I'm Not Stiller (38 page)

Stiller went on eating and didn't expect anything serious. He had been to Davos, he had parted from the sick Julika; what could upset him now! He smiled: 'What did you do?' But now the fat innkeeper's wife came with coffee in two glasses, and Sibylie was relieved. She hadn't wanted to talk about it at all. There are things that happen and yet don't count, but once they have been put into words they do count, and all the time there is really no need for them to count. The black coffee in the glasses was just as they had feared, namely bitter, so hot that they burnt their tongues, and at the same time unutterably insipid, tasting of anything rather than coffee; they tried to make it drinkable with humour and plenty of sugar, but the sugar only rendered this brown and grey liquid completely nauseating. Now he told her about Paris. Why didn't she sink into the floor? She pretended to be listening. When Sibylie thought about the last two nights they seemed to her like a monstrous dream...

'By the way, I've brought you something from Paris,' Stiller broke into his account. 'Where on earth did I put it?' Sibylie meanwhile filled their glasses with Veltliner. 'You know all those perfumeries in the Place Vendome?' laughed Stiller and told her the story of how he looked for her scent. The famous Place Vend6me, a large square with arcades, is the citadel of the French perfume trade, every firm has its own shop there, so unless you know the maker of the scent you are looking for, you have to go from firm to firm having your fingers dabbed; Stiller had imagined he would smell out her scent from among hundreds. The young assistants were charming, dabbing their own little hands when Stiller had no more free fingers. Naturally he became more and more uncertain. The young ladies did not laugh at him for a moment, on the contrary, they were charmed by his meticulous gravity, although his French was not adequate to describing scents. Stiller made a note of the names. On his right index finger, for example, he had
Scandale.
But in the course of the afternoon, his last afternoon in Paris, even the names became confused in his mind; he could only hold up his finger,
Celui-M
Often even the assistants had difficulty in identifying the perfume and had to call the
patron.
At one point every scent in existence reminded him of Sibylle, and then again none of them. And it's amazing how many perfumes there are; his hands were two palettes covered in scents, and Stiller walked with outspread fingers to prevent them from mingling. How much lay in the
nuance,
what bliss and what torment. And on top of everything else the assistants wanted to know whether the perfume he was seeking was for a blonde or a brunette, or even a redhead? It makes a great deal of difference—this was something Stiller didn't know before either—the same perfume smells quite different on a different skin. Then what was the use of these young ladies with all the samples on their alien skin? Shortly before closing time he gave it up. During the evening, watching Jouvet (
École des femmes)
he almost forgot the whole business, Jouvet was so magnificent; but his hands hadn't left him, and during the interval Stiller started sniffing at one finger after the other once more. And again on the way home: he stopped in the middle of the street, took off his gloves, and sniffed. His nose was now fresh again, but now there was no difference between one finger and another, it was all one and hence hopeless. Finally he washed his hands and was just as wise as before he started. The following morning, just before the train left, he bought a perfume at random...

'I've no idea whether it's the right one,' said Stiller in some embarrassment, when he finally handed over the little packet, once very elegant, now a trifle tattered from its long stay in his trousers pocket, and waited for Sibylle to open it.
'Iris gris!'
she laughed. 'Is that the right one?' he asked, while Sibylle immediately unscrewed the little bottle and rubbed a few drops on the back of her hand. I think
Iris gris
is wonderful!' she said, and Stiller sniffed at her hand, the one and only hand at last, his disappointment growing at every breath. 'No,' he said, 'that's not it.' Sibylle sniffed too. 'But isn't it lovely?' she consoled him, without having to sham, and put the little bottle in her pocket. 'Thank you very much!'

Soon afterwards Stiller paid, and they emptied their glasses, without having reached any agreement as to whether Sibylle was going back to her hotel or not. What did he intend? Stiller seemed to have completely made up his mind, but to what?

