"You wait."
I was far from being so confident as I made out. On the contrary, I felt pretty certain now the baker would not come back. I ought to have made sure of him this morning. He was too unreliable.
As the siren of the spring-mattress factory opposite tooted five Gottfried silently placed three more empty gin bottles in front of me on the table. Then he leaned against the window and stared at me. "I'm thirsty," said he after a while with emphasis.
At that instant I heard the unmistakable rattle of a Ford engine out on the street, and immediately after the baker's car turned in at our entrance.
"If you are thirsty, my dear Gottfried," I replied with dignity, "just run along and buy the two bottles of rum I've.won with my bet. You can have a pull gratis. See-the baker out there? Psychology, my boy. And now clear away the empty gin bottles. Then afterwards you can take out the taxi. You're too young yet for the finer work. Cheerio, my son."
I went out and told the baker that the car was apparently to be had. The client was asking seven thousand five hundred, but if he saw cash for it, he might come down to seven thousand.
The baker listened so distractedly that I stopped short.
"I have to ring the chap again about six," said I finally.
"About six?" The baker roused out of his inattention. "At six I have to—" He turned to me suddenly. "Would you come with me?"
"Where to?" I asked in amazement.
"To your friend, the painter. The picture is ready."
"Ach, so, to Ferdinand Grau?"
He nodded. "Come along, will you? Then we can discuss the car afterwards."
He seemed to lay some store on not going alone. On the other hand I also lay some store on not letting him alone again. "All right," said I, therefore. "It's a fair distance— we'd better set off at once."
Ferdinand Grau looked ill. His face was grey-green, shadowed and puffy. He greeted us at the door of the studio. The baker hardly looked at him. He was strangely unsure of himself and excited. "Where is it?" he asked immediately.
Ferdinand pointed with a hand to the window. The picture was leaning there on an easel. The baker walked across quickly and then stopped motionless in front of the picture. After a while he removed his hat. He had been in such a hurry he had quite forgotten it before.
Ferdinand and I remained by the door. "How goes it, Ferdinand?" I asked.
He made a vague gesture.
"Something wrong?"
"What should be wrong?"
"You look so bad—"
"Nothing else?"
"No," said I, "nothing else."
He put his great hand on my shoulder and smiled with an expression like an old Saint Bernard's.
We waited some time longer. Then we went across to the baker. I was surprised when I saw the picture. The head had come up very well, from the photo of the wedding and the second care-ridden snap of a woman still young who gazed in front of her with grave, rather bewildered eyes.
"Yes," said the baker without turning round. "That is she."
He said it more to himself, and it seemed to me as if he did not even know he had said it.
"Have you enough light?" asked Ferdinand.
The baker did not answer.
Ferdinand went forward to turn the easel a bit. Then he walked back and nodded to me to come with him into the little room adjoining the studio.
"I would never have thought it," said he, surprised. "It's got.the old rebate-machine on the raw! He's blubbering—"
"It gets everybody sometime," I replied. "Only for him it's too late."
"Too late," said Ferdinand; "always too late. It's tie way with life, Bob."
He walked slowly to and fro. "We'll leave him quietly awhile to himself there," said he. "What do you say to a game of chess in the meantime?"
"You are a cheerful soul, Ferdinand," said I.
He stopped. "Why not? Doesn't do him any harm, doesn't do him any good. If you were always thinking of that sort of thing, why nobody would ever laugh again, Bob."
"You're right there," said I. "Then let's have a quick game."
We set up the men and began. Ferdinand won without much difficulty. He mated me with rook and bishop without using the queen.
"Don't know how you do it," said I. "You look as if you haven't been to sleep for three nights. And yet ..you play like a pirate."
"I always play well when I'm melancholy," replied Ferdinand.
"Why are you melancholy?"
"Ach, I don't know. Because it's getting dark. All decent people are melancholy when evening comes. Not for any particular reason. Just on general grounds."
"But only when.they're alone," said I.
"Of course. The hour of the shadows. The hour of loneliness. The hour when cognac tastes best."
He fetched a bottle and two glasses. "Shouldn't we go in to the baker?" I asked.
"In a minute." He poured out. "Pros't, Bob. Because we all must die."
"Pros't, Ferdinand. Because we're still here."
"Well," said he, "it hasn't wanted much sometimes. Let's have one to that too."
"Right."
We went back into the studio. It had grown darker. The baker with hunched shoulders was still standing before the picture. He looked pitifully lost in the great, bare room, and it struck me he had become smaller.
"Shall I pack up the picture for you?" asked Ferdinand.
