The Dashing Fellow

Our suitcase is carefully embellished with bright-colored stickers: Nürnberg, Stuttgart, Köln--and even Lido (but that one is fraudulent). We have a swarthy complexion, a network of purple-red veins, a black mustache, trimly clipped, and hairy nostrils. We breathe hard through our nose as we try to solve a crossword puzzle in an émigré paper. We are alone in a third-class compartment--alone and, therefore, bored.

Tonight we arrive in a voluptuous little town. Freedom of action! Fragrance of commercial travels! A golden hair on the sleeve of one's coat! Oh, woman, thy name is Goldie! That's how we called Momma and, later, our wife, Katya. Psychoanalytic fact: Every man is Oedipus. During the last trip, we were unfaithful to Katya three times, and that cost us 30 reichsmarks. Funny--they all look a fright in the place one lives in, but in a strange town they are as lovely as antique hetaerae. Even more delicious, however, might be the elegancies of a chance encounter: Your profile reminds me of the girl for whose sake years ago.... After one single night we shall part like ships.... Another possibility: She might turn out to be Russian. Allow me to introduce myself: Konstantin.... Better omit the family name--or maybe invent one? Obolenski. Yes, relatives.

We do not know any famous Turkish general and can guess neither the father of aviation nor an American rodent. It is also not very amusing to look at the view. Fields. A road. Birches-smirches. Cottage and cabbage patch. Country lass, not bad, young.

Katya is the very type of a good wife. Lacks any sort of passion, cooks beautifully, washes her arms as far as the shoulders every morning and is not overbright; therefore, not jealous. Given the sterling breadth of her pelvis, one is surprised that for the second time now, she has produced a stillborn babikins. Laborious years. Uphill all the way. Absolut marasmus in business. Sweating 20 times before persuading one customer. Then squeezing out the commission drop by drop. God, how one longs to tangle with a graceful gold-bright little devil in a fantastically lit hotel room! Mirrors, orgies, a couple of drinks. Another five hours of travel. Railroad riding, it is proclaimed, disposes one to this kind of thing. Am extremely disposed. After all, say what you will, but the mainspring of life is robust romance. Can't concentrate on business unless I take care first of my romantic interests. So here is the plan: starting point, the café that Lange told me about. Now, if I don't find anything there----

Crossing gate, warehouse, big station. Our traveler let down the window and leaned upon it, elbows wide apart. Beyond a platform, steam was issuing from under some sleeping cars. One could vaguely make out the pigeons changing perches under the lofty glass dome. Hot dogs cried out in treble, beer in baritone. A girl, her bust enclosed in white wool, stood talking to a man, now joining her bare arms behind her back, swaying slightly and beating her buttocks with her handbag, now folding her arms on her chest and stepping with one foot upon the other, or else, holding her handbag under her arm and with a small snapping sound thrusting nimble fingers under her glossy black belt; thus she stood, and laughed, and sometimes touched her companion in a valedictory gesture, only to resume at once her twisting and turning: a sun-tanned girl with a heaped-up hairdo that left her ears bare, and a quite ravishing scratch on her honey-hued upper arm. She does not look at us, but never mind, let us ogle her fixedly. In the beam of the gloating tense glance, she starts to shimmer and seems about to dissolve. In a moment, the background will show through her--a refuse bin, a poster, a bench; but here, unfortunately, our crystalline lens had to return to normality, for everything shifted; the man jumped into the next carriage, the train jerked into motion and the girl took a handkerchief out of her handbag. When, in the course of her receding glide, she came exactly in front of his window, Konstantin, Kostya, Kostenka thrice kissed with gusto the palm of his hand, but his salute passed unnoticed: With rhythmical waves of her handkerchief, she floated away.

He shut the window and, on turning around, saw with pleased surprise that during his mesmeric activities the compartment had managed to fill up: three men with their newspapers and, in the far corner, a brunette with a powdered face. Her shiny coat was of gelatin-like translucency--resisting rain, maybe, but not a man's gaze. Decorous humor and correct eye reach--that's our motto.

Ten minutes later, he was deep in conversation with the passenger in the opposite window seat, a neatly dressed old gentleman; the prefatory theme had sailed by in the guise of a factory chimney; certain statistics came to be mentioned and both men expressed themselves with melancholic irony regarding industrial trends; meanwhile, the white-faced woman dismissed a sickly bouquet of forget-me-nots to the baggage rack and, having produced a magazine from her traveling bag, became engrossed in the transparent process of reading: Through it comes our caressive voice, our commonsensical speech. The second male passenger joined in: He was engagingly fat, wore checked knickerbockers stuck into green stockings and talked about pig breeding. What a good sign--she adjusts every part you look at. The third man, an arrogant recluse, hid behind his paper. At the next stop, the industrialist and the expert on hogs got out, the recluse retired to the dining car and the lady moved to the window seat.

