Arch of Triumph

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “Really?”

  “As old as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see what becomes of this planet.”

  “I don’t want to get old.”

  “You won’t get old. Life will pass over your face, that will be all, and it will become more beautiful. One is old only when one no longer feels.”

  “No. When one no longer loves.”

  Ravic did not answer. To leave you, he thought. To leave you! What was I thinking a few hours ago in Cannes?

  She stirred in his arms. “Now the party is over and I am going home with you and we are going to sleep together. How beautiful it all is! How beautiful it is when one lives completely and not with just a part of oneself. When one is full to the rim and calm because there is nothing more to get in. Come, let’s drive home. To our borrowed home, to that white hotel that looks like a country house.”

  The car slid down the serpentine road almost without aid of the motor. The day was slowly becoming brighter. The earth smelled of dew. Ravic turned off the headlights. When they were passing the Corniche they met vans with vegetables and flowers. They were on the road to Nice. Later they passed a company of spahis. They heard the trotting of the horses through the droning of the motor. It sounded clear and almost artificial on the macadam road. The riders’ faces were dark under their burnooses.

  Ravic looked at Joan. She smiled at him. Her face was pale and tired and more fragile than before. In its soft fatigue it seemed to him more beautiful than ever on this magic, dark, still morning whose yesterday was sunk in the distance and which had not as yet any hour; which still floated timelessly—full of quietude, without fear or question.

  The bay of Antibes came toward them in a great circle. The dawn was steadily growing lighter. Iron-gray shadows of four men-of-war, three destroyers and a cruiser, stood against the brightening day. They must have come into the harbor during the night. Low and menacing and silent they stood against the receding sky. Ravic looked down at Joan. She had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

  17

  RAVIC WAS GOING TO the hospital. He had been back from the Riviera for a week. Suddenly he stopped. What he saw was like something out of a child’s toy box. The new building shone in the sun as if it had been constructed from a model kit; the scaffolding stood out against the bright sky like filigree—and when a beam with a figure on it began to topple, it looked as if a matchstick with a fly on it were tumbling down. It fell and fell and seemed to fall endlessly—the figure freed itself and now it was like a tiny doll that stretched out its arms and sailed clumsily through space. It was as if the world were frozen and still as death for a moment. Nothing stirred, no breeze, no breath, no sound—only the little figure and the rigid beam fell and fell—

  Then suddenly everything was noise and movement. Ravic realized that he had been holding his breath. He ran.

  The victim lay on the pavement. A second ago the street had been almost empty. Now it was swarming with people. They came from all directions as if an alarm had sounded. Ravic forced his way through the crowd. He noticed that two workers were attempting to lift the victim. “Don’t lift him! Leave him where he is!” he shouted.

  The people around and in front of him made way. The two workers held the victim half suspended. “Let him down slowly! Careful! Slowly!”

  “What are you?” one of the workers asked. “A doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.”

  The workers laid the victim on the pavement. Ravic knelt beside him and examined him. He carefully opened the sweaty blouse and felt the body. Then he rose. “What?” asked the worker who had spoken to him before. “Unconscious, isn’t he?”

  Ravic shook his head. “What?” the worker asked.

  “Dead,” Ravic said.

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—” the man said incredulously, “we had just been eating lunch together.”

  “Is there a doctor here?” someone asked behind the ring of gaping people.

  “What’s the matter?” Ravic said.

  “Is there a doctor here? Quick!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That woman—”

  “What woman?”

  “The beam hit her. She’s bleeding.”

  Ravic forced his way out through the crowd. A short woman with a large blue apron lay on a heap of sand beside a lime trough. Her face was wrinkled, very pale, and her eyes were as motionless as lumps of coal. Blood spurted like a little fountain from below her neck. It spurted sideways in a throbbing, oblique ray and gave a strange impression of disorder. Under her head a dark pool was quickly seeping into the sand.

  Ravic pressed his fingers on the artery. He pulled out of his pocket a bandage and the small first-aid kit he always kept with him. “Hold this!” he said to the man next to him.

  Four hands grasped for the bag simultaneously. It fell to the sand and opened. He pulled out the scissors and a stick and tore open the bandage.

  The woman did not say anything. Not even her eyes moved. She was rigid and every muscle of her body was tense. “Everything will be all right, mother,” Ravic said. “Everything will be all right.”

  The beam had struck her shoulder and neck. The shoulder was crushed; her collarbone was broken and the joint smashed. It would remain stiff. “It is your left arm,” Ravic said and carefully examined the neck. The skin was lacerated, but everything else was uninjured. The foot was twisted; he tapped the bone and the leg. Gray stockings, well mended but whole, tied under the knee with a black ribbon—with what detail one always saw all this! Black laced boots, mended, the laces tied with a double knot, the shoes repaired at the toe.

  “Has anyone telephoned for an ambulance?” he asked.

  Nobody answered. “I think the policeman has,” someone said after a while.

  Ravic raised his head. “Policeman? Where is he?”

  “Over there—with the other—”

  Ravic got up. “Everything has been taken care of then.”

