Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (19 page)

Just then yet another carriage filled with travelers arrived. Geronimo and Carlo went downstairs, Geronimo sang, Carlo held out his hat,
and the travelers gave their alms. Geronimo now seemed quite peaceful.
Sometimes he asked, "How much?" and lightly nodded his assent to
Carlo's answers. Meanwhile Carlo tried to gather his thoughts. But he
couldn't get rid of the nagging, awful feeling that something terriblesomething that he could not defend himself against-had happened.

As the brothers went back up the stairs, they heard the boisterous
talk and laughter of the drivers upstairs. The youngest one called out to
Geronimo, "Sing for us too! We'll pay you! Won't we?" he turned to the
others.

Maria, who was just walking in with a bottle of red wine, said,
"Don't start anything with him today, he's in a bad mood."

Instead of giving an answer, Geronimo stood up in the middle of the
room and began to sing. When he finished, the drivers applauded.

"Come here, Carlo," one of them shouted. "We want to throw
money in your hat just like the people downstairs do!" And he took a
small coin and lifted his hand as if he wanted to drop it into the hat that
Carlo was stretching out toward him. At that the blind man grasped the
driver's arm and said, "Give it to me, give it to me instead! It could miss
the mark and fall to the side!"

"Where would it fall?"

"Well, between Maria's legs!"

Everyone laughed, including the innkeeper and Maria; only Carlo
stood there motionless. Never had Geronimo joked in this way! ...

"Sit down with us! You're a funny guy!" shouted the drivers. And
they squeezed closer together to make room for Geronimo. Their talk became ever louder and wilder, and Geronimo joined in, louder and more
animated than usual, drinking without stopping. When Maria came in
once more, he wanted to pull her toward him. One of the drivers said to him, laughing, "What, maybe you think she's beautiful? She's an old,
ugly woman!"

But the blind man pulled Maria into his lap. "You're all stupid idiots," he said. "Do you think I need my eyes in order to see? I even know
where Carlo is now-yes-he's standing over there at the stove with his
hands in his pockets, and he's laughing."

Everyone looked at Carlo, who was leaning open-mouthed against
the stove and was now twisting his mouth into a grin, as though he didn't
wish to prove his brother a liar.

The stable boy came in to tell the drivers that if they still wanted to
get to Bormio before dark, they had to hurry. They stood up and noisily
said their goodbyes. The two brothers were once again alone in the
restaurant. It was the hour when ordinarily they slept. The entire inn always sank into a peaceful calm at this time in the early hours of the afternoon. Geronimo, his head on the table, seemed to sleep. At first Carlo
paced up and down, and then he too sat down on the bench. He was very
tired. It seemed to him as though he were caught up in a terrible dream.
He thought about all sorts of things, about yesterday and the day before
yesterday, and all the days before that, and especially of the warm summer days and the white roads over which he was accustomed to wander
with his brother, and all of that now seemed so remote and incomprehensible, as if it could never be the same again.

Late in the afternoon the mail carriage came from Tirol, and soon
thereafter, at intervals, other carriages that were taking the same route
south arrived. The brothers had to go down into the courtyard four more
times. When they came back up for the last time, twilight had fallen and
the oil lamp hanging from the wooden ceiling hissed. Workers from a
nearby quarry who had set up their wooden huts a hundred paces below
the inn came up. Geronimo sat down with them; Carlo remained alone at
his table. It seemed to him that his loneliness had been with him for a
very long time. He heard Geronimo speaking loudly, almost shouting,
about his childhood, saying that he still remembered clearly everything
he had seen before he went blind-the people and the things he knew: his
father as he worked in the fields, the small garden with the ash tree near
the wall, the little low house that belonged to them, the shoemaker's two small daughters, the vineyard behind the church; yes, even his own face
as he had seen it in a mirror as a child. How often Carlo had heard him
tell all this! Today he couldn't bear it. It all sounded so different: every
word that Geronimo said had a new meaning and seemed to be directed
against him. He slipped out and walked toward the main road, now lying
in total darkness. The rain had stopped, the air was quite cold, and he was
almost tempted by the thought of going farther and farther, deeper into
the blackness, and finally lying down at the end somewhere in a ditch by
the side of the road, falling asleep, and not awakening again. Suddenly
he heard the rumbling of a carriage and caught sight of two beams of
light from two lanterns coming closer and closer. In the carriage that
drove past sat two men. The one with a narrow and beardless face started
when he saw Carlo's figure appear out of the darkness in the light of the
lanterns. Carlo, who had stood still, lifted his hat. The carriage and the
lights disappeared. Carlo was once more standing in complete darkness.
Suddenly he started in fear. For the first time in his life he was afraid of
the dark. He felt he couldn't stand it a minute longer. In his dulled senses,
his dread in a strange way mixed with the tormenting pity for his brother
and chased him back home.

