Amerika (26 page)

“But at least I would need to find out why he was suddenly dismissed,” said the policeman at last, as Delamarche looked aside sullenly, crushing the visiting card between his fingertips. “But he certainly was not dismissed,” cried Robinson, to everyone's surprise, and while leaning on the chauffeur, he reached as far as he could out of the car. “On the contrary, he actually has a good position there. He's the top person in the dormitory and can bring in anyone he wants. But he's exceedingly busy, and if you want to obtain anything from him, you must wait a long time. He's always consulting with the head waiter and the head cook, and is considered trustworthy. He certainly hasn't been dismissed. I've no idea why he said that. How can he have been dismissed? I injured myself badly at the hotel, he was given the task of bringing me home, and since he wasn't wearing a jacket, he simply left without a jacket. I couldn't keep waiting until he got his jacket.” “Well then,” said Delamarche, with his arms outstretched and speaking as if he were chiding the policeman for his inadequate grasp of human nature; those two words lent the vagueness of Robinson's remark the semblance of incontrovertible clarity.

“But is that really true?” asked the policeman in a wavering voice. “And if it's true, why does the boy pretend he was dismissed?” “You should say something,” said Delamarche. Karl gazed at the policeman, who was meant to keep order among these strangers who could think only of themselves, and some of his general worries passed over to Karl. He did not want to lie and held his hands tightly clasped behind his back.

At the gate a supervisor appeared and clapped his hands to indicate that the porters should return to work. They poured out the grounds from their coffeepots and headed into the house with faltering steps. “If we go on like this, we'll never get finished,” said the policeman, and he attempted to seize Karl by the arm. At first Karl shrank back a little involuntarily, but sensing the free space that had opened up for him now that the porters had marched off, he turned around and, after jumping up in the air several times, burst into a run. The children broke out in one great scream and for a couple of paces ran alongside him, arms outstretched. “Stop him!” the policeman shouted down the long and nearly empty street, and continuing to emit the same cry at regular intervals, he ran in a powerful silent stride, which showed that he was no novice. It was lucky for Karl that he was being chased through a workers' district. Workers have no use for the authorities. Karl ran down the center of the road, for he met with fewer obstacles there, and occasionally saw workers halting here and there on the side of the road to observe him quietly as the policeman shouted, “Stop him!” and, sensibly remaining on the smooth road and keeping his truncheon pointed at Karl, charged ahead. Karl now had little hope and almost lost the remainder when the policeman began to let out nearly deafening whistles, for they were approaching side streets where there must also have been police on patrol. The only advantage Karl possessed was his light clothing; he flew or rather flung himself down the continuously sloping street, even though in his sleepy state he often leaped too high, which was useless and time consuming. Besides, the policeman always had his goal before him and never had to think, whereas for Karl the running itself was of secondary importance, for he had to consider everything, choose among various options, and then choose all over again. His rather desperate plan was to avoid the side streets for now, for it was impossible to know what might lurk there, and he could easily have run right into a police station; he wanted to stick as long as possible to this street, which had a clear view and much farther down led to a bridge that no sooner began than it vanished amid a haze of water and sun. Karl had scarcely taken that decision and was collecting himself so that he could run faster and cross the first intersecting street in one great dash when he saw lying in wait, not far off, pressed up in the shade against the dark wall of a house, a policeman all set to jump out at Karl at the first opportunity. The side street was now his only hope, so when someone in that street called out his name—though this seemed an illusion at first, for his ears were ringing the entire time—he no longer hesitated and, so as to catch the police by surprise, if possible, he swung about on one foot and turned into that street.

He had scarcely advanced two bounds—having once again forgotten that someone had called out his name; the second policeman had started whistling and one could sense his still untapped vigor; some distant passersby on this side street seemed to quicken their pace—when someone reached out from a little doorway to Karl and pulled him into a dark corridor with the words “Be careful.” It was Delamarche, quite out of breath, cheeks flushed, hair plastered down all over his head. Carrying his dressing gown under his arm, he was dressed only in shirt and underpants. Turning to the door, which happened not to be the main door but merely an inconspicuous side entrance, he shut and locked it. “Just a moment,” he said, and then straightening up his head, he leaned against the wall and took deep breaths. Now Karl nearly lay in his arms, pressing his face half-unconsciously up against Delamarche's chest. “That's the gentlemen running past,” said Delamarche, listening attentively and pointing toward the door. And the two policemen did run past; on the empty street their steps sounded like steel striking stone. “You're really beat,” said Delamarche to Karl, who was still gasping for breath and could not speak. Delamarche set him down carefully on the ground, knelt beside him, patted his forehead several times, and observed him. “I'm fine now,” said Karl at last, and with effort got to his feet. “Then hurry up,” said Delamarche, who had put on his dressing gown and now seized Karl, whose head was still bowed out of weakness, and pushed him forward. Now and then he shook Karl to revive him. “You say you're tired?” he said. “But you were able to run like a horse out in the open, whereas I had to crawl along those damned corridors and courtyards. But, fortunately, I'm a runner too.” In his pride he gave Karl an energetic slap on the back. “Having races with the police like that is such good exercise!” “I was already tired when I started running,” said Karl. “There's no excuse for a bad run,” said Delamarche. “If it hadn't been for me, they'd have caught you long ago.” “I can believe that,” said Karl. “And I'm very obliged to you.” “There's no doubt about that,” said Delamarche.

