"Thanks." I stared at the pulpit in front of me. Someone had drawn something there. A fat girl with a big straw hat. Ella is a goat was written below. "Must she do anything special in the meantime?" I asked.
"I'll see that to-morrow. But I fancy she is quite well looked after in her place."
"I don't know. I hear that the people want to go away next week. Then she will be alone, except for the maid."
"So? Very good, then I'll discuss it with her to-morrow."
I pushed the telephone book once again over the drawing on the pulpit. "Do you think she—that she might have another attack like that?"
Jaffé hesitated a moment. "It's possible, of course," said he then, "but it is not probable. I will only be able to tell you that after I have examined her thoroughly. I'll call you up then."
"Thanks, do."
I hung up the receiver. Outside I stood a while in the street. It was dusty and close. Then I went home.
At the door I ran into Frau Zalewski. She shot out of Frau Bender's room like a cannon ball. As she caught sight of me she stopped.
"What, back already?"
"As you see. Anything happened in the meantime?"
"Nothing to do with you. No mail either. But Frau Bender has gone."
"Indeed. Why?"
Frau Zalewski put her hands on her hips. "Because the world is full of scoundrels. She has gone to the Christian Home. With her cat and twenty-six marks."
She explained that the orphanage, where Frau Bender had been children's nurse, had gone phut. The director had been speculating unwisely on the exchange. Frau Bender had been dismissed and had lost two months' arrears of pay.
"Has she found something else?" I asked thoughtlessly.
Frau Zalewski merely looked at me.
"No, no, of course not," said I.
"I told her she could stay on if she liked. There was no hurry about payment. But she wouldn't."
"Poor people are generally honest," said I. "Who's moving in there now, then?"
"The Hasses. It's cheaper than the room they have been having."
"And the Hasses'?"
She gave a shrug. "Must wait and see. I haven't much hope anyone will come."
"When will it be free, then?"
"To-morrow. The Hasses are moving now."
"How much does the room cost, actually?" I asked. An idea had suddenly occurred to me.
"Seventy marks."
"Much too dear," said I, now wide awake.
"With morning coffee, two rolls, and plenty of butter?"
"True. But leaving out Friday's morning coffee—fifty, not a pfennig more."
"Would you be thinking of taking it?" asked Frau Zalewski.
"Perhaps."
I went into my shack and contemplated meditatively the connecting door to the Hasses' room. Pat in the Zalewski boarding house! No, that was not a happy thought.
All the same I did go round after a while and knock.
Frau Hasse was in. She was sitting in the half-empty room before a mirror, a hat on her head, and powdering herself.
I greeted her, looking round the room as I did so. It was larger than I had thought. Now that the furniture was partly removed one could begin to see it. The carpets were plain, bright, and fairly new, the doors and windows freshly painted, and the balcony was quite big and fine.
"I suppose you've heard already what he is doing with me now," said Frau Hasse. "I must move into the room of that person over there. Isn't it a shame?"
"A shame?" I asked.
"Yes, a shame," she burst out excitedly. "You know I couldn't bear her, and now Hasse is forcing me to go into her room, without a balcony and with only one window. Merely because it is cheaper! Think how she will be triumphing in her Christian Home!"
"I don't imagine she is trumphing."
"Of course she's triumphing, make-believe children's nurse! Still water runs deep, let me tell you! And next door to that tart, that Erna Bönig! And the stink of cat!"
I looked up embarrassed. "But cats are very clean, beautiful animals," said I, "Besides, I've just been in the room. It doesn't smell of cats."
"So?" replied Frau Hasse with hostility, adjusting her hat. "That depends on the nose, of course. But I'm not going to do anything about it. He can lug the furniture across himself. I'm going out. I mean to have that, at least, out of this dog's life."
She stood up. Her spongy face was trembling with rage, so that the powder came off in a little rain of dust. I saw that she had painted her lips very red and was altogether done up to kill. She smelt like an entire perfumery as she sailed out.
I looked after her sheepishly. Then I explored the room thoroughly once more. I considered where one might put Pat's various pieces of furniture. But I soon gave that up. Pat here, always here, beside me—I could not picture it. The idea would probably never have occurred to me if she had been well. However . . .. I opened the door and stepped the measure of the balcony. But then I shook my head and returned to my room.
She was still asleep when I entered the room. I sat down quietly in an armchair by the bed, but she waked immediately.
"Sorry I waked you," said I.
"Have you been here all the time?" she asked.
"No. Only just come back."
She stretched and laid her cheek against my hand. "That's good. I don't like people watching when I am asleep."
"I can understand that. I'm not fond of it either. I didn't mean to look at you. I wanted merely not to wake you. Wouldn't you sleep a bit longer?"
