Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

“Actually, I like Germany,” Pat was saying when they left the café and headed toward the river. “No matter what they did in the war or what your family thinks of them, this country’s still pretty great.”

“What stereotypical reasons do you have for this sudden national crush? Bach? Beethoven? The great Dürer? Or maybe even the songs of the Rhinemaidens.”

“For one thing, they’ve been nicer to us here — just shopkeepers, waiters, our hotel clerk, even people with directions on the street — than in any country we’ve been to.”

“If you mean they’ve been sycophantic and obsequious, which someone less clever than you might take for graciousness and helpfulness — then I say yes, I agree with you, you’re right.”

“Oh, stop the nonsense.”

“And please stop misusing that inadequate word.”

“But it is nonsense. I mean, try forming an opinion of your own once in a while, instead of sounding like Papa Kahn and your brother Stanley.”

He looked away. Oh Jesus, she thought, he’s going to start pouting again. “I’m sorry. Hank. Let’s forget it.”

“Excuse me?” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. He’d stopped at a stone parapet that overlooked the river, and was watching a crowd of people walking and cycling off the excursion boat.

“Could you believe the tourists still flocking here like that?” she said, curling her arm around his. “Boy, are they ever in for a surprise.”

“Maybe they all live here.”

“Nobody lives in this dull town but waiters and bosomy barmaids.”

Then possibly because Rudesheim’s a famous resort town. Say, now that can be the answer.”

“Famous? Since when? I never knew it existed till that Thomas Cook man slipped it into our itinerary.”

“And I promise never to reveal a word of that confession,” and he fingered a cross over his chest. “Now what do you say?” and he pointed to the street that would lead them to the center of town.

“Let’s go back to our room. We’ve had plenty to drink already, and I can see you’re itching to get loaded again before dinner.”

“Just one more sip with me and we’ll go back to the hotel.”

“I’ll drink with you later — during dinner, and I’m serious now.”

Then maybe you better drink alone at dinner,” and he took her arm out of his and walked away from her.

She caught up with him, and without saying a word they went through an alley till it opened up on the Drosselgasse, a narrow sloping street glutted with bierkellars and souvenir stands and coffee and pastry shops. She had a hard time keeping up with him, as he was anxious to get to the place he found last night in his solitary bar crawl through this section of town. Approaching the door of the Rheinlander, he stepped aside, extended his hand and bowed like one of the more fawning waiters they’d had, and let her pass him and descend the stairs. When she reached the bottom he galloped downstairs two steps at a time, tripping on the last step and falling.

“You hurt?” she said, helping him up.

“It’s okay. I landed on my good shoulder for a change. It’s these damn stone steps all the old bars seem to have.”

That’s the third time you’ve fallen like that in a week, you know.”

“I wish you’d stick to counting drinks like other wives.”

“If you want,” and she laughed, brushed some dirt off his sleeves and reached up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Then she took his hand and led him into the bar.

A large party of German men and women were drinking and toasting and singing what sounded like folk songs at a long oak table. Pat liked the looks of the place — it was low, snug and woody — and wanted to sit near the group and possibly strike up a conversation with then and be invited to sing along. She had a good soprano voice, perhaps too overtrained by a private voice teacher while she was in college, but she’d still managed to get into a folk-singing trio in one of the coffee houses off campus and make some money at it. But Hank tugged on her arm, just as she was about to suggest where they sit, and made his way to a two-seater at the other end of the room — a fairly dark spot tables away from any other customers. He studied the wine list. When the waiter came over and asked in German if they were ready, he ordered the most expensive bottle of the local wine. “ Und macht sure it’s natur, jawohl ?”

“ Jawohl .” the waiter said.

“ Und kanst du try und keep doze people über der von singen like katzen und hunds ?”

The waiter, folding up the wine list and standing it back up on the table, smiled and shrugged that he could only try and do his best.

“ Jawohl, mein kapitan , you should’ve said,” Hank said.

The waiter was still smiling at them as he left their table.

“You’re always there with the quips,” Pat said, “—the real bon mots .”

“Would you have preferred my jumping up and clicking my heels at him?”

“Now who’s giving out with the stereotyped impressions? Officious and snotty as a lot of them are reputed to be, although I haven’t seen it, they weren’t all Nazis. Like the one who’s waiting on us. I mean, what is he, nineteen, twenty? — so he was barely five when the war started. And this is his country we’re in. So if you still insist on deriding him, let’s go back to France or somewhere and knock the Germans from there.”

“ Jawohl, meine darlink,” and he gave her the seig-heil salute.

“Cut that out, Hank. That’s offensive to most people here. What makes it worse, it’s not even funny.”

That’s because you never understood my type of humor.”

“Oh, I understand it all right. It’s not like it’s far out or subtle, you know.”

“Just blow it out.”

“No. I take it back. You just proved your humor is subtle.”

He was going to answer her, when the waiter brought the wine, twisted the bottle around so Hank could see the label, wrapped a towel around it and drew the cork, and poured a little wine into his glass. Then he stepped back and stood at Hank’s right, looking at him.

“I believe you’re supposed to sniff and sip it and then tell him it’s delicious.”

“You know German better than me; you’re the one with the Kraut background. Tell him to forget the stupid amenities and fill up my glass. I want to shoot the first one down, not pick at it like some fag.”

“You’re awful.”

“Sure I’m awful. Because I’m in this awful country and it’s making me feel awful that I’m here.”

She smiled at the waiter and said “ Mein mann hier wisht das sie fullen seine Glas voll, bitte .”

“Ah-ha,” the waiter said, smiling as he refilled Hank’s glass and then Pat’s. “ Das is viel besser , is not?”

“ Mucho besser .” Hank said. He slapped the table and said in a Texas drawl “Here’s mud in your eye, slowpoke,” and drank down the wine and held out his glass for the waiter to refill it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Pat said, laughing to herself and looking away.

The waiter refilled Hank’s glass. “Is good, der Wein, nicht wahr ?”

“Hank gulped down this glass also, then loudly smacked his lips.

“To tell you the dang-blasted God-awful truth, pardner, this here’s just ‘trocious wine — just disgusting stuff, but what could I do? I was thirsty.”

The waiter beamed. Thank you, sir, lady. Vielen dank .”

“Now tell him to beat it.”

“You know he can understand some English, Hank.”

That was English? Come on, tell him to get lost. His breath’s bad.”

“ Mein mann sagt vielen dank auch ,” she said, trying to keep her weak smile from appearing apologetic. “ Sie sind sehr gut zu uns und wir…wir …appreciate it. Versteht appreciate? Von der herz ,” and she touched her blouse on the left side.