'Drink up,' he said, without impatience, still seated but taking her fur coat from the nearby hook. 'It's not important,' remarked Sibylle, 'But I must tell you. It's really not important—' His lack of curiosity made it even more difficult to find the right words; Stiller seemed to suspect nothing yet, nothing at all. Or did he already know and really consider it unimportant? 'I'm a goose,' she smiled. 'I took revenge, you see, took revenge in such a silly way, two nights in succession with two different men—' Stiller didn't seem to hear, didn't seem to understand, he said nothing and didn't even wince; and then the fat innkeeper's wife came back with the change and took the opportunity of asking whether the lady and gentleman would like breakfast in their room or not. She stayed by their table as a gesture of hospitality. The relentless conversation about avalanches, the weather in general, and hotel-keeping after a world war, lasted almost ten minutes.

When they were at last alone together again, Stiller asked with her fur coat on his knees: 'What did you mean by that?' Sibylle looked at the beer mat he was twisting round on the table, and repeated it with a clarity which seemed to her now, however Stiller might take it, indispensable, her last chance to make a clean breast of things: 'Two nights in succession I slept with two different men—that's what I mean...' Now he knew. And the future (thought Sibylle) now depended solely on Stiller's reaction to this monstrous trifle.

The revelling railwaymen threw down their cards, one of them wiped the slate clean with a sponge, now that it was settled who had to pay, and the commentary on the lost game, which there was no changing now, turned to yawns. It was eleven o'clock. With their railwaymen's caps already on their heads they, too, wished the couple, who were left alone in the bar-parlour, a good night 'together'. Stiller went on fiddling with the beer mat. 'I know that—' he said. 'Only I never told anyone. Anyway, it was a long time ago. I knew perfectly well whom I loved, but all the same—! I was actually on my way to her, yes, it was the eve of our reunion. I suddenly went into a skid—in just the same way,' he said putting down the beer mat. 'I know that...' He had no more to say. 'Went into a skid,' this expression evidently consoled Sibylle greatly, it restored to her the possibility, even the certainty of afterwards getting back on the road. And that evening (so she says) she still believed it might be a road they could travel together.

This proved to be an error.

The following morning—after a wretched night—they said good-bye to one another at the little station of Pontresina. When the train at last began to move, Sibylle continued to stand like a statue on a plinth, and both of them, Stiller at the open window, Sibylle on the platform, waved a half-hearted farewell. (Since then Sibylle, my public prosecutor's wife, has never seen the missing Stiller again.) She herself walked slowly back to the hotel, asked for her bill, packed, and left the same day. It was impossible simply to return to Rolf now, she felt, and Redwood City seemed to be the solution; she had to work, to be alone, to earn her own living. Otherwise she would have felt a helpless victim, not knowing where she belonged; the road from woman to whore had proved astonishingly short. In Ziirich Rolf welcomed her with the opening remark that he was willing to have a divorce. Sibylle left it to him to make the necessary arrangements and asked his permission to take little Hannes with her to Redwood City. Their conversation was confined to the future, to practical problems. As regards Hannes, their joint son, it was difficult to decide what was best for the child himself: Rolf asked for twenty-four hours in which to think it over. Then to her amazement, he agreed. Sibylle thanked him by weeping on his hands, and shortly before Christmas, after being accompanied to the Central Station by her husband, left for Le Havre, where she embarked for America.

***

My friend the public prosecutor informs me that the final hearing (with the verdict) is fixed for Tuesday week.

***

America brought Sibylle a period of almost monastic solitude. She stayed in New York. When young Sturzenegger came over from California to fetch the secretary he really didn't need, Sibylle had already found another job—thanks to her knowledge of European languages, a pretty good job. She was proud. And Sturzenegger, who didn't take it to heart, went back to his Redwood City alone after entertaining Sibylle to a French supper in Greenwich Village. There was no more skidding. The road, her road, was pretty hard. For the first time Sibylle, the daughter of rich parents, found herself in the same position as other people, namely alone and responsible for herself, dependent on her abilities, dependent on demand, dependent on the moods and good faith of an employer. Strangely enough, it gave her a sense of freedom. Her work was dull, she had to translate business letters into German, French, and Italian, always more or less the same ones. And the first home of her own she had ever had was such that even when the sun was shining outside she could scarcely read or sew without the electric light, hardly ever dared to open a window because everything immediately became covered in soot, and had to put wax in her ears in order to sleep. Sibylle was aware that millions of people lived in worse conditions than she and that therefore she had no right to complain. Complaint was altogether out of the question, if only because of Rolf. Fortunately, she was able to leave Hannes in a German-Jewish children's home during the day. She spent her free time, whenever the weather permitted, with Hannes in the nearby Central Park, where there were trees...