"No, I'm quite rested. I'll get up at once."
I went into the room next door while she dressed. Outside it was growing slowly dark. From an open window opposite a gramophone was quacking the Hohenfriedberg March. A chap with a bald head and braces was attending to the instrument. Now he walked up and down the room doing Swedish exercises to the music. His bald head shone out of the semi-darkness like an agitated moon. I watched him indifferently. I was feeling depressed and gloomy.
Pat came in. She looked beautiful, quite fresh and not the least exhausted.
"You look splendid," said I surprised.
"I feel well too, Robby. As if I had had a good night's sleep. I change very quickly."
"Yes, by Jove. So quick sometimes one can hardly keep up."
She leaned against my shoulder and looked at me. "Too quick, Robby?"
"No. Only too slow on my part. I'm often a bit slow, Pat."
She smiled. "Slow is sure. And sure is good."
"About as sure as a cork on the water."
She shook her head. "You are much surer than you think. In fact you are altogether different from what you think. I have seldom seen anyone who was so much in error about himself as you."
I took my arm from her shoulder.
"Yes, darling," said she, nodding. "That is so, really. And now come, let's go and get something to eat."
"Where should we go then?" I asked.
"To Alfons'. I must see all that again. I feel as if I had been away for an eternity."
"Good," said I. "But have you the right hunger for it? You can't go to Alfons' unless you are hungry. He'd throw' you out otherwise."
She laughed. "But I'm terribly hungry."
"Then off we go." I was suddenly very glad.
Our entry into Alfons' was triumphal. He greeted us, vanished immediately, and returned half-strangled in a stiff collar and a green-spotted tie. He would not have done that for the Emperor of Germany. He was even a little embarrassed himself, at such an unheard-of mark of decadence.
"Well, Alfons, what have you got that's good?" asked Pat, propping her elbows on the table.
Alfons smirked, blew out his lips and made his eyes small. "You're in luck. There's crab to-day."
He took a step back to observe the effect. It was first rate.
"With it, a glass of new Moselle wine," he whispered, delighted, taking yet another step back.
He received a storm of applause—and particularly from the door, wh
ere with wild, yellow hair and sunburnt nose appeared the grinning face of the last of the romantics.
"Gottfried!" exclaimed Alfons. "You? Yourself? Man, what a day! Come to my bosom!"
"Now you'll see something," said I to Pat.
The two rushed into each other's arms. Alfons slapped Lenz on the back until it sounded as if there were a smithy next door. "Hans," he then shouted across to the waiter, "bring the Napoleon."
He lugged Gottfried to the bar. The waiter brought out a large dusty bottle. Alfons poured out two grasses.
"Pros't, Gottfried, you damned old roast pig."
"Pros't, Alfons, good old turnkey."
The two emptied their glasses at a gulp.
"First rate," said Gottfried. "A cognac for madonnas."
"A pity to tip it down like that," agreed Alfons. "But how can one drink slowly when one is happy. Come, let's have another."
He poured out and raised his glass. "You faithless old tomato, you."
Lenz laughed. "My dear old Alfons."
Alfons' eyes became moist. "Once more, Gottfried," said he, moved.
"On with the dance." Lenz held out his glass. "I only say No to a cognac when I can't raise my head off the floor."
"That's the way to talk." Alfons poured out the third glass.
A little out of breath, Lenz came to the table. He took out his watch. "Arrived at the workshop with the Citroën ten minutes to eight. What do you say to that?"
"A record," replied Pat. "Long live Jupp! I'll present him with a box of cigarettes myself."
"And you will get one portion of crab extra for your share," declared Alfons, who had followed on Gottfried's heels. Then he handed us each a sort of tablecloth. "Take your coats off and tie this round. Does the lady allow it, or not?"
"I consider it necessary, even," said Pat.
Alfons nodded his pleasure. "You are a sensible woman, I knew that. One must eat crab in comfort. Without fear of spots." He beamed. "You, of course, get something a bit smarter."
The waiter, Hans, brought a snow-white cook's apron. Alfons unfolded it and helped her in. "Suits you," he commented.
"The very thing," she replied laughing.
"I'm glad you like it," said Alfons amiably. "It warms one's heart."
"Alfons!" Gottfried knotted his tablecloth around his neck so that the points stuck away out. "I must say, at the moment it looks more like a barber's shop here than anything."
"We'll soon change that. But a little bit of art first."
Alfons went to the gramophone, and immediately the Pilgrims' Chorus from Tannhauser burst forth. We listened in silence.
Hardly had the last tones died away than the kitchen door opened and the waiter, Hans, appeared with a bowl as big as a baby's bath tub. It was steaming full of crabs. Coughing, he set it on the table.
"Bring me a serviette, too," said Alfons.
