“I’ve got to see Marie,” said Sponer, walking in.
“Now?” Fiala asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s happened?”
“I’ve got to see her.”
“Is it important?”
“Of course! Please wake her, and tell her to come out straight away.”
“You’ve woken us all up anyway!”
“What took you so long?”
“I didn’t know who it was in the middle of the night.”
“All right, all right, but get her to come out now!”
Fiala looked at him. “What is it you want see her about?”
“I can’t tell you. Just send her out. I’m in a hurry. Please!”
Fiala hesitated for a moment, muttered something, then turned around quickly and shuffled in his slippers towards a small door, opened it and went in. As he was closing the door, Sponer saw him turn on the light. Then he said something, and after that Marie’s voice was heard. He reappeared shortly. “She’s coming,” he said. “Wait here in the meantime.” He opened the door to the sitting room, turned the light on and saw Sponer in. He was restless, but afraid to say anything. Sponer slumped into an armchair. Fiala stood still for a moment, but said nothing; finally, he went into an adjoining room and shut the door behind him. There was the sound of a woman’s voice asking a question to which he was heard to reply.
He was a minor clerk. Apart from Marie, he had two more children, ten and eight years of age; Sponer heard one of them talking in his sleep. Marie had also had a sister named Hedwig, but she had died.
The air in the room was stuffy and it smelt of food. On the stairs it had smelt the same, just as in the flat he rented from the Oxenbauers, and in the flats and on the stairs of the friends he had, and the acquaintances he sometimes visited. The air was stuffy and it smelt of food. Here people lived and then married, and their children in turn were brought up in flats where the air was stuffy and it smelt of food and a few other indefinable substances. Such was their life.
Sponer’s father had been a captain in an infantry regiment. In his flat it might not have been so stuffy, nor had it smelt of food as strongly, except perhaps of fish on Fridays, but Sponer no longer recollected any of it. His mother had died long ago, and he himself was only just over eight when his father died, too. All he knew was how strange it had felt when the captain had been laid out between six candles, in uniform with the neat rows of shining buttons, the draped flag and his folded hands in the white suede gloves. A lot of people had been coming and going — medals, uniforms, shakos, and at the internment it had started to rain. But after the thin blue smoke of the abrupt salvo discharged over the grave had wafted away, everything else wafted away too, once and for all, and the succession of flats in which the child then lived stank of food and the air was stuffy. True, as an officer’s son in 1917 he was accepted into a cadet school — there the air was, of course, good and the food, bad; but a year later he was back in the flats where the air was stuffy and it stank of food, and that’s how it remained. That’s what life was like. That’s what his life was like, but now that it was coming to an end, it was nevertheless mighty difficult to bid farewell to it.
When Marie entered, he emerged from his short reverie and looked at her helplessly. She wore a pair of rubber-soled shoes and had a dressing gown over her shoulders. Her hair was hastily combed back and shimmered in thousands of loose strands against the light. Her face was very white and the look in her eyes was tense and alarmed. She stopped in the doorway.
“What is it?” she asked.
He got up. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to ask you a favour.”
“Yes,” she said without taking her eyes off him. “What sort of favour?”
“Come closer,” he said. “I’ve got to keep my voice down.”
She approached him slowly. He reached in his pocket, drew out a cigarette and looked for matches. “You’ve got to,” he said, “get me something out of my flat.” He lit the cigarette.
She didn’t reply immediately.
“Now?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
“From your flat?”
“Yes. A suit and some underwear. Preferably the dark-grey one. You know yourself where the underwear is. And a pair of shoes from under the washstand. And the things from the top of the washstand itself, together with the shaving gear. Put it all in the smaller suitcase, which is on top of the wardrobe. Not the big one, the small one. And then you’ve got to get me the money, too. It’s in an envelope in the far left-hand corner of the table drawer. Here’s the key.” He pulled out a small bunch. “This is the key to the drawer, this is the key to the main door, this is the one to the flat. The room isn’t locked… But the wardrobe is. This is the key to it.” And he pulled out a single key from his pocket.
She had turned even paler and her lips were trembling. “What,” she asked, “have you done?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve done nothing.”
“Why do you need the things?”
“Because,” he said, “I’m going away.”
“For long?”
He made a vague gesture. “I don’t know,” he said. “Are you going to get the things for me then?”
“Why can’t you get them yourself?”
“I’d rather not go back to my flat.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t ask me,” he said. “I can’t tell you. Anyway, you don’t have to go. I merely asked you. You’re free to say no. Only, in that case, this is the last you’ll see of me.”
He threw the bunch of keys on the table.
“And if I,” she stammered, “get you the things? Will I see you again?”
“Then,” he said, “perhaps.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Won’t you tell me,” she asked finally, “what’s happened? Not because… because I want to pry into your affairs. But because I’m so scared for you!”
He looked at her, drew her close, kissed her and remained silent. She pressed her face against his shoulder. A few seconds later she straightened herself up again.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll go.” And she took the keys from the table.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I’ll just get dressed,” she said quickly and disappeared. He followed her with his eyes. In the adjoining room he heard a bed creak; shortly afterwards Fiala came in again. He wanted to ask something, but kept quiet.
“Marie,” Sponer said, “has agreed to do something for me. It won’t take her longer than half an hour. Then she’ll be back.”
“What about you?” Fiala asked.
“I’ll stay here in the meantime.”
“What,” asked Fiala, “is it that she has agreed to do?”
“She’s going to get me something.”
“From where?”
“From some friends. I’ve forgotten something there and would rather not go back myself. It’s a small favour she’s doing me, that’s all. Please don’t let it worry you. Go back to sleep, I beg you; you’ve no need to keep me company.”
“Won’t you,” Fiala asked finally, “tell me what’s going on?”
“No. It’s not very interesting either.”
“I’ve never,” Fiala said, “spoken to you about your relationship with Marie. And anyway, you’ve always been very good to her, at least as far as I know, and if you didn’t have the money to get married, there was nothing for it. But why do you have to come in the middle of the night and demand something so extraordinary? You’re not going to… you’re not going to get the girl to…”
“Mr Fiala,” Sponer cried, “I’ve told you already that it’s only a question of a small favour. Nothing to get worked up about. I…”
He fell silent because just then Marie entered. She was dressed and was wearing a coat. “I’m going now,” she said. Fiala shook his head and went back to his room.