by Hans Fallada
There his inspiration ran out and nothing more was said. Once he cast a sidelong glance at Jachmann, and reflected that he didn’t look as breezily fresh as heretofore. He also noted that he too was staring intently at the grey back.
‘For heaven’s sake say something, Pinneberg!’ said Jachmann nervously. ‘You must have something to say. If I hadn’t seen a person for six months I’d certainly have a tale or two to tell.’
‘Now you’ve said my name,’ stated Pinneberg. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
‘To your place, where else? I’m with you, that’s the point.’
‘But then we ought to have turned left,’ observed Pinneberg. ‘I live in Alt-Moabit now.’
Jachmann got annoyed. ‘So why don’t you turn left?’
‘I thought we were following the man in grey.’
‘Oh God!’ exclaimed the giant. ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’
‘No,’ confessed Pinneberg.
‘Well, go exactly the same way as if you were going home. I’ll explain everything. Now talk to me.’
‘We have to turn left again,’ said Pinneberg.
‘Well do it, then,’ said Jachmann irritably. ‘How’s your wife?’
‘We’ve had a little boy,’ said Pinneberg despairingly. ‘She’s very well. Please couldn’t you just tell me what’s going on, Mr Jachmann? I’m getting more and more idiotic.’
‘You just said my name, for heaven’s sake!’ scolded Jachmann. ‘Now he’s bound to follow us. Oh no! Can you manage not to look round at least.’
Pinneberg said nothing, and after this outburst Jachmann said no more either. They went one block further, then round a corner and another block further, crossed a road and were then once more on Pinneberg’s accustomed route home.
The traffic lights turned red, and they had to wait a moment.
‘Can you still see him?’ asked Jachmann anxiously.
‘I thought I wasn’t meant to … No, I can’t see him any more. He went straight on just now.’
‘He did, did he!’ said Jachmann, sounding highly relieved and gratified. ‘I must have been wrong. You see ghosts sometimes.’
‘Couldn’t you please tell me, Mr Jachmann?’ began Pinneberg.
‘No. That is, later. Of course, later. We’ll go to your place first. To your wife. It’s a boy you’ve got, is it? Or a girl? Splendid! Terrific! Did it all go well? Of course it would, with a woman like that! D’you know, Pinneberg, I’ve never understood how your mother happened to have a son. It must have been heaven that slipped up, not just the condom factory. Oh, I beg your pardon. You know me. Is there a flower-shop anywhere round here? We must pass one somewhere. Or would your wife prefer sweets?’
‘It really isn’t necessary, Mr Jachmann …’
‘I know that, young man, but I’m the one who decides.’ And then he was off! ‘Flowers and chocolates. They work on every female heart. That’s to say, they don’t work on your mother, but that’s another story, don’t let’s talk about it. Flowers and sweets. Wait, I’ll go in here.’
‘You mustn’t …’
But Jachmann had already disappeared into the sweetshop. In two minutes he was out again. ‘D’you have any idea what kind of sweets your wife likes? Cherries in brandy?’
‘Nothing alcoholic, Mr Jachmann,’ said Pinneberg reproachfully. ‘My wife’s nursing.’
‘Oh, nursing. I see. Who’s she nursing? Ah, of course, the baby. And that means you can’t eat cherries in brandy? I never knew. What a life. Must be one of the toughest, believe you me!’ He disappeared into the shop, still talking.
After a while he came out again, sporting a hefty parcel.
‘Mr Jachmann!’ said Pinneberg dubiously. ‘What a lot. I’m not sure my wife would want …’
‘Why not? She doesn’t have to eat them all at once. I just don’t know her taste. There are so many kinds. Now look out for a flower shop …’
‘Please stop, Mr Jachmann. It’s quite unnecessary.’
‘Unnecessary? You’re too young to know. What d’you mean?’
‘You don’t need to bring my wife flowers as well.’
‘Ah, it’s the unnecessary that’s needed the most. There’s a joke about that, but I won’t tell it to you. You don’t appreciate that kind of thing. Aha, here’s a flower shop …’
Jachmann stopped and thought. ‘I don’t want to take her cut flowers. Too much like beheaded corpses. I’d rather take her a pot plant. That’s more her style. Is she as blonde as ever?’
‘Mr Jachmann, please …’
But he was already off. After a lengthy interval, he returned.
