Billiards at Half-Past Nine (4 page)

Disaster or vice, they hung in the air, but Jochen had always been too harmless himself to foresense suicide, to believe agitated guests able to tell the difference between the silence of sleep and death’s silence behind closed doors. He pretended to be cunning and corrupt, but all the while he believed in people.

“Well, there you are,” said the desk clerk. “I’m going to get my breakfast. Just don’t let anyone barge in on him, will you, he’s very fussy about it.” He put the red card on the counter for Jochen. “Available only to my mother, my father, my daughter, my son and Mr. Schrella. Otherwise to no one.”

Schrella! Was he still alive? The thought startled Jochen. But surely they must have done away with him. Or did he have a son?

It knocked for a loop, this aroma, everything that had been smoked in the foyer for the past couple of weeks. It was a fragrance you carried ahead of you like a banner. Here I come, Mr. Big, conquering hero whom none can resist. Six feet two, gray-haired, middle forties, suit of board-chairman quality; salesmen, storekeepers, artists never clad thus. This was official elegance, Jochen could smell it. Here was a minister of state, perhaps an ambassador, exuding importance and fat with signatures of almost law-making dominion, breezing through padded, steely, triple-plated antechamber doors, sweeping aside all opposition with snowplow shoulders, all the while radiating kindly courtesy, which you knew was a veneer, even as he made way
for Oma to let her retrieve that repulsive doggy of hers from the second boy, Erich. He even helped the old bag of bones reach for and take hold of the stair railing. “Don’t mention it, Madam.”

“Nettlinger.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I have to speak to Dr. Faehmel. It’s urgent. At once. Official business.”

Shake of the head, soft demur, as he toyed with the red card. Mother, father, son, daughter, Schrella. Nettlinger not wanted.

“But I know he’s here.”

Nettlinger? Haven’t I heard that name somewhere before? It’s the kind of face that must have made some sort of impression I wouldn’t want to forget. I’ve heard that name before, many years ago, and I said to myself at the time, make a note of that boy, don’t forget him. But now I can’t remember what it was about him I wasn’t supposed to forget. Anyway—watch out! If I knew all the things he’s done, no doubt I’d be sick to my stomach. If I had to sit and watch the film of his life they’re going to run off for that bastard’s benefit on Doomsday, I’d puke myself into a puddle. He’s the type that has the gold teeth ripped out of corpses, that orders kids’ heads shaved. Catastrophe? Vice? No, murder in the air.

And characters like that never know when and when not to tip. That’s all you need, to tell class. Now, for instance, might be the right moment for a cigar. But not for a tip, and never for such a big one as that twenty-mark bill which he’s pushing across the counter with a grin. How stupid can you get? People like that don’t even begin to know how to act, haven’t the faintest idea how to handle a hotel clerk. As if secrets were for sale at the Prince Heinrich! As if a guest who paid forty or sixty marks for his room could be had for one green twenty. Twenty marks from a stranger whose only reference was his
expensive cigar and his fancy suit. And that was the type, mind you, that got to be a cabinet minister, a diplomat, even, and yet didn’t even know how to grease a palm, most ticklish of all arts. Gloomily Jochen shook his head, left the green bill untouched.
Their right hand is full of bribes
.

Can you beat it! A blue bank note was being added to the green one, raising the bid to thirty; a dense cloud of Partagas Eminentes was puffed into Jochen’s face.