Let us appraise her point by point. Funereal expression of eyes, lascivious lips. First-rate legs, artificial silk. What is better--the experience of a sexy 30-year-old brunette or the silly young bloom of a bright-curled romp? Today the former is better, and tomorrow we shall see. Next point: Through the gelatin of her raincoat glimmers a beautiful nude, like a mermaid seen through the yellow waves of the Rhine. Spasmodically rising, she shed her coat but revealed only a beige dress with a piqué collaret. Arrange it. That's right.

"May weather," affably said Konstantin, "and yet the trains are still heated."

Her left eyebrow went up and she answered: "Yes, it is warm here, and I'm mortally tired. My contract is finished, I'm going home now. They all toasted me, the station buffet there is tops, I drank too much, but I never get tipsy, just a heaviness in my stomach. Life has grown hard, I receive more flowers than money and a month's rest will be most welcome; after that I have a new contract, but of course, it's impossible to lay anything by. The potbellied chap, who just left, behaved obscenely. How he stared at me! I feel as if I had been on this train for a long, long time, and I am so very anxious to return to my cozy little apartment far from all that flurry and claptrap and rot."

"Allow me to offer you," said Kostya, "something to palliate the offense."

He pulled from under his backside a square pneumatic cushion, its rubber covered in speckled satin: He always had it under him during his flat, hard, hemorrhoidal trips.

"And what about yourself?" she inquired.

"We'll manage, we'll manage. I must ask you to rise a little. Excuse me. Now sit down. Soft, isn't it? That part is especially sensitive on the road."

"Thank you," she said. "Not all men are so considerate. I've lost quite a bit of flesh lately. Oh, how nice! Just like traveling second-class."

"Galanterie, Gnädigste," said Kostenka, "is an innate property with us. Yes, I'm a foreigner. Russian. Here's an example: One day my father had gone for a walk on the grounds of his manor with an old pal, a well-known general. They happened to meet a peasant woman--a little old hag, you know, with a bundle of firewood on her back--and my father took off his hat. This surprised the general, and then my father said: 'Would your Excellency really want a simple peasant to be more courteous than a member of the gentry?' "

"I know a Russian--I'm sure you've heard his name, too--let me see, what was it? Baretski ... Baratski.... From Warsaw. He now owns a drugstore in Chemnitz. Baratski ... Baritski. I'm sure you know him?"

"I do not. Russia is a big country. Our family estate was about as large as your Saxony. And all has been lost, all has been burned down. The glow of the fire could be seen at a distance of seventy kilometers. My parents were butchered in my presence. I owe my life to a faithful retainer, a veteran of the Turkish campaign."

"How terrible," she said, "how very terrible!"

"Yes, but it inures one. I escaped, disguised as a country girl. In those days, I made a very cute little maiden. Soldiers pestered me. Especially one beastly fellow.... And thereby hangs a most comic tale."

He told his tale. "Pfui!" she uttered, smiling.

"Well, after that came the era of wanderings and a multitude of trades. At one time I even used to shine shoes--and would see in my dreams the precise spot in the garden where the old butler, by torchlight, had buried our ancestral jewels. There was, I remember, a sword, studded with diamonds----"

"I'll be back in a minute," said the lady.

The resilient cushion had not yet had time to cool when she again sat down upon it and with mellow grace recrossed her legs.

"And, moreover, two rubies, that big, then stocks in a golden casket, my father's epaulets, a string of black pearls----"

"Yes, many people are ruined at present," she remarked with a sigh, and continued, again raising that left eyebrow: "I, too, have experienced all sorts of hardships. I had a husband, it was a dreadful marriage, and I said to myself: Enough! I'm going to live my own way. For almost a year now, I'm not on speaking terms with my parents--old people, you know, don't understand the young--and it affects me deeply--sometimes I pass by their house and sort of dream of dropping in--and my second husband is now, thank goodness, in Argentina; he writes me absolutely marvelous letters, but I will never return to him. There was another man, the director of a factory, a very sedate gentleman; he adored me, wanted me to bear him a child, and his wife was also such a dear, so warmhearted--much older than he--oh, we three were such friends, went boating on the lake in summer, but then they moved to Frankfurt. Or take actors--such good, gay people--and affairs with them are so kameradschaftlich, there's no pouncing upon you, at once, at once, at once...."

In the meantime Kostya reflected: We know all those parents and directors. She's making up everything. Very attractive, though. Breasts like a pair of piggies, slim hips. Likes to tipple, apparently. Let's order some beer from the diner.