‘Now, a flower shop, that would be something for your wife. I ought to set her up in one. In a good area, where the clients appreciate being served by a beautiful woman.’
Pinneberg was embarrassed. ‘Well, I don’t know if you’d call my wife beautiful …’
‘Don’t talk nonsense Pinneberg. Talk about things you understand. I wonder what you do understand? Beauty—I expect you believe in the beauty of the movie stars; manicured flesh on the outside, greed and stupidity on the inside?’
‘I haven’t been to the cinema for ages,’ said Pinneberg in a melancholy tone.
‘Why not? It’s essential to go to the cinema. As often as possible. Every night if you can stand it. It builds up your self-confidence. No one can put me down: I know they’re ten times stupider than I am. So let’s go to the cinema. Straight away! This very evening! What’s on? We’ll have a look at the next pillar of adverts.’
‘But first you were going to buy my wife a shop,’ grinned Pinneberg. ‘Yes, of course. Actually it’s a good idea. It would earn its money back in no time. But …’ he sighed deeply, gathered two pots of flowers and a parcel of chocolates in one arm, and linked the other through Pinneberg’s. ‘It’s impossible, young man. I’m in shtuck …’ ‘Then you shouldn’t be buying up all these shops for us!’ cried Pinneberg indignantly.
‘Don’t talk rubbish! It’s not money. I’m stinking rich. For the time being. But I am in shtuck. In other ways. I’ll tell you all about it later. You and your Lamb. But I’ll tell you one thing …’ he bent to whisper in Pinneberg’s ear: ‘Your mother is a bad lot.’
‘I’ve always known that,’ replied Pinneberg calmly.
‘Oh, you get things all wrong,’ said Jachmann, withdrawing his arm. ‘She’s a bad lot, a real bitch, but she’s a splendid woman! No, I’m afraid the flower shop isn’t on for the moment.’
Pinneberg tried guesswork: ‘Because of the man in grey with the fuzzy beard?’
‘What? Which man in grey?’ Jachmann laughed. ‘Oh Pinneberg, I was pulling your leg. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ said Pinneberg. ‘And I don’t believe you were.’
‘Let’s drop it then; you’ll soon see. And this evening we’ll all go to the cinema. No, this evening won’t do, we’ll just all have a cosy supper together—what have you got for supper?’
‘Fried potatoes,’ stated Pinneberg. ‘And a bloater.’
‘And what to drink?’
‘Tea,’ said Pinneberg.
‘With rum?’
‘My wife isn’t drinking any alcohol.’
‘Oh, of course. She’s nursing. That’s marriage for you. My wife doesn’t drink so I don’t drink. You poor wretch.’
‘But I don’t like rum in tea.’
‘You imagine that because you’re married. If you were a bachelor you’d like it. These are things that are a product of the married state. Don’t tell me I’ve never been married. I know all about it. When I’ve been living with a woman, and I’ve found myself getting into things like rum without tea …’
‘Rum without tea,’ repeated Pinneberg seriously.
Jachmann didn’t notice: ‘Things like that, I broke it off then and there, for ever. However much pain it caused me. So, fried potatoes and a herring.’
‘A bloater.’
‘Bloater and tea. I think I’ll just pop into that
shop for a moment. But this is absolutely the last.’
And he disappeared into a delicatessen.
When he reappeared, Pinneberg said emphatically: ‘One more thing, Mr Jachmann …’
‘Oh yes?’ said the giant. ‘You could carry a parcel for me too while you’re about it.’
‘Give it here. The Shrimp is only three months old. He can’t see anything yet or hear anything yet, he doesn’t play with anything yet …’
‘Why are you telling me all that?’
‘In case you have the idea of rushing into a toy-shop and buying my son a teddy or a puffer-train. Because you’d find me gone when you came outside.’
‘A toy-shop …’ said Jachmann dreamily. ‘Teddy, puffer train, you’re talking just like a father! Do we pass a toy-shop?’
Pinneberg began to laugh. ‘I’m going to run away, Mr Jachmann,’ he said.
‘You really are a dope, Pinneberg,’ sighed Jachmann. ‘After all I am your father in a manner of speaking.’
AN UNWANTED HOUSE-GUEST. JACHMANN DISCOVERS THE GOOD, WHOLESOME THINGS
Lammchen and Jachmann greeted each other, and Jachmann dutifully bent over the cot for a moment and remarked: ‘Of course he’s a remarkably beautiful child.’
