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

For several seconds I was absolutely speechless. Seldom have I been so shocked. Open-mouthed, I regarded him with a mixture of indignation and amusement, curiosity and disgust. Timidly, his eyes met mine. There could be no doubt about it. He was honestly unaware of having said anything to surprise or offend. I found my voice at last.

“Well, of all the …”

But any outburst was cut short by a furious volley of knocks on the bedroom door.

“Herr Bradshaw! Herr Bradshaw!” Frl. Schroeder was in frantic agitation. “The water’s boiling and I can’t turn on the tap! Come quick this moment, or we shall all be blown to bits!”

“We’ll discuss this later,” I told Arthur, and hurried out of the room.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Three-quakters of an hour later, washed and shaved, I returned to Arthur’s room. I found him peering cautiously down into the street from behind the shelter of the lace curtain.

“There’s a different one there now, William,” he told me. “They relieved each other about five minutes ago.”

His tone was gleeful; he seemed positively to be enjoying the situation. I joined him at the window. Sure enough, a tall man in a bowler hat had taken the place of his colleague at the thankless task of waiting for the invisible girl friend.

“Poor fellow,” Arthur giggled, “he looks terribly cold, doesn’t he? Do you think he’d be offended if I sent him down a medicine bottle full of brandy, with my card?”

“He mightn’t see the joke.”

Strangely enough, it was I who felt embarrassed. With indecent ease, Arthur seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasant things I had said to him less than an hour before. His manner towards me was as natural as if nothing had happened. I felt myself harden towards him again. In my bath, I had softened, regretted some cruel words, condemned others as spiteful or priggish. I had rehearsed a partial reconciliation, on magnanimous terms. But Arthur, of course, was to make the advances. Instead of which, here he was, blandly opening his wine-cupboard with his wonted hospitable air.

“At any rate, William, you won’t refuse a glass yourself? It’ll give you an appetite for supper.”

“No, thank you.”

I tried to make my tone stern; it sounded merely sulky. Arthur’s face fell at once. His ease of manner, I saw now, had

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been only experimental. He sighed deeply, resigned to further penitence, assuming an expression which was like a funeral top-hat, lugubrious, hypocritical, discreet. It became him so ill, that in spite of myself, I had to smile.

“It’s no good, Arthur. I can’t keep it up!”

He was too cautious to reply to this, except with a shy, sly smile. This time, he wasn’t going to risk an over-hasty response.

“I suppose,” I continued reflectively, “that none of them were ever really angry with you, were they, afterwards?”

Arthur didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Demurely he inspected his finger-nails.

“Not everybody, alas, has your generous nature, William.” It was no good; we had returned to our verbal card-playing. The moment of frankness, which might have redeemed so much, had been elegantly avoided. Arthur’s orientally sensitive spirit shrank from the rough, healthy, modern catch-as-catch-can of home-truths and confessions; he offered me a compliment instead. Here we were, as so often before, at the edge of that delicate, almost invisible line which divided our two worlds. We should never cross it now. I wasn’t old or subtle enough to find the approach. There was a disappointing pause, during which he rummaged in the cupboard.

“Are you quite sure you won’t have a drop of brandy?”

I sighed. I gave him up. I smiled.

“All right. Thanks. I will.”

We drank ceremoniously, touching glasses. Arthur smacked his lips with unconcealed satisfaction. He appeared to imagine that something had been symbolized: a reconciliation, or, at any rate, a truce. But no, I couldn’t feel this. The ugly, dirty fact was still there, right under our noses, and no amount of brandy could wash it away.

Arthur appeared, for the moment, sublimely unconscious of its existence. I was glad. I felt a sudden anxiety to protect him from a realization of what he had done. Remorse is not for the elderly. When it comes to them, it is not purging or uplifting, but merely degrading and wretched, like a blad—

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der disease. Arthur must never repent. And indeed, it didn’t seem probable that he ever would.

“Let’s go out and eat,” I said, feeling that the sooner we got out of this ill-omened room the better. Arthur cast an involuntary glance in the direction of the window.

“Don’t you think, William, that Frl. Schroeder would make us some scrambled eggs? I hardly feel like venturing out of doors, just now.”

“Of course we must go out, Arthur. Don’t be silly. You must behave as normally as possible, or they’ll think you’re hatching some plot. Besides, think of that unfortunate man down there. How dull it must be for him. Perhaps, if we go out, he’ll be able to get something to eat, too.”

“Well, I must confess,” Arthur doubtfully agreed, “I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Very well, if you’re quite sure it’s wise… .”

It is a curious sensation to know that you are being followed by a detective; especially when, as in this case, you are actually anxious not to escape him. Emerging into the street, at Arthur’s side, I felt like the Home Secretary leaving the House of Commons with the Prime Minister. The man in the bowler hat was either a novice at his job or exceedingly bored with it. He made no attempt at concealment; stood staring at us from the middle of a pool of lamplight. A sort of perverted sense of courtesy prevented me from looking over my shoulder to see if he was following; as for Arthur, his embarrassment was only too painfully visible. His neck seemed to telescope into his body, so that three-quarters of his face was hidden by his coat collar; his gait was that of a murderer retreating from a corpse. I soon noticed that I was subconsciously regulating my pace; I kept hurrying forward in an instinctive desire to get away from our pursuer, then slowing down, lest we should leave him altogether behind. During the walk to the restaurant, Arthur and I didn’t exchange a word.

Barely had we taken our seats when the detective entered. Without a glance in our direction, he strode over to the bar

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and was soon morosely consuming a boiled sausage and a glass of lemonade.

“I suppose,” I said, “that they’re not allowed to drink beer when they’re on duty.”

“Ssh, William!” giggled Arthur, “he’ll hear you!”

“I don’t care if he does. He can’t arrest me for laughing at him.”

Nevertheless, such is the latent power of one’s upbringing. I lowered my voice almost to a whisper.

“I suppose they pay him his expenses. You know, we really ought to have taken him to the Montmartre, and given him a treat.”

“Or to the opera.”

“It’d be rather amusing to go to church.”

We sniggered together, like two boys poking fun at the schoolmaster. The tall man, if he was aware of our comments, bore himself with considerable dignity. His face, presented to us in profile, was gloomy, thoughtful, even philosophic; he might well have been composing a poem. Having finished the sausage, he ordered an Italian salad.

The joke, such as it was, lasted right through our meal. I prolonged it, consciously, as much as I could. So, I think, did Arthur. Tacitly, we helped each other. We were both afraid of a pause. Silence would be too eloquent. And there was so little left for us to talk about. We left the restaurant as soon as was decently possible, accompanied by our attendant, who followed us home, like a nurse, to see us into bed. Through the window of Arthur’s room, we watched him take up his former position, under the lamp-post opposite the house.