“Will someone please take over these people,” I said, this time loud enough so that Hausen couldn’t pretend not to hear. The whole queue shuffled obediently to the left — all but the last two. These were Uncle Theo and his new friend, of course. The friend made for me and put a traveller’s cheque down on the counter. I looked at it. It had been signed “F. T. Gellner” and countersigned “F. Thomas Gellner.” Haste, carelessness, perhaps. But the “T” on the top line was a printer’s capital, while the second was written in script. I pushed the cheque back with one finger: “Sorry, it’s not the same signature.”
He pretended not to see what I meant, then said, “Oh, that. I can cross out the ‘Thomas’ and put the initial on, can’t I?”
“Not on a traveller’s. Next person, please,” I said, even though the next was Uncle Theo, who had no business here.
“I’ll write a personal cheque,” said the man, getting a pen out first.
“This is not a bank,” I said. “We cash traveller’s as a favour to clients.”
“But the banks are closed.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is Christmas Eve. It isn’t only the ‘Thomas,’ but also your capitals. The two signatures are absolutely not the same.”
“Is that all?” he cried out, so happily (thinking it was settled) that even deaf Hausen looked over. “I write one way sometimes, then another. Let me show you — my driver’s license, my passport …” He started tumbling papers out of an inside pocket. “I should be more careful,” he said to me, trying to play at being friends.
“It is not my business to examine your driver’s license,” I said. “The two signatures are not the same.”
He looked round the office and said, “Isn’t there anyone else I can see?”
“It is Christmas Eve,” I said, “and I am in charge. The manager is at home with Asian flu. Would you like his number?”
Uncle Theo stuck his head out sideways, like a little boiled egg with a hat on it, and said, “I can vouch for the gentleman.” He must have forgotten who and where he was. “I can sign anything you like,” he said. “My name is important locally.”
“There is nothing to sign and I do not need your name.” Important locally? Where is his name? On the war memorial? Have they called a street after him? His name is not even on a civil registry — he never married, even though there has been a shortage of husbands since Bismarck.
The man took no more notice of Uncle Theo; he had finally understood that the honourary assistant head of the choral society was of no use to anyone. To be rid of the incident, I said, “Sign another traveller’s in my presence.”
“That was my last one.”
Uncle Theo repeated, “I can vouch for the gentleman. I have seen the gentleman buying in shops — spending,” said my uncle, making a circle of his thumb and forefinger for emphasis under the brown paper parcel, as if we were poor villagers for whom the very sight of money was a promise of honour.
“Ask your hotel to cash a cheque,” I said. “I’m sorry but I cannot deal with you any longer. It is Christmas Eve.”
“I’m not in a hotel. I mean that I am staying here with friends.” Of course, I had seen the “friends.” She was waiting outside, trying to seem casual, wearing one of those reddish fur coats. Snow fell on her hair.
“Ask your friends to lend you something.”
“You could save me that embarrassment,” he said, trying for friendliness again.
“It is not my business to save you embarrassment,” I said, glancing at his wedding ring.
Even when he had got as far as the door, and the watchman was preparing to lock it behind him, he kept looking back at me. I made a point of being taken up by Uncle Theo, who now stood woebegone and scuffing his feet, shifting his burden from arm to arm.
“That wasn’t kind, Hilde,” he began. “The poor man — he’ll have a sad Christmas.”
“Be quick, Uncle Theo. What do you want?”
“Tonight,” he said, “when we are eating our dinner, and the candles are lighted on the Christmas tree …”
“Yes?”
“Try not to cry. Let the girls enjoy themselves. Don’t think of sad things.” The girls are my mother and Aunt Charlotte.
“What else is there?” I said. I could have piled all our sad Christmases on the counter between us — the Christmas when I was thirteen and we were firebombed, and saved nothing except a knife and fork my mother had owned when she was little. She still uses them; “Traudi” is engraved on the handle of each. It worries my mother to find anything else next to her plate. It makes her feel as if no one considered her — as if she were devalued in her own home. I remember another Christmas and my father drinking wine with Uncle Theo; wine slowed him down, we had to finish his sentences for him. They say that when he left us he put an apple in his pocket. My Aunt Charlotte packed some of his things afterward and deposited them with a waiter he knew. The next Christmas, my Uncle Theo, the only man of the house now, drank by himself and began to caper like a little goat, round and round the tree. I looked at the table, beautifully spread with a starched cloth, and I saw four large knives and forks, as for four enormous persons. Aunt Charlotte had forgotten about my mother.
“Oh, my own little knife and fork, I can’t see them!” cried my mother, coming in at that moment, in blue lace down to her ankles.
“Oh, my own little arse,” said Uncle Theo, in my mother’s voice, still dancing.
He was just as surprised as we were. He stared all round to see who could have said such a thing. My mother locked herself in her room. My Aunt Charlotte tapped on the door and said, “We only want you to eat a little compote, dear Traudi.”
“Then you will have to bring it here,” said my mother. But after saying that, she would not open the door. We knew she would come out in time to watch The Nutcracker Suite, and so we left the house, pretending we were about to pay our Christmas visits a day early. We sat in the railway station for a long time, as if we were waiting for someone. When we came back, we found she had put the short chain lock on the front door of the apartment, so that all the keys in the world wouldn’t let you in. Here we were, all three wearing hats, and hoping our neighbours would not peep out to see who was doing all the ringing. Finally someone did emerge — a grubby little boy. Behind him we could see a large party round a table, looking out and laughing at us, with their uneducated mouths wide open. We said courteously that our relative must have fallen asleep and, being slightly deaf, could not hear the doorbell.
“We knew there must be a deaf person in that apartment,” said someone at the table.
“There is no Christmas in India,” said Uncle Theo, becoming one of their party. “It has no meaning there.” I was glad to see that my aunt and I looked decent. “My sister-in-law once had a great emotional shock,” said Uncle Theo, accepting a glass. “Christmas is so sad.”
A gust of feeling blew round the table. Yes, Christmas is sad. Everyone has a reason for jumping out the window at Christmas and in the spring. Meanwhile I was calling our number, and I could hear our telephone ringing on the other side of the wall. The neighbours’ wallpaper is covered with finger marks, like my sister-in-law’s. “Why not send for the police?” someone said. My aunt looked as if she wanted to throw an apron over her face and cry, which was all she did when her own brother left. “Well, Uncle?” I said. Everyone looked at the man who had been to India. Before he could decide, the little boy who had opened the door said, “I can get round by the balconies.” Do you see how easy it is for these people to spy on us? They must have done it hundreds of times. All he had to do was straddle the partition between the two balconies, which he did, knocking down the flowerpots covered with squares of plastic for the winter. My aunt frowned at me, as if to say it didn’t matter. He cupped his hands round his eyes, peering through the panes of the double glass doors. Then he pounded with both fists, breathing hard, his cheeks as red as if they had been slapped. “The lady is just sitting on the floor watching television,” he said finally.