy and happy-and he longed for this freedom, for the ability to travel, for distant places, for the privilege of being
alone. But he couldn't leave her, for he adored her.

Today seemed to him the worst day of all. She hadn't come at all
yesterday, and he had received no word from her. It was almost seven,
but that didn't calm him today. He didn't know what to do. The worst
thing was that he had absolutely no way of getting in touch with her. He
couldn't do anything beyond walk up and down in front of her house and
look at her windows, couldn't go to her, couldn't send anyone to her,
couldn't ask anyone about her. For no one suspected that they knew each
other. They existed in a restless, anxious, and intense tenderness toward
one another and were always afraid of being found out. He was glad their
relationship was kept secret, but days such as today were all the more
painful because of that.

It was already eight-she had not come. He had been standing at
his door constantly for the whole of the last hour and had kept looking
into the hallway through the little view window in the door. The gas
lights on the staircase had just been lit. He went back into his room and
threw himself on his sofa, completely exhausted. It was pitch-dark in the
room and he fell asleep. After half an hour he got up and decided to go
out. He had a headache, and his legs ached as though he had been walking for hours.

He went in the direction of her house. It calmed him to see that all
the shades of her windows had been drawn. He could see light gleaming
through the shades of the dining room and her bedroom. He walked up and down on the sidewalk across the street from her house for half an
hour, gazing up at her windows. There were few people on the street.
Only when a few maids and the housekeeper came out of the gate to her
house did he leave so as not to be noticed. That night he slept soundly
and well.

The next morning he stayed in bed for a long time; he had left a
note in the reception room saying that he did not wish to be awakened. At
ten o'clock he rang his valet for breakfast. The day's mail lay on the
plate, but there was no letter from her. He told himself this was a sign
that she would definitely come in person in the afternoon, and thus he remained reasonably calm until three o'clock.

At exactly three, and not a minute before, he returned home from
his lunch. He sat down in an armchair in the reception room so that he
wouldn't have to run back and forth each time he heard a noise on the
staircase. But he was glad whenever he heard any footsteps at all in the
downstairs entry. for they always brought new hope. But none of the
footsteps proved to be hers. The clock struck four-five-six-sevenand still she hadn't come. He paced up and down in his room, groaned
softly, became dizzy, and threw himself on his bed. He was in total despair; he couldn't stand this any longer-the best thing was to go awayhe was paying too high a price for this happiness! ... Or he would have
to change their agreement-for example, he would wait only an houror two-but things just couldn't go on this way. It would totally ruin him,
destroy his ability to work, his health, and in the end even his love for
her. He noticed that he wasn't thinking about her any more at all; his
thoughts whirled about as if in a confused dream. He jumped up from his
bed. He tore the window open and looked down at the street in the twilight ... ah ... there ... there at the corner ... he thought he recognized
her in every woman that approached. He drew back from the window;
she wouldn't be coming now anymore, for it was already too late. And
suddenly it seemed absurd to him that he had set aside so few hours to
wait for her. Perhaps only now did she have the opportunity to comeperhaps she could have come early this morning-and he already knew
just what he would say to her at their next meeting. He whispered it to
himself now: "From now on I'll stay home and wait for you all day, from early in the morning until late at night." But as soon as he had said it, he
began to laugh out loud and whispered to himself: "But I'll go crazy!crazy, completely crazy!"-And again he rushed to her house.-All was
the same as on the previous day. Lights gleamed through the drawn
shades. Again he walked up and down on the sidewalk opposite the
house for half an hour-and again he left when the housekeeper and a
few maids came out of the gate. It seemed to him that they had noticed
him today, and he was convinced that they were talking about him and
saying: that's the same man who was walking up and down the street at
just this time last night. He walked around the neighboring streets, but
when the church towers struck ten o'clock and the gates were locked, he
went back to her house and stared up at her windows again. Now the
only visible light came from the bedroom. He looked up at it as though in
a spell. There he stood, helpless, and could neither do anything nor ask
anything. He shuddered when he thought of the hours that lay before
him. Another night, another morning, another day until three o'clock.
Yes, until three-and then ... what if again she didn't come? ... An
empty carriage passed by, and he beckoned the driver and had himself
driven slowly up and down the evening streets.... He remembered their
last meeting-no, no, she hadn't stopped loving him-no, definitely
not! ... Perhaps her husband had suspected something? ... No, that
wasn't possible either ... they hadn't left a trace-and she was so careful. There could be only one reason: she was ill and was confined to bed.
That's why she couldn't send him a message.... And tomorrow she
would be well and be able to get out of bed and she would immediately
send him a few lines to calm him.... Yes, but what if she couldn't leave
her bed for a couple of days ... what if she were seriously ill? ... Good
God! ... what if she were seriously ill? ... no, no, no ... why should
she be seriously ill? ...

Suddenly he had what struck him as a brilliant idea. Since she was
almost certainly ill, he could send and ask how she was. The messenger
would not even have to know just who sent him-he could just not quite
have caught his name.... Yes, yes, that's what he would do! He was
pleased with this idea.

So he was less anxious that night and the next day, though he had not received any news from her. He even stayed calm that next afternoon-for he knew that in the evening, this evening, the uncertainty
would be ended. He longed for her more intensely and more tenderly
than he had these last few days.

He left his house that evening at eight o'clock. At a street corner
some distance away from his, he engaged a messenger who didn't know
him and beckoned the man to follow him. Not far from her house he
stopped with him. He sent him with urgent and exact instructions.

He looked at his watch by the light of the street lamp and began to
walk up and down. But the thought immediately occurred to him: what if
the husband suspected something after all, took the messenger into his
confidence, and had him lead him here? He started after the messenger;
but then he walked more slowly and stayed a short distance behind him.
At last he saw him disappear into the house. Albert stood very far back:
he had to strain his eyes so as not to lose sight of the gate.... After only
three minutes he saw the man reappear.... He waited a few seconds to
make sure he was not being followed. No one came out after him. Then
he rushed up to the man. "Well," he asked, "what's happened'?" "The
gentleman thanks you for your concern," answered the man, "and says
that his wife is not yet better, and won't be up and about for a couple of
days."

"Whom did you speak to?"

"With a chambermaid. She went into the room and came right out
again. I think the doctor was there at the moment...."

"What did she say?" He had the message repeated several times and
finally realized that he knew little more than he had before. She had to be
very ill; evidently everyone was making inquiries-that's why no one
had noticed the messenger.... And for that very reason he could risk
more. He engaged the messenger for tomorrow at the same time.

She would not be up for a few days-and that was all he knew....
Did she think about him, could she imagine how much he was suffering
on her account?-he knew nothing.

Did she perhaps guess that it was he who had sent the last messenger to ask about her? ... "The gentleman thanks you for your concern."
Not she, he. Maybe they couldn't even give her the message.... Yes, and what was wrong with her? The names of a hundred diseases went
through his head at the same time. Well, in a few days she would be up
and about again-so it couldn't be anything really serious.... But that's
what they always said. When his own father was on his deathbed, they
had told everyone the same thing.... He noticed that he had begun to
run, and now that he had arrived in a more crowded street, people were
getting in his way. He knew that the time until tomorrow evening would
seem like an eternity.