“A dream?” Toni closed her eyes as if dreaming herself.
“Are you listening?” Hartmann asked. She opened her eyes, looked at him, and closed them again.
“I don’t remember whether I had this dream last night or the night before,” he went on. “But I remember every detail of it, as if I were dreaming it now. Are you listening, Toni?” She nodded her head.
“In this dream I was living in Berlin. Suessenschein came to visit me. You remember Suessenschein? At the time he had just returned from Africa. I’m always glad to see him, for he brings with him an atmosphere of the far-off places I used to dream of in my childhood. But that day I wasn’t glad. Perhaps it was because he came in the morning, when I like to sit by myself. Perhaps it was because in dreams we aren’t always happy to be with the people we enjoy when we’re awake. He had someone else with him, a young man to whom I took a violent dislike the instant he walked in. He acted as if he had wearied himself with Suessenschein on all his travels. But for Suessenschein’s sake I treated him civilly. Are you listening?” “I’m listening,” Toni whispered, as if afraid that the sound of her voice would interrupt his story. Hartmann continued:
“Suessenschein looked around at my flat and said: If I found a flat like yours, I’d take it; I want to stay here awhile, and I’m tired of hotels. I replied: I’ve heard of a very nice flat that’s going in Charlottenburg. To which he rejoined: All right, let’s go there. Wait, I suggested, let me phone up first. No, he said, we’ll go there straight away. I went along with him.”
Toni nodded, and Hartmann went on:
“When we got there, the landlady was nowhere to be seen. I wanted to tell him off for being so impulsive, but I stopped myself, as my temper was very frayed, and I felt I was in danger of going too far. His companion urged the maid to go and call the landlady. The maid looked at him suspiciously, or maybe she just looked at him without any particular expression, but I hated him so much that I thought she looked at him with suspicion. As she went, the landlady carne in. She was dark, neither young nor old, on the short side, eyes a trifle filmy, and one leg shorter than the other, though this did not seem like a blemish in her. On the contrary, she seemed to dance along rather than walk. A secret joy twinkled on her lips, a hidden, yearning joy, a virginal joy.”
Although Hartmann was aware that Toni was listening with interest, he nevertheless asked, “Are you listening, Toni?” and went on.
“The rooms she showed us were very nice. But Suessenschein turned away from them and said: I wouldn’t advise you to take this flat. Winter is approaching, and there is no stove. I gazed at him in astonishment: Who was it that wanted to rent a flat, I or he? I have a fine one of my own; I’m very pleased with it, and I have no intention of exchanging it for another. Suessenschein repeated: A place without a stove, a place without a stove, if I were you I wouldn’t take it. Here the landlady put in: But there is a stove. But Suessenschein interrupted her: Where is the stove? In the bedroom. But the study, madam, is all of glass. Are you looking for somewhere to live, or for an observatory from which to view the frozen birds? His words depressed me so much that I began to feel cold. I looked around and saw that the study did indeed consist more of windows than walls. I nodded and said: That’s so. The landlady looked at me with her filmy but charming eyes, and straightened herself with a caper. I turned away from her and thought, How shall I ever get away from this cold? My skin was already clinging to my bones. I woke up and found that the blanket had slipped off my bed.”
After Hartmann had finished, he had a feeling that perhaps he ought not to have recounted his dream; and yet at the same time he experienced a sense of relief. In order, therefore, to give expression to both emotions, he assumed a tone of banter and said: “That was a fine story I told you. The whole thing really wasn’t worth telling.” Toni licked her lips, and her eyes grew moist. He looked at her involuntarily, and it seemed to him that it was with just such eyes that the landlady had looked at him. Now there was nothing wrong with her, except…except for something whose meaning he did not understand, but he felt that if Toni were to get up, she, too, would turn out to be lame. However, since that would not seem like a blemish — as he knew from the woman in the dream it followed that even if Toni were lame, she would not seem crippled to him. He got up, took his hat, and said: “Let’s go.”
6
Toni stood up, removed her flowers from the glass, shook the moisture off them, and wrapped them in paper. She inhaled their scent and paused a moment or two in the hope that Michael might sit down again: she was afraid lest on the way back something should happen to disturb their atmosphere of calm. The waiter came up, handed Toni her parasol, bowed them out, and followed them until they were out of the garden. When they had gone, he extinguished the lanterns. The garden and its surroundings became dark. A frog jumped in the grass. Toni dropped her flowers in alarm.
The croaking of frogs rose from the banks of the stream. The electric wires were giving off sparks: something had obviously gone wrong with them. After a few paces the wires and poles disappeared from view, and other sparks could be seen: they were the fireflies, which dappled the darkness with their glitter.
Hartmann stood wondering. What has happened here? he asked himself. His mind was tranquil, as if his question had furnished the answer.
Gradually they reached the stream. It lay there in its bed, its waters gently rocking. The stars cast their reflection upon its formless ripples, and the moon floated on the surface. The cry of a bird of prey was heard in the distance, and its echo pierced the air.
Toni crossed her feet and leaned on her parasol. She lowered her eyelids and drowsed. The waves raised themselves up and fell back exhausted. The frogs croaked, and the river plants exuded a tepid smell.
Toni was tired, and her eyes dropped. The river willows whispered, and the waters of the stream undulated languidly. Toni was no longer able to control her eyes, and they began to close of their own accord. But Michael was awake.
Never in his life had he been so wide awake. The tiniest movement set his mind working, and he looked about him searchingly, lest anything of what was happening should escape him. It was good, he felt, that Toni existed for him in this world and at that hour. But what was good for him was not good for her. She was exhausted, and her legs were incapable of supporting her body.
“Tired?” he asked her. “I’m not tired,” she replied; but her voice belied her words.
Michael laughed, and Toni looked at him in surprise. He laughed again and said: “One day I was out walking with the girls. I asked them if they were tired, and Renate answered: ‘I’m not tired, but my legs are.’”
“The sweet chick,” said Toni with a sigh.
Hartmann was sorry he had mentioned the girls. He looked around to see if he could find a conveyance to take them back to town. But the earth was silent: no sound of a carriage wheel or motor. He looked in all four directions, to see if he could discover a telephone booth. He was filled with pity for this small woman who had not the strength to walk. Once or twice he supported her with his arm. Her dress was damp from the moist air, and she shivered a little. If he did not get her under a roof, she would certainly catch cold.