In the meantime the coachman finished feeding the horses. The horses did not look very lively. They seemed sleepy. He himself sat down on the ground and prepared a modest meal: breed, white cheese and a raw cucumber. The fresh bread smelled of the oven in which it had been baked.
“Aren’t you eating?” He turned to the mother.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You seem sad.”
“A little tired.”
“May I offer you a little cheese? Excellent cheese, if I say so myself.”
“Thank you.”
“We still eat the old, simple food,” the coachman apologized, not without a hint at the corruption of city life. Now he spoke to her like an old acquaintance. He knew the country inns and innkeepers. And the customers too, actors and directors. He knew as well as the mother did that there was no innocence in all these. Corruption had spread everywhere.
“We can continue now,” said the coachman, after saying a short blessing.
It was four o’clock. The tall trees cast their shade over the road, which stretched ahead like a cool tunnel. The daughter wrapped herself in a shawl with a movement which showed suppressed rage.
“You’re uneasy, I see,” said the mother. “I’m sorry I let you come.”
The daughter, her anger bursting out, said, “I haven’t got the faintest desire to get into an argument with you. You know very well that I left the children without anyone to look after them.”
“Exactly as I said, you shouldn’t have come. I would have managed without you.”
“You would have wasted all the money.” The daughter flung the words from her mouth.
“I?” said the mother, who did not care to examine the meaning of these words too closely.
“Yes, you.” The daughter cast compunction to the winds.
Now it seemed that the mother was about to pull the bundle of banknotes from her purse and tear them to shreds or throw them in her daughter’s face. But for some reason she did not do so.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You know perfectly well how I fought with George. And I must say that he behaved with the patience of a saint. There’s a limit to whims and caprices. How much money can one person waste?”
George, ever since she had come to know him intimately, had revolted her. A petit bourgeois Austrian who worshiped money, like his fathers before him. A born miser to whom every form of assistance to others, especially financial assistance, seemed a blatant breach of the social contract, the heart and soul of which was: let every man endure his fate in silence, without turning the world upside down.
“George, you say,” said the mother.
“You were always extravagant.”
This word, which she hated with all her heart, was too much for her to bear. Her face twisted and her voice, intending sharpness, thickened instead as she said, “Extravagance is in my nature. And I’m proud of it.”
“Oh yes, I know.”
“Extravagance is a human quality, too human perhaps. Only rodents hoard. What remains to us in this life if we can’t waste a little money, since in any case we haven’t got too much to waste?”
“And the future.” Her daughter tightened her lips obstinately.
“The future? Where did you get that disgusting word from? What does it mean? Where is this future of yours?”
The bitter smile relaxed a little on her daughter’s lips. Now it seemed that she was about to smile broadly, a real smile. But it was only an illusion: her back stiffened.
The mother continued: “The future. We, thank God, are free of that hypocrisy. As long as we’ve got a penny in our pocket we’ll spend it. Spend it freely. Don’t dare pronounce that detestable word in my presence again.”
The daughter said defiantly, “Because of your extravagance you’ve always been poor. You’ve got nothing, no property, not even a pension.”
“What of it? Men come into the world without security, without insurance, without pensions, and they die without them too. Can’t you get that into your head? And as for your money—don’t worry. You’ll get it all back.”
“I’m not worried.”
“And now I’m going to the Jews. You know yourself how unwillingly. But one thing I have to admit, they have more generosity.”
“And George isn’t generous.”
“No, definitely not.”
During her short stay in her daughter’s house she had observed him closely. Suspicious, with no ideas of his own and no imagination. He would sit for hours in front of the mirror combing his hair. A number of words, she noticed, were always on his lips: everything is in order, and other words which smacked of warehouses and stables.
The sun was sinking. On the green slopes forest clearings gleamed here and there. The sky was cloudless. The daughter’s anger seemed to leave her. She looked at the scenery.
“Not far now,” said the coachman, who had been listening attentively to the exchange between the two women. I’m in no hurry, the mother wanted to say, but knowing that this remark would enrage her daughter beyond bearing, she said instead, “Good.” She now wanted to resume her conversation with the coachman. And he apparently sensed her wish and responded at once, as follows: “When I was a lad I used to take a lot of Jewish merchants to the railway station. They always tipped me. They’re more generous than we are, I must admit.”
“But you don’t like them.”
“I don’t know why.”