  He was about to walk away. At this moment the policeman pushed through the crowd. He was a young man with a notebook in his hand. He excitedly licked his short, blunt pencil.

  “One moment,” he said and started to write.

  “Everything has been taken care of here,” Ravic said.

  “One moment, sir!”

  “I’m in a hurry. I have an urgent case.”

  “One moment, sir. Are you the physician?”

  “I’ve tied off the artery, that’s all. Now all that’s needed is to wait for the ambulance.”

  “One moment, doctor! I must put down your name. You are a witness.”

  “I didn’t see the accident. I happened to come by afterwards.”

  “Nevertheless, I must put down everything. This is a serious accident, doctor!”

  “I can see that,” Ravic said.

  The policeman tried to learn the woman’s name. The woman could not answer. She only stared at him without seeing him. The policeman bent over her zealously. Ravic looked around. The crowd fenced him in like a wall. He could not get through.

  “Listen,” he said to the policeman. “I’m in a great hurry—”

  “Very well, doctor. Don’t make it more difficult. I must put everything down in order. The fact that you are a witness is important. The woman may die.”

  “She won’t die.”

  “No one can tell about that. And then there is the question of compensation.”

  “Did you call for an ambulance?”

  “My colleague is attending to that. Don’t bother me now or it will take that much longer.”

  “The woman is half dead and you want to disappear,” one of the workmen said reproachfully to Ravic.

  “She’d be dead by now if I hadn’t been here.”

  “Well then,” the workman said without obvious logic. “You’ve got to stay.”

  The shutter of a camera clicked. A man wearing a hat turned up in
front, smiled. “Will you just go through that again as if you were applying the bandage?” he asked Ravic.

  “No.”

  “It’s for the press,” the man said. “Your picture will be in the paper with your address and a caption saying you saved the woman’s life. Good publicity. Please, over here, this way—the light is better here.”

  “Go to hell,” Ravic said. “The woman urgently needs an ambulance. The bandage can’t remain like that for long. See that an ambulance is called.”

  “One thing after the other, doctor!” the policeman declared. “First I must finish the report.”

  “Has the deceased told you his name yet?” asked a half-grown youth.

  “Ta gueule!” The policeman spat in front of the boy’s feet.

  “Take another picture from here,” someone said to the photographer.

  “Why?”

  “So that it will show that the woman was on the closed-off part of the sidewalk. See that—” He pointed at a board that was standing sidewise, with the inscription: Attention! Danger! “Take the picture so that one can see it. We need it. Compensation is out of the question here.”

  “I’m a press photographer,” the man with the hat declared brushing the suggestion aside. “I only photograph what I consider interesting.”

  “But this is interesting! What is more interesting? With the board in the background!”

  “A board is not interesting. Action is interesting.”

  “Then put it down in your report.” The man tapped the policeman on the shoulder.

  “Who are you?” he asked angrily.

  “I am the representative of the construction company.”

  “All right,” the policeman said. “You stay here, too. What’s your name? You must know that!” he asked the woman.

  The woman moved her lips. Her eyelids began to flutter. Like butterflies, like deathly tired gray moths, Ravic thought—and at the same moment: Idiot that I am! I must try to get away!

  “Damn it,” the policeman said. “Maybe she’s gone crazy. That makes more work! And my office hours end at three.”

  “Marcel,” the woman said.

  “What? Just a moment! What?” The policeman bent down again. The woman was silent. “What?” The policeman waited. “Once more. Say it once more!”

  The woman remained silent. “You with your damned chatter,” the policeman said to the representative of the construction company. “How can a man get his report together this way?”

  At that moment the shutter clicked. “Thank you!” the photographer said. “Full of action.”

  “Have you got our sign in it?” the representative of the construction company asked without waiting for the policeman. “I’ll order half a dozen immediately.”

  “No,” the photographer declared. “I’m a Socialist. Just pay the insurance, you miserable watchdog of the millionaires.”

  A siren shrieked. The ambulance. This is the moment, Ravic thought. He cautiously took a step. But the policeman held him back. “You must come with us to headquarters, doctor. I’m sorry, but we must have a record of everything.”

  The other policeman stood beside him now. There was nothing to be done. Let’s hope it will work out all right, Ravic thought, and went with them.

  The official on duty at police headquarters had listened quietly to the gendarme and policeman who had written the report. Now he turned to Ravic. “You are not a Frenchman,” he said. He didn’t ask; he stated it as a fact.

  “No,” Ravic said.

  “What are you?”

  “A Czech.”

  “How is it that you are a doctor here? As a foreigner you can’t practice if you aren’t naturalized.”

  Ravic smiled. “I don’t practice here. I’m here as a tourist. For pleasure.”

  “Have you your passport with you?”

  “Is that necessary, Fernand?” another official asked. “The gentleman has helped the woman and we have his address. That should be enough. There are still other witnesses.”

  “I’m interested. Have you your passport with you? Or your carte d’identité?”

  “Of course not,” Ravic said. “Who keeps his passport with him all the time?”

