The coachman clicked his tongue, and off they went.
They drove back along the route they had taken; they turned into the broad, macadamized, birch-lined avenue and reached the lanterns heralding the New Castle. The silver birch trunks shimmered more brightly than the lanterns. The strong rubber wheels of the barouche rolled smoothly and with a dull murmur over the macadam; only the hard thuds of the swift horse hooves could be heard. The barouche was wide and comfortable. They leaned back in it as on a sofa. Lieutenant Trotta was asleep. He sat next to his father. His pale face lay almost horizontal on the upholstered back; through the open window the wind wafted across it. From time to time a lantern illuminated his face. And then Chojnicki, sitting opposite his guests, could see the lieutenant’s bloodless parted lips and his hard, jutting, bony nose. “He’s sound asleep!” said Chojnicki to the district captain. They felt like two fathers of the lieutenant. The district captain was sobered by the night wind, but a vague fear nestled in his heart. He saw the world going under, and it was his world. Chojnicki sat across from him, to all appearance a live man, whose knees sometimes even bumped into Herr von Trotta’s shin, and yet sinister. The old revolver that Herr von Trotta had taken along pressed in his back pocket. What good was a revolver? They saw no bears and no wolves in the borderland. All they saw was the collapse of the world!
The carriage halted in front of the arched wooden gate. The coachman snapped his whip. The two wings of the gate opened, and the white horses gravely strode up the gentle rise. Along the full length of the window facade, yellow light fell upon the gravel and the grassy areas on both sides of the driveway. Voices could be heard, and a piano. It was without a doubt a “party.”
The partygoers had already eaten. The footmen were dashing about with large glasses of gaudy liquors. The guests were dancing, drinking, playing tarot or whist; someone was giving a speech to people who weren’t listening. A few were reeling through the rooms, others were sleeping in the corners. Only men were dancing with one another. The black dress shirts of the dragoons pressed against the blue ones of the riflemen. Chojnicki had candles burning in the rooms of the New Castle. The thick snow-white or wax-yellow candles loomed from huge silver candelabras that stood on stone plate rails and ledges or were held by footmen, who changed every half hour. The tiny flames sometimes trembled in the night breeze drawing in through the open windows. Whenever the piano fell silent for a few moments, one could hear the nightingales warbling and the crickets whispering and, from time to time, the wax tears dripping softly on the silver.
The district captain looked for his son. A nameless fear drove the old man through the rooms. His son—where was he? Neither among the dancers, nor among the reeling drunks, nor among the gamblers, nor among the older, well-bred men who were conversing in nooks here and there. The lieutenant was sitting alone in a secluded room. The huge bulging bottle stood at his feet, loyal and half drained. Next to the thin collapsed drinker it looked tremendous, almost as if it could devour him. The district captain stood in front of the lieutenant. The tips of his narrow boots touched the bottle.
The son noticed two and more fathers; they multiplied by the second. He felt harried by them. It made no sense getting up in front of all of them and paying all of them the respect due to only one. It made no sense, so the lieutenant remained in his strange position—that is, he sat, lay, and crouched simultaneously.
The district captain did not stir. His brain was working very rapidly; it birthed a thousand memories at once. He saw, for instance, Carl Joseph the cadet on the summer Sundays when he had sat in the study, the snow-white gloves and the black cap on his lap, answering every question in a ringing voice and with obedient childlike eyes. The district captain saw the freshly promoted cavalry lieutenant, blue, gold, and blood-red, entering the same room. But now this young man was very remote from the old Herr von Trotta. Why did it hurt so badly, seeing an alien, drunken rifle lieutenant? Why did it hurt so badly?
Lieutenant Trotta did not stir. He was able to remember that his father had just arrived, and he was able to register that it was not this one father but several fathers standing before him. But he failed to understand why his father had happened to come precisely today or why he was multiplying so intensely or why he himself, the lieutenant, was incapable of rising.