When he entered the inn he saw the two travelers who had driven
past him a moment ago, sitting at a table with a bottle of red wine, talking earnestly to each other. They hardly looked up when he entered.

At the other table Geronimo was sitting with the workers as before.

"Where have you been hiding, Carlo?" the innkeeper said to him
when he entered. "Why did you leave your brother all alone?"

"Why, what's wrong?" Carlo asked anxiously.

"Geronimo's treating everyone. It isn't any of my business, but you
two should remember that bad times will come again soon enough."

Carlo quickly walked over to his brother and grabbed him by the
arm. "Come on!" he urged.

"What do you want?" shouted Geronimo.

"Come to bed," said Carlo.

"Leave me alone, leave me alone! I earn the money, I can do with it
what I want-hey, you can't pocket everything! You all probably think
he gives me everything! Oh no! I'm a blind man, after all! But there are people who-there are good people who tell me, `I gave your brother
twenty francs!"'

The workers burst out laughing.

"That's enough," said Carlo. "Come on!" And he pulled his brother
along, almost dragged him, up the stairs to the bare attic room where they
slept. The whole way Geronimo screamed, "Yeah, now it's come out,
yeah, now I know it for sure! Oh, just wait. Where is she? Where's
Maria? Or are you putting it in her savings account? Hah, I sing for you,
I play the guitar, you live off of me-and you're a thief!" And he fell
down on the straw bed.

A dim light streamed in from the hallway; across the hall, the door
to the only guest room of the inn stood open, and Maria was turning
down the beds for the night. Carlo stood before his brother and saw him
lying there with a bloated face and bluish lips, his damp hair sticking to
his forehead, looking many years older than he was. And slowly he
began to understand. His blind brother's mistrust could not have begun
today; it must have been brewing in him for a long time, and only the opportunity, or perhaps the courage, to express it had been missing. So
everything that Carlo had done for him so far had been in vain: in vain
his remorse, in vain the offering of his whole life. What should he do
now? Should he keep on leading him through his eternal night day after
day, for who knows how long, keep on caring for him, begging for him,
and have no other reward except mistrust and complaints? If his brother
thought him a thief, any stranger would do as well or better. Truly, the
best thing to do would be to leave him alone, to part from him forever.
Then Geronimo would have to see that he was unjust; then would he find
out what it means to be cheated and robbed, alone and miserable. And he,
what should he do? Well, he wasn't old yet, after all; if he were all alone,
he could begin to do a number of things. At the very least he could make
a living as a hired hand somewhere. But while these thoughts were running through his head, his eyes all the while remained fixed on his
brother. And he suddenly saw him in his mind's eye, alone and sitting on
a rock at the edge of a sunlit road, staring with wide white eyes at a sky
which could not blind him, his hands grasping into the eternal night that
was always around him. And he realized that, just as the blind man had no one in the world except him, so he too had no one except this brother.
He understood that his love for his brother was the whole meaning of his
life, and he knew for the first time with total clarity that only the belief
that the blind man returned his love and had forgiven him had let him
bear all this misery so patiently. He could not give up this hope all at
once. He felt that he needed his brother just as much as his brother
needed him. He couldn't, he didn't want, to leave him. He had either to
bear the mistrust or find a way to convince the blind man that his suspicion had no basis in reality.... Yes, if he could only get hold of that gold
coin somehow! If he could say to his brother tomorrow morning, "I only
kept it so that you wouldn't drink it away with the workers, so that these
people wouldn't steal it from you" . . . or something like that.