They walked down a long narrow corridor paved with smooth dark stones. Now and then a flight of stairs opened off to the right or left, or one could suddenly see down another longer corridor. There were almost no adults visible, only a few children playing on the empty stairs. Standing on a balcony was a little girl, weeping so copiously that her entire face glistened with tears. No sooner had she noticed Delamarche than she ran up the stairs with her mouth wide open, gasping for breath, and composed herself only after she had climbed up higher, after turning around several times to assure herself that no one was following her or was about to do so. “That's the one I just ran over,” said Delamarche, laughing, and threatened her with his fist, causing her to run up higher, screaming.

Even the courtyards that they crossed were almost completely deserted. Here and there an office boy pushed along a two-wheeled cart, a woman filled a can with water at the pump, a postman crossed the entire courtyard with a steady gait, and an old man with a large white mustache sat cross-legged before a glass door, smoking a pipe; boxes were unloaded in front of a shipping agency; the idle horses turned their heads indifferently; a man in a smock was supervising all this work, paper in hand; there was a window open in one office, and an employee seated at his desk had turned aside and was looking pensively out toward the spot where Karl and Delamarche were passing.

“One certainly couldn't ask for a quieter neighborhood,” said Delamarche. “For a couple of hours in the evening there's a great deal of noise, but by day it's ideal.” Karl nodded; it was too quiet, he thought to himself. “I certainly couldn't live anywhere else,” said Delamarche, “since Brunelda can't tolerate the slightest noise. You know Brunelda? Well, you'll be seeing her. But I would urge you to be as quiet as possible.”

By the time they reached the steps that led to Delamarche's apartment, the automobile had already left, and without showing the least surprise, the fellow with the wasted nose announced that he had carried Robinson upstairs. Delamarche simply nodded at him as though he were merely a servant who had carried out a routine task, and seizing Karl, who hesitated a little and gazed out at the sunny street, he dragged him up the stairs. “We'll be there any moment,” Delamarche announced several times as he climbed the stairs, but his prediction refused to come true, for each flight of stairs was always followed by another leading off in an almost imperceptibly different direction. On one occasion Karl halted, not so much from weariness as from helplessness over the number of stairs. “The apartment is very high up all right,” said Delamarche as they went on, “but that has its advantages too. One seldom goes out and can stay in one's dressing gown all day; it's very cozy. Of course, being this high up we don't get many visitors.” But where could the visitors possibly come from? Karl thought to himself.

At last Robinson could be seen on a landing before a closed apartment door, and now they had arrived; the staircase did not even end but went on in the dusk, and there was no sign of its ending. “Just as I thought,” said Robinson in a low voice, as if still racked by pain. “Delamarche is bringing him! Rossmann, what would you do without Delamarche!” Dressed only in his underwear, Robinson tried to wrap himself as best he could in the small blanket given to him at the Occidental Hotel; it was not at all clear why he did not go into the apartment instead of making a spectacle of himself in front of possible passersby. “Is she asleep?” asked Delamarche. “I don't think so,” said Robinson, “but I wanted to wait until you came.” “First we must look and see whether she's asleep,” said Delamarche, bending down to the keyhole. After gazing through it for a while, turning his head frequently every which way, he rose and said: “I can't see her properly, the blind's been let down. She's sitting on the settee, maybe she's sleeping.” “Is she sick, then?” asked Karl, since Delamarche was standing there, as if looking for advice. But he responded sharply: “Sick?” “Well, he doesn't know her,” said Robinson by way of excuse.

A few doors down two women had entered the corridor; they cleaned their hands on their aprons, looked at Delamarche and Robinson, and seemed to be talking to them. Then a very young girl with glistening blond hair jumped out from a doorway and snuggled up between the two women, linking arms with them.