"You are going to eat with us, friend?" exclaimed Lenz. "There's an honour."
"If the lady has nothing against it?"
"The contrary, Alfons."
Pat moved her chair aside and he took a seat next her.
"Be as well if I sit beside you," said he, a trifle apologetic. "As a matter of fact I'm rather smart at serving them up. That's a bit tedious for a lady."
He dipped into the bowl and with uncanny rapidity set about dismantling a crab for her. With his enormous hands he did it so deftly and elegantly that she had nothing to do but eat the morsels appetisingly offered her on a fork.
"Taste good?" he asked.
"Wonderful." She raised her glass. "Your health, Alfons.'"
Alfons touched glasses gaily and emptied his slowly. I looked at her. I should have preferred it had been something without alcohol.
She felt my glance. "Salut, Bob," said she.
She was beautiful, radiantly happy.
"Salut, Pat," said I, and emptied my glass.
"Isn't it lovely here?" she asked, looking at me again.
"Grand." I filled mine once more. "Pros't, Pat!"
A glow passed over her face. "Pros't, Bob; Pros't, Gottfried!"
We drank. "Good wine," said Lenz.
"Graacher Abtsberg from last year," explained Alfons. "Glad you recognised it."
He hauled a second crab from the bowl and offered Pat the opened claw.
She declined. "You must eat that yourself, Alfons. You'll get nothing otherwise."
"Later. I'm quicker at it than the others."
"Very good." She took the claw. Alfons beamed with pleasure and helped her to some more. He looked like a great old owl feeding a little, white fledgling.
In conclusion we all drank one more round of Napoleon and then took leave of Alfons. Pat was delighted.
"It was lovely," said she. "Thank you very much, Alfons. It was perfectly lovely." She gave him her hand.
Alfons murmured something and kissed it. Lenz's eyes almost dropped out of his head with amazement. "Come again soon," said Alfons. "You too, Gottfried."
Little and forlorn under the lamp post outside stood the Citroën.
"Oh," said Pat and' stopped short. A tremor passed over her face.
"After his performance to-day I've christened him Hercules," said Gottfried, opening the door. "Should I drive you home?"
"No," said Pat.
"That is what I thought. Where do we go then?"
"To 'The Bar' or not, Robby?" She turned to me.
"Of course," said I; "of course we are going to 'The Bar.'"
We drove along through the streets very slowly. It was warm and clear. People were sitting in front of the Cafés. Music drifted across. Pat was sitting beside me. I suddenly could not believe that she was really ill; I made myself quite hot in the effort, but for a moment I just could not believe it.
In "The Bar" we met Ferdinand and Valentin. Ferdinand was in form. He got up and went toward Pat.
"Diana," said he, "back from the woods—" She smiled. He put his arm about her shoulders. "Brown, bold huntress of the silver bow—what will you drink?"
Gottfried removed Ferdinand's arm. "Sob merchants are always tactless," said he. "The lady is escorted by two gentlemen already; you probably have not noticed that, you great buffalo."
"Romantics are a following—not an escort," declared Ferdinand unperturbed.
Lenz grinned and turned to Pat. "Now I'm going to mix you something really remarkable. A Kolibri cocktail. A Brazilian specialty."
He went to the counter, mixed all kinds of things, and then brought along the cocktail.
"How does it taste?" he asked.
"A bit thin, but Brazilian," Pat replied.
Gottfried laughed. "It is powerful all the same. Made with rum and vodka."
I saw at a glance that there was neither rum nor vodka in it—it was fruit juice, lemon, tomato, perhaps a drop of . Angostura. A non-alcoholic cocktail. But Pat, thank heaven, did not notice.
She had three large Kolibris, and I noticed how well she felt at not being treated as if she were ill. After an hour we left, only Valentin remaining. Lenz had arranged it so. He invited Ferdinand into the Citroën and steamed off. In that way it did not appear as if Pat and I. were leaving early. It was all very thoughtful, but for a moment it made me feel as miserable as a dog.
Pat took my arm. With her lovely, graceful stride she walked beside me; I felt the warmth of her hand, I saw the shimmer of the lamplight as it glided over her animated face— No, I could not believe that she was ill; I could believe it only in the daytime, but not at night when life was gentler, warmer, and full of promise.
"Should we go to my place for a bit?" I asked.
She nodded.
The passage of our pension was lighted. "Damn," said I. "What's happening now? Wait a minute, will you?"
I opened the door and looked in. The passage lay badly illuminated like some narrow suburban alley. The door to Frau Bender's room was wide-open, and there was light there too. Like a little black ant Hasse was trotting along the corridor, bowed under a s
tanding lamp with pink silk shade. He turned slowly.
"Good evening," said I. "So late?" '