Several weeks ago Lieutenant Trotta had gotten accustomed to the 180 Proof. It never went to your head, it went, as the connoisseurs liked phrasing it, “only to your feet.” First it created an agreeable warmth in your chest. The blood started rolling faster through your veins; appetite replaced queasiness and the desire to vomit. Then you drank another 180 Proof. No matter how cool or dismal the morning, you stepped into it boldly and in the best possible mood, as if it were a sundrenched, happy morning. During halts, you had a snack with fellow officers in the border tavern, near the border forest, where the riflemen drilled, and you drank another 180 Proof. It ran down your throat like a swift fire that snuffs itself. You barely felt that you had eaten. You returned to the barracks, changed, and went to the railroad station for lunch. Even though you had walked a long way, you weren’t at all hungry. And so you drank another 180 Proof. You ate and were promptly sleepy. So you had a black coffee and then another 180 Proof. In short, in the course of the boring day there was never an opportunity not to have a drink. On the contrary: there were any number of afternoons and any number of evenings on which a drink was called for.
For life became easy as soon as you drank. Oh, miracle of this borderland! It made life hard for a sober man, but whom did it leave sober? Whenever he drank, Lieutenant Trotta saw his comrades, superiors, and subalterns as old and good friends. He was as intimate with the little town as if he had been born and bred here. He could step into the tiny shops, which were dark, narrow, convoluted, crammed with all kinds of goods, and dug like hamster holes into the thick walls of the bazaar, and there he could haggle over useless things: false corals, cheap mirrors, a miserable soap, aspen combs, and plaited dog leashes; he was just cheerfully heeding the calls of the red-haired vendors. He smiled at all the people—the peasant women in their gaudy kerchiefs and with the large bast baskets under their arms, the decked-out daughters of the Jews, the officials of the district administration, and the high school teachers. A broad torrent of kindness and friendliness surged through this small world. Cheerful greetings poured toward the lieutenant from all people. Nor was there anything embarrassing anymore. Nothing embarrassing in his service or outside his service. He implemented everything smoothly and quickly. People understood Onufrij’s language. Occasionally the lieutenant came to one of the surrounding villages; he asked the peasants for directions, and they replied in a foreign tongue. He understood them. He never rode his horse. He lent it to one or another fellow officer: good horsemen, who could appreciate a horse. In a word, he was content. Only Lieutenant Trotta didn’t realize that his gait was unsteady, his blouse had stains, his trousers had no pleat, buttons were missing from his shirt, his skin was yellow in the evening and ashen in the morning, and his gaze had no goal. He never gambled—that in itself calmed Major Zoglauer. There were times in every man’s life when he had to drink. It didn’t matter, it was just a phase! Liquor was cheap. Most of the men were destroyed only by their debts. Trotta was no less neglectful in his work than anyone else. He never made a ruckus like any number of other men. On the contrary, he grew gentler the more he drank. Some day he’ll get married and sober up, thought the major. He has friends in the highest places. He’ll advance quickly. He’ll get into the general staff if he wants to.
Herr von Trotta cautiously settled next to his son on the edge of the sofa and cast about for an appropriate word. He wasn’t used to speaking to drunks. “You should,” he said after a long consideration, “be careful with liquor. Me, for instance, I only do social drinking.”
The lieutenant made a tremendous effort to change from his disrespectful crouching to a sitting position. His attempt was useless. He gazed at the old man:
now, thank goodness, there was only one, making do with the narrow edge of the sofa, propping himself with his hands on his knees. The lieutenant asked, “What did you say, Papá?”
“You should be careful with liquor!” the district captain repeated.
“Why?” asked the lieutenant.
“What are you asking?” said Herr von Trotta, a bit comforted because his son at least seemed clearheaded enough to grasp his father’s words. “Liquor will destroy you. Do you remember Moser?”
“Moser, Moser,” said Carl Joseph. “Of course! But he’s right. I remember him. He painted Grandfather’s portrait.”
“You forgot?” murmured Herr von Trotta.
