Joseph Roth - Flight Without End

In the afternoon he walked through streets large and small, broad and narrow, in which the terraces of cafés blossomed with small round tables on slender legs, and waiters moved about like gardeners; when they poured coffee and milk into the cups, it was as if they were watering white flower beds. Trees and kiosks stood on the kerbs, almost as if the trees were selling newspapers. In the shop-windows — he thought of the foolish shop-windows of the Rue de la Paix — the wares danced in what looked like apparent confusion, but was in fact a defined and regular pattern. The policemen strolled in the streets, yes, they strolled, a small cape over their right or left shoulder — it was remarkable that this article of clothing could protect against hail and cloudburst. Yet they wore it with an imperturbable confidence in the quality of the material or in the benevolence of the heavens — who can tell? They strolled, not like policemen, but like idlers with all the time in the world.

Tunda had the impression that, if he asked one of them where Irene might be, he would get an answer or, at least, some good advice. Irene lived in this city. Madame G. lived in this city. From the moment he had set foot in Paris he could no longer distinguish clearly between the two women. They were one woman and he loved her. He decided to write to Madame G.

He knew her address. He had copied it a dozen times; and, moreover, there lay in a compartment of his wallet the fatal scrap of paper with which she had betrayed herself.

He had bought new, soft, smooth writing-paper; he felt that with this paper he entered on a new period in his life. Much depends on these things; momentous letters, fateful letters, must be written on a pleasing attractive, animating, cheerful, festive kind of paper. He wrote this letter in violet ink in order to distinguish it from all other, ordinary letters. Above all, he had a confession to make to Madame G., one which might possibly disillusion her.

When he began to write, he had the feeling that the French language, especially, was made for confessions. Nothing easier than to be sincere in French. The naked truth, which always has a brutal ring, nestles softly yet clearly defined in its phraseology; it is visible rather than audible, as is fitting for the truth. The letter certainly had its faults; but no language lends itself to such noble, such ready-to-be-forgiven mistakes as does French. By the time he had sealed the letter and carefully inscribed the address, he was almost as audacious as his painted young hotelière .

Several days passed. No answer came. He waited. But this period of waiting was not accompanied by anxiety or apprehension, it was more like waiting in front of the lowered curtain at a theatre.

He stayed indoors most of the day. In the late mornings he was woken by a noise from the street which recurred regularly every day and whose origin he could not bring himself to determine. He was curious. He wanted to see what it was that he heard every morning. But he put it off from one day to the next; it was pleasant that he could voluntarily postpone it, and the ability to master his curiosity released a real and unsuspected feeling of power.

A servant came to clean his room even though Tunda was still in bed. This servant seemed to have been employed in the hotel for decades, and yet he performed his duties with considerable and startling zeal; he considered each speck of dust with curious satisfaction, he investigated the underside of the wash-basin as if he hoped to discover something unexpected there. Every morning he said: ‘It’s fine today, you should take a walk in the park!’ And every morning Tunda replied: ‘I’m expecting an important letter.’ He spoke to Tunda like a kind uncle to an obstinate nephew, or like a gentle asylum attendant to a well-behaved patient. This servant was both ironic and courteous, although he liked to act the innocent and always bluntly told the truth. ‘How you do enjoy your sleep!’ he once said. And the longer Tunda slept, the oftener he excused himself: ‘Forgive me, I’ve woken you up!’

One day he arrived earlier than usual, brandished a blue envelope, and exclaimed: ‘Here’s the letter you’ve been waiting for!’ He laid it on the counterpane and withdrew his hand rapidly as if the paper was burning him, as if it might explode at any moment. It was a cheap, transparent, ordinary envelope, it felt like blotting-paper, and it contained the bill.

On that day Tunda went out for the second time; he sat down in the nearby park opposite a pond on which boys were sailing small boats. He wanted to induce a letter to arrive. The letter must be outwitted. If it was not allowed to know how impatiently it was awaited, then it would certainly arrive.

But no letter arrived.

Once more Tunda asked the young woman if anyone had been asking for him. And just like the first time she said with a consolatory toss of the head — it was like the cold professional sympathy of an undertaker — ‘The last post hasn’t been yet; the postman comes around seven o’clock.’

But nothing came with the last post either.

It was morning again, the familiar unknown noise woke Tunda, the servant entered, he was still chewing his breakfast. Suddenly, as he began lovingly to polish the water-tap, he said:

‘Someone was asking after you yesterday.’

‘Who? When? What time? A lady?’

‘It was around five in the afternoon …’

And he pulled out a thick silver watch on a thick silver chain, studied it for a few seconds as if he had remarked something on the dial, and repeated:

‘Yes, at five in the afternoon.’

‘And who was it?’

‘A lady.’

‘Didn’t she leave anything?’

‘No.’

‘A young lady?’

‘Yes, it was a young lady actually.’

‘And didn’t she say whether she’d come back?’

‘Not to me.’

‘To whom then?’

‘To no one.’

Then he burnished the tap even more thoroughly, threw the soap in the air like a ball and caught it again, laughed and said:

‘A pretty little young lady.’

‘And did she speak only to you?’

‘Yes, only to me.’

‘And why didn’t you say so yesterday?’

‘It was my evening off yesterday. I went for a stroll.’

‘Here’s a tip. And if she comes again, tell me before you go for your stroll.’

The man tossed the gold piece in the air as he had done the soap and said: ‘Forgive me if I’ve inconvenienced you,’ and departed.

Then came a long Saturday, the servant brought new bed-linen and towels, he stroked them before hanging them over the arm of one of the chairs, and turned to go. He held the door-handle for a moment, hesitated as if he had something important yet embarrassing to say.

Suddenly, already halfway through the door, he spoke:

‘No one has been.’

Tunda awoke in broad daylight on Sunday morning.

The sky was just above the window, small white clouds drifted by, it was indisputably May in the world.

There was a knock on the door and the servant said:

‘There’s someone to speak to you …’

Madame G. entered.

She slowly stripped off a glove, it fell on the counterpane, lightly, deposited by a soft breeze. It lay there, empty, flaccid, but like a tender, living, curious animal.

‘Well, my friend,’ she said, ‘have you come here to see me or to prepare for the Revolution?’

‘To see you! Do you still not believe me? Everything I wrote to you is true. I swear it!’

Tunda held out his papers, as if she were from the police, as if he had to defend his freedom.

She sat down on the bed — and it was like a miracle. She scratched at the papers with three fingers, regarded them disdainfully, and immediately extracted Irene’s photograph.