“Right. And Otto is like a brother to you, and you seemed awfully fond of Rolf too.”
“I wasn’t,” she said weakly. “He was just odd, like you said.” She could not explain the painful tenderness she had felt for them, her sense of knowing them as she would never know anyone else. She could not tell him how alien he seemed in comparison.
He came over, still holding the glass, and started nuzzling her neck. “I’m the one you’re supposed to love. So show me, damn it. Show me you love me.” His tongue moved across her skin, leaving a sticky trail. She shut her eyes, willing herself to feel the heat in her stomach, so that everything could come right between them again. But rage was mounting in her; she had to fight back the impulse to put her hands on his chest and shove him away.
Now he was unbuttoning her dress, a soft green silk thing she had bought for the trip. She kept waiting for him to notice that she was not responding, but though she kept her arms rigid by her sides, his hands went on moving greedily, onto her breasts. A faint odor of mildew wafted up from the carpet. She remembered, with a rush of shame, that Dr. Joseftal had not even wished her well for her marriage; he had not said he was pleased for her. He would go back and say to his wife, Louisa Straus is here with a man who is not her husband, and they would exchange troubled glances, both of them thinking of their own daughter.
Phillip had unhooked her bra now, he was brushing his hands in circular movements over her nipples.
“Stop,” she said, clutching at his hands. “Please stop.”
He drew away from her, blinking, his face puffy. Then he sat abruptly on one of the plaid beds. “Christ,” he said; he reached for the bottle on the night table but pushed it away.
Stealthily, she ran her tongue around her mouth; she snaked her hands around her back and hooked her bra back into place. “Don’t be angry at me. Please. I’m sorry.”
“Are you? I doubt it. I don’t think you’re at all sorry.” Rising from the bed, he went and rummaged through the jumble of objects she had left on the dresser, picking up first one thing and then another. He fingered the keys to his house in London and put them in his pocket. “I’m going out for a bit. I’ll see you later.” She heard him open the closet and shut it again, and then the sound of the room door closing, not a slam but an oiled click.
Five minutes later, panic had set in: she was crouching in front of the dresser, rifling through the drawers for his passport. If it wasn’t there, if he had taken it with him, it would mean he was never coming back. She heard the elevator stop on their floor and stood without breathing, squeezing her eyes shut, but the footsteps went in the other direction. Then she remembered him putting their passports in the tiny safe next to the bed, and knelt beside it, twirling the knob frantically. But there was no way she could open it.
Since they had been in New York, she had forgotten that everything depended on his loving her, she had no right to refuse him. If he walked in now, she would run to him, holding out her arms. “I don’t know what came over me,” she’d say. “How could I have been so ridiculous?” But already it seemed too late for that.
In a burst of energy, she hurried into the bathroom, determined to go find him. She would start in the bar they had been to last night. But by the time she had powdered her face and smeared rouge into her cheeks, her resolve had faded. Instead she returned to the room and took off her shoes, setting them beside the bed, breathing in the carpet smell as she did so. She seemed to know the shape of the next few hours as though she had lived through them a thousand times.
She arranged the pillows against the headboard and lay back gingerly, so as not to muss her dress. It was how she had arranged herself as a child, when her mother had locked her into her room and she’d had vengeful fantasies of dying. She used to fold her arms across her chest, imagining her mother’s sobs on discovering her lifeless body. Then she would picture her father, weeping into his mustache, until her own tears started.
What would happen to her father if Phillip did not marry her? Sooner or later, they would come for him, as they had come for Dr. Joseftal. “They took out their Gummiknueppeln … they were very thorough.” The ringing of the phone next to her ear was like a reprieve; flooded with gratitude, she snatched the receiver from its cradle before he could change his mind and sobbed out hello. But it wasn’t Phillip on the other end; it was Rolf.
CHAPTER FIVE
He knew from her voice that something was wrong. He was not as obtuse about these things as people imagined, it was just that he always froze at such moments; he could feel the blood vessels in his brain constricting, so that the right words, of comfort and sympathy, never got through. It happened all the time when he was talking to the refugees.
Instead he asked her how she was enjoying her stay in New York.
She adored it, she said, in a bright English intonation, everything was so fast, wasn’t it, such excitement, wherever you looked there was always something going on.
He cleared his throat. “I wondered if I might speak to Phillip.”
“Oh, what a pity. He’s just gone out. Could I have him phone you back?”
Yes, of course, he said, and then she told him maybe it would be better if she took a message. Phillip had gone to meet someone, she wasn’t quite sure when he’d be back.
“One of the refugees?”
No, she said, it was a journalist colleague. “But we saw Dr. Joseftal this afternoon.”
“And how did you find him?”
“Not well at all.”
“No. But he’s one of the lucky ones. They let him go.”
“They only kept him for three days, he said. But he was completely different. What did they do to him? How could that happen in just three days?” Now her voice had changed; she sounded like the Louisa he used to know. Quite often, turning passionate about something as trivial as how they would line up their tin soldiers, she had sounded on the verge of tears.
