He begins to play the “Hunter from the Kurpfalz.” I see that I will get no decent conversation out of him tonight. Especially not the sort to make a man forget unfaithful women. “What is the meaning of life?” I ask as I leave.
“Eating, sleeping, and intercourse.”
I dismiss the idea with a gesture and wander back. Unconsciously I walk in time with Wilke’s hammering; then I notice it and change the rhythm.
Lisa is standing in the gateway. She has the roses in her hand and holds them out to me. “Here! Take them! I have no use for them.”
“Why not? Haven’t you any feeling for the beauty of nature?”
“No, thank God. I’m no cow. Riesenfeld!” She laughs in her night-club voice. “Tell the boy I’m not the sort of person you give flowers to.”
“What then?”
“Jewelry,” Lisa replies. “What did you think?”
“Not clothes?”
“Only when you’re on more intimate terms.” She squints at me. “You look miserable. Want me to cheer you up?”
“No thanks,” I reply. “I’m cheerful enough. Go along by yourself to the cocktail hour at the Red Mill.”
“I didn’t mean the Red Mill. Do you still play the organ for those crazy people?”
“Yes,” I say in surprise. “How did you know about that?”
“Word gets around. Do you know, I’d like to go with you to that loony bin sometime.”
“You’ll get there soon enough without me.”
“Well, we’ll just see which of us is the first,” Lisa says carelessly, laying the flowers on the curb. “Here, take these vegetables! I can’t keep them in the house. My old man is jealous.”
“What?”
“Jealous as a razor! And why not?”
I do not know what is jealous about a razor; but the image is convincing. “If your husband is jealous, how can you keep on disappearing at night?” I ask.
“He does his butchering at night. I make my own arrangements.”
“And when he isn’t butchering?”
“Then I have a job as hat-check girl in the Red Mill.”
“Have you really?”
“God, you are stupid!” Lisa replies.
“And the clothes and jewelry?”
“All cheap imitations.” Lisa grins. “Every husband believes that! You can persuade men of anything! Well then, take your green groceries. Send them to some calf. You look as though you sent flowers.”
“Never.”
Lisa throws me an abysmal glance over her shoulder. Then without replying she walks back across the street on her beautiful legs. She is wearing shabby red slippers; one has a pompom, on the other it is missing.
The roses gleam in the twilight It is an impressive bouquet. Nothing shabby about Riesenfeld. Fifty thousand marks, I estimate. Glancing around cautiously, I pick them up like a thief and go to my room.
Upstairs the window is red with sunset. The room is full of shadows and reflections; suddenly loneliness falls upon me as though from ambush. I know it’s nonsense; I am no more lonely than an ox in a herd of oxen, but I cannot help myself. Loneliness has nothing to do with a lack of company. It occurs to me that perhaps I was too hasty with Erna last night. Quite possibly there could be an innocent explanation for everything that has happened. She was jealous; that was clear in everything she said. And jealousy is love. Everyone knows that.
I stare through the window, realizing that jealousy is not love but possessiveness—but what does it matter? The twilight distorts your thoughts, and you ought not to argue with women, Georg says. But that’s exactly what I have been doing! Full of remorse I smell the fragrance of the roses, which have transformed my room into a Venusberg. I realize that I am melting into universal forgiveness, universal conciliation and hope. Quickly I write a few lines, seal the envelope without even rereading them, and go into the office to get the issue paper in which the last shipment of porcelain angels was sent. I wrap up the roses and go to look for Fritz Kroll, the youngest sprig of the firm. Fritz is twelve years old. “Fritz,” I say, “do you want to earn two thousand?”
“You bet,” Fritz replies. “Same address?”
“Yes.”
He disappears with the roses—the third clearheaded person this evening. They all know what they want, Kurt, Lisa, Fritz—I alone have no idea. It’s not Erna either; I realize that the minute it’s too late to call Fritz back. But what is it? Where are the altars, where the gods and where the sacrifices? I decide to go to the Mozart concert—even though I shall be alone and the music will make it still worse.
The sky is full of stars when I come back. My steps reverberate in the street and I am full of excitement. Quickly I open the office door, turn on the light, and stop short. There are the roses beside the Presto mimeographing machine and there, too, is my letter, unopened, and beside it a scarp of paper with a message from Fritz. “The lady says to go bury yourself. Sincerely Fritz.”
Bury myself! A thoughtful joke! There I stand, disgraced to the marrow, full of shame and rage. I put Fritz’s note into the cold grate. Then I sit down in my chair and brood. My rage outweighs my shame, as always happens when one is really ashamed and knows he ought to be. I write another letter, pick up the roses, and go to the Red Mill. “Please give these to Fräulein Gerda Schneider,” I say to the doorman. “The acrobat.”
The man in the braided uniform looks at me as though I had made him an immoral proposal. Then he gestures haughtily over his shoulder with his thumb. “Give them to a page.”
I find a page and tell him to present the bouquet during the performance.
He promises to do so. I hope Erna will be there to see it. Then I wander for a while through the city until I grow tired and go home.
I am greeted by a melodious tinkle. Knopf is once more standing in front of the obelisk relieving himself. I say nothing; I want no more arguments. I take a pail, fill it with water, and empty it at Knopf’s feet. The Sergeant Major gapes, “Inundation,” he mutters. “Had no idea it had rained.” And he staggers into the house.
Chapter Six
Over the woods hangs a dusky, red moon. The evening is sultry and very still. The glass man walks past silently. Now he can venture out; there is no danger that the sun will turn his head into a burning glass. However, he is wearing heavy rubbers as a precaution—there might be a thunderstorm and that is even more dangerous for him than the sun. Isabelle is sitting beside me on one of the garden benches in front of the pavilion for incurables. She is wearing a tight black dress and there are high-heeled golden shoes on her bare feet.
“Rudolf,” she says, “you abandoned me again. Last time you promised to stay. Where have you been?”
Rudolf, I think, thank God! I couldn’t have stood being Rolf tonight. I have had a depressing day and feel as though I had been shot at with rock salt.
“I have not abandoned you,” I say. “I was away—but I have not abandoned you.”
“Where were you?”
“Somewhere out there—”
Out there with the madmen is what I almost said, but I caught myself in time.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Isabelle. People do so many things without knowing why—”
“I was looking for you last night. There was a moon—not that one up there, the red, restless, lying one—no, the other moon, the cool, clear one that you can drink.”
“It would certainly have been better for me to be here,” I say, leaning back and feeling peace flood into me from her. “How can you drink the moon, Isabelle?”
“In water. It’s perfectly easy. It tastes like opal. You don’t really feel it in your mouth; that comes later on—then you feel it beginning to shimmer inside you. It shines out of your eyes. But you mustn’t turn on a light. It wilts in the light.”