She began, as the saying goes, a new life.

Once, in February, Sibylle had a bit of a fright, though she doesn't know to this day whether the fright was based on mere fancy or on reality. They were sitting in Central Park again, Hannes and she, feeding the squirrels; the sun was warm, snow still lay in the shady hollows, the ponds were still partly frozen, but the birds were twittering and spring was on its way. The ground was damp; they were sitting on the slate-black Manhattan rock, and Sibylle was as merry as Rumpelstiltskin, so secret and incognito did she feel in this huge city. Between leafless branches they saw the familiar silhouettes of the skyscrapers in the bluish haze; at the edge of the great park, beyond the silence, there was a ghostly hum and every now and then the hoot of a siren came from way over on the Hudson. A policeman rode along in the black dusty earth of the bridle path. Boys were playing baseball. Here and there on the long benches sat a man reading a newspaper, or a pair of lovers strolled past, then a lady leading her dog to one of the rare trees. Sibylle enjoyed the fact that she knew nobody. She only saw the man, who walked past behind her, from the back, but for a moment she was absolutely certain it was Stiller, and Sibylle was within an ace of involuntarily calling out. Of course she talked herself out of it. How could Stiller be wandering about New York? A trace of disquiet remained, nonetheless, half hope, half fear that it might really be Stiller. Sibylle took Hannes by the hand and walked through the park, not to look for him but rather to run away; all the same, she had to go in the same direction. Of course, as she expected, she did not see the man again.

She had completely forgotten this figment of her imagination (as no doubt it was) when, a few days later, as she was being carried down into the subway on the escalator, she saw him being carried upwards. It was impossible to get off. Had he not stared at her, even if he had made no sign of greeting? The unlikelihood was her consolation. Or was Stiller trailing her? In any case, when he reached the top of the escalator, the man she had taken for Stiller did not walk on, but immediately crossed over to the escalator coming down. There was a terrible crush, which made calm observation impossible, quite apart from her inner turmoil. What did a U.S. Army greatcoat mean in America? Later Sibylle talked herself out of it again; she had stared so hard at the man on the escalator that he might have fancied his chances, although he didn't know Sibylle, and that was why he had turned back. Could be. At the moment Sibylle acted completely mechanically; she forced her way into the nearest compartment of some underground train or other, the doors closed and off they went. For a few weeks she felt nervous every time she went out into the street, but in vain; she never again saw a man who might have been confused with Stiller.

Her work, as I have said, was dull. She sat in a room devoid of daylight, convinced after a week that she couldn't stand this unnatural state of affairs. No idea whether it was raining outside or brilliant sunshine, no awareness of the time of the day, never a breath of air that smelt of storm or people or leaves or even of rain-wet asphalt—and it was all the more frightful because Sibylle was absolutely the only one who missed anything: she thought she would suffocate with all the air-conditioning. The certainty that it would be exactly the same in any better-class firm rendered her utterly helpless. What alternative had she but the diligence bom of desperation? As a result, she was highly valued, and when she gave notice after a year they kept her on by doubling her salary.

Now Sibylle was able to afford another, more cheerful apartment, two rooms with a so-called roof garden on Riverside Drive looking out on the broad Hudson. And here, on the eighteenth floor, she was blissfully happy. She and Hannes sunned themselves in the shelter of a red party-wall, from where they could see a great deal of sky and even some landscape—forest. And to the east the sea. Even in the hazy distance Hannes could already distinguish whether it was the
he-de-France
or the
Qjteen Mary
coming into port. And in the evening, when darkness fell, the curving garland of lights on the Washington Bridge was right in front of their window. Here Sibylle lived for almost two years. The idea of returning to Switzerland occurred to her less and less often.