Unknown - Isherwood, Christopher (The Berlin Stories - The Last of Mr Norris - Goodbye to Berlin) (TXT)

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at me anxiously. “I hope, William, that that doesn’t shock you?”

“Not in the least.”

“I’m very glad. I might have known that you’d look at the thing in a sensible light… . After all, one’s a man of the world. Flags and banners and catchwords are all very well for the rank and file, but the leaders know that a political campaign can’t be carried on without money. I talked this over with Bayer at the time when I was considering taking the plunge, and, I must say, he was very reasonable about it. He quite saw that, crippled as I am with five thousand pounds’ worth of debts… .”

“My God, is it as much as that?”

“It is, I’m sorry to say. Of course, not all my engagements are equally pressing… . Where was I? Yes. Crippled as I am with debts I am hardly in a position to be of much service to the Cause. As you know yourself, I am subject to all sorts of vulgar embarrassments.”

“And Bayer agreed to pay some of them?”

“You put things with your usual directness, William. Well, yes, I may say that he hinted, most distinctly hinted, that Moscow would not be ungrateful if I fulfilled my first mission successfully. I did so. Bayer would be the first to admit that. And what has happened? Nothing. Of course, I know it’s not altogether his fault. His own salary and that of the typists and clerks in his office is often months overdue. But it’s none the less annoying for that. And I can’t help feeling that he doesn’t press my claim as much as he might. He even seems to regard it as rather funny when I come to him and complain that I’ve barely enough money for my next meal… . Do you know, I’m still owed for my trip to Paris? I had to pay the fare out of my own pocket; and imagining, naturally enough, that the expenses, at least, would be defrayed, I travelled first class.”

“Poor Arthur!” I had some trouble to avoid laughing. “And what shall you do now? Is there any prospect of this money coming after all?”

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“I should think none,” said Arthur gloomily.

“Look here, let me lend you some. I’ve got ten marks.”

“No, thank you, William. I appreciate the thought, but I couldn’t borrow from you. I feel that it would spoil our beautiful friendship. No, I shall wait two days more; then I shall take certain steps. And, if these are not successful, I shall know what to do.”

“You’re very mysterious.” For an instant, the thought even passed through my mind that Arthur was perhaps meditating suicide. But the very idea of his attempting to kill himself was so absurd that it made me begin to smile. “I hope everything will go off all right,” I added, as we said goodbye.

“So do I, my dear William. So do I.” Arthur glanced cautiously down the staircase. “Please give my regards to the divine Schroeder.”

“You really must come and visit us some day soon. It’s such a long time since you’ve been. She’s pining away without you.”

“With the greatest pleasure, when all these troubles are over. If they ever are.” Arthur sighed deeply. “Good night, dear boy. God bless you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next day, Thursday, I was busy with lessons. On Friday, I tried three times to ring up Arthur’s flat, but the number was always engaged. On Saturday, I went away for the week-end to see some friends in Hamburg. I didn’t get back to Berlin until late on Monday afternoon. That evening I dialled Arthur’s number, wanting to tell him about my visit;

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again there was no reply. I rang four times, at intervals of half an hour, and then complained to the operator. She told me, in official language, that “the subscriber’s instrument” was “no longer in use.”

I wasn’t particularly surprised. In the present state of Arthur’s finances, it was hardly to be expected that he would have settled his telephone bill. All the same, I thought, he might have come to see me or sent a note. But no doubt he was busy, too.

Three more days went by. It was seldom that we had ever let a whole week pass without a meeting or, at any rate, a telephone conversation. Perhaps Arthur was ill. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the surer I felt that this must be the explanation of his silence. He had probably worried himself into a nervous breakdown over his debts. And, all this while, I had been neglecting him. I felt suddenly very guilty. I would go round and see him, I decided, that same afternoon.

Some premonition or pang of conscience made me hurry. I reached the Courbierestrasse in record time, ran quickly upstairs, and, still panting, rang the bell. After all, Arthur was no longer young. The life he had been leading was enough to break anybody down; and he had a weak heart. I must be prepared to hear serious news. Supposing… hullo, what was this? In my haste, I must have miscounted the number of floors. I was standing in front of a door without a nameplate: the door of a strange flat. It was one of those silly embarrassing things which always happen when one lets oneself get flustered. My first impulse was to run away, up or down stairs, I wasn’t quite sure which. But, after all, I had rung these people’s bell. The best tiling would be to wait until somebody answered it, and then explain my mistake.

I waited; one minute, two, three. The door didn’t open. There was nobody at home, it seemed. I had been saved from making a fool of myself, after all.

But now I noticed something else. On both the doors which faced me were little squares of paint which were darker

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than the rest of the woodwork. There was no doubt about it; they were the marks left by recently removed nameplates. I could even see the tiny holes where the screws had been.

A kind of panic seized me. Within half a minute, I had run up the stairs to the top of the house, then down again to the bottom; very quickly and lightly, as one sometimes runs in a nightmare. Arthur’s two nameplates were nowhere to be found. But wait: perhaps I was in the wrong house altogether. I had done stupider things before now. I went out into the street and looked at the number over the entrance. No, there was no mistake there.

I don’t know what I mightn’t have done, at that moment, if the portress herself hadn’t appeared. She knew me by sight and nodded ungraciously. She plainly hadn’t much use for Arthur’s callers. No doubt the visits of the bailiff had got the house a bad name.

“If you’re looking for your friend,” she maliciously emphasized the word, “you’re too late. He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes. Two days ago. The flat’s to let. Didn’t you know?”

I suppose my face was a comic picture of dismay, for she added unpleasantly: “You aren’t the only one he didn’t tell. There’ve been a dozen round here already. Owed you some money, did he?”

“Where’s he gone to?” I asked dully.

“I’m sure I don’t know, or care. That cook of his comes round here and collects the letters. You’d better ask him.”

“I can’t. I don’t know where he lives.”

“Then I can’t help you,” said the portress with a certain vicious satisfaction. Arthur must have neglected to tip her. “Why don’t you try the police?”

With this parting shot she went into her lodge and slammed the door. I walked slowly away down the street, feeling rather dazed.

My question was soon answered, however. The next morning I got a letter, dated from a hotel in Prague:

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My dear William,

Do forgive me. I was compelled to leave Berlin at very short notice and under conditions of secrecy which made it impossible for me to communicate with you. The little operation about which I spoke to you was, alas, the reverse of successful, and the doctor ordered an immediate change of air. So unhealthy, indeed, had the atmosphere of Berlin become for one of my peculiar constitution, that, had I remained another week, dangerous complications would almost certainly have arisen.