At this reply the stoker turned his eyes to Karl, as if Karl were his heart, to which he was silently imparting his woe. Without stopping to think, Karl launched himself straight across the room, actually brushing against one of the officers’ chairs, while the attendant chased after him, swooping with wide-spread arms as if to catch an insect; but Karl was the first to reach the Head Purser’s desk, which he gripped firmly in case the attendant should try to drag him away.
The whole room naturally sprang to life at once. The ship’s officer at the table leapt to his feet; the harbor officials looked on calmly but attentively; the two gentlemen by the window moved closer to each other; the attendant, who thought it was no longer his place to interfere since his masters were now involved, stepped back. The stoker waited tensely by the door for the moment when his intervention should be required. And the Head Purser at last made a complete rightabout turn in his chair.
From his secret pocket, which he was perfectly willing to reveal to these people, Karl pulled out his passport, which he opened and laid on the desk in lieu of further introduction. The Head Purser seemed to consider the passport irrelevant, for he flicked it aside with two fingers, whereupon Karl, as if that formality were satisfactorily settled, put it back in his pocket again.
“May I be allowed to say,” he then began, “that in my opinion an injustice has been done to the stoker? There’s a certain Schubal aboard who is giving him a hard time. He has a long record of satisfactory service on many ships, all of whose names he can give you, he is diligent, takes an interest in his work, and it’s really hard to see why on this particular ship, where the work isn’t as heavy as on cargo boats, for instance, he should get so little credit. It can only be sheer slander that keeps him back and robs him of the recognition that should certainly be his. I have confined myself, as you can see, to generalities; he can lay his specific complaints before you himself.” Karl had addressed this speech to all the gentlemen present, because in fact they were all listening to him, and because it seemed much more likely that among so many at least one just man might be found, than that the one just man should happen to be the Head Purser. Karl also cleverly concealed the fact that he had known the stoker for such a short time. But he would have made a much better speech had he not been distracted by the red face of the man with the bamboo cane, which was now in his line of vision for the first time.
“It’s all true, every word of it,” said the stoker before anyone even asked him, indeed before anyone so much as looked at him. This overeagerness on his part might have proved a great mistake if the man with the decorations—who, it now dawned on Karl, was of course the Captain—had not clearly made up his mind to hear the case. For he stretched out his hand and called to the stoker, “Come here!” in a voice as hard as an anvil. Everything now depended on the stoker’s behavior, for about the justice of his case Karl had no doubt whatever.
Luckily it appeared at this point that the stoker was a man of some worldly experience. With exemplary composure he drew out of his sea chest, at the first attempt, a little bundle of papers and a notebook, walked over with them to the Captain as if that were a matter of course, entirely ignoring the Head Purser, and spread out his evidence on the window-ledge. There was nothing for the Head Purser to do but also to come forward. “The man is a notorious grumbler,” he said in explanation, “he spends more time in the pay-room than in the engine-room. He has driven Schubal, who’s a quiet fellow, to absolute desperation. Now you listen to me!” here he turned to the stoker. “You’re really much too persistent in pushing yourself forward. How often have you had to be booted out of the pay-room already—and it serves you right too—for your impudence in demanding things to which you have absolutely no right? How often have you gone running from the pay-room to the Purser’s office? How often has it been patiently explained to you that Schubal is your immediate superior, and that it’s him you have to deal with, and him alone? And now you actually come here, when the Captain himself is present, and dare to pester him with your impudence, and as if that weren’t enough you bring along a trained mouthpiece to reel off the stupid grievances you’ve drilled into him, a young boy I’ve never even seen on this ship before!”
Karl had to restrain himself from springing forward. But the Captain had already intervened with the remark: “Better hear what the man has to say for himself. Schubal’s getting a good deal too big for his boots these days. But that doesn’t mean I think you’re right.” The last words were addressed to the stoker; it was only natural that the Captain should not take his side at once, yet everything seemed to be going the right way. The stoker began to state his case and from the very beginning controlled himself to the point where he even referred to Schubal as “Mr. Schubal.” Standing beside the Head Purser’s vacant desk, Karl felt so pleased that in his delight he kept pressing the letter-scales down with his finger.—Mr. Schubal was unfair! Mr. Schubal was prejudiced in favor of foreigners! Mr. Schubal ordered the stoker out of the engine-room and made him clean toilets, which was not a stoker’s job at all!—At one point even the competence of Mr. Schubal was called into question, as being more apparent than real. At this point Karl fixed his eyes on the Captain and stared at him with earnest deference, as if they had been colleagues, to keep him from being influenced against the stoker by the man’s awkward way of expressing himself. All the same, nothing definite emerged from the stoker’s outpourings, and although the Captain still listened thoughtfully, his eyes expressing his resolve to hear the stoker out this one time to the very end, the other gentlemen were growing impatient and soon the stoker’s voice no longer dominated the room, a bad sign. The gentleman in civilian clothes was the first to show his impatience by toying with his bamboo cane and tapping it, though only softly, on the floor. The others still looked up now and then; but the two harbor officials, who were clearly pressed for time, snatched up their papers again and began, though somewhat distractedly, to glance over them; the ship’s officer turned back to his desk, and the Head Purser, who now thought he had won the day, heaved a loud ironic sigh. The only one who seemed to be exempt from the general dispersion of interest was the attendant, who sympathized to some extent with this poor fellow confronting these great men, and gravely nodded to Karl as though trying to explain something.