‘Takes after his mother,’ said Lammchen.
‘Takes after his mother,’ Jachmann replied.
Then Jachmann unpacked his shopping, and Lammchen, confronted with quite a large amount of fancy food, dutifully exclaimed: ‘Oh Mr Jachmann, you shouldn’t have!’
Then they ate and they drank (tea, but without the bloater and fried potatoes) and then Jachmann leaned back, and said comfortably, ‘Now comes the best bit, the cigar.’
And with untypical vigour Lammchen responded: ‘Unfortunately, the best bit’s not coming. No one is allowed to smoke in here because of the Shrimp.’
‘Seriously?’ asked Jachmann.
‘Quite seriously,’ responded Lammchen firmly. But he gave such a deep sigh that she suggested: ‘Why don’t you do like my husband and go out and have a puff on the cinema roof for a while? I’ll put a candle out for you.’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Jachmann promptly.
The two of them promenaded up and down, Pinneberg with his cigarette, Jachmann with his cigar, both quite silent. The little candle stood on the floor, its small shimmer scarcely reaching to the dusty beams above.
Up and down. Up and down, speechlessly side by side.
And because a cigarette doesn’t take as long as a cigar to smoke, Pinneberg was able to slip in and talk over the extraordinary affair with Lammchen.
‘So what did he say?’ asked Lammchen.
‘Nothing at all. He simply came along with me.’
‘Did you just happen to meet?’
‘I don’t know. I think he was lying in wait for me, but I’m not sure.’
‘I think it’s all very peculiar,’ said Lammchen. ‘What does he want here?’
‘I haven’t a clue. First of all he had this obsession that a man in grey was following him.’
‘Following him, why?’
‘I thought it must be the police. And he’s fallen out with Mother. Perhaps it’s to do with that.’
‘I see,’ said Lammchen. ‘And he didn’t say anything else?’
‘Yes, he said he’d like to go to the cinema with us tomorrow evening.’
‘Tomorrow evening? Does that mean he wants to stay here? He can’t stay the night, we haven’t got a bed for him and the oilcloth sofa’s too short.’
‘Of course he can’t stay here. But what if he just doesn’t go?’
‘In half an hour,’ said Lammchen firmly, ‘I’m going to feed the Shrimp. And if you haven’t told him by then, I will.’
‘That’ll be fun,’ sighed Pinneberg. And he rejoined the silently pacing Jachmann outside.
After a little while Holger Jachmann carefully stamped out the last of his cigar, sighed deeply and said: ‘Sometimes I quite like to reflect a while. Normally I prefer to talk, but now and then half an hour’s thought does one a lot of good.’
‘You’re having me on,’ protested Pinneberg.
‘Not at all, not at all, I was thinking about what I must have been like when I was a small child.’
‘And?’ asked Pinneberg.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Jachmann hesitantly. ‘I don’t think I’m like myself at all anymore.’ He whistled. ‘It could be that I cocked up the whole shebang. I’m monstrously big-headed most of the time; do you know I began in service?’
Pinneberg said nothing.
The giant sighed. ‘There’s no point in talking about it. You’re right there. Let’s go in to your wife.’
They went in, and straight away Jachmann was off on his yarns again in high good spirits. ‘Well, Mrs Pinneberg, this is the craziest flat in the world. I’ve seen a few, but nothing so crazy or so cosy as this … It’s amazing the housing authorities allow it.’
‘They don’t,’ said Pinneberg. ‘We live here entirely unofficially.’
‘Unofficially?’
‘Yes, well, the flat isn’t really a flat of course, it’s store-rooms. The only one who knows we live here is the person who rented the storerooms to us. Officially we live at the front with the carpenter.’
‘So,’ said Jachmann slowly. ‘Nobody knows that you live here, not even the police?’
‘Nobody,’ said Pinneberg emphatically, looking at Lammchen.
‘Good,’ said Jachmann again, ‘Very good.’ And he looked round the rooms quite lovingly.
‘Mr Jachmann,’ said Lammchen, preparing to cast him out of Eden, ‘I have to get the baby ready for bed now and feed him.’
‘Good,’ said Jachmann again. ‘Don’t let me get in your way. Then let’s go to bed straight afterwards. I’ve run around all over the place today and I’m dreadfully tired. While you’re doing that I’ll make the sofa into a bed with cushions and chairs.’