He gave a start of alarm. "No."
"Then I'll send it to-morrow?"
"Can't it remain here still?" asked the baker hesitantly.
"But why?" replied Ferdinand astonished, and coming nearer. "Don't you like it?"
"Yes—but I would sooner leave it here."
"I don't understand."
The baker looked at me for help. I understood—he was afraid to hang the picture at home with the black bitch. Perhaps, too, he felt a certain fear before the dead woman, of taking her there.
"But Ferdinand," said I, "the picture can stay here, can't it, if it is paid for?"
"That, of course."
The baker, relieved, took his chequebook from his pocket. The two went to the table.
"Four hundred marks the remainder?" asked the baker.
"Four hundred and twenty," said Ferdinand, "including discount. Do you want a receipt?"
"Yes," replied the baker, "for the accountants."
In silence they wrote out the cheque and the receipt. I remained by the window and looked around. In the half-light of dusk the faces of the unclaimed and unpaid-for gleamed on the walls in their golden frames. They looked like a ghostly assemblage from the other world and their steady gaze seemed turned upon the picture by the window, which was now to join them and over which the evening was shedding its last glow. It was a queer atmosphere —the two bowed, writing figures at the table, the shadows and the many silent portraits.
The baker returned to the window. His bloodshot eyes looked like glass marbles, his mouth was half-open, the under lip dropped so that one could see the stained teeth —it was both comic and sad the way he stood there. On the floor above the studio someone started playing the piano, some finger exercise or other, always the same sequence .of notes. It sounded thin and complaining. Ferdinand Grau was still standing by the table. He lit himself a cigar. The light of the match illumined his face. The half-dark room appeared monstrously large and very blue against the little red glow.
"Can you still change something in the picture?" asked the baker.
"What is it?"
Ferdinand came forward. The baker pointed to the jewellery.
"Could you take that out again?"
It was the enormous gold brooch he had asked for as an extra when he ordered the picture.
"Certainly," said Ferdinand, "as a matter of fact, it disturbs the face. The portrait gains if it comes out."
"I think so too." He rambled around awhile. "What . would it cost?"
Ferdinand and I glanced at one another. "It wouldn't cost anything," said Ferdinand
generously; "on the contrary, you would stand to get something back. There would be less in it then, you see."
The baker lifted his head in surprise. For a moment it looked as if he meant to go into the matter. But then he said with finality: "Ach, no, don't bother about that—after all, you did have to paint it."
"That is also true—"
We left. On the stairs, as I saw the stooping back in front of me, I was a bit troubled about the baker and the tact that his conscience had smitten him in the matter of the swindle with the brooch. I didn't quite like going for him with the Cadillac while he was in this frame of mind. But then I reflected that part at least of his very laudable regret for his dead wife arose only because the black person at home was such a bitch, and I felt quite fresh again.
"We can discuss the matter at my place," said he, outside.
I nodded. It would suit me very well. The baker imagined, doubtless, he would be stronger within his own four walls—but I was counting on the black one for support.
She was already at the door awaiting us. "Hearty congratulations," said I before the baker could open his mouth.
"What for?" she asked quickly, with darting eyes.
"Your Cadillac," I replied imperturbably.
"Sweetheart!" With a bound she was hanging on the baker's neck.
"But we're not there yet." He attempted to free himself and make some explanation. But she held him tight and tantalizingly spun him round in circles so that he could not get a word in. Alternating I saw over his shoulder her sly, winking face and over her shoulder his reproachful, vainly protesting weevil's head.
At last he succeeded in freeing himself. "We are not so far by any means," he panted.
"Oh, yes," said I heartily, "we are so far. I'll lay my hat I can bring him down the last five hundred marks. You won't pay a pfennig more than seven thousand marks for the Cadillac. Do you agree?"
"Of course," said the black one quickly. "Surely that's cheap, sweetheart."
"Stop!" The baker held up his hand.
"Now what is the matter with you?" She went for him. "First you say you'll, get the car, and now you stand there again and say you won't."
"He will, all right," I interposed. "We've discussed it already."
"Well, sweetheart—why, then—" She leaned close against him. He tried to free himself once more but she pressed her full breasts against his arm. He made an exasperated grimace, but his resistance was weakening.
"The Ford—" said he.
"Will be taken in part payment, of course."
"Four thousand marks?"
"It cost you all that?" I asked amiably.
"It must be taken in payment for four thousand marks," declared the baker firmly. He had at last found the point for counterattack after the first surprise. "The car's as good as new."
