Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (41 page)

He asked Dr. Fuchstaler to take charge of the outpatient clinic and
had to confess to himself that he would rather stay here than drive out to
the Galitzinberg. And yet, he had to. He felt obliged-and not only for
his own sake-to investigate the matter further, and there were all sorts
of other things that also had to be done that day. And so he decided to ask Dr. Fuchstaler to take charge of the evening rounds too, just in case. The
young girl with the suspected tuberculosis over there in the last bed
smiled at him. She was the one who had recently used the opportunity of
a physical examination to press her breasts trustingly against his cheeks.
Fridolin answered her smile coldly and turned away, frowning. They're
all alike, he thought with bitterness, and Albertine is just like the rest of
them-she's the worst of them all. I'll separate from her. Things can
never be the same again.

On the stairs he exchanged a few words with a colleague from the
surgical division. How was the woman who had been transferred last
night doing? As far as he was concerned, he didn't really think it was
necessary to operate. They would, of course, tell him the result of the histological examination?

"Of course, Doctor."

At the corner he took a carriage. He consulted his notebook-a
ridiculous charade for the coachman's sake-to make it appear that he
was just now making up his mind where to go. "To Ottakring," he then
said, "the street along the Galitzinberg. I'll tell you where to stop."

In the carriage he was suddenly overcome by a painful and yearning
emotion, almost a feeling of guilt that in the last few hours he had hardly
thought of his beautiful savior. Would he now succeed in finding the
house? Well, that wouldn't be particularly difficult. The only question
was: what then? Notify the police? That might have disastrous consequences for this woman who had sacrificed herself, or was at least
prepared to sacrifice herself, for him. Or should he turn to a private detective? That seemed in rather bad taste and not quite dignified enough.
But what else could he possibly do? He had neither the time nor the skill
to carry out the necessary investigations himself. A secret society? Well,
yes, it certainly was secret. But they probably knew one another. Were
they aristocrats, perhaps members of the court? He thought of certain
archdukes who might easily be capable of such pranks. And the women?
Probably ... recruited from brothels. Well, that was not by any means
certain. At any rate, they were very attractive. But what about the woman
who had sacrificed herself for him? Sacrificed? Why did he persist in
imagining that it was really a sacrifice? It had been an act. Of course, the whole thing had been an act. He should have been grateful to have gotten
out of the scrape so lightly. Well, why not? He had preserved his dignity.
The cavaliers must have recognized that he was nobody's fool. And she
must have realized it in any case. Very likely she had cared more for him
than for all these archdukes or whatever they were.

At the end of the Liebhartstal, where the road led more sharply uphill, he got out and took the precaution of sending the carriage away. The
sky was pale blue with white clouds, and the sun shone with the warmth
of spring. He looked back-nothing suspicious was to be seen. Not a carriage, not a pedestrian. He walked slowly up the road. His coat became
heavy; he took it off and threw it over his shoulder. He came to the spot
where he thought he would find the side street where the mysterious
house was branching off the road. He couldn't go wrong; the road did go
downhill but not nearly as steeply as it had seemed to him when he was
driving on it last night. It was a quiet little street. In one front garden
there were rose bushes carefully covered with straw; in the one next to it
there stood a baby carriage; a boy, dressed from head to foot in a blue
wool knit, was romping about and a young woman was looking down
from the first-floor window, laughing. Next came an empty lot, then an
uncultivated fenced-in garden, then a small villa, next a lawn, and then,
no doubt about it-there was the house he was looking for. It didn't look
grand or magnificent in the least. It was a one-story villa in modest Empire style and obviously renovated not very long ago. The green blinds
were down, and there was nothing to show that anyone lived there.
Fridolin looked around. There was no one in the street, except that farther down two boys with books under their arms were walking in the opposite direction. He stood in front of the garden gate. And now what?
Should he simply walk away again? That would be too absurd. He
looked for the electric bell button. And if someone opened the door, what
should he say? Well, that was easy-was the pretty country house available to be rented this summer? But meanwhile the door of the house had
already opened, and an old servant in plain morning livery came out and
slowly walked up the narrow path that led to the garden gate. He held a
letter in his hand and silently pushed it through the iron bars to Fridolin,
whose heart was pounding.

