Amerika (13 page)

Meanwhile Mr. Pollunder had approached Karl and gently drawn him away from Mr. Green toward one of the large windows. “My dear Mr. Rossmann,” he said, bending down to Karl's ear; and then, as if readying himself, he wiped his face with a handkerchief, stopped at his nose, and blew it. “Surely you don't think I want to keep you here against your will. That's absolutely not the case. But I cannot place the automobile at your disposal, since it's parked far away in a public garage, and I have not yet had the time to set up my own garage, everything still being in flux here. In any case the chauffeur doesn't sleep in the house but somewhere near the garage; I don't quite know where. Besides, he is under no obligation to be at home just now—he must simply arrive here with the automobile on time each morning. But none of this would be an obstacle to your returning home this instant, and if you insist, I shall accompany you at once to the next station on the suburban line, which is so far away that you'd probably not reach home much earlier—we're leaving at seven—than if you went by automobile.” “Well, Mr. Pollunder, in that case I should prefer to take the suburban train,” said Karl. “I hadn't even thought of the train. You said if I took the train I'd get back earlier in the morning than if I went by automobile.” “But it doesn't make much difference.” “Still and all, Mr. Pollunder, still and all,” said Karl, “I shall always be happy to return, for I have such fond memories of your kindness, assuming, of course, that you still want to invite me after the way I've behaved today, and perhaps next time I shall be able to give you a better idea why I so value each minute that brings me closer to seeing my uncle again.” And as though he had already received permission to leave, he added: “But on no account should you accompany me. Besides, it's quite unnecessary. There's a servant outside, who will gladly accompany me to the station. Now I need only look for my hat.” And as he said those last words, he was already striding across the room to make one last hasty attempt to see whether he could find his hat. “Couldn't I help you out with this cap,” said Mr. Green, pulling a cap from his briefcase, “it may happen to fit you.” Astonished, Karl halted and said: “But I'm not going to take your cap away from you. I can perfectly well go bareheaded. I don't need anything.” “It is not my cap. Just take it!” “Well, thank you,” said Karl, and to avoid any further delay he took the cap. He put it on, laughed since it fit perfectly, then took it off and gazed at it, but could not find the distinctive mark he sought; the cap was brand-new. “It fits so well!” he said. “So it does fit!” exclaimed Mr. Green, hitting the table.

Karl was already on his way to the door to call the servant when Mr. Green rose, stretched out after his ample meal and lengthy rest, slapped himself vigorously on the chest, and sounding as if he was giving advice and at the same time issuing an order, he said: “Before you leave, you must bid farewell to Miss Klara.” “Yes, you must,” said Mr. Pollunder, who had risen also. One could hear from the way he spoke that his words were not heartfelt; letting his hands fall slackly against the seam of his trousers, he kept buttoning and unbuttoning his coat, which, being tailored in the prevailing fashion, was short, barely reached his hips, and ill became a person of Mr. Pollunder's girth. Besides, seeing him standing beside Mr. Green, one had the distinct impression that Mr. Pollunder's fatness was not at all healthy, for his massive back was rather hunched, his stomach soft and impossibly flabby, a true burden, and his face looked pale and troubled. Beside him stood Mr. Green, who was perhaps even fatter than Mr. Pollunder, but his was a cohesive, self-supporting fatness; he had his feet locked in military fashion and held his head erect, letting it swing back and forth; he was evidently a great gymnast, a star athlete.

“Well then,” Mr. Green continued, “you may go to Miss Klara for the time being. That will surely give you pleasure and also fits in nicely with my schedule. For before you leave I have something interesting to tell you that might indeed affect your return. Unfortunately, I cannot disclose anything to you before midnight, on orders from above. As you can imagine, I too find this most regrettable since it's disrupting my night's sleep, but I will carry out my task. It's now a quarter past eleven, so I still have time to finish my business with Mr. Pollunder, and since your presence would be disruptive, you can go and have a nice time with Miss Klara. Show up here at twelve o'clock sharp, and you'll find out what you need to know.”