"New?" said I. "After that enormous repair—"
"You admitted it yourself only this morning."
"This morning it was another matter. There is new and new—according as you are buying or selling. For four thousand marks your Ford would need to have fenders of gold."
"Four thousand marks, or it's nothing," said the baker pig-headedly. He was now his old self again and apparently meant to make good any recent sentimentality.
"Then au revoir," I replied, and turned to the black one. "I'm sorry, madam—but I cannot make a losing deal. We make nothing on the Cadillac anyway, so I can't possibly take an old Ford in payment at an enormous price. Good-bye."
She held me back. Her eyes flashed and she now fell on the baker so that he did not know if he were coming or going. "You have said yourself a hundred times the Ford isn't worth a thing any more," she hissed finally with tears in her eyes.
"Two thousand marks," said I. "Two thousand marks, though that is suicide."
The baker said nothing.
"Well come on, say something. What are you standing around there for and not opening your mouth?" spat the black one.
"You will excuse me," said I, "I'll just go and get the Cadillac. Perhaps you'll talk it over in the meantime between yourselves."
I had the feeling I could not do better than vanish. Darkie would follow up the business for me.
An hour later I was there with the Cadillac. I saw immediately that the quarrel had been settled in the simplest way. The baker looked a bit rumpled and there was a bed feather hanging from his coat—the dark one on the other hand was flashing, breasts dancing; and she smiled, satisfied and treacherous. She had changed her dress and was now wearing a thin, clinging silk frock. In an unobserved moment she nodded to me and winked an eye to say all was in order.
We made a trial run. Darkie snuggled down comfortably into the wide seat and prattled continuously. I should have liked to throw her out of the window, but I had need of her still. The baker sat beside me rather glum. He was mourning in advance for his money—perhaps the most sincere mourning there is.
We pulled up outside the baker's house and went in again. The baker left the room to get the money. He now looked like an old man and I saw that his hair was dyed.
The dark one passed her hands over her dress. "We did that pretty well, what?"
"Yes," said I reluctantly.
"That will cost you a hundred marks for me."
"Ach, so?" said I.
"The stingy old buck," she whispered confidentially, coming nearer, "has money to burn. But to get anything out of him! Refuses even to make a will. And afterwards of course everything will go to the children, and where will I be? There's no fun either with him always rowing—"
She came still nearer and shook her breasts. "Then I'll come over to-morrow sometime for the hundred marks? When will you be there? Or will you be passing this way?" She giggled. "To-morrow afternoon I'll be alone here."
"I'll send it over to you," said I.
She giggled again. "Bring it yourself. Or are you afraid?"
She took me for an innocent apparently, and meant to make quite clear to me how things stood.
"Not afraid," said I, "but I haven't time. I have to go to see the doctor to-morrow. An old syphilis—spoils life a bit."
She stepped back so quickly that she almost fell over a plush armchair. At that moment the baker came in again. He looked at the dark one suspiciously. Then he counted out the money in cash on the table. He paid slowly and hesitantly. His shadow swayed on the pink carpet of the room and counted with him. As I wrote out the receipt it struck me that this had all happened once before to-day— only Ferdinand Grau had been in my place. Though it had no significance, it seemed to me queer.
I was glad when I was outside again. The air was soft and summery. The Cadillac winked from the edge of the street.
"Well, thanks, old boy," said I, patting the radiator. "Come again soon."
Chapter XV
The morning was clear and sparkling over the meadows. Pat and I were sitting on the edge of a clearing having breakfast. I had taken two weeks' leave and was on the way with Pat. We were making for the sea.
On the roadside stood a little, old Citroën. We had taken it in part payment against the baker's Ford and Köster had lent it to me for my leave. It looked like a patient pack-mule, so laden was it with trunks.
"Let's hope he doesn't collapse on the road," said I.
"He won't collapse," replied Pat.
"How do you know?"
"Self-evident. Because it's our holiday, Robby."
"Maybe," said I. "But I know his back axle. It looks pretty sad. Especially with that load."
"He's one of Karl's brothers. He'll hold out."
"A mighty rickety brother."
"Stop the abuse, Robby. At this moment he is the love-" liest car I know."
"Come over here," said I.
"What do you want then?"
"Difficult to say."
We lay for some time side by side in the meadow. The wind blew warm and soft from the wood. It smelt of pines and wild flowers.
"Robby," asked Pat after a while, "what flowers a
re those over there by the stream?"
"Anemones," I replied without looking up.
"But darling! Those aren't anemones, anemones are much smaller; besides they only flower in spring."