She was fond of such men, in spite of everything. In her travels in the provinces she had shown them her favors more than once. She had seen them in her imagination as the incarnation of nature, of simplicity. She was soon disillusioned, of course. They were not as simple as she imagined.
They were approaching the peak. The daughter now wished to mend matters a little and she said, “I’ll come and visit you.” The mother noticed that she did not say, We’ll come and visit you. It was better that way, without George.
“Don’t bother,” she said.
Now, for some reason, she took pity on her daughter, who was encumbered with three hulking sons and a husband who demanded his meals on time. The sons, like their father, were dull and healthy and had nothing in their heads but swimming, football and breeding horses. At school they did not shine. Like their father they too would breed horses, and in the evenings they would sit in the inn and drink beer. The thought that her grandsons would be common, ordinary Austrians, eating and drinking their fill, brought a wry smile to her lips. During the time she had spent in their house she had come to understand something she had not previously understood: how different she was.
“Don’t bother. I really mean it. When all’s said and done, you’ve got a home and children of your own to look after.”
“And don’t I deserve a little holiday,” her daughter surprised her by saying.
“On the contrary.” Something quickened in the mother. “I’ve always been in favor of holidays,” and as she said this her heart seemed to open inside her. “You need a rest too.”
The daughter’s expression softened and she said, “The house is like a millstone round my neck. Those boys are sucking my blood.”
“Just what I said. You need a holiday. A man is not a beast of burden, after all.” And in a whisper she added, “Come and stay up here with me,” The whispered words stirred all her latent maternal feelings. Tears gathered in her eyes.
“I’ll come,” said the daughter.
Now the coach was climbing to the top of the mountain. The road was straight but steep.
“What godforsaken places the Jews choose for themselves,” the coachman permitted himself to say frankly. “What do they do here?”
“They think,” said Lotte teasingly.
“What have they got to think about so much?”
“All kinds of things,” said Lotte lightly.
“If it wasn’t for you, my lady, I’d turn the horses round. Who’s going to pay me to mend the wheels?”
“Don’t worry. Nob
ody lives for ever,” she said, adopting his manner of speaking.
All that remained of the daughter’s frozen expression was one line creasing her forehead. She was close to tears. Her mother sensed this and said, “Take a holiday at the first opportunity. Come here and we’ll enjoy ourselves together. The scenery here is magnificent.”
“What will you do here?” The daughter sought to share her fears with her mother.
“Don’t worry, I’ve never been bored in my life. I’m dying to read a good book. All these years I’ve been running. Now I’ll sit and read, I’ll sit and contemplate my navel. And let the rest of the world go to hell.”
Her daughter knew this tone well, a mixture of affectation, pride and boasting. But now her voice sounded softer. As if her loneliness had caught up with her at last.
The journey was over. The border was drawn. These above and those below. Years of sorrow gathered into a ball in the daughter’s heart. All her mother’s caprices were pardoned in an instant. She wanted to help her but she didn’t know how. She fell on her purse and hastily removed a bundle of banknotes. “Take this, Mother.”
“No, I won’t take it,” said her mother. “You know me.”
“I won’t leave you here without money.”
“I have enough. There’s no need for anything more up here.”
“And if you want to come down, if you want to visit me.”
“I’ll get a ride. I’m used to hitching rides.”
“Do me a favor,” begged the daughter.
“You know me too well,” said the mother. “I’m incurably extravagant. If I take it I’ll only waste it.”
“I’ll keep it for you.” The daughter found a way out.
“Good, you do that,” the mother agreed.
The coachman stopped the coach and called, “We’ve arrived at last.” The mother’s face expressed exaggerated surprise, as if he had said something quite out of place. “Where are we?” she said in alarm, as if she were repeating a line from a play.
“This is it,” said the coachman, and climbed down from his perch. He went to the box and took out a medium-sized green suitcase. The daughter too made haste to get out. The day faded into its last, blue colors. Dense shadows covered the ground, hiding the building from the eyes of the new arrivals. But a second look soon made it out. A two-storied house, not especially grand, covered in creepers. “This is it.” The mother repeated the coachman’s words.
“There’s no one here,” said the daughter.
“They’re inside, someone will see me in a minute,” the mother said, recovering her voice.
“I’ll go in with you,” offered the daughter.
“There’s no need. I’m used to it.”
The coachman was now waiting for his tip. The mother recognized this expectant stance at once. She immediately took a banknote out of her purse and held it out to him.
“I’ll pay,” said the daughter quickly.