Could Karl turn down this demand, which really required only that he accord Mr. Pollunder the minimum of politeness and gratitude and which was made by an individual who was usually quite crude and standoffish, whereas Mr. Pollunder—in other words, the person directly concerned—scarcely intervened with a word or a glance? And what was the interesting news he wasn't permitted to discover until midnight? If it did not hasten his return by at least the three-quarters of an hour by which it was delaying it, then he had little interest in the matter. But his greatest uncertainty was whether he could go to Klara, who was, after all, his enemy. If only he had at least brought along the iron bar his uncle had given him as a paperweight. Klara's room might well be a dangerous lair. But now it was of course completely impossible to say the slightest thing against Klara, for she was not only Pollunder's daughter but also, as he had just heard, Mack's fiancée. If she had just treated him a little differently, he would have admired her openly because of her connections. While still engaged in such thoughts, he quickly realized that nobody was about to ask him what he thought, for Green opened the door and said to the servant, who jumped up from the pedestal: “Take this young man to Miss Klara.”

That's the way to carry out orders, Karl thought as the servant, almost running and groaning from old age and infirmity, drew him along an especially quick path to Klara's room. When Karl reached his room, the door to which was still open, he wanted to step inside for a moment, perhaps so as to calm down. However, the servant refused to let him do so. “No,” he said, “you must go to Miss Klara. You heard so yourself.” “I would only stay for a moment,” said Karl, and he thought of throwing himself down on the settee for a while to divert himself and thereby ensure that the time from now until midnight would seem to pass more quickly. “Don't make my task any more difficult than it already is,” said the servant. He seems to believe that my having to go to Miss Klara is some form of punishment, Karl thought, and he advanced several steps, only to halt again in defiance. “But now come along, young man,” said the servant, “seeing as you are still here. I realize you wanted to leave at night, but everything doesn't always work out the way one wants; I certainly did tell you right away that this would scarcely be possible.” “Yes, I do want to leave and I will leave,” said Karl, “I just want to say goodbye to Miss Klara.” “Is that so,” said the servant, and Karl could see that he didn't believe a word of what he had said, “then why are you reluctant to say goodbye, just come.”

“Who's in the corridor,” Klara's voice rang out, and one could see her leaning from a nearby door, holding a large table lamp covered with a red shade. The servant rushed over to her and reported the news; Karl followed him slowly. “You're late,” said Klara. Refraining from answering just now, Karl said to the servant in a tone of voice that was soft but also, given his character, commanding: “You shall wait for me right by this door!” “I was about to go to sleep,” said Klara, putting the lamp on the table. Just as he had done in the dining room, the servant closed the door carefully from the outside. “It's already after eleven-thirty.” “After eleven-thirty,” Karl repeated quizzically, as if shocked by these figures.

“Then I shall have to leave at once,” said Karl, “since I must be downstairs in the dining room at twelve sharp.” “My, you must have some urgent business,” said Klara, absently straightening the folds in her loose nightgown; her face glowed, and she smiled constantly. Karl thought he could tell that there was no danger of another fight with Klara. “But couldn't you play a little on the piano, as Papa promised yesterday and you promised today.” “But isn't it too late now?” asked Karl. He would have been happy to oblige her, for she was very different than earlier, as if she had somehow risen to Pollunder's circle and then on to Mack's. “Yes, it is indeed late,” she said, having evidently lost the desire to hear music. “So each note will resound through the entire house; if you play, I'm sure even the servants in the attic rooms will be awakened.” “Then I won't play. I'm certainly hoping to return; by the way, if this isn't too great an imposition, do pay a visit to my uncle and, while you're there, take a look at my room. I have a splendid piano. My uncle gave it to me as a present. And then if you'd like, I'll play all of my little pieces for you; unfortunately, there aren't that many, and they aren't suitable for such a large instrument, which should be reserved for performances by virtuosos. But even that pleasure can be yours if you give me advance warning of your arrival, since my uncle is about to engage a famous teacher for me—you can imagine how much I'm looking forward to this—and he plays so well it would be a good idea if you visited during a lesson. Quite frankly, I'm glad it's too late for me to play, for I'm still incapable of playing anything; you'd be surprised how little I can play. And now permit me to take my leave; in any case it's already bedtime.” And since Klara gave him a benevolent look and did not seem to bear the slightest grudge over their scuffle, he held out his hand, adding with a smile: “As people say in my homeland, ‘Sleep well and sweet dreams.' ”

