Ship of Fools (45 page)

“I forgot,” he said, his frown deepening, “but do you want to be seen with me? I'm a pariah here, remember.”

“Are you sure? Have you counted your friends?”

“I hadn't got any to begin with that I know of,” he said, quickly irritable. “It was rather more than enough to be on speaking terms.”

“Then why do you care now whether anyone speaks to you or not?” she asked, and her feelings were slowly very surely retreating to their hiding place. “I have done it again,” she reminded herself, and thought quite coldly, holding the stern of her cocktail glass and fixing her eyes at a point just under the knot of Herr Freytag's necktie, that this man was as impossible in his way as that tiresome Denny was in his. Still, she added at once, for fear he would suspect her change of mind and heart, that she had found several pleasant persons on board—she did not name them—yet it was quite true, she would be as happy if not a soul even looked at her for the rest of the voyage.

“I don't care at all either,” he said, “certainly not. But remember, it can be a very different thing when people, and especially people you despise, suddenly feel themselves capable of snubbing you.”

“Quite,” she said, and finished her drink and ate the olive.

“Another?” he asked, and without waiting, “Do please. I'd like another.”

“Of course,” she said. While they were waiting, Mrs. Treadwell rested her cheeks in the palms of her hands, elbows on table, and said in her usual voice of one making conversation to scatter silence, and of which one need not bother to remember a word: “Imagine, I used to think you were a man without a single trouble in the world—perhaps the only one; and if only I had not said that silly thing to that awful Lizzi, I should still like to be able to believe it. It would amuse me, and I shouldn't have to think of you. And now, I suppose, we have a kind of bond, we must be friends in a way, and speak to each other carefully whether we are in the mood or not, just so all these strangers that we shall never see again, or I hope not, will see that we are not at each other's throats in spite of Lizzi and Rieber and the Captain and all the rest …”

Freytag was listening, and her words dismayed him to a degree. It had already crossed his mind that a scene so intimate as that in the writing room might lead in her mind to notions of further intimacy. She must have been a very pretty girl, she was not bad-looking now in a discreet, rather too delicate style, but the very thought of going to bed with a woman forty-six years old gave him such horror he was afraid it would show in his face. The one sure way to bring upon yourself the inescapable devotion of a dog was to beat him regularly. Certain kinds of women were not so different. This one had taken a good thrashing in the proper spirit—she had earned it—but was he now going to be, as the Americans say, “stuck” with her? He must find out if he could.

“But we are friends, are we not?” he asked, warily.

He was to find later that he need not have feared her persecutions, and was to be surprised at his own annoyance about it; but her answer to his question did nothing to quiet his present uneasiness. Mrs. Treadwell, however, was herself again, wearing her way smilingly through the second cocktail, waiting for the moment of escape.

“Naturally,” she said in a tone of such reassurance he could not dream that she meant just the opposite.

He decided that he needed only to be reasonably discreet, a little watchful, to keep out of her way. He finished his drink in a gulp and set the glass down and pushed it away from him. Mrs. Treadwell set hers down unfinished. When they parted he was again in doubt: he did not want her at all, and he was not willing to let her get away altogether. “This has been delightful,” he said, “after all the unpleasantness. I feel we know each other a great deal better?”

She smiled in his direction, looking through him as through a pane of glass. “Oh, much better, I'm sure,” she said, and drifted away. Anger against her rose in him again, but a different kind, not fury, but still a lively resentment. He had so many reasons for anger in all directions he could hardly fix upon the real, the main reasons. One of them, though, was the way his hand had been forced by the Captain, and that woman—whose flat hips and slender legs, he noticed, as she retreated from him, moved almost invisibly within her perfectly fitted, expensive-looking linen frock—had been to blame for the whole thing. In spite of her brief tears he did not believe she felt any true remorse; in spite of what he had said, a fervent desire rankled in him to humiliate her further, to put her to shame in some public way, to teach her a good lesson.… At this point, Herr Löwenthal came in by himself as usual and stood at the bar and beer was brought to him. Freytag felt his throat closing as if he might choke on his sense of injury; one thing certain, he would not sit at the table with that Jew.… No, he explained to himself as if arguing with a disapproving stranger, No, it is not because he is a Jew. It is because of what has been done to
both of us
. But he will never acknowledge that any wrong has been done to anyone but himself. The thought was like a flash of light in his mind—I have no prejudice against Jews—how could I? Mary is one, Mary—but why must he worry about this wretched little man, with his comic trade—he would just be a laughingstock anywhere: “Has he got any fragments of the True Cross, I wonder?” Jenny had asked, and Freytag had been maliciously cheerful to be able to answer, “I've been told he has, in tiny hand-carved ivory reliquaries, set with a piece of magnifying glass—and a sliver of wood no bigger than a hair!”