The couple looked at each other. Then Pinneberg turned his back and went and drummed on the window panes, his shoulders rocking. But Lammchen said: ‘Don’t you dare. I’ll do your bed.’
‘That’s all right by me,’ said Jachmann. ‘Then I can watch you feed him. That’s something I’ve always wanted to see.’
With angry determination Lammchen lifted her son out of his cot and began unwrapping him.
‘Come up close, Mr Jachmann,’ she said. ‘Have a good look.’
The Shrimp began to scream.
‘Look, these are what they call nappies. They don’t smell very nice.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Jachmann. ‘I’ve been a soldier, and nothing or nobody ever took away my appetite for one moment.’
Lammchen’s shoulders drooped. ‘There’s nothing to be done with you Mr Jachmann,’ she sighed. ‘Look, now I rub his bum with oil, with pure, best-quality olive oil.’
‘Why are you doing that?’
‘So that he doesn’t get sore. My son has never got sore.’
‘My son has never got sore,’ said Jachmann dreamily. ‘God, what a ring that has to it! My son has never told a lie. My son has never given me any trouble. How you deal with those nappies is a downright miracle. It must be inborn. A born mother …’
Lammchen laughed. ‘Don’t over do it. You ought to ask my husband about when we first brought him home. And now you must turn round for a moment …’
And while Jachmann turned obediently to the window and looked out into the night and the silent garden, where the firelight cast a glow on the gently-moving branches (‘Look, it’s as though they were chatting to each other, Pinneberg’), Lammchen slipped out of her dress, and slid the straps of her petticoat and vest off her shoulders. Then she wrapped herself in her dressing-gown and put the baby to her breast.
He immediately stopped crying, and with a sigh that was almost a sob, put his lips to her nipple and began to suck. Lammchen looked down at him, and drawn by the sudden silence the two men turned round and gazed silently at mother and child.
Jachmann, who could never stay silent for long, then said, ‘Of course I did everything all wrong, Pinneberg. The good simple things … the good wholesome things …’ he banged on his temples. ‘You old fool. You old fool!’
And then they all went to bed.
JACHMANN MAKES A DISCOVERY AND THE LITTLE MAN IS KING. WE HAVE EACH OTHER AFTER ALL!
Next morning Pinneberg stood among his trousers, rather heavy in the head. It was none too easy for a newly married young man to contemplate the presence of a visitor like Jachmann in his little home, which was really only one room. He kept on thinking back to how he’d behaved that night when he brought the rent, trying to get to Lammchen’s bed.
Well, all right, he had been drunk then, and yesterday evening he had been quite different: really very nice. But he was also capable of anything, and definitely not to be trusted.
The ground burned under Pinneberg’s feet as he stood behind his counter. If only he were at home! But of course everything was perfectly in order when he got back. Lammchen was in high good humour; they surveyed the Shrimp, and he called out a brief ‘Evening, Mr Jachmann,’ in passing to their visitor, who was delving in a case at the window.
The latter replied: “Evening, my boy. I must just …’ He was at the door as he spoke and they heard him clattering down the ladder.
‘How was he then?’ asked Pinneberg.
‘Very nice,’ said Lammchen. ‘He is very nice actually. In the morning he was very nervous, he kept talking about his cases and wanting you to fetch them from the station at the zoo.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said he should ask you. He only growled. He went down the ladder three times and came right up again. He jingled his keys at the Shrimp and sang songs. And then he suddenly went.’
‘He must have got over whatever was worrying him.’
‘And then he came back with his cases, and since then he’s been as merry as a lark. Rummaging in his stuff all the time and putting papers on the fire. Oh, and he made a discovery.’
‘A discovery?’
‘He can’t bear to hear the Shrimp crying. He goes quite mad: oh, the poor child, at war with the world already, he can’t bear it. I told him he mustn’t take it to heart, the Shrimp was only hungry. Then he said I had to feed him, then and there, on the spot. And when I wouldn’t, he told me off like anything: parenthood had turned our brains; all this rubbish about scientific childcare was going to our heads. Then he wanted to carry him outside for a walk; then wheel him in the pram. Picture it! Jachmann in the Little Tiergarten with a pram. And when I wouldn’t have any of it, and the Shrimp continued to bawl …’