“Wait,” she said, without taking his hand, “but perhaps you should after all play.” And she disappeared through a little side door, beside which stood a piano. What's the matter? thought Karl, I cannot wait for long, no matter how pleasant she happens to be. There was a knock on the door to the corridor, and the servant, who did not dare to pull it open, whispered through a little crack in the door: “Excuse me, I've just been summoned and cannot wait anymore.” “Off you go then,” said Karl, confident he could find his way to the dining room on his own, “just leave the lamp outside the door. By the way, how late is it?” “It's almost a quarter to twelve,” said the servant. “How slowly time passes,” said Karl. The servant was about to shut the door when Karl, recalling that he had not yet given him a tip, took a shilling from his trousers pocket—in American fashion he now carried his change jingling loosely in his trousers pocket and kept his banknotes in his waistcoat pocket—and handed it to the servant, saying: “For all your good work.”

Klara had already returned, holding her trim hair with both hands, when Karl realized that he should not have dismissed the servant, for who would now take him to the train station? Well, surely Mr. Pollunder could still get hold of a servant; besides, that same servant might already have been summoned to the dining room and would therefore be available. “So I'm asking you to play a little something for me. We so rarely hear music here that one doesn't want to miss any such opportunity.” “Then it's certainly high time,” said Karl, and without any further reflection, he sat down quickly at the piano. “Do you want some sheet music,” Klara asked. “No thanks, I cannot even read music properly,” answered Karl, and began to play. It was only a little song that, as Karl knew only too well, needed to be played very slowly if others, especially foreigners, were to understand it, but nevertheless he raced through it in the tempo of an extremely fast marching song. When it was over, the disturbed stillness returned, as if in a rush, to occupy the old house again. They sat without moving, as if in a daze. “Very nice,” said Klara, but after such a performance no polite phrase could have flattered Karl. “How late is it?” he asked. “A quarter to twelve.” “I still have a little more time,” he said, and then he thought: So it'll have to be one or the other. While I'm certainly not obliged to play all ten songs I know, there's one I could conceivably play well. And he began to perform his beloved soldier's song, so slowly that the listener's roused desire continually reached for the next note, which Karl held on to for some time and then at last released. As with every song, he first had to glance at the keys he needed, but rising within he could sense a sadness that already searched beyond the ending of the song for another ending that, however, it failed to find. “I'm simply no good,” Karl said on finishing the song, and looked at Klara with tears in his eyes.

Just then loud clapping rang out from the adjacent room. “There's someone listening!” cried Karl, startled. “Mack,” said Klara, softly. And one could already hear Mack calling: “Karl Rossmann, Karl Rossmann!”

Using both legs simultaneously, Karl swung himself over the piano bench and opened the door. He saw Mack seated, half reclining, on a large four-poster bed, the quilt loosely thrown over his legs. The sole, and rather schoolgirlish, adornment on the otherwise very simple bed, which was roughly hewn from heavy timber, consisted of a canopy made of blue silk. There was only one candle burning, but the bedclothes and Mack's nightshirt were so white that the reflected candlelight falling on them was almost blinding; even the canopy, with its slightly billowing and not quite taut silk drapery, shone, at least at the edges. But behind Mack the bed and all else sank into complete darkness. Klara, leaning against the bedpost, now had eyes only for Mack.

“Hello,” said Mack, extending his hand toward Karl. “You do play very well, I was only aware of your riding skills.” “I'm no good at either,” said Karl. “Had I known you were listening, I wouldn't have played. But your lady friend—” he broke off; he was reluctant to say
fiancée
since it was clear that Mack and Klara were already sleeping together. “I thought so,” said Mack, “and Klara had to entice you out from New York for that reason, otherwise I wouldn't have heard you play. It's highly amateurish all right, and you made several mistakes even in those songs with the very primitive arrangement that you had practiced beforehand, but still I was very pleased, and not just because I never look down on anybody else's playing. But wouldn't you like to sit down and stay a little longer? Do give him a chair, Klara.” “Thank you,” said Karl, hesitating. “Much as I'd like to stay, I cannot. I'm discovering too late that there are such cozy rooms in this house.” “I'm renovating everything in the same style,” said Mack.