Meanwhile outside the windows the life of the harbor went on; a flat barge laden with a mountain of barrels, which must have been wonderfully well secured to keep them from rolling around, went past, almost completely obscuring the daylight in the room; little motor-boats, which Karl would have liked to examine closely if he had had time, shot straight past in obedience to the slightest touch of the man standing erect at the wheel. Here and there curious objects bobbed independently out of the restless water, were immediately submerged again and sank before his astonished eyes; boats belonging to the ocean liners were rowed past by sweating sailors; they were filled with passengers sitting silent and expectant as if they had been stowed there like freight, except that some of them could not refrain from turning their heads to gaze at the changing scene. Activity without end, restlessness transmitted from the restless element to helpless human beings and their works!
But everything demanded haste, clarity, precision; and what was the stoker doing? He was talking himself into a sweat; his hands were trembling so much that he could no longer hold the papers he had laid on the window-ledge; from all points of the compass complaints about Schubal streamed into his head, any one of which, it seemed to him, should have been sufficient to dispose of Schubal for good; but all he could produce for the Captain was a pathetic hodgepodge in which everything was jumbled together. For a long time the man with the bamboo cane had been staring at the ceiling and whistling to himself; the harbor officials now detained the ship’s officer at their table and showed no sign of ever letting him go again; the Head Purser was clearly restrained from letting fly only by the Captain’s composure; the attendant stood at attention, waiting every moment for the Captain to give
an order concerning the stoker.
Karl could no longer remain inactive. So he advanced slowly toward the group, running over in his mind the more rapidly all the ways in which he could most adroitly handle the situation. It was certainly high time; just a little longer, and both of them might well be kicked out of the office. The Captain might indeed be a good man and might also, or so it seemed to Karl, have some particular reason at the moment to show that he was a just master; but he was not, after all, a mere instrument to be recklessly played on, and that was exactly how the stoker was treating him in the boundless indignation of his heart.
So Karl said to the stoker: “You must put things more simply, more clearly; the Captain can’t do justice to what you are trying to tell him. How can he know all the mechanics and errand-boys by name, let alone by their first names, so when you mention so-and-so, how can he understand who you’re talking about? Take your grievances in order, tell the most important ones first and the lesser ones afterward; maybe it won’t even be necessary to mention most of them. You always explained them clearly enough to me!” If trunks can be stolen in America, one can surely tell a lie now and then as well, he thought in self-justification.
But was his advice of any use? Might it not already be too late? To be sure, the stoker stopped speaking at once when he heard the familiar voice, but his eyes were so blinded with tears of wounded dignity, of dreadful recollections, of extreme grief, that he could hardly even recognize Karl. How could he at this point—Karl silently realized this, facing the now silent stoker—how could he at this point suddenly change his style of argument, when it seemed plain to him that he had already said all there was to say without evoking the slightest sympathy, and at the same time that he had said nothing at all, and could hardly expect these gentlemen to listen to the whole rigmarole all over again? And at such a moment Karl, his sole supporter, has to break in with so-called good advice which merely makes it clear that everything is lost, everything.
“If only I had spoken sooner, instead of looking out of the window,” Karl told himself, dropping his eyes before the stoker and letting his hands fall to his sides as a sign that all hope was gone.
But the stoker mistook the gesture, sensing, no doubt, that Karl was nursing some secret grudge against him, and with the good intention of talking him out of it, crowned all his other offenses by starting to wrangle at this moment with Karl. At this very moment, when the men at the round table were completely exasperated by the senseless babble that disturbed their important labors, when the Head Purser was gradually beginning to find the Captain’s patience incomprehensible and was just on the point of exploding, when the attendant, once more entirely within his masters’ sphere, was measuring the stoker with savage eyes, and when, finally, the gentleman with the bamboo cane, whom even the Captain eyed now and then in a friendly manner, already quite bored by the stoker, indeed disgusted by him, had pulled out a little notebook and was obviously preoccupied with quite different thoughts, glancing first at the notebook and then at Karl.
“Yes, I know,” said Karl, who had difficulty turning aside the torrent which the stoker now directed at him, yet was still able to summon up a friendly smile for him in spite of all dissension, “you’re right, you’re right, I never doubted it for a minute.” In his fear of being struck by the stoker’s gesticulating hands he would have liked to catch hold of them, and still better to force the man into a corner so as to whisper a few soothing, reassuring words to him which no one else could hear. But the stoker was quite out of control. Karl now actually began to take a sort of comfort in the thought that if things got serious the stoker could overwhelm the seven men in the room with the very strength of his desperation. But on the desk, as he could see at a glance, there was a signal-board with far too many buttons; the mere pressure of one hand on them would raise the whole ship and call up all the hostile men that filled its passageways.
