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

Here, Mr. van Hoorn’s conversation took a surprising turn. It was as if he’d realized that the heartiness and the doubtful stories had been overdone. He began, quite suddenly, to talk about art. He had a house, he told us, in Paris, which was full of old furniture and etchings. Although he spoke modestly,

146

it soon became clear that he was an expert. Kuno was greatly interested. Piet remained indifferent. I saw him cast more than one furtive glance at his wrist-watch, presumably to see whether it wasn’t time for bed.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.”

The harsh voice startled all of us; nobody had seen Mar-got’s approach. He towered above us, an elegant, sardonic figure, holding a cigar in his mottled, yellow hand.

“It is necessary that I ask this young man a question.”

His bulging eyes fixed upon Piet with a concentration which suggested that he was observing some minute insect, scarcely visible without the aid of a magnifying glass. The poor boy literally began to sweat with embarrassment. As for myself, I was so amazed at this new turn in Margot’s tactics that I could only stare at him, my mouth hanging open. Margot himself evidently enjoyed the effect which his dramatic appearance had created. His lips curved in a smile which was positively diabolic.

“Have you the true Aryan descent?”

And before the astounded Piet could answer, he added:

“I am Marcel Janin.”

I don’t know whether the others had really heard of him, or whether their polite interest was merely pretended. As it happened, I knew his name quite well. M. Janin was one of Fritz Wendel’s favourite authors. Fritz had once lent me a book of his—The Kiss Under the Midnight Sun. It was written in the fashionable French manner, half romance, half reportage, and gave a lurid, obviously imaginative account of the erotic life of Hammerfest. And there were half a dozen others, equally sensational and ranging in milieu from Santiago to Shanghai. M. Janin’s particular brand of pornography, if one was to judge from his clothes, appeared to have hit the public taste. He had just finished his eighth, he told us : it dealt with the amours peculiar to a winter sport hotel. Hence his presence here. After his brusque self-introduction, he proved most affable and treated us, without further request, to a discourse on his career, aims and methods of work.

147

“I write very quick,” he informed us. “For me, one glance is sufficient. I do not believe in the second impression.”

A couple of days ashore from a cruising liner had furnished M. Janin with the material for most of his works. And now Switzerland was disposed of, too. Looking for fresh worlds to conquer, he had fixed on the Nazi movement. He and his secretary were leaving next day for Munich. “Within a week,” he concluded ominously, “I shall know all.”

I wondered what part M. Janin’s secretary (he insisted, several times, on this title ) played in his lightning researches. Probably she acted as a kind of rough and ready chemical reagent; in certain combinations she produced certain known results. It was she, it seemed, who had discovered Piet. M. Janin, as excited as a hunter in unfamiliar territory, had rushed, over-precipitately, to the attack. He didn’t seem much disappointed, however, to discover that this wasn’t his legitimate prey. His generalizations, formulated, to save time, in advance, were not easily disturbed. Dutchman or German, it was all grist to the mill. Piet, I suspected, would nevertheless make his appearance in the new book, dressed up in a borrowed brown shirt. A writer with M. Janin’s technique can afford to waste nothing.

One mystery was solved, the other deepened. I puzzled over it for the rest of the evening. If Margot wasn’t Janin, who was he? And where? It seemed odd that he should fritter away twenty-four hours like this, after being in such a hurry to get Kuno to come. Tomorrow, I thought, he’ll turn up for certain. My meditations were interrupted by Kuno tapping at my door to ask if I had gone to bed. He wanted to talk about Piet van Hoorn, and, sleepy as I felt, I wasn’t unkind enough to deny him.

“Tell me, please … don’t you find him a little like Tony?”

“Tony?” I was stupid this evening. “Tony who?”

Kuno regarded me with gentle reproach.

“Why, excuse me … I mean Tony in the book, you see.”

148

I smiled.

“You think Tony is more like Piet than like Heinz?”

“Oh yes,” Kuno was very definite on this point. “Much more like.”

So poor Heinz was banished from the island. Having reluctantly agreed to this, we said good-night.

Next morning I decided to make some investigations for myself. While Kuno was in the lounge talking to the van Hoorns, I got into conversation with the hall porter. Oh yes, he assured me, a great many business people were here from Paris just now; some of them very important.

“M. Bernstein, for instance, the factory-owner. He’s worth millions… . Look, sir, he’s over there now, by the desk.”

I had just time to catch sight of a fat, dark man with an expression on his face like that of a sulky baby. I had never noticed him anywhere in our neighbourhood. He passed through the doors into the smoking-room, a bundle of letters in his hand.

“Do you know if he owns a glass factory?” I asked.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised. They say he’s got his finger in nearly everything.”

The day passed without further developments. In the afternoon, Mr. van Hoorn at length succeeded in forcing his bashful nephew into the company of some lively Polish girls. They all went off ski-ing together. Kuno was not best pleased, but he accepted the situation with his usual grace. He seemed to have developed quite a taste for Mr. van Hoorn’s society. The two of them spent the afternoon indoors.

After tea, as we were leaving the lounge, we came face to face with M. Bernstein. He passed us by without the faintest interest.

As I lay in bed that night I almost reached the conclusion that Margot must be a figment of Arthur’s imagination. For what purpose he had been created I couldn’t conceive. Nor did I much care. It was very nice here. I was enjoying myself; in a day or two I should have learnt to ski. I would make

149

the most of my holiday, I decided; and, following Arthur’s advice, forget the reasons for which I had come. As for Kuno, my fears had been unfounded. He hadn’t been cheated out of a farthing. So what was there to worry about?

On the afternoon of the third day of our visit, Piet suggested, of his own accord, that we two should go skating on the lake, alone. The poor boy, as I had noticed at lunch, was near bursting-point. He had had more than enough of his uncle, of Kuno and of the Polish girls; it had become necessary for him to vent his feelings on somebody, and, of a bad bunch, I seemed the least unlikely to be sympathetic. No sooner were we on the ice than he started: I was astonished to find how much and with what vehemence he could talk.

What did I think of this place? he asked. Wasn’t all this luxury sickening? And the people? Weren’t they too idiotic and revolting for words? How could they behave as they did, with Europe in its present state? Had they no decency at all? Had they no national pride, to mix with a lot of Jews who were ruining their countries? How did I feel about it, myself?

“What does your uncle say to it all?” I counter-questioned, to avoid an answer.

Piet shrugged his shoulders angrily.

“Oh, my uncle … he doesn’t take the least interest in politics. He only cares for his old pictures. He’s more of a Frenchman than a Dutchman, my father says.”

Piet’s studies in Germany had turned him into an ardent Fascist. M. Janin’s instinct hadn’t been so incorrect, after all. The young man was browner than the Browns.