“It wouldn’t be just the three days that altered him,” he said cautiously, reluctant to say too much. Obviously she had no real idea of what was happening in Germany. Perhaps her parents were shielding her as much as possible, telling her things weren’t really so bad. Maybe that was the best approach when dealing with susceptible young ladies. He had said too much already, over lunch.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
“But didn’t you have a message for Phillip?”
He had almost forgotten: he had phoned to give Phillip another name, of someone who would talk to him as much as he wanted, who could not stop talking about what had been done to him, so that the other refugees, including Rolf, tried to avoid him whenever possible. His hysteria was exhausting, and he didn’t bathe often enough, either. But if it was stories Phillip wanted, Gruenbaum would be happy to provide them. It might even help him to find a really interested listener for a change. He gave Louisa Gruenbaum’s number, which she took down. Then she asked him if he knew Dr. Joseftal’s address.
Not offhand, he said. But he could get it for her.
“I want to send his wife and daughter something. But I didn’t think of it until after he left.”
What did she have in mind, he asked her.
“I bought some really lovely ribbon this morning, I thought I could send them that.” And then, when he was silent, “Not just ordinary ribbon. It’s very thick, it’s got blue-and-green peacocks embroidered on it. And I bought a green bead necklace at Best’s, sort of like jade, though of course it isn’t.”
He had thought she was going to say a warm cardigan, or a woolen hat; having seen Dr. Joseftal, with his broken teeth, she couldn’t seriously believe that the situation called for embroidered ribbon. Then she said, “I thought I could write her a little note, you know, just telling her how kind the doctor had been to me when I was a child, and wishing them luck.” And suddenly he saw that Mrs. Joseftal might, after all, be glad to receive such a note. For all he knew, a ribbon with peacocks on it would likewise make her glad, a
nd the green beads would be just the thing to cheer her daughter.
Dr. Joseftal was coming to see him the next evening, he said. He would get the address from him then.
“Or I could just deliver the things to you tomorrow, and you could give them to him.”
It seemed a waste of her time in New York, but he gave her the address of his office. The following morning, shortly after ten, the receptionist told him, in a voice of muffled excitement, that a young lady wanted to see him.
Arnie, the boss’s son, had walked into his office a few minutes earlier. Arnie had a habit of dropping in on Rolf after he had been to see his father, whom he visited at odd intervals when he needed money: he directed avant-garde plays, some of them written by himself, at small theaters in the Village; he and his friends launched magazines with bold green or orange covers that tended to run for only a few issues. He seemed to regard Rolf as his private joke. “How’s our golden boy?” he would ask, and tell Rolf how highly the old man spoke of him, as though such praise from his father was itself slightly comic. When the receptionist showed Louisa in, he pantomimed amazement, raising his eyebrows in his theatrical way, and then gave Rolf a knowing look.
She was looking quite theatrical herself, in red lipstick and a gray hat with a feather, though her face was drawn. Rolf introduced them.
“Do you work here too?” she asked Arnie, and he laughed.
“God, no. My father owns the place. I just come by occasionally to make sure he’s not exploiting the workers too much.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Anyway, I don’t need to work. Rolf works hard enough for two.”
Louisa looked uncertainly at Rolf, as though for a signal. “Louisa is visiting from England,” he said stiffly.
“You’re visiting Rolf?” Arnie asked in a tone of frank disbelief, looking her up and down.
“She’s here with her fiancé,” Rolf said, before she could answer.
“Ah,” the man said. “Your fiancé. So what brings you to Union Square this morning?”
She looked at Rolf once more, as though seeking protection; it occurred to him that whatever the cause of her distress the night before, it had not gone away. Again, Rolf jumped in. “She’s just come to drop something off,” he said, feeling the heat rise to his face. Arnie, meanwhile, was clearly enjoying himself.
“Here it is,” Louisa said, taking a little package, wrapped in pink tissue paper, from her bag. She placed it on the desk. “I put the note inside, that we talked about. You won’t forget to give it to him, will you?”
He shook his head. “I won’t forget.”
“All right, then.” There was a pause. “I’ll say good-bye now. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You’re not disturbing anything,” Arnie told her. “We were just engaging in our usual idle chatter. Where in England do you live?”
“In London,” Rolf said. Arnie looked amused.
“Great. I love London. I try to get over at least twice a year. Great theater there.”
“Are you an actor?” Louisa asked.
“A playwright.” He gave a little bow. “At your service. And a poet. Sometimes. So is this your first visit to New York?” She nodded. “How do you like it?”
She liked it very much, she said politely, without enthusiasm. Then she brightened. “I saw the most extraordinary things as I was coming here. A whole set of living room furniture out on the pavement. And then two taxis that almost crashed into each other, and both drivers leapt out of their cabs and shouted, and then got back in and drove off. In unison. Like something you’d see in a film.”
Arnie chuckled, a deep rich sound. “That’s New York for you. Pure theater. A movie a minute.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” she said, but coolly. It seemed to Rolf she did not care much for Arnie, which pleased him.
“I was just leaving,” Arnie said. “I could give you a lift uptown if you wanted.”
“That’s very kind of you. But I think I’ll go to Chinatown next.”
