The Castle (15 page)

"The assistants will stay here to help you with the removing," he said.

They were not in the least pleased with this arrangement. Happy and full, they would have gladly skipped the exercise. Only when Frieda said, "Certainly, you stay here," did they yield.

"Do you know where I'm going?2 asked K.

"Yes," replied Frieda.

"And you don't want to hold me back any longer?" asked K.

"You'll find obstacles enough," she replied, "what does anything I say matter in comparison!"

She kissed K. good-bye, and as he had had nothing at lunch-time, she gave him a little packet of bread and sausage which she had brought for him from downstairs, reminded him that he must not return here again but to the school, and accompanied him, with her hand on his shoulder, to the door.

At first K. was glad to have escaped from the crush of the maids and the assistants in the warm room. It was freezing a little, the snow was firmer, the going easier. But already darkness was actually beginning to fall, and he hastened his steps. The Castle, whose contours were already beginning to dissolve, lay silent as ever. Never yet had K.

seen there the slightest sign of life - perhaps it was quite impossible to recognize anything at that distance, and yet the eye demanded it and could not endure that stillness. When K. looked at the Castle, often it seemed to him as if he were observing someone who sat quietly there in front of him - gazing, not lost in thought and so oblivious of everything, but free and untroubled, as if he were alone with nobody to observe him, and yet must notice that he was observed, and all the same remained with his calm not even slightly disturbed. And really - one did not know whether it was cause or effect - the gaze of the observer could not remain concentrated there, but slid away.

This impression today was strengthened still further by the early dusk. The longer he looked, the less he could make out and the deeper everything was lost in the twilight.

Just as K. reached the Herrenhof, which was still unlighted, a window was opened in the first storey, and a stout, smooth shaven young man in a fur coat leaned out and then remained at the window. He did not seem to make the slightest response to K.'s greeting.

Neither in the hall nor in the taproom did K. meet anybody. The smell of stale beer was still worse than last time. Such a state of things was never allowed even in the inn by the bridge. K. went straight over to the door through which he had observed Klamm, and lifted the latch cautiously, but the door was barred. Then he felt for the place where the peephole was, but the pin apparently was fitted so well that he could not find the place, so he struck a match. He was startled by a cry. In the corner between the door and the till, near the fire, a young girl was crouching and staring at him in the flare of the match, with partially opened sleep-drunken eyes. She was evidently Frieda's successor. She soon collected herself and switched on the electric light. Her expression was cross, then she recognized K.

"Ah, the Land Surveyor," she said smiling, held out her hand, and introduced herself.

"My name is Pepi."

She was small, redcheeked, plump. Her opulent reddish golden hair was twisted into a strong plait, yet some of it escaped and curled round her temples. She was wearing a dress of grey shimmering material, falling in straight lines, which did not suit her in the least. At the foot it was drawn together by a childishly clumsy silken band with tassels falling from it, which impeded her movements. She inquired after Frieda and asked whether she would come back soon. It was a question which verged on insolence.

"As soon as Frieda went away," she said next, "I was called here urgendy because they couldn't find anybody suitable at the moment. I've been a chambermaid till now, but this isn't a change for the better. There's lots of evening and night work in this job, it's very tiring, I don't think I'll be able to stand it. I'm not surprised that Frieda threw it up." "Frieda was very happy here," said K., to make her aware definitely of the difference between Frieda and herself, which she did not seem to appreciate.

"Don't you believe her," said Pepi. "Frieda can keep a straight face better than other people can. She doesn't admit what she doesn't want to admit, and so nobody noticed that she has anything to admit. I've been in service here with her several years already.

We've slept together all that time in same bed, yet I'm not intimate with her, and by now I'm rite out of her thoughts, that's certain. Perhaps her only 2>nd * ^ °^ lan

"I know," said Pepi, "that's just the reason why I've told you. Otherwise it wouldn't have any interest for you."

