The Dedalus Book of German Decadence (30 page)

‘Put on my shoes’, he cried ‘they are bigger and warmer.’ He quickly pulled them off and let her slip into them. ‘Is that better?’ ‘Yes!’ she laughed, ‘much better! I shall give you another kiss for this, Rosalind.’

And she kissed him again, and bit him again. And both of them laughed as the moon shone on the red drops on the white snow.

‘Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?’ she asked.

And he replied: ‘I think of you always, constantly.’

She paused for a moment, and then continued: ‘If I wanted you to, would you throw yourself from this balcony?’

‘Yes!’ he replied

‘And from the roof?’ He nodded.

‘And from the cathedral spire?’ He nodded again.

‘Would you do anything for me, Wolfi?’ she asked. And he said: ‘Yes, Mandra, if you loved me.’

She pursed her lips mockingly and gently swung her hips. ‘I don’t know whether I do love you,’ she said slowly. ‘Would you do it if I didn’t love you?’

Then those splendid eyes – his mother’s eyes – gleamed with a darker radiance than ever. And the moon above was jealous of these human eyes, crept away and concealed itself behind the cathedral tower.

‘Yes’, the boy said, ‘yes, even then.’

She sat upon his lap and put her arms around his neck. ‘For that, Rosalind, for that I shall kiss you a third time!’

And she kissed him, longer, more passionately. But they could no longer see the dark drops in the glittering snow as the disgruntled moon had hidden its silver torch.

‘Come’, she whispered, ‘come, we must be going.’

They changed their shoes, beat the snow from their clothes and unlocked the door, slipping quietly back into the room from behind the curtain. The lamps threw their harsh light upon them, and the air, hot and stuffy, enveloped them.

Wolf Gontram staggered when he let go of the curtain and quickly pressed both hands to his breast.

She noticed it. ‘Wolfi?’ she asked.

He said: ‘It’s all right, only a stitch. It’s passed.’

Hand in hand they walked through the room.

*        *        *        *

Wolf Gontram was not in the office next morning. He did not get out of bed, was feverish, with a high temperature. Nine days he lay there, calling out her name in his delirium: he never regained consciousness during this time.

Then he died. Inflammation of the lungs. And they buried him in the new cemetery.

Miss Mandra Gora ten Brinken sent a large wreath of dark roses.

*        *        *        *

The Privy Councillor, His Excellency Professor ten Brinken, was walking up and down in his room, slowly, with heavy dragging steps. ‘Is it really so bad? How long do you think I need to go away?’

Manasse, the little lawyer, turned and looked at him. ‘For how long?’ he gasped. ‘What kind of a question is that? For as long as you live! You should count yourself lucky that this possibility remains open to you – it’s certainly pleasanter to squander your millions in a villa on the Riviera than ending your days in prison! And it
would
be prison, I can assure you! And it’s the authorities that have left this escape route for you, the prosecution could just as well have signed the warrant for your arrest this morning, and everything would have been over by now! Damned decent of them, but they would take it very badly if you didn’t use this little exit. And when they decide to act, then they’ll get you  …  and then, your Excellency, this would be your last night as a free man.’

The judge said, ‘Flee, make your escape. It seems to me the best thing you could do.’

‘Yes’, yelped Manasse ‘certainly the best and, indeed, the only solution for a crook and an embezzler. Disappear into thin air and take that daughter with you. Lendenich, and the whole town, would be grateful.’

The Professor pricked up his ears. For the first time that evening some sign of life entered his features, and the rigid mask of apathy slipped, that mask upon which a nervous restlessness had flickered.

‘Mandra,’ he whispered, ‘Mandra, if she came too.’ He passed his plump hand two or three times across his powerful forehead. He sat down, took a glass of wine, emptied it.

‘Gentlemen, I think you’re right’, he said. ‘I thank you for this. Would you please go through everything once more.’ He seized the bundle of documents, shares, policies – the papers which were his undoing.

The lawyer began, and quietly, precisely, explained the legal technicalities. He worked through the stocks and shares, summed up each possibility of getting out, or self-defence. And Professor ten Brinken threw in the occasional word and, as in the old days, fought and manipulated. He grew increasingly clearer in his mind, and with each new danger there was also a new suppleness in his thinking.