"For me?" he asked, catching his breath. The servant nodded,
turned around, walked back, and the door to the house fell shut behind
him. What does this mean? Fridolin asked himself. Is it perhaps from
her? Maybe she's the one who owns the house? Quickly he walked back
up the street, and it was only then that he noticed that his name was written on the envelope in tall, dignified letters. At the corner he opened the
letter, unfolded a sheet of paper, and read: "Give up your investigations,
which are completely useless, and regard these words as your second
warning. We hope, for your own good, that this will be sufficient. " He let
the sheet of paper fall.

This message disappointed him in every respect-at any rate it was
different from what he had foolishly expected. Still, the tone was peculiarly reserved, completely without sharpness. It suggested that the people who had sent the message by no means felt secure.

Second warning-? How was that? Oh yes, he had received the first
one during the night. But why was it the "second" warning-and not the
last? Did they want to test his courage again? Was he supposed to pass a
test? And how did they know his name? Well, that wasn't so strange;
they had probably forced Nightingale to betray him. And besides-he
smiled at his absentmindedness-his monogram and his address were
sewn into the lining of his fur coat.

But even though he hadn't made any progress, the letter on the
whole calmed him, though he wasn't able to say why. At any rate, he was
convinced that the woman he was so uneasy about was still alive and that
he could find her if he went about it cautiously and cleverly.

When he arrived home, feeling tired but otherwise strangely relieved-though at the same time he felt that his relief was an illusionAlbertine and the little girl had finished eating their lunch but
nevertheless kept him company while he ate his. There she sat opposite
him, she who last night had calmly let him be nailed to the cross, with an
angelic look, the good wife and mother, and to his surprise he didn't hate
her. He enjoyed his meal, found himself in a somewhat agitated but on
the whole cheerful mood, and, as was his habit, spoke in a lively manner
about the little professional incidents of the day, especially the personal
gossip, about which he always kept Albertine well informed. He told her that the appointment of Hugelmann was as good as settled and spoke of
his own resolution to take up his scientific work again with greater energy. Albertine knew this mood, knew that it usually didn't last very
long, and betrayed her doubts through a slight smile. When Fridolin became quite heated on the subject, Albertine gently stroked his hair with a
light touch to calm him. But at that he started slightly and turned to the
child, so as to remove his forehead from the embarrassing touch. He took
the little girl on his lap and was just beginning to bounce her up and
down on his knees when the maid announced that several patients were
already waiting for him. Fridolin rose with a sigh of relief, mentioned casually that Albertine and the child should use the beautiful sunny afternoon hour to take a walk, and went into his consulting room.

In the course of the next two hours Fridolin had to see six old patients and two new ones. In each case he was fully able to focus his mind,
examined, took notes, wrote prescriptions-and was happy that he felt so
wonderfully fresh and clearheaded despite having spent the last two
nights almost without sleep.

After finishing his consulting hours he stopped to check on his wife
and child, as he usually did, and ascertained, not without satisfaction,
that Albertine's mother was visiting and that the little girl was having a
French lesson with her governess. And only when he was on the stairs
again did he realize that all this order, all this regularity, all this security
of existence was nothing but an illusion and a deception.