“They're such repulsive women,” said Delamarche softly, though evidently simply out of consideration for the sleeping Brunelda. “It won't be long before I report them to the police, and then I'll have a few years' peace. Stop looking,” he hissed at Karl, who could see nothing wrong with gazing at those women, since they did have to wait in the corridor for Brunelda to wake up. And he shook his head crossly as though he did not have to accept any admonitions from Delamarche, and just as he was about to show this more clearly by approaching the women, Robinson restrained him by seizing his arm and saying, “Be careful, Rossmann,” and Delamarche, who was already annoyed at Karl, became so furious over a short burst of laughter from the girl that he rushed toward the women, flailing about with his arms and legs until they disappeared into their own doorways one by one, as if they had been blown away. “I often have to clean out these corridors like this,” said Delamarche, returning more slowly; then, recalling Karl's resistance, he said: “But I expect a very different sort of behavior from you; otherwise you could have some bad encounters with me.”

Just then an inquiring voice asked gently if wearily: “Delamarche?” “Yes,” answered Delamarche, looking at the door with a friendly mien, “may we come in?” “Oh yes,” came the answer, and then, after pausing to glance at the two others waiting behind him, Delamarche slowly opened the door.

One stepped into complete darkness. The curtain on the balcony door—there was no window—had been let down all the way to the floor and was only barely translucent; besides, the clutter in the room with all the furniture hanging about also made the room darker. The air was musty, and one could almost smell the dust that had gathered in nooks that no one could evidently reach by hand. The first thing Karl noticed on entering were three cupboards lined up tightly, one behind another.

Lying on the settee was the woman who had looked down upon them from the balcony. The bottom of her red dress had been pulled out of place and hung to the ground in one great swath; her legs were visible almost to the knees; she wore thick white woolen socks but no shoes. “It's so hot, Delamarche,” she said, and then, averting her face from the wall, let her hand hang out limply toward Delamarche, who took it and kissed it. Meanwhile Karl gazed only at her double chin, which also rolled about as she turned her head. “Perhaps I should get them to raise the curtain?” asked Delamarche. “Anything but that,” she said, closing her eyes, and as if in desperation: “That will only be even worse.” Karl had approached the foot end of the settee to take a closer look at the woman; he was surprised by her complaints, for the heat was by no means extreme. “Wait, I'll make things a bit more comfortable for you,” said Delamarche anxiously, opening a few buttons on her neck and parting the fabric, which freed her neck and the top of her breast, exposing the delicate yellowish lace fringe of her camisole. “Who's that?” the woman suddenly asked, pointing at Karl, “why is he staring at me like that?” “It won't be long before you can make yourself useful,” said Delamarche, pushing aside Karl and soothing the woman with the words: “It's just the boy I've brought along as your servant.” “But I don't want anybody,” she cried, “why are you bringing strangers into my apartment.” “But you've always said you wanted a servant,” said Delamarche, and knelt down; despite its great width the settee could not accommodate anyone next to Brunelda. “Oh Delamarche,” she said, “you don't understand me, you don't understand me.” “Then I really don't understand you,” said Delamarche, taking her face into his hands. “But nothing has actually happened; if you like, he shall leave this instant.” “Well, now that he's here, he should stay,” she said, and on hearing those words, which were perhaps not kindly meant, Karl in his weariness was so grateful that—lost as he was in vague reflections about the endless staircase, which he should perhaps have immediately descended again, and stepping over Robinson, who was sleeping peacefully on a blanket—ignoring the angry gesticulation from Delamarche, he said: “In any case I should like to thank you for letting me stay a little longer. I've probably not slept for twenty-four hours or so, but I've certainly worked hard enough and had to deal with a number of unsettling matters. I'm dreadfully tired. I don't really know where I am. But once I've had a few hours' sleep, you may send me off without needing to feel in the least bit concerned, and I shall be happy to go.” “You can definitely stay,” said the woman, and then she added ironically: “As you can see, we have more than enough space.” “So you must leave,” said Delamarche to Karl. “We have no use for you here.” “No, he should stay,” said the woman, sounding serious again. Delamarche said to Karl, as if he were carrying out Brunelda's request: “Then just lie down somewhere.” “He can lie on the curtains but must take off his boots so he doesn't tear anything.” Delamarche showed Karl to the place that she meant. A large heap of the most oddly assorted window curtains had been thrown on the floor between the door and the three cupboards. Had they been properly folded, the heaviest at the very bottom, the lighter ones more toward the top, and finally the boards and wooden rings that were also part of the heap taken out, it would have made a fairly tolerable bed, but now it was only a swaying, sliding mass on which Karl immediately lay down, for he was too tired to make special preparations before bed, and besides, out of consideration for his hosts he had to refrain from causing any trouble.