The Drinker (3 page)

5

It is already beginning to get dark when I wake up. I throw a startled glance at the clock: it is between seven and eight in the evening. I listen for any noises in the house. Nothing stirs. I call, softly at first, then louder: “Magda!” But she doesn’t come. I get up stiffly. My whole body feels battered, my head is hollow, my mouth dry and thick. I glance into the dining-room next door: no supper table is laid, though this is our usual supper-time. What is the matter? What has happened while I slept? Where is Magda?

After some reflection, I grope my way to the kitchen. Walking is not easy, it is as if all my limbs are stiff and bent, they move with difficulty in their joints.

I half expected to find the kitchen empty too, and almost dark, but the light is on, and Else is standing by the table, busy with some ironing. As I come in she looks up with a start, and the expression on her face is no more reassured when she sees who it is. I can well imagine that I look a bit wild. Suddenly I feel as if I am dirty all over. I should have gone into the bathroom first.

“Where is my wife, Else?” I ask.

“Madam has gone to town,” replies Else, with a quick, almost fearful glance at me.

“But it’s supper-time, Else!” I say reproachfully, though I have not the slightest inclination to eat any supper.

Else shrugs her shoulders, and then says, with another quick glance, “There was a telephone call from your office. I think your wife has gone to the office.”

I swallow with difficulty; I am conscious how dry my mouth has become.

“To the office?” I murmur. “Good God! What’s my wife doing at the office, Else?”

She shrugs her shoulders again. “How should I know, Herr Sommer,” she says. “Madam didn’t tell me anything.” She reflects for a moment, then goes on. “They rang up shortly after three, and your wife has been gone ever since.” So for more than four hours already Magda has been at the office. I am lost. Why I am lost I cannot say, but I know that I am. My knees grow weak, I stumble forward a few steps and slump heavily into a chair. I let my head fall on the kitchen table.

“It’s all up, Else,” I groan. “I’m lost. Oh, Else.…” I hear her set down the iron with a startled crash, then she comes over to me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “What is it, Herr Sommer? Don’t you feel well?” I don’t see her. I don’t lift my face from the shelter of my arms. In the presence of this young girl I am ashamed of my gushing tears. It’s all over, all lost, my firm, my marriage, Magda—oh, if only I hadn’t drunk that wine this lunch-time, that’s what made everything go wrong; without that, Magda would never have gone to the office (a fleeting thought: I’ve still got to settle that affair of the empty wine bottle, too!). Else gently shakes my shoulder. “Herr Sommer,” she says “don’t give way like that. Lie down again for a bit, and I’ll quickly make you some supper in the meantime.” I shake my head. “I don’t want any supper, Else. My wife ought to be here by now, it’s high time …”

“Or,” says Else persuasively, “would you like to eat a little something here in the kitchen with me, Herr Sommer?” Adding rather doubtfully. “As your wife is out.…” By its very novelty, there is something seductive about this quite unheard-of proposal. To eat in the kitchen with Else? Whatever would Magda say? I raise my head and look at Else properly for the first time. I have never looked at her like that before: for me, she was always merely a dark shadow of my wife in the remoter regions of the house. Now I see that Else is quite a pleasant dark-haired girl of about seventeen, of a somewhat robust beauty. Under a light blouse she has full breasts, and at the thought of how young those breasts are I feel a hot wave run over me.

But then I come to my senses. It’s all so impossible. Already this business of letting myself go before Else just now is utterly impossible.

“No, Else,” I say, and get up. “It is very nice of you to try to cheer me up a bit, but I had better get over to the office as well. If I should miss my wife, please tell her that I have gone to the office.” I turn to go. Suddenly it is hard for me to leave the kitchen and this friendly girl. I notice how pale her face is, and how well her high-arching eyebrows suit it.

“I have many worries, Else,” I say abruptly, “and I have nobody to stand by me.” Emphatically, I repeat, “Nobody, Else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Herr Sommer,” she answers softly.

“Thank you, Else, for being so nice to me,” I add. And I go. Only as I am getting ready in the bathroom does it occur to me that I have just betrayed Magda. Betrayed and deceived. Deceived and defrauded. But at once I shrug my shoulders: that’s right! Lower and lower. Deeper and deeper into it. Now there’s no holding back!