Some papers he kept to one side, these posed no danger. But there were still sufficient number to bring about his undoing. He dictated a few letters, gave out instructions, took down notes and suggested appeals, complaints  …  Then he studied the train timetable, made his plans and gave instructions for what to do next. And when he left his office he could claim that he had ordered his affairs to his satisfaction. He hired a taxi and was driven to Lendenich, confident and assured. And it was only when the servant opened the gate and he was walking across the courtyard and up the stairs to the mansion that his confidence left him.

He looked for Mandra and felt it was a good omen that there were no guests in the house. The maid informed him that she had dined alone and was in her room. So he climbed the stairs, knocked on her door, and went in at her ‘Enter’.

‘I must talk to you’ he said.

She was sitting at her writing desk and briefly looked up at him. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not convenient’.

‘It’s most important, it can’t be delayed.’

She looked at him, and lightly crossed one foot over the other. ‘Not now. Go downstairs. Give me half an hour.’

He left, took off his fur coat and sat on the sofa. He waited and mulled over what he would say, every sentence, every word.

After a good hour had passed he heard her footsteps. He rose and went to the door and there she stood, dressed as a liftboy in a bright, strawberry-coloured uniform.

‘Ah  …’ he sighed. ‘That’s nice of you.’

‘To reward you’, she laughed. ‘Because you are such an obedient daddy  …  Now, what’s it all about?’

The Professor concealed nothing of his affairs, the malpractice, neglect, the dubious transactions. He spoke precisely, embellishing nothing. She did not interrupt him, and let him speak and confess.

‘It’s basically you who are to blame,’ he said. ‘I could have dealt with everything, without any trouble. But I let it all slide, and devoted myself to you, and then the many-headed hydra –’

‘The naughty Hydra!’ she mocked. ‘And now poor Hercules has his difficulties? […] Now, little daddy, tell me what you are going to do.’

He explained that they would have to flee, now, immediately. They could do a bit of travelling, see the world – London first, then Paris. They could stop there for a bit and get whatever they wanted. And then overseas, travel through America, to Japan or India, just as she wished. Or both: they had time after all. And then Palestine, Greece, Italy, Spain. Just as she wanted: they could stop for a bit, then move on. And finally they would buy a beautiful villa somewhere, on Lake Garda, or on the Riviera. She could have horses, her cars, also her own yacht. She could entertain, if she wished, and live in grand style. He was not abstemious with his promises: he painted the scene in bright colours, all the splendours, and his febrile brain devised new, even more enticing blandishments. And then he stopped, and put his question to her. ‘So, little one, what do you say? Would you like to see all of this? Would you like to live like this?’

She was sitting on the table, and swung her slim legs back and forth. ‘O yes,’ she nodded, ‘I’d like to very much. Only –’

‘What?’ he asked quickly. ‘If you have another wish, just let me know. I know I can grant it.’

She laughed at him. ‘Well, grant it then! I’d love to travel, but not with you!’

The Professor staggered backwards and almost fell; he grasped the arm of a chair. He gasped for words, but found none.

She continued: ‘It would be boring with you. I find you tiresome. I shall travel, but without you!’

He laughed, too, trying to convince himself that this was a joke. ‘But it’s
me
who’s got to travel!’ he said. ‘I’ve got to escape this very night.’

‘So go then,’ she said quietly.

He tried to seize her hands, but she put them behind her back. ‘And you Mandra?’

‘Me? I’m staying.’

He started again, begging, imploring. He told her that he needed her, needed her like the air that he breathed. She should take pity on him, he would soon be eighty and he wouldn’t be a burden for much longer. Then he threatened her, yelling that he would disinherit her, cut her off without a penny  …

‘Just you try it,’ she interposed.

He kept on talking, describing the radiance that would surround her. She would be free as no girl before her, do whatever she wished. There would be no wish, no thought that he would not grant her. But she should just come with him, and not leave him alone.

She shook her head. ‘I like it here.
I’ve
done nothing wrong. I’m staying.’

She said this quietly, calmly. She didn’t interrupt him, but let him do all the speaking, all the promising. But she shook her head every time he put the question.