Another laugh, louder this time. “Okay. I can take a hint.” He winked at Rolf. “Behave yourself.”
“Did I seem very rude?” Louisa asked when he’d gone.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. Would you like to sit down for a moment? Before you go to Chinatown?”
“I mustn’t keep you.”
“That’s all right. I’m sorry I don’t have a better chair to offer you.”
“Oh, but this is fine,” she said, and sat in the one upright chair opposite his desk, folding her gloved hands over her bag, like someone there for a job interview. There was a pause.
“What’s Dr. Joseftal coming to see you about?” she asked, just as he was about to speak.
“We’re trying to get a visa for his son, to get him out of Czechoslovakia. Before the Germans decide to march in. But he left Germany when he was eighteen, he’s got no skills to speak of, he’s been working as a clerk in a hops firm. That makes it more difficult.”
“So what will you do?”
“I’ve been talking to a hops merchant in New York who may agree to sponsor him. It’s ridiculous, but that’s how it works.”
“And you do this for lots of people?”
“I don’t, the committees do.”
“Otto says you work harder for the refugees than anyone.”
“That’s Otto being loyal. What he tells me is that I bark at them like a German magistrate, they go away feeling worse than ever.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, smiling. “That’s very naughty of him.”
“No, he’s right. When he’s there he always knows how to put them at ease. He even has them laughing at his stories. They never laugh with me.”
“But that’s just charm you’re talking about. Anyone can learn it.”
“I would say exactly the opposite. It can’t be learned, you’re either born with it or not. Like trying to play the piano when you’re tone-deaf.”
“You’re sure? Have you tried a drink or two?”
He shook his head. “It’s no good, it doesn’t work.”
“Never mind. There are more important things than charm. Anyway, Americans aren’t supposed to be charming, are they? They’re supposed to be terribly honest and simple and direct.”
“Now you are sounding like the others. They love to talk about how simple Americans are, by which they mean stupid. Uncivilized. Not like the Germans, that most civilized of people.”
“Don’t get huffy. I was only trying to cheer you up.”
“In fact Americans are very civilized, in the truest sense. They are only not sophisticated like Europeans. There’s a difference.”
“What about Arnie?” she asked demurely, and he had to laugh.
“All right, I concede the point. Arnie is definitely a sophisticate. And not necessarily a civilized one.”
“I suppose there have to be some exceptions. What was the name of that cowboy you told me about once?”
“I don’t remember,” he said stiffly, although he did.
“You were going to come to America because of him. And now you’re here.”
“Yes, now I’m here.” He remembered something else: how he had knocked Otto down the day he’d told her about Old Shatterhand, because she had smiled at Otto and not at him. He could have said that to her now, making a joke of it, but like so much else, it seemed too freighted to be safe.
After she had left—he had shaken her hand, and wished her a pleasant journey—he returned, with relief, to the memo in front of him. Arnie’s father had asked him to assess the likely risks of buying the lumberyard in Oregon from which the company purchased its wood for making pencils. The owner was interested in finding a buyer. It would reduce their costs considerably, but the geography would make it difficult, and they would have to find an outlet for whatever they could not use themselves; that would mean selling to their competitors, who might be reluctant to buy from them.
We must consider the following, he wrote, colon. Number 1 … Number
2 … Number 3. But it was not as exhilarating, somehow, as such exercises usually were. A sense of dissatisfaction nagged at him. He did not permit himself to break for lunch, but wrote on doggedly, covering page after page of lined yellow paper with his angular script.
“Wie lieb,” Dr. Joseftal murmured that evening, when Rolf handed over the little pink package. “Wie lieb von ihr.” He seemed overcome.
Then he collected himself. “This will I am sure please my wife very much. You will thank Miss Straus for me? But my wife will want to write to her herself. Will she be here a few days longer?”
Rolf explained that Louisa would be leaving in two days, Phillip was expected in Chicago. Dr. Joseftal shook his head. “I do not feel sure about this man she will marry. What was your impression of him?”
“He was extremely well informed about the plight of the refugees.”
The doctor made a face. “That’s not enough to make a man a good husband.”
“I suppose not. But I don’t really know much else about him.”
“I know even less. But from his face I suspect he drinks.”
That was the report Otto gave too when he came in late that night, as Rolf was making order out of the folders spread on his desk. Otto threw off his coat and sprawled on the couch, watching him in silence, as was his habit. The desk, the most massive piece of furniture in the apartment, occupied the alcove between the kitchen and the living room, where a dining table might have been. Otto usually waited until the papers were cleared away, and then reported on what he’d been doing—the movie he’d seen, the people he’d eaten dinner with; he seemed to expand his acquaintance daily. Sometimes he did not come home at all, until he returned in the morning to shave and go to work.
Now, supine on the couch, he groaned a little. “I’m drunk … that man drinks too much, you know.”
“Phillip?”
“Of course Phillip. At first I thought he’d decided to like me after all, he was much friendlier than the other night. But I suspect it was only to punish Louisa.”
“Punish her for what?”
The Oriental Wife Page 6
