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

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of the books subtly unsatisfactory. There had been grown-ups in them, or buried treasures, or marvellous scientific inventions. He had no use for any of these. Only one story had really pleased him. It was called The Seven Who Got Lost.

“This is the work of genius, I find.” Kuno was quite in earnest. His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “I should be so very happy if you would care to read it, you see?”

I took the book home. It was certainly not at all bad of its kind. Seven boys, of ages ranging from sixteen to nineteen, are washed ashore on an uninhabited island, where there is water and plenty of vegetation. They have no food with them and no tools but a broken penknife. The book was a matter-of-fact account, cribbed largely from the Swiss Family Robinson, of how they hunted, fished, built a hut and finally got themselves rescued. I read it at a sitting and brought it back to Kuno next day. He was delighted when I praised it.

“You remember Jack?”

“The one who was so good at fishing? Yes.”

“Now tell me, please, is he not like Günther?”

I had no idea who Günther was, but rightly guessed him to have been one of the Mecklenburg house-party.

“Yes, he is, rather.”

“Oh, I am so glad you find this, too. And Tony?”

“The one who was such a marvellous climber?”

Kuno nodded eagerly: “Doesn’t he remind you of Heinz?”

“I see what you mean.”

In this way we worked through the other characters, Teddy, Bob, Rex, Dick: Kuno supplied a counterpart to each. I congratulated myself on having really read the book and being thus able to pass this curious examination with credit. Last of all came Jimmy, the hero, the champion swimmer, the boy who always led the others in an emergency and had a brainwave to solve every difficulty.

“You didn’t recognize him, perhaps?”

Kuno’s tone was oddly, ludicrously coy. I saw that I must

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beware of giving the wrong answer. But what on earth was I to say?

“I did have some idea …” I ventured.

“You did?” He was actually blushing.

I nodded, smiling, trying to look intelligent, waiting for a hint.

“He is myself, you see.” Kuno had the simplicity of complete conviction. “When I was a boy. But exactly … This writer is a genius. He tells things about me which nobody else can know. I am Jimmy. Jimmy is myself. It is marvellous.”

“It’s certainly very strange,” I agreed.

After this, we had several talks about the island. Kuno told me exactly how he pictured it, and dwelt in detail upon the appearance and characteristics of his various imaginary companions. He certainly had a most vivid imagination. I wished that the author of The Seven Who Got Lost could have been there to hear him. He would have been startled to behold the exotic fruit of his unambitious labours. I gathered that I was Kuno’s only confidant on the subject. I felt as embarrassed as some unfortunate person who has been forcibly made a member of a secret society. If Arthur was with us, Kuno showed only too plainly his desire to get rid of him and be alone with me. Arthur noticed this, of course, and irritated me by putting the obvious construction on our private interviews. All the same, I hadn’t the heart to give Kuno’s poor little mystery away. .

“Look here,” I said to him once, “why don’t you do it?”

“Please?”

“Why don’t you clear out to the Pacific and find an island like the one in the book, and really live there? Other people have done it. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t.”

Kuno shook his head sadly.

“Excuse me, no. It’s impossible.”

His tone was so final and so sad that I was silent. Nor did I ever make such a suggestion to him again.

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As the month advanced, Arthur became increasingly depressed. I soon noticed that he had less money than formerly. Not that he complained. Indeed, he had become most secretive about his troubles. He made his economies as unobtrusively as possible, giving up taxis on the ground that a bus was just as quick, avoiding the expensive restaurants because, as he said, rich food disagreed with his digestion. Anni’s visits were less frequent also. Arthur had taken to going to bed early. During the day, he was out more than ever. He spent a good deal of his time, I discovered, in Bayer’s office.

It wasn’t long before another telegram arrived from Paris. I had no difficulty in persuading Frl. Schroeder, whose curiosity was as shameless as my own, to steam open the envelope before Arthur’s return for his afternoon nap. With heads pressed close together, we read:

Tea you sent no good at all cannot understand why believe you have another girl no kisses.

Margot.

“You see,” exclaimed Frl. Schroedet, in delighted horror, “she’s been trying to stop it.”

“What on earth …”

“Why, Herr Bradshaw,” in her impatience she gave my hand a little slap, “how can you be so dense! The baby, of course. He must have sent her some stuff… . Oh, these men! If he’d only come to me, I could have told him what to do. It never fails.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Frl. Schroeder, don’t say anything about this to Herr Norris.”

“Oh, Herr Bradshaw, you can trust me!”

I think, all the same, that her manner must have given Arthur some hint of what we had done. For, after this, the French telegrams ceased to arrive. Arthur, I supposed, had prudently arranged to have them delivered to some other address.

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And then one evening early in December, when Arthur was out and Frl. Schroeder was having a bath, the doorbell rang. I answered it myself. There, on the threshold, stood Schmidt.

“Good evening, Mr, Bradshaw.”

He looked shabby and unkempt. His great, greasy moon-face was unwholesomely white. At first I thought he must be drunk.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Schmidt grinned unpleasantly. “I want to see Norris.” He must have read what was in my mind, for he added: “You needn’t bother to tell me any lies, because I know he’s living here, now, see?”

“Well, you can’t see him now. He’s gone out.”

“Are you sure he’s out?” Schmidt regarded me smiling, through half-closed eyes.

“Perfectly. Otherwise I shouldn’t have told you so.”

“So … I see.”

We stood looking at each other for some moments, smiling with dislike. I was tempted to slam the door in his face.

“Mr. Norris would do better to see me,” said Schmidt, after a pause, in an offhand, casual tone, as though this were his first mention of the subject. I put the side of my foot as unostentatiously as possible against the door, in case he should suddenly turn rough.

“I think,” I said gently, “that that’s a matter for Mr. Norris himself to judge.”

“Won’t you tell him I’m here?” Schmidt glanced down at my foot and impudently grinned. Our voices were so mild and low-pitched that anybody passing up the staircase would have supposed us to be two neighbours, engaged in a friendly chat.

“I’ve told you once already that Mr. Norris isn’t at home. Don’t you understand German?”

Schmidt’s smile was extraordinarily insulting. His half-closed eyes regarded me with a certain amusement, a

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qualified disapproval, as though I were a picture badly out of drawing. He spoke slowly, with elaborate patience.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be troubling you too much to give Mr. Norris a message from me?”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

“Will you be so kind as to tell Mr. Norris that I’ll wait another three days, but no longer? You understand? At the end of this week, if I haven’t heard from him, I shall do what I said in my letter. He’ll know what I mean. He thinks I daren’t, perhaps. Well, he’ll soon find out what a mistake he’s made. I don’t want trouble, unless he asks for it. But I’ve got to live … I’ve got to look after myself the same as he has. I mean to have my rights. He needn’t think he can keep me down in the gutter… .”