“I haven’t forgotten him,” replied the lieutenant. “I’ve never stopped thinking about the portrait. I’m not strong enough for that portrait. The dead! I can’t forget the dead! Father, I can’t forget anything! Father!”
Herr von Trotta sat helpless next to his son. He didn’t quite understand what Carl Joseph was saying, but he sensed that it was not drunkeness alone speaking. He felt that cries for help were coming out of the boy, and he could not help! He had come to the borderland to find a little help himself. For he was all alone in this world. And this world too was going under. Jacques lay under the ground, Herr von Trotta was alone, he wanted to see his son again, and his son was likewise alone and perhaps, being younger, was closer to the collapse of the world. How simple the world had always looked! the district captain mused. There was a specific attitude for every situation. When your son came home for vacation, you tested him. When he became a lieutenant, you congratulated him. When he wrote his obedient letters, which said so little, you replied with a few measured lines. But how should you behave if your son was drunk, if he cried “Father!” if the cry “Father!” came out of him?
Herr von Trotta saw Chojnicki entering and stood up more intensely than was his wont. “There’s a telegram for you,” said Chojnicki. “The bellboy brought it over.” It was an official telegram. It summoned Herr von Trotta home. “Unfortunately they’re ordering you home already,” said Chojnicki. “It must have something to do with the Sokols.”
“Yes, that’s probably it,” said Herr von Trotta. “There must be disturbances.” He now knew that he was too weak to do anything about disturbances. He was very tired. Only a few years were left until his retirement! But at that moment he had a sudden whim to retire soon. He could take care of Carl Joseph, a fitting task for an old father.
Chojnicki said, “It’s not easy to do something about disturbances if your hands are tied as in this damn monarchy. You just arrest a couple of ringleaders, and the Freemasons, the deputies, the national leaders, the newspapers pounce on you, and they’re all released. Break up the Sokol Association, and you’ll be rebuked by the governor’s office. Autonomy! Yeah, just wait! Here in my district every disturbance ends with bullets. So long as I live here, I’m the government candidate and I get elected. Luckily, this area is sufficiently remote from all the modern ideas that they spawn in their filthy editors’ offices!”
He went over to Carl Joseph and said with the emphasis and knowledge of a man used to dealing with drunks, “Your Papá has to go home!”
Carl Joseph instantly understood. He could even get to his feet. His glassy eyes searched for his father. “I’m sorry, Father!”
“I’m a little worried about him,” the district captain told Chojnicki.
“Rightfully so!” the count replied. “He has to get away from this area. When he’s on furlough, I’ll try to show him a little of the world. Then he won’t have any desire to come back. Maybe he’ll fall in love.”
“I don’t fall in love,” said Carl Joseph very slowly.
They drove back to the hotel.
During the entire ride only one word was spoken, one single word: “Father!” said Carl Joseph, and that was all.
The next day the district captain woke up very late; he could already hear the bugles of the returning battalion. The train was leaving in two hours. Carl Joseph arrived. Chojnicki’s whip signal was already snapping below. The district captain ate at the riflemen’s table in the station restaurant.
Since his departure from W district, a tremendous amount of time had worn by. He barely remembered boarding the train just two days ago. The only civilian aside from Count Chojnicki, he sat, dark and gaunt, at the long horseshoe-shaped table of the particolored officers, under the wall portrait of Franz Joseph I, the familiar omnipresent portrait of the Supreme Commander in Chief in the sparkling-white field marshal’s tunic with the blood-red sash. Right under and almost parallel to the Kaiser’s white sideburns, twenty inches below, loomed the black, slightly silvered sides of the Trotta whiskers. The youngest officers, sitting at the ends of the horseshoe, could see the resemblance between His Apostolic Majesty and his servant. From his seat Lieutenant Trotta could likewise compare the Kaiser’s face with his father’s. And for a few seconds it seemed to the lieutenant as if his aged father’s portrait were hanging up on the wall and the Kaiser, in the flesh, slightly rejuvenated, and in mufti, were sitting below at the table. And far and foreign were both his Kaiser and his father.