Although he had excused himself from his afternoon duties, he felt
irresistibly drawn to his ward. There were two cases of special importance there for the scientific research he was planning, and he busied
himself with a more detailed study of them than he had before. Then he
still had to make a visit to a patient in the heart of the city, and so it was
already seven o'clock in the evening when he stood before the old house
in Schreyvogel Street. Only now, when he was looking up at Marianne's
window, did her image, which in the meantime had completely faded,
come to life in his mind once more, more clearly than that of all the others. Well-here he could not fail. Without any special exertion he could
begin his revenge here, here there was little difficulty and no danger. And
that which might have deterred others, the betrayal of her fiance, only made him all the keener to do it. Yes, to betray, to deceive, to lie, to play
a part, here and there, with Marianne, with Albertine, with this good Dr.
Roediger, with the whole world-to lead a kind of double life, on the one
hand the competent, reliable physician with a future, the upright husband
and father-and on the other a libertine, a seducer, a cynic who played
with people, with men and with women, just as the spirit moved himthat seemed to him delightful at this moment-and the delightful part of
it was that at some future time, long after Albertine fancied herself secure
in a peaceful marriage and family life, he would confess all his sins to
her, coolly, in retribution for all the bitter and humiliating things she had
done to him in her dream.

In the entryway he found himself opposite Dr. Roediger, who held
out his hand to him innocently and heartily.

"How is Fraulein Marianne?" asked Fridolin. "Is she a little
calmer?"

Dr. Roediger shrugged his shoulders. "She's been prepared for the
end long enough, Doctor-only when they came around noon to get the
body-"

"Ah, that's been done already?"

Dr. Roediger nodded. "The funeral will be tomorrow afternoon at
three...."

Fridolin looked down. "I suppose-Fraulein Marianne's relatives
are with her?"

"Not any more," answered Dr. Roediger. "She's alone now. She'll
be pleased to see you again, Doctor. Tomorrow my mother and I are taking her to Modling." To answer Fridolin's politely questioning look, he
continued, "My parents have a little house out there. Goodbye, Doctor. I
have a lot of things to do. It's unbelievable what has to be done in such
a-case! I hope I'll find you still upstairs when I return, Doctor." And he
was already out the door and in the street.

Fridolin hesitated a moment, then slowly went up the stairs. He
rang the bell, and Marianne herself opened the door. She was dressed in
black, and around her neck she wore a black jade necklace that he had
never seen on her before. Her face became slightly flushed.

"You've made me wait a long time," she said with a feeble smile.

"Forgive me, Fraulein Marianne, but I had a particularly busy day."

He followed her through the death chamber where the bed was now
empty into the next room where yesterday he had filled out the death certificate beneath the picture of an officer in a white uniform. A little lamp
was already burning on top of the desk, so that the room was half lit.
Marianne offered him a seat on the black leather sofa and sat down opposite him at the desk.

"I just ran into Dr. Roediger down in the entryway. So you are
going to the country tomorrow?"

Marianne looked at him as though she were surprised at the cool
tone of his questions, and her shoulders drooped when he continued in an
almost hard voice. "I think that's very sensible." And he explained in a
matter-of-fact way what a favorable effect the good air and the new environment would have on her.

She sat motionless, and tears streamed down her cheeks. He saw
them without sympathy, more with impatience; and the thought that she
might in the next minute perhaps be lying at his feet once more, repeating her confession of yesterday, filled him with fear. And since she said
nothing, he stood up brusquely. "Much as I regret it, Fraulein Marianne-" He looked at his watch.

She raised her head, looked at Fridolin, and her tears kept flowing.
He would gladly have said a kind word to her, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"I suppose you'll stay in the country for a few days," he began in a
forced way. "I hope you'll stay in touch.... Dr. Roediger, by the way,
told me that the wedding is to be soon. Let me offer you my best wishes
now."

She didn't move, as though she had heard neither his congratulations nor his farewell. He held out his hand to her, but she did not take it.
and he repeated almost in a tone of reproach, "Well, I sincerely hope that
you'll keep me posted about your health. Goodbye, Fraulein Marianne."

She sat there as if turned to stone. He left, for a second he stopped
in the doorway, as if he were giving her a last opportunity to call him
back. But she seemed rather to turn her head away from him, and he
closed the door behind him. Out in the hallway he felt something like re morse. For a moment he thought about going back, but he felt that this
would have been the most ridiculous thing of all to do.