6

I made my way cautiously to the office, cautiously, because at all costs I wanted to avoid meeting Magda in the street. I stood on the other side of the street in the shadow of a doorway, and looked across at my firm’s five ground-floor windows. Two of them belonging to my main office, were lit up, and occasionally through the ground glass I saw the silhouettes of two figures: that of Magda and of my book-keeper, Hinzpeter. “They’re going through the books!” I said to myself with a deep sense of shock, and yet this shock was mingled with a feeling of relief, for now I knew that the conduct of the business was in Magda’s capable hands. That was just like her, immediately on hearing the bad news, to give herself a clear picture of the situation by going through the books. With a deep sigh I turned away and walked right through the town and out of it, but not towards my home. What should I do in the office, what should I do at home? Invite the reproaches that were bound to be made? Try to justify what was utterly unjustifiable? Not at all. And while I walked out again into the countryside, which was slowly growing darker and darker, it became painfully clear to me that I was played out. I had nothing left to live for, I had lost my footing in society, and I felt I had not the strength to look for a new one, nor to fight to regain the old. What was I to do now? I went on, I walked away from office, wife, home town, I left everything behind—but I would have to go home again eventually, wouldn’t I? I would have to face Magda, listen to her reproaches, hear myself rightly called a liar and a cheat, have to admit that I was a failure, a failure of the most disgraceful and cowardly kind. The thought was unbearable, and I began to play with the idea of not returning home at all, but of going out into the world, of submerging myself in the darkness somewhere, in some darkness where a man might disappear without trace, without a final cry. And while I was outlining this to myself, with some feeling of self-pity, I knew that I was deceiving myself, that I would never have the courage to live without the security of hearth and home. I would never be able to give up the soft bed I was used to, the tidiness of home, the punctual, nourishing meals. I would go home to Magda, in spite of all my fears, I would go back to my own bed this very night—never mind about living in the darkness, never mind about a life and death in the gutter.

“But,” I asked myself again, and I quickened my hasty steps, “but what’s the matter with me? I used to be a fairly energetic and enterprising man. I always was a little weak but I knew so well how to conceal that, that up to now even Magda probably hadn’t noticed it. Where does all this weariness come from that has been growing on me for the last year, paralysing my limbs and brain, and making me, till now a fairly honest man, into a deceiver of my wife, and the kind of character who looks lustingly at a servant-girl’s breasts? It can’t be the alcohol. I never drank schnaps before today, and this lassitude has been hanging over me for such a long time now. Whatever can it be?” I tried this theory and that. I reflected that I was just over forty. I had heard talk of the change of life in men, but I knew no man of my acquaintance who, on passing forty, had changed as much as I. Then I recalled my loveless existence. I had always longed for love and appreciation, secretly of course, and I had had it in full measure, from Magda as well as from my fellow-citizens. Then gradually I had lost it. I didn’t know how it had all happened. Had I lost love and appreciation because I had grown so bad, or had I grown so bad because I had lost its encouragement? I found no answer to these questions: I was not accustomed to thinking about myself. I walked faster still. I wanted to get to the place where I would find rest from all these torturing problems. At last I stood before my goal, before that same country inn I had visited this fatal morning. I looked through the bar-room window for the girl with the pale eyes, who had passed such a contemptuous judgment on my manhood after one insolent glance. I saw her sitting under the dim light of a single little bulb, busy with some needlework. I looked at her for a long time, I hesitated, and with a painful and voluptuous sense of self-abasement, I asked myself just why I had come to her. And I found no answer to this question, either.

But I was tired of all these problems. I almost ran up the paved path to the inn, groped in the dark passage for the door-handle, entered quickly, and with a pretence of cheerfulness I cried: “Here I am, my pretty one!” and sat down in a wicker chair beside her.

All that I had just done resembled so little my usual behaviour, was so different from my former sedateness, that I watched myself with unconcealed astonishment, almost with anxious embarrassment as if watching an actor who has taken on too daring a rôle, and who is unsure whether he will be able to play it convincingly to the end.