"I understand," said K. "You mean that I should be proud to have won such a reticent girl?"

"That's so," said she, laughing triumphantly, as if she had established a secret understanding with K. regarding Frieda. But it was not her actual words that troubled K.

and deflected him for a little from his search, but rather her appearance and her presence in this place. Certainly she was much younger than Frieda, almost a child still, and her clothes were ludicrous. She had obviously dressed in accordance with the exaggerated notions which she had of the importance of a barmaid's position. And these notions were right enough in their way in her, for this position of which she was still incapable had come to her unearned and unexpectedly, and only for the time being. Not even the leather reticule which Frieda always wore on her belt had been entrusted to her.

And her ostensible dissatisfaction with the position was nothing but showing off. And yet, in spite of her childish mind, she too, apparently, had connections with the Castle.

If she was not lying, she had been a chambermaid. Without being aware of what she possessed she slept through the days here, and though if he took this tiny, plump slightly round-backed creature in his arms he could not extort from her what she possessed, yet that could bring him in contact with it and inspirit him for his difficult task. Then could her case now be much the same as Frieda's? Oh, no, it was different. One had only to think of Frieda's look to know that. K. would never have touched Pepi. All the same he had to lower his eyes tor a little now, so greedily was he staring at her.

"It's against orders for the light to be on," said Pepi, switching it off again. "I only turned it on because you gave me such a fright. What do you want here really? Did Frieda forget anything?"

"Yes," said K., pointing to the door, "a table-cover, a white embroidered table-cover, here in the next room."

"Yes, her table-cover," said Pepi. "I remember it, a pretty piece of work. I helped with it myself, but it can hardly be in that room."

"Frieda thinks it is. Who lives in it, then?" asked. K.

"Nobody," said Pepi, "it's the gentlemen's room. The gentlemen eat and drink there.

That is, it's reserved for that, but most of them remain upstairs in their rooms."

"If I knew," said K., "that nobody was in there just now, I would like very much to go in and have a look for the table-cover. But one can't be certain. Klamm, for instance, is often in the habit of sitting there."

"Klamm is certainly not there now," said Pepi. "He's making ready to leave this minute, the sledge is waiting for him in the yard."

Without a word of explanation K. left the taproom at once. When he reached the hall he returned, instead of to the door, to the interior of the house, and in a few steps reached the courtyard. How still and lovely it was here It was a four-square yard, bordered on three sides by the house buildings, and towards the street - a side-street which K. did not know - by a high white wall with a huge, heavy gate, open now. Here where the court was, the house seemed stiller than at the front. At any rate the whole first storey jutted out and had a more impressive appearance, for it was encircled by a wooden gallery closed in except for one tiny slit for looking through. At the opposite side from K. and on the ground floor, but in the corner where the opposite wing of the house joined the main building, there was an entrance to the house, open, and without a door. Before it was standing a dark, closed sledge to which a pair of horses was yoked.

Except for the coachman, whom at that distance and in the falling twilight K. guessed at rather than recognized, nobody was to be seen. Looking about him cautiously, his hands in his pockets, K. slowly coasted round two sides of the yard until he reached the sledge.

The coachman - one of the peasants who had been the other night in the taproom - smart in his fur coat, watched K. approaching non-committally, much as one follows the movements of a cat. Even when K. was standing beside him and had to move, and the horses were becoming a little restive at seeing a man coming out of the dusk, he remained completely detached. That exactly suited K.'s purpose. Leaning against the wall of the house he took out his lunch, thought gratefully of crieda and her solicitous provision for him, and meanwhile peered into the house. A very angular and broken stair led downwards and was crossed down below by a low but apparently deep passage. Everything was clean and whitewashed, sharply and distinctly defined. The wait lasted longer than K. had expected.

Long ago he had finished his meal, he was getting chilled, the twilight had changed into complete darkness, and still Klamm had not arrived.