But at this point, in spite of his air of bored detachment, the gentleman with the bamboo cane came over to Karl and asked, not very loudly yet clearly enough to be heard above the stoker’s ravings: “Tell me, what is your name?” At that moment, as if someone behind the door had been waiting to hear this remark, there was a knock. The attendant looked over at the Captain; the Captain nodded. Thereupon the attendant went to the door and opened it. Outside stood a middle-sized man in an old military coat, not looking at all like the kind of person who might work with machinery—and yet he was Schubal. If Karl had not guessed this from the expression of satisfaction that lit up all eyes, even the Captain’s, he must have recognized it with horror from the demeanor of the stoker, who clenched his fists at the ends of his out-stretched arms with a vehemence that made the very clenching of them seem the most important thing about him, to which he was prepared to sacrifice everything else in life. All his strength was concentrated in his fists, including the very strength that held him upright.
And so here was the enemy, fresh and carefree in his shore-leave outfit, a ledger under his arm probably containing a record of the stoker’s wages and his working papers, and he was openly scanning the faces of everyone present, a frank admission that his first concern was to discover on which side they stood. All seven of them were already his friends, for even though the Captain had raised certain objections to him earlier, or had at least pretended to do so because he felt sorry for the stoker, it was now apparent that he had not the slightest fault to find with Schubal. A man like the stoker could not be too severely reprimanded, and if Schubal were to be reproached for anything, it was for not having subdued the stoker’s recalcitrance sufficiently, since the fellow had the gall to confront the Captain this very day.
Yet it might still be assumed that the confrontation of Schubal and the stoker would achieve, even before a human tribunal, the result that would have been awarded by divine justice, since Schubal, even if he were good at making a show of virtue, might easily give himself away in the long run. A brief flare-up of his evil nature would suffice to reveal it to these gentlemen, and Karl would see to that. He already had a pretty good knowledge of the shrewdness, the weaknesses, the moods of the various individuals in the room, and in this respect the time he had spent there had not been wasted. It was a pity that the stoker had not been more competent; he seemed completely incapable of doing battle. If one were to hand Schubal over to him, he would probably split the man’s detested skull with his fists; but it was beyond his power to take the couple of steps needed to bring Schubal within reach. Why had Karl not foreseen what so easily could have been foreseen: that Schubal would inevitably put in an appearance, if not of his own accord, then by order of the Captain? Why had he not outlined a precise battle plan with the stoker when they were on their way here, instead of simply walking in, hopelessly unprepared, as soon as they found a door, which was what they had done? Was the stoker even capable of uttering a word by this time, of answering yes and no, as he must do if he were to be cross-examined, although, to be sure, a cross-examination was almost too much to hope for now? There he stood, his legs asprawl, weak in the knees, his head slightly raised, and the air flowing in and out of his open mouth as if the man had no lungs to control its motion.
But Karl himself felt stronger and more clear-headed than he had perhaps ever been at home. If only his parents could see him now, fighting for justice in a strange land before men of authority, and, though not yet triumphant, dauntlessly resolved to win the final victory! Would they revise their opinion of him? Set him between them and praise him? Look into his eyes at last, at last, these eyes so filled with devotion to them? Ambiguous questions, and this the most unsuitable moment to ask them!
“I have come here because I believe this stoker is accusing me of some sort of dishonesty. A maid in the kitchen told me she saw him on his way here. Captain, and all you other gentlemen, I am prepared to show you papers to disprove any such accusation, and, if you like, to call on the evidence of unprejudiced and uncorrupted witnesses, who are waiting outside the door now.?
?? Thus spoke Schubal. It was, to be sure, a clear and manly statement, and from the altered expression of the listeners one might have thought they were hearing a human voice for the first time after a long interval. They certainly did not notice the holes that could be picked even in that fine speech. Why, for instance, had the first relevant word to occur to him been “dishonesty”? Should he in fact have been accused of that, instead of nationalistic prejudice? A maid in the kitchen had seen the stoker on his way to the office, and Schubal had immediately divined what that meant? Wasn’t it his own guilty conscience that had sharpened his apprehension? And he had immediately collected witnesses, had he, and then called them unprejudiced and uncorrupted to boot? A fraud, nothing but a fraud! And these gentlemen were not only taken in by it, but regarded it with approval? Why had he allowed so much time to elapse between the kitchen-maid’s report and his arrival here? Simply in order to let the stoker weary the gentlemen, until they began to lose their powers of clear judgment, which Schubal feared most of all. Standing for a long time behind the door, as he must have done, had he deliberately refrained from knocking until he heard the casual question of the gentleman with the bamboo cane, which gave him grounds to hope that the stoker was finally finished and done for?
The whole thing was obvious and Schubal’s very behavior involuntarily corroborated it, but it would have to be proved to these gentlemen by other and still more palpable means. They must be shaken up. Now then, Karl, quick, make the best of every minute you have before the witnesses pour in and confuse everything!