Finally she jumped from the table and walked past him, quietly, to the door.

‘It’s late’, she said, ‘and I’m tired. Goodnight, daddy, and
bon voyage
’.

He stood in her way and made his last attempt. He insisted that he was her father, and spoke of filial duty, like a vicar. She burst out laughing: ‘That I might enter the Kingdom of Heaven!’ She was standing next to the sofa and sat astride the armrest. ‘How do you like my leg?’ she asked suddenly. And she thrust a slim leg upwards, towards him, and swung it back and forth. He gazed at it, and forgot everything, the flight, the danger. He saw nothing, experienced nothing, except this slim, boyish leg, strawberry red, that was swinging up and down before his eyes.

‘I’m a good girl’, she fluted, ‘a very good girl who gives her silly daddy so much pleasure. Kiss my leg, daddy, stroke my pretty leg, daddy!’

He fell heavily to his knees, seized the red leg and grasped with trembling fingers the thigh and the plump calf  …  He pressed his moist lips against the red cloth, and licked it for a long time with a quivering tongue.

Then, quickly and lightly, she jumped from the sofa, tweaked him by the ear and tapped him lightly on the cheek. ‘Well, daddy’, she cooed, ‘haven’t I done my filial duty nicely? Good night, have a good trip, and don’t let them catch you, it’s supposed to be rather nasty in prison. And don’t forget to send a pretty postcard!’

She reached the door before he could rise. She made a bow, correct and stiff as a boy, and saluted with her right hand to her cap. ‘A great honour, your Excellency!’ she called. ‘And don’t make too much noise with your packing, it might disturb my sleep!’

He staggered after her and saw her run quickly up the stairs. He heard her open the door, then it snapped shut and the key was turned twice in the lock. He wanted to reach her, and laid his hand on the banister, but he sensed that she would not open, despite his pleading. This door would remain shut in his face, even if he stood all night in front of it, till dawn, till, till the police arrived to take him away.

He stood stock still. He listened, and could hear her footsteps above him, going back and forth across the floor. Then all was silent.

He crept out of the house and walked bare-headed through the heavy rain, across the courtyard to the library. He entered, looked for matches and lit a couple of candles on his writing desk; he collapsed heavily into an armchair.

‘Who is she?’ he whispered. ‘What is she? What a creature!’

He opened the old mahogany desk, drew open a drawer and took out the leather volume, staring at her initials on the cover.

The game was finished, he knew this well enough. And he had lost, he had no more cards left. It had been
his
game: he had dealt the cards. He had held all the trumps, but he had lost the game. He smiled grimly. Now he would have to pay the bill. Pay? Oh yes, and in which currency?

He looked at the clock, it was past midnight. They would come with a warrant for his arrest, no later than seven. He had six hours left. They would be very polite, very considerate: they would take him to prison in his own car. And then, the trial would begin. That would not be so bad, he could defend himself for months and make difficulties for his opponents every inch of the way. But finally, in the main hearing, he would collapse – Manasse was correct. And finally, prison.

Or: flight. But alone? All on his own? Without her? He felt hatred for her now, but he also knew that he could think about nothing but her. He would rush about the world endlessly, aimlessly, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but her warbling voice, her red, swinging leg. He would die of hunger, either out there, or in prison, whichever. This leg! This sweet, slim boyish leg! How could he live without it?

The game was lost, and he had to pay the cost. So he would pay it, now, tonight, and be in nobody’s debt. He would pay it with what remained: his life. And then he felt that it was a worthless tribute, and that he would be cheating his partners at the end. The thought cheered him, and he brooded on the chance of giving one final kick. That would finally give some satisfaction.

He took his will from the writing desk, the will which had made Mandra his sole beneficiary. He read it through, then tore it carefully into tiny pieces. ‘I must make a new one,’ he whispered, ‘but for whom?’

He took out a sheet of paper, and dipped his pen in the ink. There was his sister, and there was her son, his nephew, Frank Braun.

He paused. Him? him? Had he not brought this gift into his house, this strange creature who was now destroying him? He, like the others? He should strike
him,
him more than Mandra Gora.