"It might be a long time yet," said a rough voice suddenly, so near to him that K.

started.

It was the coachman, who, as if waking up, stretched himself and yawned loudly.

"What might be a long time yet?" asked K., not ungrateful at being disturbed, for the perpetual silence and tension had already become a burden.

"Before you go away," said the coachman.

K. did not understand him, but did not ask further. He thought that would be the best means of making the insolent fellow speak. Not to answer here in this darkness was almost a challenge. And actually the coachman asked, after a pause: "Would you like some brandy?"

"Yes," said K. without thinking tempted only too keenly by the offer, for he was freezing.

"Then open the door of the sledge," said the coachman, "in the side pocket there are some flasks, take one and have a drink and then hand it up to me. With this fur coat it's difficult for me to get down."

K. was annoyed at being ordered about, but seeing that he had struck up with the coachman he obeyed, even at the possible risk of being surprised by Klamm in the sledge.

He opened the wide door and could without more ado have drawn a flask out of the side pocket which was fastened to the inside of the door. But now that it was open he felt an impulse which he could not withstand to go inside the sledge. All he wanted was to sit there for a minute. He slipped inside. The warmth within the sledge was extraordinary, and it remained although the door, which K. did not dare to close, was wide open. One could not tell whether it was a seat one was sitting on, so completely was one surrounded by blankets, cushions, and furs. One could turn and stretch on every side, and always one sank into softness and warmth. His arms spread out, his head supported on pillows which always seemed to be there, K. gazed out of the sledge into the dark house. Why was Klamm such a long time in coming? As if stupefied by the warmth after his long wait in the snow, K. began to wish that Klamm would come soon. The thought that he would much rather not be seen by Klamm in his present position touched him only vaguely as a faint disturbance of his comfort. He was supported in this obliviousness by the behaviour of the coachman, who certainly knew that he was in the sledge, and yet let him stay there without once demanding the brandy. That was very considerate, but still K. wanted to oblige him. Slowly, without altering his position, he reached out his hand to the side-pocket. But not the one in the open door, but the one behind him in the closed door.

After all, it didn't matter, there were flasks in that one too. He pulled one out, unscrewed the stopper, and smelt. Involuntarily he smiled, the perfume was so sweet, so caressing, like praise and good words from someone whom one likes very much, yet one does not know clearly what they are for and has no desire to know, and is simply happy in the knowledge that it is one's friend who is saying them.

"Can this be brandy?" K. asked himself doubtfully and took a taste out of curiosity.

Yes, strangely enough it was brandy, and burned and warmed him. How wonderfully it was transformed in drinking out of something which seemed hardly more than a sweet perfume into a drink fit for a coachman. "

Can it be?" K. asked himself as if self-reproachfully, and took another sip. Then - as K. was just in the middle of a long swig - everything became bright, the electric lights blazed inside on the stairs, in the passages, in the entrance hall, outside above the door. Steps could be heard coming down the stairs, the flask fell from K.'s hand, the brandy was spilt over a rug, K. sprang out of the sledge, he had just time to slam the door to, which made a loud noise, when a gentleman came slowly out of the house. The only consolation that remained was that it was not Klamm, or was not that rather a pity? It was the gentleman whom K. had already seen at the window on the first floor. A young man, very good looking, pink and white, but very serious. K., too, looked. thinking gravely, but his gravity was on his own account. Really it would have done better to have sent his assistants here, they oughtn't have behaved more foolishly than he had done. The gentleman still regarded him in silence, as if he had not enough breath in his overcharged bosom for what had to be said.

"This is unheard of," he said at last, pushing his hat a little back on his forehead.

What next? The gentleman knew nothing apparently of K.'s stay in the sledge, and yet found something that was unheard of? Perhaps that K. had pushed his way in as far as the courtyard?

"How do you come to be here?" the gentleman asked next, more softly now, breathing freely again, resigning himself to the inevitable.