“Do you believe in me, too, Chris?”
“Of course I do.”
“No, but honestly?”
“Well … I’m quite certain you’ll make a terrific success at somethingonly I’m not sure what it’ll be. … I mean, there’s so many things you could do if you tried, aren’t there?”
“I suppose there are.” Sally became thoughtful. “At least, sometimes I feel like that. … And sometimes I feel I’m no damn’ use at anything… . Why, I can’t even keep a man faithful to me for the inside of a month.”
“Oh, Sally, don’t let’s start all that again!”
“All right, Chriswe won’t start all that. Let’s go and have a drink.”
During the weeks that followed, Sally and I were together most of the day. Curled up on the sofa in the big dingy room, she smoked, drank Prairie Oysters, talked endlessly of the future. When the weather was fine, and I hadn’t any lessons to give, we strolled as far as the Wittenbergplatz and sat on a bench in the sunshine, discussing the people who
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went past. Everybody stared at Sally, in her canary yellow beret and shabby fur coat, like the skin of a mangy old dog.
“I wonder,” she was fond of remarking, “what they’d say if they knew that we two old tramps were going to be the most marvellous novelist and the greatest actress in the world.”
“They’d probably be very much surprised.”
“I expect we shall look back on this time when we’re driving about in our Mercedes, and think: After all, it wasn’t such bad fun!”
“It wouldn’t be such bad fun if we had that Mercedes now.”
We talked continually about wealth, fame, huge contracts for Sally, record-breaking sales for the novels I should one day write. “I think,” said Sally, “it must be marvellous to be a novelist. You’re frightfully dreamy and unpractical and unbusinesslike, and people imagine they can fairly swindle you as much as they wantand then you sit down and write a book about them which fairly shows them what swine they all are, and it’s the most terrifie success and you make pots of money.”
“I expect the trouble with me is that I’m not quite dreamy enough… .”
“… if only I could get a really rich man as my lover. Let’s see … I shouldn’t want more than three thousand a year, and a flat and a decent car. I’d do anything, just now, to get rich. If you’re rich you can afford to stand out for a really good contract; you don’t have to snap up the first offer you get. … Of course, I’d be absolutely faithful to the man who kept me”
Sally said things like this very seriously and evidently believed she meant them. She was in a curious state of mind, restless and nervy. Often she flew into a temper for no special reason. She talked incessantly about getting work, but made no effort to do so. Her allowance hadn’t been stopped, so far, however, and we were living very cheaply, since Sally no longer cared to go out in the evenings or to see other
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people at all. Once, Fritz came to tea. I left them alone together afterwards to go and write a letter. When I came back Fritz had gone and Sally was in tears:
“That man bores me so!” she sobbed. “I hate him! I should like to kill him!”
But in a few minutes she was quite calm again. I started to mix the inevitable Prairie Oyster. Sally, curled up on the sofa, was thoughtfully smoking:
“I wonder,” she said suddenly, “if I’m going to have a baby.”
“Good God!” I nearly dropped the glass: “Do you really think you are?”
“I don’t know. With me it’s so difficult to telclass="underline" I’m so irregular … I’ve felt sick sometimes. It’s probably something I’ve eaten… .”
“But hadn’t you better see a doctor?”
“Oh, I suppose so.” Sally yawned listlessly. “There’s no hurry.”
“Of course there’s a hurry! You’ll go and see a doctor tomorrow!”
“Look here, Chris, who the hell do you think you’re ordering about? I wish now I hadn’t said anything about it at all!” Sally was on the point of bursting into tears again.
“Oh, all right! All right!” I hastily tried to calm her. “Do just what you like. It’s no business of mine.”
“Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to be snappy. Ill see how I feel in the morning. Perhaps I will go and see that doctor, after all.”
But of course, she didn’t. Next day, indeed, she seemed much brighter: “Let’s go out this evening, Chris. I’m getting sick of this room. Let’s go and see some life!”
“Right you are, Sally. Where would you like to go?”
“Let’s go to the Troika and talk to that old idiot Bobby. Perhaps he’ll stand us a drinkyou never know!”
Bobby didn’t stand us any drinks; but Sally’s suggestion proved to have been a good one, nevertheless. For it was
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while sitting at the bar of the Troika that we first got into conversation with Clive.
From that moment onwards we were with him almost continuously; either separately or together. I never once saw him sober. Clive told us that he drank half a bottle of whisky before breakfast, and I had no reason to disbelieve him. He often began to explain to us why he drank so muchit was because he was very unhappy. But why he was so unhappy I never found out, because Sally always interrupted to say that it was time to be going out or moving on to the next place or smoking a cigarette or having another glass of whisky. She was drinking nearly as much whisky as Clive himself. It never seemed to make her really drunk, but sometimes her eyes looked awful, as though they had been boiled. Every day the layer of make-up on her face seemed to get thicker.
Clive was a very big man, goodlooking in a heavy Roman way, and just beginning to get fat. He had about him that sad, American air of vagueness which is always attractive; doubly attractive in one who possessed so much money. He was vague, wistful, a bit lost: dimly anxious to have a good time and uncertain how to set about getting it. He seemed never to be quite sure whether he was really enjoying himself, whether what we were doing was really fun. He had constantly to be reassured. Was this the genuine article? Was this the real guaranteed height of a Good Time? It was? Yes, yes, of courseit was marvellous! It was ‘great! Ha, ha, ha! His big school-boyish laugh rolled out, re-echoed, became rather forced and died away abruptly on that puzzled note of enquiry. He couldn’t venture a step without our support. Yet, even as he appealed to us, I thought I could sometimes detect odd sly flashes of sarcasm. What did he really think of us?
Every morning, Clive sent round a hired car to fetch us to the hotel where he was staying. The chauffeur always brought with him a wonderful bouquet of flowers, ordered
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from the most expensive flower-shop in the Linden. One morning I had a lesson to give and arranged with Sally to join them later. On arriving at the hotel, I found that Clive and Sally had left early to fly to Dresden. There was a note from Clive, apologizing profusely and inviting me to lunch at the hotel restaurant, by myself, as his guest. But I didn’t. I was afraid of that look in the head waiter’s eye. In the evening, when Clive and Sally returned, Clive had brought me a present: it was a parcel of six silk shirts. “He wanted to get you a gold cigarette case,” Sally whispered in my ear, “but I told him shirts would be better. Yours are in such a state… . Besides, we’ve got to go slow at present. We don’t want him to think we’re gold-diggers… .”
I accepted them gratefully. What else could I do? Clive had corrupted us utterly. It was understood that he was going to put up the money to launch Sally upon a stage career. He often spoke of this, in a thoroughly nice way, as though it were a very trivial matter, to be settled, without fuss, between friends. But no sooner had he touched on the subject than his attention seemed to wander off againhis thoughts were as easily distracted as those of a child. Sometimes Sally was very hard put to it, I could see, to hide her impatience. “Just leave us alone for a bit now, darling,” she would whisper to me, “Clive and I are going to talk business.” But however tactfully Sally tried to bring him to the point, she never quite succeeded. When I rejoined them, half an hour later, I would find Clive smiling and sipping his whisky; and Sally also smiling, to conceal her extreme irritation.