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

He was actually trembling all over. Some violent emotion, rage or extreme weakness, was shaking his body like a leaf. I thought for a moment that he would fall.

“Are you ill?” I asked.

My question had an extraordinary effect on Schmidt. His oily, smiling sneer stiffened into a tense mask of hatred. He had utterly lost control of himself. Coming a step nearer to me, he literally shouted in my face:

“It isn’t any business of yours, do you hear? Just you tell Norris what I said. If he doesn’t do what I want, I’ll make him sorry for the day he was born! And you too, you swine!”

His hysterical fury infected me suddenly. Stepping back, I flung the door to with a violent slam, hoping to catch his thrust-forward, screaming face on the point of the jaw. But there was no impact. His voice stopped like a gramophone from which the needle is lifted. Nor did he utter another sound. As I stood there behind the closed door, my heart pounding with anger, I heard his light footsteps cross the landing and begin to descend the stairs.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

An hour later, Arthur returned home. I followed him into his room to break the news.

“Schmidt’s been here.”

If Arthur’s wig had been suddenly jerked from his head by a fisherman, he could hardly have looked more startled.

“William, please tell me the worst at once. Don’t keep me in suspense. What time was this? Did you see him yourself? What did he say?”

“He’s trying to blackmail you, isn’t he?”

Arthur looked at me quickly.

“Did he admit that?”

“He as good as told me. He says he’s written to you already, and that if you don’t do what he wants by the end of the week there’ll be trouble.”

“He actually said that? Oh dear… .”

“You should have told me he’d written,” I said reproachfully.

“I know, dear boy, I know… .” Arthur was the picture of distress. “It’s been on the tip of my tongue several tirqes this last fortnight. But I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. I kept hoping that, somehow, it might all blow over.”

“Now, look here, Arthur; the point is this: does Schmidt really know anything about you which can do you harm?”

He had been nervously pacing the room, and now sank, a disconsolate shirtsleeved figure, into a chair, forlornly regarding his button-boots.

“Yes, William.” His voice was small and apologetic. “I’m afraid he does.”

“What sort of things does he know?”

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“Really, I … I don’t think, even for you, that I can go into the details of my hideous past.”

“I don’t want details. What I want to know is, could Schmidt get you involved in any kind of criminal charge?”

Arthur considered this for some moments, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

“I don’t think he dare try it. No.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. “He seemed to me to be in a pretty bad way. Desperate enough for anything. He looked as though he wasn’t getting much to eat.”

Arthur stood up again and began walking about the room, rapidly, with small anxious steps.

“Let’s keep quite calm, William. Let’s think this out together quietly.”

“Do you think, from your experience of Schmidt, that he’d keep quiet if you paid him a lump sum down to leave you alone?”

Arthur did not hesitate:

“I’m quite sure he wouldn’t. It would merely whet his appetite for my blood… . Oh dear, oh dear!”

“Suppose you left Germany altogether? Would he be able to get at you then?”

Arthur stopped short in the middle of a gesture of extreme agitation. ť

“No, I suppose … that is, no, quite definitely not.” He regarded me with dismay. “You aren’t suggesting I should do that, I hope?”

“It seems drastic. But what’s the alternative?”

“I see none. Certainly.”

“Neither do I.”

Arthur moved his shoulders in a shrug of despair.

“Yes, yes, my dear boy. It’s easy enough to say that. But where’s the money coming from?”

“I thought you were pretty well off now?” I pretended mild surprise. Arthur’s glance slid away, evasively, from beneath my own.

“Only under certain conditions.”

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“You mean, you can only earn money here?”

“Well, chiefly …” He didn’t like this catechism, and began to fidget. I could no longer resist trying a shot in the dark.

“But you get paid from Paris?”

I had scored a bull. Arthur’s dishonest blue eyes showed a startled flicker, but no more. Perhaps he wasn’t altogether unprepared for the question.

“My dear William, I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”

I grinned.

“Never mind, Arthur. It’s no business of mine. I only want to help you, if I can.”

“It’s most kind of you, dear boy, I’m sure.” Arthur sighed. “This is all most difficult; most complicated… .”

“Well, we’ve got one point clear, at any rate… . Now, the best thing you can do is to send Schmidt some money at once, to keep him quiet. How much did he ask for?”

“A hundred down,” said Arthur in a subdued voice, “and then fifty a week.”

“I must say he’s got a nerve. Could you manage a hundred and fifty, do you think?”

“At a pinch, I suppose, yes. It goes against the grain.”

“I know. But this’ll save you ten times as much in the end. Now what I suggest is, you send him the hundred and fifty, with a letter promising him the balance on the first of January… .”

“Really, William …”

“Wait a minute. And meanwhile, you’ll arrange to be out of Germany before the end of December. That gives you three weeks’ grace. If you pay up meekly now, he won’t bother you again till then. He’ll think he’s got you in his pocket.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right. I shall have to accustom myself to the idea. AH this is so sudden.” Arthur had a momentary flare-up of resentment. “That odious serpent! If

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ever I find an opportunity of dealing with him once for all …”

“Don’t you worry. He’ll come to a sticky end sooner or later. The chief problem, at present, is to raise this money for your journey. I suppose there isn’t anybody you could borrow it from?”

But Arthur was already following another train of thought.

“I shall find a way out of this somehow.” His tone was considerably brighter. “Just let me have time to think.”

While Arthur was thinking, a week went by. The weather didn’t improve. These dismal short days affected all our spirits. Frl. Schroeder complained of pains in the back. Arthur had a touch of liver. My pupils were unpunctual and stupid. I was depressed and cross. I began to hate our dingy flat, the shabby, staring house-front opposite my window, the damp street, the stuffy, noisy restaurant where we ate an economical supper, the burnt meat, the eternal sauerkraut, the soup.

“My God!” I exclaimed one evening to Arthur, “what wouldn’t I give to get out of this hole of a town for a day or two!”

Arthur, who had been picking his teeth in melancholy abstraction, looked at me thoughtfully. Rather to my surprise he seemed prepared to take a sympathetic interest in my grumbling.

“I must say, William,. I’d noticed myself that you weren’t in your accustomed sprightly vein. You’re looking distinctly pale, you know.”

“Am I?”

“I fear you’ve been overworking yourself lately. You don’t get out of doors enough. A young man like you needs exercise and fresh air.”

I smiled, amused and slightly mystified.

“You know, Arthur, you’re getting quite the bedside manner.”

“My dear boy”—he pretended to be mildly hurt—“I’m

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sorry that you mock my genuine concern for your health. After all, I’m old enough to be your father. I think I may be excused for sometimes feeling myself in loco parentis.”