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

One evening, we were all walking up the main street, which was crowded with summer visitors. Otto said to Peter, with his most spiteful grin: “Why must you always look in the same direction as I do?” This was surprisingly acute, for, whenever Otto turned his head to star# at a girl, Peter’s eyes mechanically followed his glance with instinctive jealousy. We passed the photographer’s window, in which, every day, the latest groups snapped by the beach camera-men are displayed. Otto paused to examine one of the new pictures with great attention, as though its subject were particularly attractive. I saw Peter’s lips contract. He was struggling with himself, but he couldn’t resist his own jealous curiosity—he stopped too. The photograph was of a fat old man with a

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long beard, waving a Berlin flag. Otto, seeing that his trap had been successful, laughed maliciously.

Invariably, after supper, Otto goes dancing at the Kurhaus or the café by the lake. He no longer bothers to ask Peter’s permission to do this; he has established the right to have his evenings to himself. Peter and I generally go out too, into the village. We lean over the rail of the pier for a long time without speaking, staring down at the cheap jewellery of the Kurhaus lights reflected in the black water, each busy with his own thoughts. Sometimes we go into the Bavarian café and Peter gets steadily drunk—his stern, Puritan mouth contracting slightly with distaste as he raises the glass to his lips. I say nothing. There is too much to say. Peter, I know, wants me to make some provocative remark about Otto which will give him the exquisite relief of losing his temper. I don’t, and we drink—keeping up a desultory conversation about books and concerts and plays. Later, when we are returning home, Peter’s footsteps will gradually quicken until, as we enter the house, he leaves me and runs upstairs to his bedroom. Often we don’t get back till half-past twelve or a quarter to one, but it is very seldom that we find Otto already there.

Down by the railway station, there is a holiday home for children from the Hamburg slums. Otto has got to know one of the teachers from this home, and they go out dancing together nearly every evening. Sometimes the girl, with her little troop of children, comes marching past the house. The children glance up at the windows and, if Otto happens to be looking out, indulge in precocious jokes. They nudge and pluck at their young teacher’s arm to persuade her to look up, too.

On these occasions, the girl smiles coyly and shoots one glance at Otto from under her eyelashes, while Peter, watching behind the curtains, mutters through clenched teeth:

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“Bitch … bitch … bitch …” This persecution annoys him more than the actual friendship itself. We always seem to be running across the children when we are out walking in the woods. The children sing as they march—patriotic songs about the Homeland—in voices as shrill as birds. From far off, we hear them approaching, and have to turn hastily in the opposite direction. It is, as Peter says, like Captain Hook and the Crocodile.

Peter has made a scene, and Otto has told his friend that she mustn’t bring her troop past the house any more. But now they have begun bathing on our beach, not very far from the fort. The first morning this happened, Otto’s glance kept turning in their direction. Peter was aware of this, of course, and remained plunged in gloomy silence.

“What’s the matter with you to-day, Peter?” said Otto. “Why are you so horrid to me?”

“Horrid to you?” Peter laughed savagely.

“Oh, very well then,” Otto jumped up. “I see you don’t want me here.” And, bounding over the rampart of our fort, he began to run along the beach towards the teacher and her children, very gracefully, displaying his figure to the best possible advantage.

Yesterday evening, there was a gala dance at the Kurhaus. In a rnood of unusual generosity, Otto had promised Peter not to be later than a quarter to one, so Beter sat up with a book to wait for him. I didn’t feel tired, and wanted to finish a chapter, so suggested that he should come into my room and wait there. •

I worked. Peter read. The hours went slowly by. Suddenly I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter past two. Peter had dozed off in his chair. Just as I was wondering whether I should wake him, I heard Otto coming up the stairs. His footsteps sounded drunk. Finding no one in his room, he banged open my door. Peter sat up with a start.

Otto lolled grinning against the doorpost. He made me a

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half-tipsy salute. “Have you been reading all this time?” he asked Peter.

“Yes,” said Peter, very self-controlled.

“Why?” Otto smiled fatuously.

“Because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“You know quite well,” said Peter between his teeth.

Otto yawned in his most offensive manner. “I don’t know and I don’t care… . Don’t make such a fuss.”

Peter rose to his feet. “God, you little swine!” he said, smacking Otto’s face hard with the flat of his hand. Otto didn’t attempt to defend himself. He gave Peter an extraordinarily vindictive look out of his bright little eyes. “Good!” He spoke rather thickly. “Tomorrow I shall go back to Berlin.” He turned unsteadily on his heel.

“Otto, come here,” said Peter. I saw that, in another moment, he would burst into tears of rage. He followed Otto out on to the landing. “Come here,” he said again, in a sharp tone of command.

“Oh, leave me alone,” said Otto, “I’m sick of you. I want to sleep now. Tomorrow I’m going back to Berlin.”

This morning, however, peace has been restored—at a price. Otto’s repentance has taken the form of a sentimental outburst over his family: “Here I’ve been enjoying myself and never thinking of them… . Poor mother has to work like a dog, and her lungs are so bad… . Let’s send her some money, shall we, Peter? Let’s send her fifty marks… .” Otto’s generosity reminded him of his own needs. In addition to the money for Frau Nowak, Peter has been talked into ordering Otto a new suit, which will cost a hundred and eighty, as well as a pair of shoes, a dressing-gown, and a hat.

In return for this outlay, Otto has volunteered to break off his relations with the teacher. (We now discover that, in any case, she is leaving the island tomorrow. ) After supper, she appeared, walking up and down outside the house.

“Just let her wait till she’s tired,” said Otto. “I’m not going down to her.”

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Presently the girl, made bold by impatience, began to whistle. This sent Otto into a frenzy of glee. Throwing open the window, he danced up and down, waving his arms and making hideous faces at the teacher who, for her part, seemed struck dumb with amazement at this extraordinary exhibition.

“Get away from here!” Otto yelled. “Get out!”

The girl turned, and walked slowly away, a rather pathetic figure, into the gathering darkness.

“I think you might have said goodbye to her,” said Peter, who could afford to be magnanimous, now that he saw his enemy routed.

But Otto wouldn’t hear of it.

“What’s the use of all those rotten girls, anyhow? Every night they came pestering me to dance with them… . And you know how I am, Peter—I’m so easily persuaded… . Of course, it was horrid of me to leave you alone, but what could I do? It was all their fault, really… .”

Our life has now entered upon a new phase. Otto’s resolutions were short-lived. Peter and I are alone together most of the day. The teacher has left, and with her, Otto’s last inducement to bathe with us from the fort. He now goes off, every morning, to the bathing-beach by the pier, to flirt and play ball with his dancing-partners of the evening. The little doctor has also disappeared, and Peter and I are free to bathe and loll in the sun as unathletically as we wish.