"Well, some time later, there was a lucky break, brought me heaps of money. I had four apartment houses in Berlin. But the man whom I trusted, my friend, my partner, deceived me.... Painful recollections. I lost a fortune but not my optimism; and now, again, thank God, despite the Depression.... Apropos, let me show you something, madam."

The suitcase with the swanky stickers contained (among other meretricious articles) samples of a highly fashionable kind of vanity-bag looking glass: little things neither round nor square, but Phantasie--shaped, say, like a daisy or a butterfly or a heart. Meanwhile came the beer. She examined the little mirrors and looked in them at herself; blinks of light shot across the compartment. She downed the beer like a trooper and with the back of her hand removed the foam from her orange-red lips. Kostenka fondly replaced the samples in the valise and put it back on the shelf. All right, let's begin.

"Do you know--I keep looking at you and imagining that we met once years ago. You resemble to an absurd degree a girl--she died of consumption--whom I loved so much that I almost shot myself. Yes, we Russians are sentimental eccentrics, but believe me, we can love with the passion of a Rasputin and the naïveté of a child. You are lonely and I am lonely. You are free and I am free. Who, then, can forbid us to spend several pleasant hours in a sheltered love nest?"

Her silence was enticing. He left his seat and sat next to her. He leered, and rolled his eyes, and knocked his knees together, and rubbed his hands, as he gaped at her profile.

"What is your destination?" she asked.

Kostenka told her.

"And I am returning to----"

She named a city famous for its cheese production.

"All right, I'll accompany you and tomorrow continue my journey. Though I dare not predict anything, madam, I have all grounds to believe that neither you nor I will regret it."

The smile, the eyebrow.

"You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, who cares, who cares? Why should one have a name?"

"Here's mine," she said and produced a visting card: Sonja Bergmann.

"And I'm just Kostya. Kostya and no nonsense. Call me Kostya, right?"

An enchanting woman! A nervous, supple, interesting woman! We'll be there in half an hour. Long live life, happiness, ruddy health! A long night of double-edged pleasures. See our complete collection of caresses! Amorous Hercules!

The person we nicknamed the recluse returned from the diner and flirtation had to be suspended. She took several snapshots out of her handbag and proceeded to show them: "This girl's just a friend. Here's a very sweet boy, his brother works for the radio station. In this one I came out appallingly. That's my leg. And here--do you recognize this person? I've put spectacles on and a bowler--cute, isn't it?"

We are on the point of arriving. The little cushion has been returned with many thanks. Kostya deflated it and slipped it into his valise. The train began braking.

"Well, so long," said the lady.

Energetically and gaily he carried out both suitcases--hers, a small fiber one, and his, of a nobler make. The glass-topped station was shot through by three beams of dusty sunlight. The sleepy recluse and the forgotten forget-me-nots rode away.

"You're completely mad," she said with a laugh.

Before checking his bag, he extracted from it a pair of flat folding slippers. At the taxi stand there remained one cab.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "To a restaurant?"

"We'll fix something to eat at your place," said terribly impatient Kostya. "That will be much cozier. Get in. It's a better idea. I suppose he'll be able to change fifty marks? I've got only big bills. No, wait a sec, here's some small cash. Come on, come on, tell him where to go."

The inside of the cab smelled of kerosene. We must not spoil our fun with the small fry of osculatory contacts. Shall we get there soon? What a dreary town. Soon? Urge becoming intolerable. That firm I know. Ah, we've arrived.

The taxi pulled up in front of an old, coal-black house with green shutters. They climbed to the fourth landing and there she stopped and said: "And what if there's somebody else there? How do you know that I'll let you in? What's that on your lip?"

"A cold sore," said Kostya, "just a cold sore. Hurry up. Open. Let's dismiss the whole world and its troubles. Quick. Open."

They entered. A hallway with a large wardrobe, a kitchen and a small bedroom.

"No, please wait. I'm hungry. We shall first have supper. Give me that fifty-mark note, I'll take the occasion to change it for you."

"All right, but for God's sake, hurry," said Kostya, rummaging in his wallet. "There's no need to change anything, here's a nice tenner."

"What would you like me to buy?"

"Oh, anything you want. I only beseech you to make haste."

She left. She locked him in, using both keys. Taking no chances. But what loot could one have found here? None. In the middle of the kitchen floor, a dead cockroach lay on its back, brown legs stretched out. The bedroom contained one chair and a lace-covered wooden bed. Above it, the photograph of a man with fat cheeks and waved hair was nailed to the spotty wall. Kostya sat down on the chair and in a twinkle substituted the morocco slippers for his mahogany-red street shoes. Then he shed his Norfolk jacket, unbuttoned his lilac braces and took off his starched collar. There was no toilet, so he quickly used the kitchen sink, then washed his hands and examined his lip. The doorbell rang.