  “Where is it?”

  “At the consulate. I took it there a week ago. It had to be extended.”

  Ravic knew that if he said his passport was at his hotel he might be sent there with a policeman and the bluff would be discovered at once. Besides, to be on the safe side, he had given a false address. He had a chance at the consulate.

  “At which consulate?” Fernand asked.

  “The Czech.”

  “We can call up and ask them.” Fernand looked at Ravic.

  “Of course.”

  Fernand waited awhile. “All right,” he said then. “We’ll just ask.”

  He rose and went into one of the adjoining rooms. The other official was very embarrassed. “Pardon us, doctor,” he said to Ravic. “Of course, it isn’t necessary at all. It will be cleared up immediately. We are obliged to you for your help.”

  Cleared up, Ravic thought. He looked about calmly while he took out a cigarette. The gendarme stood by the door. That was mere chance. No one really suspected him as yet. He might push him aside, but there were still the man from the construction company and the two workmen. He gave it up. It would be too hard to break through; a few more policemen would be standing outside the door.

  Fernand returned. “There is no passport with your name at the consulate.”

  “Maybe there is,” Ravic said.

  “How is that possible?”

  “An official at the telephone doesn’t necessarily know everything. There are half a dozen people who deal with these matters.”

  “This one knew.”

  Ravic did not reply. “You are not a Czech,” Fernand replied.

  “Listen, Fernand—” the other official began.

  “You haven’t a Czech accent,” Fernand said.

  “Maybe not.”

  “You are a German,” Fernand declared triumphantly. “And you have no passport.”

  “No,” Ravic replied. “I am a Moroccan and have all the French passports in the world.”

  “Sir!” Fernand shouted. “How dare you! You’re insulting the French Colonial Empire!”

  “Merde,” one of the workmen said. The representative of the construction company made a face as if he wanted to salute.

  “Fernand, now don’t—”

  “You’re lying! You’re not a Czech. Have you a passport or not? Answer!”

  The rat in man, Ravic thought. The rat in man which one can never drown. What does it matter to this idiot whether I have a passport or not? But the rat smells something and here it comes creeping out of its hole.

  “Answer!” Fernand barked at him.

  A piece of paper! To have it or not to have it. This creature would beg my pardon and bow if I had that scrap of paper. It would not make any difference if I had murdered a family or robbed a bank—this man would salute me. But even Christ without a passport—nowadays he would perish in a prison. Anyhow, he would be slain long before his thirty-third year.

  “You’ll stay here until this is cleared up,” Fernand said. “I’ll see to that.”

  “All right,” Ravic said.

  Fernand stamped out of the room. The second official rummaged among his papers. “Sir,” he said presently, “I am sorry. He is crazy on this subject.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Are we through?” one of the workmen asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He turned to Ravic. “When the world revolution comes, you won’t need a passport.”

  “You must understand, sir,” the official said. “Fernand’s father was killed in the World War. That’s why he hates the Germans and does such things.” He looked at Ravic for a moment in embarrassment. He seemed to surmise what was wrong. “I am awfully sorry, sir. If it was up to me …”

  “Never mind.” Ravic looke
d around. “May I use the telephone before this Fernand returns?”

  “Of course. There on the table. Do it quickly.”

  Ravic telephoned Morosow. He told him in German what had happened. He was to let Veber know.

  “Joan too?” Morosow asked.

  Ravic hesitated. “No. Not yet. Tell her I have been detained, but everything will be all right again in two or three days. Take care of her.”

  “All right,” Morosow replied, not over-enthusiastically. “All right, Wozzek.”

  When Fernand returned, Ravic put the receiver down. “What were you talking just now?” he asked with a grin. “Czech?”

  “Esperanto.”

  Veber came next morning. “A damned hole,” he said as he looked around.

  “French prisons are still real prisons,” Ravic replied. “Not tainted with the humbug of humanitarianism. Good stinking eighteenth century.”

  “Disgusting,” Veber said. “Disgusting that you got into it.”

  “One shouldn’t do any good deeds. One has to suffer for them immediately. I should have let the woman bleed to death. We live in an iron age, Veber.”

  “In a cast-iron one. Did our friends find out that you are here illegally?”

  “Naturally.”

  “The address too?”

  “Of course not. I would never expose the old International. The hotelkeeper would be punished because she harbors unregistered guests. And a raid would ensue during which a dozen refugees would be caught. I gave the Hôtel Lancaster as my address this time. An expensive, fine little hotel. I stayed there once during my former life.”

  “And your new name is Wozzek?”

  “Vladimir Wozzek.” Ravic grinned. “My fourth.”

  “Hell,” Veber said. “What can be done, Ravic?”

  “Not much. The main thing is that our friends mustn’t find out that I’ve been here a few times before. Otherwise it will mean six months in prison.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Yes, the world becomes more humane day by day. Live dangerously, Nietzsche said. The refugees do—against their will.”

  “And if they don’t find out?”

  “Two weeks, I guess. And the usual deportation.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’ll return.”