Meanwhile the district captain sent a hopeless, scrutinizing look around the table, at the downy, almost beardless faces of the young officers and the moustachioed faces of the older ones. Next to him sat Major Zoglauer. Ah, Herr von Trotta und Sipolje would have liked to exchange a few anxious words with him about Carl Joseph! There was no time left. Outside the window the train was already being marshaled.
The district captain was quite despondent. They all drank his health, a bon voyage, and success in his official tasks. He smiled in all directions, rose, clinked glasses, and his mind was heavy with worries and his heart besieged by dark inklings. After all, a tremendous amount of time had gone by since his departure from his district. Yes indeed, the district captain had been cheerful and exuberant when he had ridden into an adventuresome region and to his dear son. Now he was returning home, alone, from a lonesome son and from this borderland, where the collapse of the world could already be seen as clearly as one sees a thunderstorm on the edge of a city, whose streets lie still unaware and blissful under a blue sky. The doorman’s cheery bell was already ringing. The locomotive was already whistling. The wet steam of the train was already banging against the restaurant windows in fine gray beads. The meal was already over, and they all stood up. The whole battalion escorted Herr von Trotta to the platform. Herr von Trotta wanted to say something special, but nothing suitable occurred to him. He glanced tenderly at his son. But then he instantly feared that someone would notice that glance, and he lowered his eyes. He shook Major Zoglauer’s hand. He thanked Chojnicki. He tipped his dignified gray silk hat, which he always wore when traveling. He held the hat in his left hand and threw his right arm around Carl Joseph’s back. He kissed his son on both cheeks. And always he wanted to say, Don’t cause me any grief, I love you, my son! All he said was, “Stay well!” For the Trottas were shy people.
He was already boarding, the district captain. He was already at the window. His hand in the dark-gray kid glove lay on the open window. His bald skull shone. Once again his worried eyes looked for Carl Joseph’s face.
“The next time you visit, Herr District Captain,” said Captain Wagner, who was always in a good mood, “you’ll find a little Monte Carlo here!”
“What do you mean?” asked the district captain.
“They’re going to open a gambling casino!” replied Wagner. And before Herr von Trotta und Sipolje could call over his son to urgently warn him about the announced Monte Carlo, the locomotive whistled, the buffers smashed and boomed into one another, and the train glided away. The district captain waved with his gray glove, and all the officers saluted. Carl Joseph did not stir.
He walked back alongside Captain Wagner. “It’s going to be fabulous,” said the captain. “A real casino! Oh, God, how long has it been since I saw a roulette wheel? You know, I love the way it rolls,
and that noise! I’m so delighted!”
Captain Wagner was not the only one looking forward to the opening of the casino. They were all waiting. So far as we know, the border garrison had spent years waiting for the casino that Kapturak was supposed to open.
One week after the district captain’s departure, Kapturak arrived. And he probably would have caused a greater stir if, by a strange coincidence, the woman on whom they all focused their attention had not arrived at the same time.
Chapter 12
IN THOSE DAYS there were a lot of men like Kapturak on the borders of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy. They began to circle around the old empire like those black cowardly birds that ogle a dying man from infinitely far away. Dark and impatient, beating their wings, they wait for his end. Their slanting beaks jab into their prey. No one knows where they come from or where they fly off to. They are the feathered brethren of enigmatic Death; they are his harbingers, his escorts, and his successors.
Kapturak is a short man with a nondescript face. Rumors flit around him, fly ahead of him on his twisty paths, and follow the barely perceptible footprints he leaves behind. He lives at the border inn. He associates with the agents of the South American shipping companies whose steamers carry thousands of Russian deserters to a new and cruel homeland year after year. He gambles a lot and drinks little. Nor does he lack a certain careworn affability. He says that for years he used to do his smuggling of Russian deserters on the other side of the border and that he left a home, a wife, and children there for fear of being packed off to Siberia after several officials and officers had been caught and sentenced. And when asked what he plans to do here, Kapturak tersely replies with a smile, “Business.”