Blow away, pal, blow your four-mark cigar smoke in my face, and cough up another bill, a violet one, if you want to. Jochen’s not for sale. Not for you and not for three thousand in bills. I haven’t cottoned to many people in my life, but I happen to like that young fellow up there. Tough luck, pal, you and your important face and that hand of yours always itching to sign something, tough luck, but you got here a minute and a half too late. You ought to know that folding money isn’t down my alley. In case you don’t realize it, I’ve got a notarized contract right in my pocket, which says that the rest of my life I can live in my little room up under the roof and keep pigeons. For breakfast and lunch I have the choice of the menu, on top of that a hundred and fifty marks cash every month, three times more than I really need for my kind of tobacco. I have friends, too, in Copenhagen, Paris, Warsaw and Rome. If you only knew how carrier-pigeon people stick together! But of course you don’t. All you think you know is that money is everything. That’s what you and your kind tell each other. Naturally, you think, naturally a hotel clerk will do anything for money; he’d sell his grandmother down the river for a fifty-mark note. There’s only one thing I’m not allowed to do, my friend, one single curb on my freedom. When I’m down here working the desk I can’t smoke my pipe. And this exception I regret for the first time today. But for that I’d show you and your Partagas Eminentes a cloud or two of smoke; I’d turn you into a herring. To make it plain and simple, you can kiss my arse a hundred
and twenty-seven times. Faehmel’s not for sale to you, friend. He’ll play billiards up there without being bothered from half-past nine till eleven. Not that I can’t think of something better for him to be doing, namely sitting in your place in the ministry. Or, even better, throwing a few bombs the way he did as a young fellow, to put the fear of God into bags of crap like you. If you don’t mind, my friend, when he feels like playing billiards from half-past nine till eleven, then billiards he’s going to play. You can put your cabbage back in your pocket and call it a day, and if you flash another bill in my face, I won’t be responsible for what happens. I’ve had to swallow tactlessness by the gallon, put up with bad taste by the ton and not say a word. I’ve written down adulterers and queers by the dozen on the register, guys wearing the horns and wives on the warpath. But don’t ever get the idea that was all in the cards when I was born. I was always a good boy, used to serve Mass, as no doubt you did yourself, and sang the songs of Father Kolping and St. Aloysius in the Kolping Glee Club. Pretty soon I was twenty, with six years’ service in this fleabag behind me. And if I haven’t lost all faith entirely in humanity since then, it’s only because of people like young Faehmel up there and his mother. Put your money in your pocket, take that cigar out of your mouth and bow down, then, before an old man who’s wrung more dirty water out of his mittens than you ever knew existed. Then let the boy back there open the door for you, and scram.

“Have I got it right? You want to talk with the manager, sonny?”

First he went red, then quite blue with rage. Damn it all, there I go, thinking out loud again. Did I get too palsy with him? Hope not, that would be an awful mistake, never forgive myself for it. For it’ll be a long day when I get palsy with the likes of him.

Where do I get my nerve? I’m an old man, nearly seventy, I was thinking out loud. I’m a bit soft in the head, I’m slipping
upstairs, a fit subject for protection under the mental incompetence act and social security, such as it is.

Department of Defense and Armament? That’s all I need! Round there to the left for the manager, please, then second door to the right, you’ll see the complaint book bound in morocco. And if you ever order fried eggs in this place, and if I happen to be in the kitchen when the order comes through, it’ll be my pleasure in person to spit a gob into the frying pan for you. A kiss for you, in with the melted butter. And don’t mention it, sir.

“I told you once, sir. Left that way, second door on the right, manager’s office. Complaint book bound in morocco. You’d like me to tell him you’re coming? Certainly. Operator. Manager, please, desk clerk speaking. Yes, sir, a gentleman—what’s the name? Nettlinger, excuse me, Doctor Nettlinger wishes to speak to you at once. About what? To complain about me. That’s right. Thank you. The manager’s waiting for you, sir. Madam? Yes, Madam, parade and fireworks this evening, first street on the left, then second right, third left again, and you see the sign: ‘To the Roman Children’s Graves.’ No trouble at all, don’t mention it. Thank you very much.” One mark’s not to be despised from a good old girl of a school-teacher like that. Yes, just look at me, taking little tips with a smile, and turning down the big ones. Roman children’s graves, there you have something clear and simple. You’ll never see me turn up my nose at the widow’s mite. And tips are a bellhop’s very life and soul. “Yes, just around the corner—absolutely right.”

I can tell if they’re out for a shack job even before they step out of the taxi, I can smell it a mile away. I know all the angles cold. The timid ones, for instance, it’s written all over them so plain I feel like telling them, it’s not as bad as that, children, it’s all happened before, I’ve spent fifty years in the hotel game, rely on me to make it easy. Fifty-nine marks eighty, tips included, for a double room. You’ve got a little consideration coming for that kind of money. However, eager as you may
be, just don’t start doing it in the elevator. Making love in the Prince Heinrich takes place behind double doors. Don’t be so bashful, folks, don’t be so timid. If you only knew. I mean, how many people have hauled their ashes in these rooms, made sacred by high prices. Religious ones and unreligious, good ones and bad. Double room with bath, bottle of champagne, room service. Cigarettes. Breakfast at half-past ten. Very good, sir. Sign here, please, no here, sir—and I hope you’re not so stupid as to sign your right name. This thing really does go to the police, then it’s stamped, it becomes a document and can be used as evidence. Don’t gamble on the powers that be, young fellow. The more there are of them, the more pinches they need to keep them busy. Maybe you were a Communist once yourself, in which case keep your eye peeled extra sharp. I used to be one. And a Catholic, too. Sort of stuff that doesn’t come out in the wash. Even today there are certain people I just can’t stand hearing run down. Whoever makes a crack about the Virgin Mary or Father Kolping better watch his step. Boy, Room 42. That way to the elevator, sir.

