The knocking on his door finally forced him out of bed. A few bands of light filtering through the drawn shutters crept towards Hans’s cold feet. He pulled on the first thing he could find on the chair, shuffled over to the door and opened it, still trying to unglue his eyelids — smiling, Lisa handed him a mauve sheet of paper. Hans meant to thank her, although he gave a yawn that sounded like hanyeu. He took the letter from Lisa’s chafed fingers and closed the door.
In the dim light filtering through the shutters, Hans glimpsed the name on the card accompanying the letter — Sophie Gottlieb.
He jumped up, went to the washbasin to splash water on his face, opened the shutters, and sat down by the window. The card was printed on stiff paper and had a thin raised edge. The inscription was an unusual orange-grey colour that suggested solemnity and a hint of coquetry. Despite his eagerness, Hans paused before opening the letter, enjoying the uncertainty, savouring this moment of heightened expectation, lest what followed should be a disappointment. Sophie’s swift, resolute, slightly sprawling pen strokes caught his attention — this was a feline hand rather than the writing of a young lady. There was no heading or greeting.
I have been thinking, in odd moments, about the arguments you put forward at last Friday’s meeting. And, although I will not try to hide the fact that some of what you said jarred with me a little, or perhaps what jarred was your tone (why are you in the habit of making what is intelligent seem a challenge, and what is logical appear conceited?), I must confess I also found it interesting, and even to some extent original.
“Interesting”! “To some extent”! Hans glanced for a moment at the sun pouring through the window, delighting in Sophie’s sense of pride. He knew that whatever she went on to say, he was going to enjoy her letter.
For this reason, my dear Herr Hans, providing you are willing and can find no better way to spend your time, it would give me great pleasure to have the opportunity to speak to you outside the salon, which you may have observed requires me to share my attention and even to employ the ruses of a hostess, as I am sure you have perceived.
This fleeting complicity with him, “as I am sure you have perceived”, made his breath quicken. So, she admitted perceiving that he had perceived! What exactly they had both perceived remained to be seen. But if Sophie thought she could get away with this disclosure without any consequences, she was mistaken — Hans was willing to cling to her words as to a branch in mid plunge.
Therefore, if you have time, my father and I would be delighted to receive you at our house tomorrow afternoon at a half past four. I trust I am not importuning you with a fresh engagement — it appears you are a tireless reader, and tireless readers have little time for socialising. Kindly reply at your leisure during the course of the day.
Affectionately,
Sophie G
Hans was aware of an omission in her aloof and rather abrupt ending, the subtle omission of a conventional, and, in this case, he thought, extraordinarily significant word—yours. If Sophie had not finished her letter with the usual polite phrase yours affectionately, perhaps her coy omission of that possessive revealed a sensual fear that could not be entirely ingenuous. Could it? Or couldn’t it? Was he imagining things? Was he making a fool of himself by being overly susceptible? Was he reading too much into it? Was he being too clever by half? Was he once more inadvertently confusing intelligence with conceit?
He was rescued from this confusion by the postscript, which looked as if it had been jotted down as an afterthought, and revealed an uneasy hesitancy:
PS I will also take the liberty of asking you to refrain from appearing before my father in the beret and broad-collared shirt I have seen you wearing in your walks around the city. Without wishing to deny my sympathies for the political connotations of such attire, I am sure you appreciate its inappropriateness in a household as traditional as mine. The more formally you dress the better. Thank you in advance for complying with these tiresome rules of etiquette. I shall do my utmost to reward your goodwill with canapés and sweetmeats. S G
And Sophie’s last words were sweet, sweet her very last word.
Hans was beside himself with joy and anticipation. What should he reply? And how long should he wait before doing so? What clothes was he to wear the following day? He stood up, sat down again, got to his feet again. He felt a wave of happiness, had a violent erection and then could barely control his emotions. He realised he must first read Sophie’s letter in a calmer state. He made himself wait a few minutes, looked out of the window at the heads, hats and feet moving up and down Old Cauldron Street, while he let the letter cool down. He read her opening admonishments over and over. He smiled at Sophie’s gentle rebuke, which revealed her nature as surely as they alluded to him. He studied the dissembling nature of her invitation, her winning disdain, the charming piquancy of her complicity. He pondered the abrupt ending, trying to gauge how much of it was due to aloofness and how much to prudence. And to finish off he savoured the marvellous appeal in the postscript, which was Sophie’s way of saying that she too noticed him in the street. Hans picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink pot.
When he had written his reply, he avoided rereading it so as not to repent of some of the liberties he had taken in the midst of his euphoria. He took a deep breath, signed his name and folded the piece of paper. He finished dressing and went downstairs to give it to Lisa, taking the opportunity to ask who had delivered the letter and whether they had said anything. From Lisa’s description he knew that Elsa was the messenger. She said that she had said nothing worth mentioning, although, in Lisa’s opinion, she had been rather abrupt, and had even cast a disapproving eye over the inside of the inn. And that (Lisa did not say as much, but Hans deduced it, amused) both she and her mother believed Elsa was the author of the mauve letter. Lisa stared with a mixture of envy and longing at the paper Hans gave her. For a moment he thought Lisa was being inquisitive as she puzzled over the names of the sender and the addressee. He immediately felt a flash of shame — Lisa was not reading, she was wishing she could. She raised her eyes and studied Hans’s face, as if to show him she at least knew how to read his thoughts. Lisa’s adolescent beauty suddenly became firmer, as if anticipating the future. Hans did not know what to say or how to apologise. She seemed content with her brief intimidating flash — her features softened, she looked like a young girl again, and she said: I’ll deliver it right away, sir. Hans felt humbled by the word sir.
Hans was sipping vegetable broth in the dining room when he saw Elsa’s hat appear in the doorway. He invited her to sit down, and was surprised when she accepted. After a moment of awkward silence, he smiled: Well? Elsa’s leg was pumping up and down once more, as though working an imaginary pedal. Do you have a message for me? Hans asked, without realising he was not looking her in the eye but watching her leg go up and down. Elsa stopped moving it abruptly. She handed him a letter. It’s from Fräulein Gottlieb, she said. This seemed to Hans so obvious that there must be more to it. I see, he ventured, trying to draw her out further. She gave it to me an hour ago, Elsa said, and asked me to deliver it here at the inn. I see, he nodded, with growing anticipation. I couldn’t come until now, Elsa said. That’s all right, said Hans, I’m grateful to you for bringing it. There’s no need, she said, I’m doing my duty. (I wonder what she means, thought Hans. Did she bring me the letter willingly despite being obliged to, or, on the contrary, would she not have brought it unless she’d been forced to? Hans was so nervous he was lost in his conjectures. Perhaps Elsa hadn’t meant either of these things. Perhaps her mind was elsewhere or she had simply wanted to rest for a moment on the sofa. But in that case why was she still there?) Elsa continued: Fräulein Gottlieb told me you needn’t reply, unless you wish to. (And what was he to make of this? Should he refrain from replying, did Sophie’s new missive imply some kind of interlude? Or was Sophie’s caveat an invitation to carry on with their communication, like the gestures she had made with her fan? Thinking wasn’t easy after a generous serving of vegetable soup.)