Hans Keilson - Comedy in a Minor Key

“What maiden is that?”

“There, in the picture!”

He laughed when he saw her baffled face, and the laughter was infectious.

He said, “A back, now that’s extremely uninteresting.”

But her thoughts had already taken another leap. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. “Was it really in the newspaper?”

“I completely forgot to ask Coba.”

“Do you think she’ll come today?”

“I’m sure she will. She’s come every day so far. Maybe—”

“Oh, how long will this last?” Marie sighed.

“How long will this last?” Nico had asked it so many times too, Wim remembered. The same question! In a similar situation! And yet really so different. They still had the possibility that, for example, Coba would appear and tell them that everything was all right.

And all at once Marie shoved her chair closer to his and said, in a wavering voice, “If Nico could see us sitting here…”

Wim was startled. He too hadn’t been able to help thinking about it. Again and again this thought had pursued him, even deep into the Mexican forests, like a poisonous beast in the thickest underbrush: “If he could see us sitting here!” What would he say? Marie? Wim? Because of me? And he turned pale… The roles had been switched. The distance between them had narrowed. Now he could take them under his wing. And they understood him better. “I know all about it. It’s always like that in the beginning. You get used to it…” Wim saw him standing there, almost bodily saw him, with an understanding, slightly sarcastic smile on his tight lips, a wreath of countless wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. But his eyes looked sad. Because of me? But when he saw that there was no reprimand in Wim’s face, no trace of blame or regret, only the patient readiness of someone who, once he has started something, carries it through to the end, his own features relaxed too. They looked calmly into each other’s eyes.

And Marie plucked absently at her handkerchief.

There was a knock at the door and they both jumped up. The elderly woman appeared, in hat and coat, with the four o’clock tea. Marie took the tray out of her hands.

“Aga called,” the pension owner said with a friendly smile.

“Aga?” Marie asked. “Who’s that?”

“Aga, you know — Coba calls herself Aga on the phone.”

“Of course,” Wim confirmed. “Understood. And…?” He was burning with curiosity.

“She can’t come today, she wanted me to tell you.”

“Again, nothing,” Marie said, filled with consternation and turning to Wim. “You see.”

“Has she been in contact with — I don’t know with who, but…”

“It’s being handled through an intermediary,” the dear old woman explained, looking especially nice. It sounded soothing.

“Well then, we’ll just have to practice being patient,” Wim said, laying his hand gently on Marie’s shoulder. She put the tray down on the table in silence.

“Don’t worry a bit about your ration cards,” the woman explained. “You’ll get them no matter what — if it’s necessary,” she added quickly. “I have to rush off to the train. I’ll be back again this evening. Everything’s been taken care of.”

And walking firmly upright, she left the room.

“I don’t believe it,” Marie said, falling into a chair. She looked at Wim, completely helpless.

He shrugged his shoulders. Wait it out!

But at the same moment the old woman shut the door behind her, he had the sense that somewhere, invisible in the room, another door was opening, giving him a view out into an unknown distance. While he stood there and looked, a milk-white fog rose up and flooded into the room, overflowing its fixed contours. He had the feeling that everything all around him, even the floor he stood on, was growing vague and in a way contingent. He rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his hair, as though he had to protect it against a suddenly rising wind that was disheveling it. He could feel his heart beating. It had altered its inner rhythm; it beat harder, braver. Then he saw Marie sitting there. She too had receded into the distance and was far away from him, almost unreachable. The way she sat there now, arms pressed tight against her body and hands folded in her lap, alone and full of sadness, she was no longer his wife. There was no connection between them. He saw her as though for the first time. In that moment, this image of her in her foreignness, her otherness, was etched deeply into his mind. He saw she was crying.

“But Marie, you’re crying,” he said, and he took her hands. The tears ran down her cheeks.

He went on while he tenderly stroked her hands: “What’s wrong?… Are you scared?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back, almost inaudibly.

Silence.

Afterward they drank their tea.

At the same time, the landlady was herself taking steps to make contact. But Coba hadn’t told them that. Why should she? The old woman had an even older sister in the town where Marie and Wim lived. For some time, ever since they had started coming and taking men away, this sister had done her part. The task fell to her of making contact with the police officer handling the case of the nighttime find in the park, and finding out all the essential information: whether in fact the police were investigating the clue that had fallen so easily into their hands — the number on the laundry tag.

After she had found out the name of the policeman, and learned at the same time that he was still what was called “a good patriot,” she practically stalked him.

It took several days, too long for the two people in the room on the fourth floor.

Gradually Wim stopped taking pleasure in his reading. They went downstairs together and walked around the city, tense and worried. Maybe they would run into someone they knew from their town who would know why they were here. But everything went off without a hitch. No one was looking for them. The weather stayed cold and stormy. Staying in a heated room, near the stove, was still the most pleasant option they had. Soon Wim too grew impatient.

“What do you think, Marie?” he asked one day. “Do you think I can get work from the office to do here?”

Marie shrank back. “But — so you don’t still think we’ll soon be—”

“No, it’s not that,” Wim interjected. “That has nothing to do with it. I just meant we have enough work to do at the factory, and I certainly have enough time here.”

Marie took it as a sign, though: that he had lost all hope too.

Then, two days later, at an hour when they hadn’t expected her, Coba was standing in their room. She laughed with satisfaction.

“Coba!” Marie cried, and rushed toward her. The laugh annoyed her. Was it supposed to mean that now they were really… Now that it was here, so suddenly, it was almost impossible to believe.

“What is it?” Wim said in a monotone.

“Everything’s all right,” Coba answered, stepping closer.

Wim tucked his book under his arm and gripped it so tight that he almost crushed the finger he had stuck between the pages. Still, he waited.

“You can go back.”

Marie fell around Coba’s neck. Quiet sobbing.

“I know,” Coba said, patting her encouragingly on the back. “It took such a long time. And the uncertainty.”

“You did it,” Wim said, and gripped her hand. He couldn’t say anything more. A warm feeling rose inside him; he wanted to be happy and to show that he was happy. But it sounded muted, almost sad.

“It wasn’t me,” Coba replied, happily excited. “It was the policeman! You were lucky.”

So we’re going back home, Wim thought to himself. We were lucky. So this warm feeling, with a little grief mixed in, that’s luck? They had gained in experience — maybe that’s luck?