There they are, just the ones I was expecting, a pair of them on the loose, bold as brass, nothing to hide, making sure the world knows how free and easy they are. Why do you have to make such a production out of it, why lay on that I’ve-got-nothing-to-hide stuff with a trowel? If you really haven’t got anything to hide, then you don’t need to hide it. Sign here, please, sir, no here. With this dumb babe you’ve got in tow, I certainly wouldn’t want to have anything to hide. Not with this one. Love is like tipping. Pure matter of instinct. You can tell by looking at a woman whether it’s worthwhile to have something to hide with her. With this one it isn’t, believe me, my boy. Sixty marks for the night, plus champagne in the room plus tips plus breakfast plus everything else you have to give her: just not worth it. You could get a better deal from a good honest whore who knows her business. Boy, show the lady and
gentleman to Room 43. Dear God, how stupid can you get! “The manager? Yes sir, coming sir, yes sir.”

Of course people like you are practically born to be hotel managers. It’s like women having certain organs removed. No more problems then. But what’s love without problems? And if a man has his conscience out, not even a cynic is left. Take trouble away, and you’re human no longer. I trained you as a bellboy, you spent four years under my wing. Then you took a look around the world, went to different schools, learned languages. In officers’ clubs, Allied and un-allied, you sweated out a fearful hosing from conquerors and conquered. Then you came back here on the double, and the first question that crossed your lips when you arrived, so sleek and plump and conscienceless, was, ‘Is old Jochen still around?’ And here he is, the same old potato, my boy.

“You’ve insulted this gentleman, Kuhlgamme.”

“Not on purpose, sir. In fact, it wasn’t an insult at all. I could name you a hundred people who would be proud to have me call them sonny.”

The crowning impertinence. Incredible.

“It just slipped out, Dr. Nettlinger, sir. I’m an old man, you might say I’m half covered by Paragraph 51.”

“The gentleman demands an apology.”

“And right away. It’s carrying things pretty far, if I may say so, to be talked to like that by a bellhop.”

“Apologize to the gentleman.”

“Beg your pardon, sir.”

“Not in that tone.”

“Which tone would you like? Beg your pardon, sir, beg your pardon, sir, beg your pardon, sir. Those are the only three tones I have to pick and choose from. So, if you don’t mind, select the one that suits you. Look here, I don’t mind being used for a doormat. I’ll kneel right down here on the carpet quick as a wink and kiss the man’s boots, old as I am, even if I
have an apology coming to me, too. Attempted bribery, sir. The honor of our old and famous hotel is at stake. A trade secret for thirty lousy marks? I’m the one who feels insulted. And the hotel’s been insulted, the place where I’ve worked for more than fifty years. Fifty-six, to be exact.”

“I demand you put an end to this ridiculous and painful scene.”

“Show the gentleman to the billiard room at once, Kuhlgamme.”

“No.”

“You will show the gentleman to the billiard room.”

“No.”

“I’d hate to see all the years you’ve given to this hotel, Kuhlgamme, go down the drain for not carrying out a simple order.”

“In this hotel, sir, when a guest says he doesn’t want to be disturbed, that’s an order, and it’s never been broken once. Except, naturally, if it’s a Higher Power. Secret police. Then our hands would be tied.”

“Consider me a Higher Power.”

“You mean you’re from the secret police?”

“I’m not going to put up with this kind of talk.”

“Show the gentleman to the billiard room, Kuhlgamme.”

“Do you want to be the first, sir, to smirch the banner of discretion?”

“Then I’ll take you to the billiard room myself, Doctor.”

“Over my dead body, sir.”

You have to be as old and corrupt as I am to know that certain things are not for sale. Vice stops being vice when there’s no virtue. And what virtue is you can never know, until you realize that even a whore will turn down some clients. But I should have known you were a bastard. Up there in my room I spent week after week with you, teaching you how to accept tips discreetly, practising with coins, groschen and marks and folding
money, too. It’s something one must know, how to take money discreetly, for tips are the life and soul of our profession. I tried to hammer it into your thick skull, no easy job. Even then you tried to gyp me. Pulling a fast one like trying to make me think we had used only three marks instead of four when we were practising! You’ve always been a bastard. You never learned some things just aren’t done. And now you’re at it again. Not that meanwhile you haven’t learned to rake in the tips, but I bet these here were not even thirty pieces of silver.