The croupier gave him a quick, dark glance, the ball rattled, rattled endlessly—and the sharp voice rang out: “Twenty-one—odd—red.”
Perhaps I’m making a mistake, he thought, strangely relieved. Perhaps Petra is only twenty-one. Suddenly he was in a good mood and no longer distracted. Without regret he saw the croupier drag away his stake. Vaguely he felt as if he had, with these counters, sacrificed in accordance with Petra’s age, bought himself free from her and could now, without taking her into account, play as he liked. He gave a faint smile at the croupier, who was attentively regarding him. The man returned his smile almost imperceptibly, his lips hardly moving beneath his bristly beard.
Pagel looked around him. Directly opposite, on the other side of the table, sat an old gentleman with a face so sharply featured that, in profile, his nose looked like the blade of a knife, its end a threatening point. This stagnant face was terrifyingly pale; in one eye perched a monocle, over the other the paralyzed lid drooped. The man had whole heaps of counters lying in front of him, and little packets of bank notes as well. When the croupier called, his slender well-kept hands hastily seized counters and money and with bent fingertips distributed the stakes over a large variety of numbers. Pagel’s glance followed. Then he looked away quickly and contemptuously; the pallid gentleman with the restrained face had completely lost his head. He was playing against himself, staking on zero and on numbers, on odd and even, simultaneously.
“Eleven—odd—red. First dozen,” called the croupier.
Red again! Pagel was convinced that black would now turn up. With rapid decision he placed all his thirty counters on black and waited.
It seemed an eternity. Someone withdrew his stake at the last moment and then put it back again. A profound, deathly aversion seized Wolf. Everything was going so slowly; this game which had filled his life for the past year suddenly seemed idiotic. There they sat around like children and waited breathlessly for a ball to fall into a hole. Of course it fell into a hole! Into one or into another, it made no difference. There it ran and clattered—oh, if only it would stop rolling, if only it would fall in! The monocle opposite glittered maliciously, the green cloth had something magnetic about it. If only he were rid of his money! What stupidity to have hungered for this game!
Pagel was rid of his money. The thirty counters disappeared under the croupier’s rake. “Seventeen” had been called out. Seventeen—also a very nice number. “Seventeen and Four” was far better than this silly game. For “Seventeen and Four” one needed a little common sense. Here one only had to sit and await sentence. The silliest thing in the world—something for slaves.
With a jerk Pagel stood up, pushed his way out through those standing behind him and lit a cigarette. First Lieutenant von Studmann, who was leaning against a wall, asked with a glance at his face: “Well? Finished?”
“Yes,” said Pagel sullenly.
“How did it go?”
“Moderately.” He puffed his cigarette greedily, then asked: “Shall we go?”
“Certainly! I don’t want to see or hear anything of this business. I’ll go and get von Prackwitz away at once. He wanted to watch for a little, just for amusement.”
“Just for amusement! All right, I’ll wait here.”
Studmann pushed through the players while Pagel took his place against the wall. He felt limp and tired. So this was what the evening, long hoped for, was really like; the evening when, with a great gambling capital, he would be able to stake as he liked! Things never came together. Today, when he could have played as long as he liked, he had no desire to. First there’s no beaker, and then there’s no wine, he thought. He was finished at last with gambling; he felt he would never again have any desire for it. Now he could peaceably travel into the country early tomorrow morning with the Rittmeister, presumably as a kind of slave driver. He would miss nothing here in Berlin. No risk of that! One did this, one could do that: everything was equally meaningless. Interesting to observe how one’s life melted away, rendering itself meaningless, just as the money that was always pouring forth from the presses also became meaningless. In one short day both mother and Petra were lost, and now even gambling, too. It had become completely meaningless.… Really, one might just as well jump from a bridge under the next train—it was just as sensible or senseless as anything else.
Yawning, he lit himself another cigarette. The Valuta Vamp stepped up to him. She seemed to have been waiting for that. “Will you give me one?”
Without a word Pagel offered her the packet.
“English? No, I can’t smoke those; they’re too strong for me. Haven’t you any others?”
Pagel shook his head with a faint smile.
“I can’t understand how you like smoking those! They’ve got opium in them!”
“Opium is no worse than cocaine,” said Pagel provokingly, looking at her nose. She couldn’t have sniffed much today, her nose wasn’t white. Of course, he had to remember the powder; naturally she had powdered herself.… With calm, objective curiosity he looked at her.
“Cocaine! You don’t think I take that, do you?”
Something of the old hostility made her voice shrill, although she was now doing her utmost to please him. And she really looked pleasant. She was tall and slim; her breasts in the low-cut dress seemed small and firm. Only, the woman was wicked; one shouldn’t forget that. Wicked. Greedy, avaricious, quarrelsome, rotten with cocaine, cold. Wicked beyond measure. Peter hadn’t been wicked, or perhaps she had been—yes, Petra had been wicked. But one hadn’t noticed it much; she had been able to hide it for a long time, until he had found her out. No, she too was finished.
“So you don’t take snow? I thought you did!” he said off-handedly to the Valuta Vamp and looked around for Studmann. He would have been glad to get away. This well-built cow of a woman bored him to death.
“Only now and again,” she admitted, “when I’m tired out. And that’s no different from taking pyramidon, is it? You can ruin yourself with pyramidon, too. I once had a girl-friend who took twenty a day. And she—”
“Yes, yes, my dear!” said Pagel. “I’m not interested. Don’t you want to go and play a bit?”
But she was not to be got rid of so easily. Nor was she in the least bit hurt; the only time she was offended was when no one intended it.
“You’ve already finished playing?” she asked.
“Yes. No more cash left. Absolutely broke.”
“You little leg-puller!” she laughed foolishly.
He looked at her. She did not believe him. She had heard something about the contents of his pockets, otherwise she would never have wasted so much time and pleasantness on a shabby fellow in a soldier’s tunic, since she deigned to consider only gentlemen in evening dress.
“Please do me a favor!” she cried suddenly. “Stake once for me!”
“What good will that be?” he asked crossly. This Studmann was taking an eternity, and he couldn’t get rid of the woman. “I think you know the game well enough without me.”
“You are bound to bring me luck.”
“Possibly. But I’m not playing anymore.”
“Oh, please—be nice to me for once!”
“You heard me. I’m not playing anymore.”
“Really not?”
“No!”
She laughed.
“Why do you laugh so stupidly?” said Pagel crossly. “I’m not playing any more!”
“You—and not playing! I don’t think!” She gave her voice a soft persuasive tone. “Come, darling, stake once for me; then I’ll be very nice to you, too.”