The girl looked up from her sewing, for a moment the pale eyes were turned on me, the tip of her tongue appeared briefly at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, it’s you,” was all she said, and these three words conveyed once more her judgment of myself.

“Yes, it’s me, my beauty,” I said quickly, with the glibness and arrogance that came so strangely to me, “and I would like one or two or maybe half a dozen glasses of that excellent schnaps of yours, and if you like, you can drink with me.”

“I never drink schnaps,” countered the girl coolly, but she got up, went to the bar, got a little glass and a bottle, and poured out a drink by the table. She sat down and put the bottle on the floor beside her.

“Anyway,” she added, taking up her sewing again, “we’re closing in a quarter of an hour.”

“Then I’ll have to drink all the quicker,” I said, put the glass to my lips and emptied it. “But if you won’t drink schnaps,” I continued, “I’d gladly buy you a bottle of wine or champagne even, if there is such a thing here. Regardless of cost.”

In the meantime she had re-filled my glass, and I emptied it again in one go. I had already forgotten all that had happened and all that lay ahead, I lived only for the moment, for this reserved yet knowing girl who treated me with such obvious contempt.

“We’ve got champagne all right,” she said, “and I like to drink it, too. But I’ll have you know that I don’t intend to get drunk, nor go to bed with you just for a bottle of champagne.”

Now she looked at me again, accompanying her immodest words with a bold insolent look. I had to go on playing my part. “Whoever would think of such a thing, my sweet,” I said lightly. “Go and get your champagne. You’ll be allowed to drink it quite unmolested. To me,” I added, more firmly after I had had another drink, “you’re like an angel from another planet, a bad angel whom fate has set in my path. It’s enough for me just to look at you.”

“It costs nothing to look,” she said with a short evil-sounding laugh. “You’re a pretty queer saint, but before the night’s out I think I’m going to find out what you’re so excited about.”

With that, she poured me another drink, and got up to fetch the champagne. This time she was away longer. She drew the curtains, then went outside, and I heard her close the shutters, and lock the door. As she went through the barroom again, she said “I’ve locked up, nobody else will be coming. The landlady’s in bed already.” She said this in passing, then stopped, and added in an ironic tone, “But don’t build your hopes on that.” Before I could answer, she had gone again. I used her absence to pour myself out two or three drinks straight off. Then she came back with a gold-topped bottle in her hand.

She put a champagne glass on the table before her, skilfully unbent the wire and twisted the cork out of the bottle without letting it pop. The white foam rushed up. She poured, waited a moment, poured again, and lifted the glass to her mouth.

“I’m not going to drink your health,” she said, “because you would want to drink with me, and for the time being, you’ve had enough.”

I didn’t contradict her. My whole body was so full of drunkenness, it seemed to hum like a swarm of bees. She put down her glass, looked at me with narrowed eyes and asked mockingly, “Now then, how many schnapses did you have while I was away? Five? Six?”

“Only three,” I answered, laughing. It never occurred to me to feel ashamed. With this girl, all such feelings disappeared completely.

“Incidentally, what’s your name?”

“Do you intend to come here often?” she countered.

“Perhaps,” I answered, rather confused. “Why?”

“Why do you want to know my name? For the half hour we sit here, ‘my sweet’ or whatever else you like to call me, will do.”

“All right, don’t tell me your name,” I said, suddenly irritable. “I don’t care.”

I took the bottle and poured another drink. Already it was quite clear to me that I was completely drunk and that I should not take any more. Even so, the urge to go on drinking was stronger. The coloured web in my brain enticed me, the dark untrodden jungles of my inner self tempted me; from afar, a soft seductive voice was calling.

“I don’t know whether I shall often come here,” I said rapidly. “I can’t stand you, I hate you, and yet I’ve come back to you this evening. This morning I drank the first schnaps in my life. You poured it out for me, you stole into my blood with it, you’ve poisoned me. You’re like the spirit of schnaps: hovering, intoxicating, cheap and.…”

I looked at her, breathless, myself the more astonished at these words which hurtled out of me, goodness knows where from. She sat opposite me. She had not taken up her sewing again. She had crossed her stockingless legs and had pushed her skirt back a little from her knees. Her legs were rather sturdy, but long, and fine-ankled. On her right calf I saw a birthmark nearly the size of a farthing—it seemed beautiful to me. She held a cigarette in her hand; she blew the smoke in a broad stream through her nearly closed lips; she stared at me without blinking.