“I can't quite say why, but I find that revolting,” said Jenny. “Just suppose a Christian tried to sell him a sliver of the Ark of the Covenant, or a fragment of the Wailing Wall, or Abraham's toenail cuttings?”

“He'd know better,” said Freytag. “He'd say, ‘I'm overstocked with that line myself!'” They had laughed easily, but now Freytag felt corroded with guilt, heaping ridicule on one of Mary's people with this shallow girl. But that had happened before he had been kicked away from the Captain's table. He reminded himself fiercely that he must put up with Löwenthal, must treat him decently no matter what he said or did—if for no other reasons, he owed it to Mary. He also owed it to his own self-respect … I will have meals sent to the cabin, he decided; I will eat on deck sometimes. I will speak to him when I have to.

Herr Löwenthal was in better spirits and a calmer frame of mind since his encounter with Herr Freytag. He always felt safer, indeed at times there came over him a simmer of elation, when at last, and always sooner or later, no matter where, the lurking enmities, the evil designs, the formless miasmas of hatred took on shape, color, direction, language; and Persecution by the heathen world, his unescapable destiny as Jew, the one unanswerable argument for his chosenness, was once more under way, with no more doubts, no more waiting and watching. It always turned out not to be so bad as he had feared; even though he was never able to imagine the actual form the persecution would take, yet he found he was never really surprised by anything—never twice alike and always the same, yet no real danger, nothing that could not be handled after all—words, what are they? Insults, threats, names, low jokes—what of it? They couldn't touch him; he wanted only one thing from them, and that he had already—their trade. Why not sell graven images to the heathen if that's what they want? And get good prices for it too. He was making money, and he would make more; he knew well how many desirable places he could buy with money. It would be a positive pleasure someday just to see how far he could buy his way into places where they wouldn't dare to throw him out! His mood grew almost festive; he gulped down his beer and asked for another; he looked forward to seeing Herr Freytag at his table that evening, and he would make him feel that it was his, Löwenthal's, table, and that Freytag was there on sufferance.… Herr Löwenthal lighted a good cigar and settled down over his stein. He had heard about how that pig Rieber had tried to get him thrown out of the cabin, and had failed, because nobody wanted Herr Rieber either! That would be something to tell Cousin Sarah when he finally thank God got to Düsseldorf. When later at dinner Herr Freytag did not appear, and he had to eat his dull tinned fish alone, he was a little let down, disappointed. He must persuade him back, if only for the look of the thing. He would say to him sometime on deck, before a lot of people, loud enough for them to hear: “You mustn't take wrong what I said, Herr Freytag. You're more than welcome to sit at my table, if you haven't got any place else.” He'd like to hear his answer to that!

He was considerably put out and disgruntled when the steward, answering his question, said simply, “Herr Freytag prefers to dine alone, later.”

Lizzi giggled and trilled at sight of Mrs. Treadwell, who was sitting on the side of her berth fastening her sandals, dressing for the evening. Mrs. Treadwell glanced up, without inquiry, and Lizzi said rashly, “Oh, I must hear what Herr Freytag had to say when you asked him your question!”

“Nothing much,” said Mrs. Treadwell easily. She stood up and shook out her silvery pleated gown, slipped into it, and moved towards the door, fastening her belt as she went. “He seemed to feel, on the whole, that it was a great change for the better—the company, he seemed to mean …” She gathered up her skirts and closed the door after her gently.