He heard footsteps on the stairs coming closer; the travelers were
going to bed. Suddenly the idea of knocking on their door and telling
them truthfully what had happened and asking them for twenty francs
flashed into his mind. But he knew immediately that it was totally pointless. They wouldn't even believe the story. And now he remembered how
the one pale traveler had recoiled when he, Carlo, had suddenly appeared
in the dark in front of his carriage.

He stretched himself out on the straw bed. It was pitch black in the
room. Then he heard the workers walking heavily down the wooden
steps, talking loudly. Soon after that both doors were closed. The stable
boy went up and down the steps once more, but then it was completely
quiet. The only thing Carlo now heard was Geronimo's snoring. Soon his
thoughts became entangled with the beginning of a dream. When he
awoke, it was still pitch dark. He looked in the direction of the window;
if he strained his eyes, he could perceive a deep grey square in the middle
of the impenetrable black. Geronimo was still sleeping the heavy sleep of
the drunkard. And Carlo thought of the coming day, and shuddered. He
thought about the night after this day, about the day after this night, about
the future that lay before him, and he was filled with horror at the loneliness that awaited him. Why hadn't he been more courageous that
evening? Why hadn't he gone up to the strangers and asked them for the
twenty francs? Maybe they would have sympathized after all. And stillmaybe it was better that he hadn't asked them. Well, why was it bet ter? ... He suddenly sat up straight and felt his heart beating. He knew
why it was better: if they had turned him down, he would have been the
one they suspected-but this way ... He stared at the grey spot, which
began to gleam faintly.... The idea now going through his mind, totally
against his will, was impossible, totally impossible! ... The door across
the way was locked ... and anyway, they could wake up.... Yes, over
there ... the grey spot outside in the middle of the darkness was the new
day....

Carlo stood up as though pulled by some force, and touched his
forehead to the cold windowpane. Why had he gotten up? To think about
it? ... To try it? ... What then? ... It was just impossible-and besides
that, it was a crime. A crime? What did twenty francs mean to such
people, people who traveled a thousand miles just for pleasure? They
wouldn't even notice that it was missing.... He went over to the door
and carefully opened it. Right opposite, just two steps away, was the
other one, closed. On a nail in the doorpost hung some clothes. Carlo felt
the clothes with his hands.... Yes, if people left their wallets in their
pockets, then life would be very simple, then soon no one would have to
go begging anymore ... but the pockets were empty. Well, now what?
Go back to the room, to the straw bed. Maybe there was a better way of
getting the twenty francs-a less dangerous and more legitimate way. If
he really did hold back a few centimes from the handouts each time until
he had saved twenty francs, and then bought the gold coin? ... But how
long would that take? Months, perhaps a year. Oh, if only he had the
courage! He was still standing in the hallway. He glanced toward the
door. What was this stream of light slanting vertically from the top of the
door down to the floor? Was it possible? Was the door only ajar, not
locked? ... Why was he so astonished at that? For months now that door
didn't close. Why should it, really? He remembered: people had slept
here only three times this summer; twice it was traveling journeymen,
and once a tourist who had injured his foot. The door isn't closed-he
only needs courage now-yes, and luck! Courage? The worst that can
happen is that both men will wake up, but if they do, he can always find
some excuse. He peers through the crack into the room. It's still so dark
that he can only make out the outlines of two sleeping figures on the bed. He listens closely: they are both breathing calmly and regularly. Carlo
opens the door quietly and enters the room noiselessly in his bare feet.
The two beds are standing lengthwise on the same wall opposite the window. In the middle of the room there is a table; Carlo sneaks over to it.
He runs his hand over the surface and feels a key ring, a penknife, a little
book-and nothing else.... Well, of course! That he could have thought
they would leave their money out on the table! Now he could leave again
right away! ... And yet, maybe it would take only a good grasp and he
would succeed.... Now he nears the bed near the door; here, on the
armchair, there is something-he feels for it-it's a revolver! ... Carlo
recoils.... Should he just go ahead and take it? Why did this man have a
revolver ready, anyway? What if he should wake up and notice him'? ...
But no, he would just say: it's three o'clock, sir, time to get up! ... And
he leaves the revolver lying there.