He tiptoed fast to the door, placed his eye to the peephole but could see nothing. The person behind the door rang again and the copper ring was heard to knock. No matter--we can't let him in even if we wish to.

"Who's that?" asked Kostya insinuatingly through the door.

(concluded on page 303)The Dashing Fellow(continued from page 124)

A cracked voice inquired: "Please, is Frau Bergmann back?"

"Not yet," replied Kostya, "why?"

"Misfortune," the voice said and paused. Kostya waited.

The voice continued: "You don't know when she will be back in town? I was told she was expected to return today. You are Herr Seidler, I believe?"

"What's happened? I'll pass her the message."

A throat was cleared and the voice said, as if over the telephone:

"Franz Loschmidt speaking. She does not know me, but tell her, please...."

Another pause and an uncertain query: "Perhaps you can let me come in?"

"Never mind, never mind," said Kostya impatiently, "I'll tell her everything."

"Her father is dying, he won't live through the night: He has had a stroke in the shop. Tell her to come over at once. When do you think she'll be back?"

"Soon," answered Kostya, "soon. I'll tell her. Goodbye."

After a series of receding creaks, the stairs became silent. Kostya made for the window. A gangling youth, death's apprentice, rain-cloaked, hatless, with a small close-cropped smoke-blue head, crossed the street and vanished around the corner. A few moments later from another direction appeared the lady with a well-filled net bag.

The door's upper lock clicked, then its lower one.

"Phew!" she said, entering. "What a load of things I bought!"

"Later, later," cried Kostya, "we'll sup later. Quick to the bedroom. Forget those parcels. I beseech you."

"I want to eat," she replied in a long-drawn voice.

She smacked his hand away and went into the kitchen. Kostya followed her.

"Roast beef," she said. "White bread. Butter. Our celebrated cheese. Coffee. A pint of cognac. Goodness me, can't you wait a little? Let me go, it's indecent."

Kostya, however, pressed her against the table, she started to giggle helplessly, his fingernails kept catching in the knit silk of her green undies and everything happened very ineffectually, uncomfortably and prematurely.

"Pfui!" she uttered, smiling.

No, it was not worth the trouble. Thank you kindly for the treat. Wasting my strength. I'm no longer in the bloom of youth. Rather disgusting. Her perspiring nose, her faded mug. Might have washed her hands before fingering eatables. "What's that on your lip?" Impudence! Still to be seen, you know, who catches what from whom. Well, nothing to be done.

"Bought that cigar for me?" he inquired.

She was busy taking knives and forks out of the cupboard and did not hear.

"What about that cigar?" he repeated.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you smoked. Shall I run down to get one?"

"Never mind, I'll go myself," he replied gruffly and passed into the bedroom, where he put on his shoes and coat. Through the open door he could see her moving gracelessly as she laid the table.

"The tobacconist's right on the corner," she sang out and, choosing a plate, arranged upon it with loving care the cool, rosy slices of roast beef, which she had not been able to afford for quite a time.

"Moreover, I'll get some pastry," Konstantin said and went out. Pastry, and whipped cream, and a chunk of pineapple, and chocolates with brandy filling, he added mentally.

Once in the street, he looked up, seeking out her window (the one with the cacti or the next?), then turned right, walked around the back of a furniture van, nearly got struck by the front wheel of a cyclist and showed him his fist. Farther on there was a small public garden and some kind of stone Herzog. He made another turn and saw at the very end of the street, outlined against a thundercloud and lit up by a gaudy sunset, the brick tower of the church, past which, he recalled, they had driven. From there it was but a step to the station. A convenient train could be had in a quarter of an hour: In this respect, at least, luck was on his side. Expenses: bag check, 30 pfennigs; taxi, 1.40; she, ten marks (five would have been enough). What else? Yes, the beer, 55 pfennigs, with tip. In all: 12 marks and 25 pfennigs. Idiotic. As to the bad news, she was sure to get it sooner or later. I spared her several sad minutes by a deathbed. Still, maybe I should send her a message from here? But I've forgotten the house number. No, I remember: 27. Anyway, one may assume I forgot it--nobody is obliged to have such a good memory. I can imagine what a rumpus there would have been if I had told her at once! The old bitch. No, we like only small blondes--remember that once and for all.

The train was crammed, the heat stifling. We feel out of sorts but do not quite know if we are hungry or drowsy. But when we have fed and slept, life will regain its looks and the American instruments will make music in the merry café described by our friend Lange. And then, sometime later, we die.