“David,” said Jenny, as they touched their cocktail glasses together, “
Salud
, David darling! Don't you find that business about Freytag being put away from the Captain's table—do you know, imagine all the things he has told me, and he never told me such an important thing as that about his wife! But he thinks she hung the moon!—don't you find it is the most utterly disgraceful episode you ever heard of?”

“No, I've heard of worse,” said David, “and so have you. But it's pretty nasty.”

“I think we ought to speak to Freytag and let him know how we feel!”

“Go ahead,” said David darling, with blazing eyes and an icy voice. “Since when do you need an excuse?”

“You are getting simply intolerable on this subject, David,” she said, in a low distressed voice. “You know perfectly well he is a married man crazy about his wife, he is sociable and lonesome, there aren't too many people on this ship to talk to—oh, the whole thing is so silly I'm ashamed to be talking about it! I can't understand. You were never jealous before …”

“Wasn't I?” asked David, cutting in like a razor blade. “Are you sure?”

“Well, you were wrong,” said Jenny, “and you're wrong again—but I don't care, if only—”

“If only what?” asked David gently, for they both felt the same treacherous tenderness, that melting of the heart that would lead them further astray. “Can't you just be a little flattered if I am jealous? It must be that, don't you think? Any other explanation of my conduct is silly.”

“No, I'm not flattered,” said Jenny, “but do you know what I had in mind? You'll be furious, David. I thought you might invite Freytag to sit with us, he must be horribly uncomfortable sitting with that funny little man …”

“No, I'm not furious,” said David, “I am just overwhelmed at the clear and beautiful workings of your mind. Maybe Löwenthal is unhappy too.”

“Why of course, David, why shouldn't he be? But he was doing very nicely before by himself, and if Freytag comes to us Löwenthal will be just where he was—perfectly comfortable.”

“What makes you think Freytag would enjoy our society and our conversation any more than he does Löwenthal's?” asked David. “How do we know he isn't perfectly contented with Löwenthal?”

“I thought you could find out,” said Jenny. “I was going to leave it to you.”

“Why? He's your friend. I've never spoken a dozen words to the man.”

“We ought to have friends in common,” said Jenny. “We ought to try to like the same people. But it's your place to ask him.”

“I don't quite know what you've got in mind,” said David, and his nose grew pale and sharp, “but I think you're trying to treat me like a husband.”

“I never had one,” said Jenny, “so I don't know how they expect to be treated.”

“Invite Freytag to our table if you like,” said David. “And I'll be delighted to go over and sit with Löwenthal.”

Their hearts hardened again with a suddenness surprising to them both. They exchanged glances of cold bitter obstinacy, each quite determined that the other should pick up the pieces if any pieces were to be picked up. On the other side of the bar, plainly to be seen by them both, the object of their quarrel, or rather the pretext for it, Freytag, was having cocktails with Mrs. Treadwell, the two of them quite untroubled and good-looking, asking for nobody's officious help or pity. Jenny's composure, her assurance, her belief in her own view of things, vanished at this sight. She turned back to David and stooped and picked up the first piece of whatever it was they had broken, and then another, and began trying to put them together in whatever shape they had been before.

“David darling, I'd like another drink—I'd like a lot of drinks. Every day I learn about something else that is none of my business!”

The Baumgartners with their little son Hans were sitting near the largest table in the bar, entirely occupied by the Spanish dancing company, who were devouring great wedges of cake and swallowing pints of coffee with milk and sugar. Frau Baumgartner could not refrain from mentioning this circumstance, with an appropriate moral reflection.

“What really sober people they are,” she remarked, with a glance at her husband's nearly empty goblet of brandy and water. “Look, this whole voyage, nobody has seen them take anything stronger than table wine, and nearly always coffee!”

“There are coffee addicts as well as other kinds,” Herr Baumgartner reminded her. “There are also those who are gluttons for cakes and pastries, to the detriment of their health!” He flicked a shrewd look over the assorted pastries with whipped cream on her plate. “Those Spaniards are not people whose morals can be judged by their diet, my dear, whatever it may be. What good does mere abstinence from alcohol do people who are so sunk in every other vice?”