“Go on, pop,” she said, “you’re getting on fine, go on.…”

I tried to think. What had I been talking about just now? The impulse to touch her, to take her in my arms, became almost overwhelming. But I leaned back firmly in my wicker chair, I clung to its arms. Suddenly I heard myself speak again. I spoke quite slowly and very distinctly, and yet I was breathless with excitement. “I’m a wholesale merchant,” I said, “I had quite a good business, but now I’m faced with bankruptcy. They’ll all laugh at me, all of them, especially my wife.… I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and Magda will throw them all in my face. Magda’s my wife, you know.…”

She looked at me steadily, with that very white face of hers, that had about it something almost bloated. Above her nearly colourless eyes, stood her dark high-arching brows.

“But I can still draw money out of the business, a few thousand marks. I’d do it anyway, just to annoy Magda. Magda wants to save the business. Does she think she’s better than I am? I could sell the business. I know already to whom, it’s quite a new firm. He would give me ten, perhaps twelve thousand marks for it, we could go travelling.… Have you ever been to Paris?”

She looked at me. Neither affirmation nor dissent were to be read in her face. I went on talking, quicker, more breathlessly. “I’ve not been there either,” I continued, “but I’ve read about it. It’s a town of tree-lined boulevards, wide squares, leafy parks.… When I was a boy I learned a bit of French, but I left school too soon, my parents hadn’t enough money. Do you know what this means:
Donnez-moi un baiser, mademoiselle?”

Not a sign from her, neither yes or no.

“It means, ‘give me a kiss, mademoiselle.’ But one would have to say to you,
Donnez-moi un baiser, ma reine! Reine
means queen. You’re the queen of my heart. You’re the queen of the poison they cork up in bottles. Give me your hand, Elsabe—I’m going to call you Elsabe, my queen—I mean to kiss your hand.…”

She filled my glass.

“There, drink this up, then you’re going home. It’s enough—you’ve had enough to drink, and I’ve had enough of you. You can take that bottle of brandy with you. You’ll have to pay for the whole bottle, saloon price. It’s no swindle. Don’t you come in here tomorrow saying I swindled you. You poured I don’t know how many out for yourself.”

“Don’t say that, Elsabe,” I said, half-blustering, half-whining. “I’d never do such a thing! What do I care about money—!”

“Don’t teach me about men! When they’re drunk and randy it’s all ‘What do I care about money!’ and next morning they turn up with the police, shouting about being swindled. The brandy, and the champagne, and my cigarettes … that comes to.…”

She named a sum.

“Is that all?” I said boastfully and pulled out my wallet. “Here you are!”

I put down the money.

“And here …,” I took out a hundred-mark note and laid it beside the other. “This is for you because I hate you and because you’re ruining me. Take it, take it. I don’t want anything from you, anything at all! Go away! I’ve got you in my blood already, I couldn’t possess you more than I do. You’re very likely dull and boring. You’re not from hereabouts, you’re from some city, of course, where you left everything behind—this is just the remains!”

We stood facing each other, the money lay on the table, the light was gloomy. I swayed gently on my feet. I was holding the half-empty brandy bottle by the neck. She looked at me.

“Put your money away,” she whispered. “Take your money off the table. I don’t want your money … you’d better go!”

“You can’t force me to take the money back. I’m leaving it here … I present you with it, my queen of bright brandy called Elsabe. I’m going.…”

Laboriously I made my way to the door. The key was on the inside and I struggled to turn it in the lock.

“Hey, you,” she said behind me. “You.…”

I turned round. Her voice had become low but full and soft. All the impudence had gone out of it.

“You …” she repeated, and now in her eyes there was colour and light. “You—do you want to?”

Now it was I who looked at her silently.

“Take your shoes off, be quiet on the stairs, the landlady mustn’t hear you. Come on, be quick.…”

Silently, I did as she told me. I don’t know why I did. I didn’t desire her now. I didn’t desire her in that way, at all.