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

Sally laughed: “That’s terribly sweet of you, Chris. But I don’t sponge on my friends.”

31

“Isn’t Fritz your friend?” It had jumped out of my mouth. But Sally didn’t seem to mind a bit.

“Oh yes, I’m awfully fond of Fritz, of course. But he’s got pots of cash. Somehow, when people have cash, you feel differently about them—I don’t know why.”

“And how do you know I haven’t got pots of cash, too?”

“You?” Sally burst out laughing. “Why, I knew you were hard-up the first moment I set eyes on you!”

The afternoon Sally came to tea with me, Frl. Schroeder was beside herself with excitement. She put on her best dress for the occasion and waved her hair. When the doorbell rang, she threw open the door with a flourish: “Herr Issyvoo,” she announced, winking knowingly at me and speaking very loud, “there’s a lady to see you!”

I then formally introduced Sally and Frl. Schroeder to each other. Frl. Schroeder was overflowing with politeness: she addressed Sally repeatedly as “Gnädiges Fräulein.” Sally, with her page-boy cap stuck over one ear, laughed her silvery laugh and sat down elegantly on the sofa. Frl. Schroeder hovered about her in unfeigned admiration and amazement. She had evidently never seen anyone like Sally before. When she brought in the tea there were, in place of the usual little chunks of pale unappetising pastry, a plateful of jam tarts arranged in the shape of a star. I noticed also that Frl. Schroeder had provided us with two tiny paper serviettes, perforated at the edges to resemble lace. (When, later, I complimented her on these preparations, she told me that she had always used the serviettes when the Herr Rittmeister had had his fiancée to tea. “Oh, yes, Herr Issyvoo. You can depend on me! I know what pleases a young lady!”)

“Do you mind if I lie down on your sofa, darling?” Sally asked, as soon as we were alone.

“No, of course not.”

Sally pulled off her cap, swung her little velvet shoes up on to the sofa, opened her bag and began powdering: “I’m

32

most terribly tired. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I’ve got a marvellous new lover.”

I began to put out the tea. Sally gave me a sidelong glance:

“Do I shock you when I talk like that, Christopher darling?”

“Not in the least.”

“But you don’t like it?”

“It’s no business of mine.” I handed her the tea-glass.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” cried Sally, “don’t start being English! Of course it’s your business what you think!”

“Well then, if you want to know, it rather bores me.”

This annoyed her even more than I had intended. Her tone changed: she said coldly: “I thought you’d understand.” She sighed: “But I forgot—you’re a man.”

“I’m sorry, Sally. I can’t help being a man, of course… . But please don’t be angry with me. I only meant that when you talk like that it’s really just nervousness. You’re naturally rather shy with strangers, I think: so you’ve got into this trick of trying to bounce them into approving or disapproving of you, violently. I know, because I try it myself, sometimes… . Only I wish you wouldn’t try it on me, because it just doesn’t work and it only makes me feel embarrassed. If you go to bed with every single man in Berlin and come and tell me about it each time, you still won’t convince me that you’re La Dame aux Camélias—because, really and truly, you know, you aren’t.”

“No … I suppose I’m not—” Sally’s voice was carefully impersonal. She was beginning to enjoy this conversation. I had succeed in flattering her in some new way: “Then what am I, exactly, Christopher darling?”

“You’re the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson-Bowles.”

Sally sipped her tea: “Yes … I think I see what you mean… . Perhaps you’re right… . Then you think I ought to give up having lovers altogether?”

“Certainly I don’t. As long as you’re sure you’re really enjoying yourself.”

“Of course,” said Sally gravely, after a pause, “I’d never let love interfere with my work. Work comes before everything.

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… But I don’t believe that a woman can be a great actress who hasn’t had any love-affairs—” she broke off suddenly: “What are you laughing at, Chris?”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re always laughing at me. Do you think I’m the most ghastly idiot?”

“No, Sally. I don’t think you’re an idiot at all. It’s quite true, I was laughing. People I like often make me want to laugh at them. I don’t know why.”

“Then you do like me, Christopher darling?”

“Yes, of course 1 like you, Sally. What did you think?”

“But you’re not in love with me, are you?”

“No. I’m not in love with you.”

“I’m awfully glad, I’ve wanted you to like me ever since we first met. But I’m glad you’re not in love with me, because, somehow, I couldn’t possibly be in love with you—so, if you had been, everything would have been spoilt.”

“Well then, that’s very lucky, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very …” Sally hesitated. “There’s something I want to confess to you, Chris darling… . I’m not sure if you’ll understand or not.”

“Remember, I’m only a man, Sally.”

Sally laughed: “It’s the most idiotic little thing. But somehow, I’d hate it if you found out without my telling you… . You know, the other day, you said Fritz had told you my mother was French?”

‘Tes, I remember.”

“And I said he must have invented it? Well, he hadn’t… . You see, I’d told him she was.”

“But why on earth did you do that?”

We both began to laugh. “Goodness knows,” said Sally. “I suppose I wanted to impress him.”

“But what is there impressive in having a French mother?”

“I’m a bit mad like that sometimes, Chris. You must be patient with me.”

“All right, Sally, I’ll be patient.”

34

“And you’ll swear on your honour not to tell Fritz?”

“I swear.”

“If you do, you swine,” exclaimed Sally, laughing and picking up the paper-knife dagger from my writing-table, “I’ll cut your throat!”

Afterwards, I asked Frl. Schroeder what she’d thought of Sally. She was in raptures: “Like a picture, Herr Issyvoo! And so elegant: such beautiful hands and feet! One can see that she belongs to the very best society… . You know, Herr Issyvoo, I should never have expected you to have a lady friend like that! You always seem so quiet… .”

“Ah, well, Frl. Schroeder, it’s often the quiet ones—”

She went off into her little scream of laughter, swaying backwards and forwards on her short legs:

“Quite right, Herr Issyvoo! Quite right!”

On New Year’s Eve, Sally came to live at Frl. Schroeder’s.

It had all been arranged at the last moment. Sally, her suspicions sharpened by my repeated warnings, had caught out Frau Karpf in a particularly gross and clumsy piece of swindling. So she had hardened her heart and given notice. She was to have Frl. Kost’s old room. Frl. Schroeder was, of course, enchanted.

We all had our Sylvester Abend dinner at home: Frl. Schroeder, Frl. Mayr, Sally, Bobby, a mixer colleague from the Troika and myself. It was a great success. Bobby, already restored to favour, flirted daringly with Frl. Schroeder. Frl. Mayr and Sally, talking as one great artiste to another, discussed the possibilities of music-hall work in England. Sally told some really startling lies, which she obviously for the moment half-believed, about how she’d appeared at the Palladium and the London Coliseum. Frl. Mayr capped them with a story of how she’d been drawn through the streets of Munich in a carriage by excited students. From this point it did not take Sally long to persuade Frl. Mayr to sing