“That’s different! This sweat comes from the joy of life!” Riesenfeld roars.
“It’s the sweat of fleeting time,” I snarl maliciously and feel the salt water trickling into the corners of my mouth.
Erna is near us now. She is staring out over the orchestra in vacant happiness. I give my face a mildly reproachful, superior, and smiling expression while the sweat wilts my collar. “What’s the matter with you anyway?” Riesenfeld shouts. “You look like a moon-struck kangaroo!”
I ignore him. Erna has finally turned around. I look toward the dancers, examining them coolly until at last, with an expression of surprise, I pretend accidentally to recognize her. Casually I lift two fingers in greeting. “He is meschugge,” Riesenfeld howls through the syncopation of the fox trot “Himmelsvater.”
I do not reply. I am literally speechless. Erna has not seen me at all.
Finally the music stops. Slowly the dance floor empties. Erna disappears into a booth. “Were you seventeen or seventy just now?” Riesenfeld howls.
Since at this moment the orchestra is silent, his question thunders through the room. A couple of dozen heads turn to look at us, and even Riesenfeld is startled. I want to creep quickly under the table; but then it occurs to me that the people around us may have taken the question for a business offer and I reply coldly and loudly: “Seventy-one dollars apiece and not a cent less.”
My reply awakens immediate interest. “What’s the merchandise?” asks a man with a child’s face at the next table. “Perhaps I’ll get into the act. I’m always interested in good items. Cash, of course. Aufstein is the name.”
“Felix Koks,” I complete the introduction, happy to be able to pull myself together. “The items were twenty bottles of perfume. Unfortunately, the gentleman over there has just bought them.”
“Sh—” whispers an artifical blonde.
The entertainment has begun. A master of ceremonies is talking nonsense and is furious because nobody likes his jokes. I pull my chair back and disappear behind Aufstein; masters of ceremonies, bent on attacking the audience, always love to pick on me, and tonight that would be bad because of Erna.
Everything goes fine. The master of ceremonies disappears in disgust, and who should suddenly appear in a white bridal dress and veil but Renée de la Tour. Relieved, I pull my chair back and wonder how I can use my acquaintance with Renée to impress Erna.
Renée begins her duet. Docilely and modestly she trills a few verses in a high, maidenly soprano—then comes the bass and makes an immediate sensation. “How do you like the lady?” I ask Riesenfeld.
“Lady?”
“Would you like to meet her? Mademoiselle de la Tour.”
Riesenfeld is taken aback. “La Tour? Are you going to pretend that this absurd freak of nature is the enchantress in the window opposite you?”
That’s just what I am about to pretend, in order to see how he reacts, when I notice a sort of angelic glow hovering about his elephantine snout. Without a word he gestures toward the entrance with his thumb. “There—over there—there she is! That walk! You recognize it instantly!”
He is right. Lisa has entered. She is in the company of two middle-aged playboys and is behaving like a lady of the most cultivated society, at least according to Riesenfeld’s conceptions. She hardly seems to breathe and listens to her cavaliers with haughty distraction. “Am I right?” Riesenfeld asks. “You recognize women instantly by their walk, don’t you?”
“Yes. Women and policemen,” Georg says grinning; but he, too, looks appreciatively at Lisa.
The second number begins. A girl acrobat stands on the dance floor. She is young, with an impudent face, short nose, and beautiful legs. She does an adagio with somersaults, handstands, and leaps. We go on watching Lisa. She apparently wants to leave the place again. That, of course, is pretense; there’s only this one night club in the city; the rest are cafes, restaurants, or dives. That’s why one meets everyone here who has enough cash to get in.
“Champagne!” roars Riesenfeld in a dictator’s voice.
I am alarmed; Georg, too, is worried. “Herr Riesenfeld,” I say, “the champagne here is very bad.”
At that moment a face looks at me from the floor. I look back in amazement and see that it is the dancer, who has bent over backward so far that her head protrudes from between her legs. For a second she looks like an extremely deformed dwarf. “I’m ordering the champagne!” Riesenfeld exclaims, motioning to the waiter.
Georg winks at me. He plays the role of cavalier, while I’m there to look after awkward situations; that’s the arrangement between us. “If you want champagne, you shall have it,” he says now. “But of course you’re our guest, Riesenfeld.”
“Impossible! I’m taking care of this! Not another word!” Riesenfeld is now the complete Don Juan of the upper classes. He looks with satisfaction at the golden neck in the ice bucket. Various ladies immediately exhibit a strong interest. I, too, feel gratified. The champagne will show Erna that she threw me overboard too soon. With satisfaction I drink to Riesenfeld, who responds formally.
Willy turns up. That was to be expected; he is a regular patron of the place. Aufstein and his friends leave, and Willy sits down at the table next to ours. Almost immediately he gets up to greet Renée de la Tour. With her is a pretty girl in a black evening dress. After a while I recognize her as the acrobat. Willy introduces us. Her name is Gerda Schneider. She throws an appraising glance at the champagne and at us three. We watch to see whether Riesenfeld will catch fire; then we’d be rid of him for the evening. But Riesenfeld is committed to Lisa. “Do you think I could invite her to dance?” he asks Georg.
“I wouldn’t advise you to just now,” Georg replies diplomatically. “But perhaps we’ll meet her later in the evening.”
He looks at me reproachfully. If I had not said in the office that we did not know Lisa, everything would be simple. But who could have guessed Riesenfeld would turn romantic? Now it is too late to explain. Romantics have no sense of humor.
“Don’t you dance?” the acrobat asks me.
“Badly. I have no sense of rhythm.”
“Nor have I. Let’s try it together.”
We wedge our way into the mass on the dance floor and are slowly pushed forward. “Three men without women in a night club,” Gerda says. “Why?”
“Why not? My friend Georg maintains that anyone who takes a woman into a night club is inviting her to put horns on his head.”
“Who is your friend Georg? The one with the big nose?”
“The one with the bald head. He is a believer in the harem system. Women should not be exhibited, he says.”
“Of course,” Gerda replies. “And you?”
“I haven’t any system. I’m just chaff in the wind.”
“Don’t step on my feet,” Gerda says. “You’re not chaff at all. You weigh at least one fifty.”
I pull myself together. We are just being pushed past Erna’s table, and this time, thank God, she recognizes me although her head is resting on the shoulder of the profiteer with the seal ring and his arm is around her waist. How can I watch at such a moment? I smile sweetly down at Gerda and pull her closer to me, keeping an eye on Erna the while.
Gerda smells of lily of the valley. “Oh, let go of me!” she says. “This won’t get you anywhere with that redhead. That’s what you’re trying for, isn’t it?”