“Of course you’ll pay. That was something extra from me. The man did his best, not so?”
The coachman took off his cap and bowed.
“Come and visit me,” the mother said lightly, as if they were parting after a cup of coffee in a café. The daughter embraced her mother with both arms and buried her head for a moment in her bosom.
“Time to leave,” cried the coachman, and leaped nimbly onto his perch. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” he said with a nod of his head. The mother narrowed her eyes and raised her hand. “Adieu, adieu,” she repeated in a whisper.
“What shall I send you,” cried the daughter in a choked voice.
“Nothing at all. Nothing at all.”
“A coat. It must be cold up here in winter.”
And the coach dashed off. For a while she stood listening to the rumble of the wheels. In the gathering darkness she no longer saw anything but her daughter’s hands, hardworking hands swollen with water.
TWO
“So we’ve arrived,” she said, as she was in the habit of saying when the company arrived at their hotel. There was no answering voice from within. The darkness drifted close to the ground, like skeins of black wool. She pushed the door open with her shoulder, a movement she had perfected over the years. But the door did not swing back automatically behind her, apparently lacking the spring usually attached to hotel entrance doors.
“Lotte Schloss,” she announced in a formal tone.
“Who?” A man raised his eyes.
“Lotte Schloss.” She raised her voice as if she were addressing a deaf person. Most doormen were deaf, the thought crossed her mind.
“There’s no need to speak so loudly,” he said in a gentle voice.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lotte, surprised.
The man was sitting at the table with his hands folded in front of him. The table had no writing materials on it.
“Is this the Institute for Advanced Studies?” asked Lotte, pronouncing each word distinctly.
“It is.”
“I’ve come to join.”
The man’s withdrawn expression changed. He opened his eyes and said, “Welcome.”
She wanted to ask: What happens here, how, but when she saw the man’s pale, somewhat strained face she said simply, “Where do I register?”
“With me,” said the man. He took an exercise book out of the drawer and wrote: Lotte Schloss.
“What else?” she asked.
“Nothing at all.”
“It couldn’t be simpler,” she said.
“And now we must provide you with two blankets, two sheets and a pillow.”
“And a key, don’t I get a key?” said Lotte in the old, coquettish way.
“No need, madam,” said the man, his long, pale face brightening, as if at the sight of an attractive woman. “It’s quite safe here.”
“Where is everyone?” she asked with an absent-minded air.
“In the hall.”
“How interesting,” said Lotte.
Now she waited for him to offer her some tidbit of gossip, for nothing, she knew, escaped the eyes of these doormen. And, indeed, he rose to his feet and with an air of old-fashioned politeness offered her his chair, but then for some reason he changed his mind and said, “With your permission, I’ll bring you a chair.”
“Mayn’t I see my room?” she said in her own voice.
“Certainly, but first we must fetch you blankets, sheets and a pillow.” Now she remarked a kind of spirituality carved the lines of his long face. She knew and liked such faces from her travels. Sometimes she would fall deep into conversation with such men. But for the most part she was preoccupied with the appetites of the moment, or too tired. In the meantime he went out and came back with two blankets, two sheets and a pillow, which he placed upon the table. “The bedding may not be very splendid, but it is clean, if I may say so.”
Lotte noticed that the man had a soft spot for adjectives.
“Your name rings a bell, madam, but I can’t remember where I heard it.”
“Up to a few months ago I was an actress in the provincial theater. Not a well-known name, exactly. Chambermaids for the most part, and in recent years moralizing old servant maids.”
The man bowed his head.
Lotte continued: “Did I deserve more? I don’t know. Lately I’ve begun to believe in fate. At our age we tend to become superstitious, not so? And whom have I the honor of addressing?”
“Herbert Zuntz,” said the man modestly.
“Pardon me,” said Lotte, sensing that she had gone too far.
“What for?”
“For imposing so many words on a new acquaintance.”
“We’re used to it.”
“I, at any rate,” said Lotte with a return of her old pride, “dislike confessions. If that is the custom here, I have come to the wrong place.”
“Don’t be afraid, madam. You will be able to exploit your solitude to the full here, if you so wish. The peak is glorious, the scenery sublime.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “And are there any services here?”
“Yes, but on a modest scale.”
“No need to overdo things,” she said. The new dress, a green woollen dress which her daughter had bought her as a hasty peace offering, pinched her waist, and she made a movement with her shoulder and said, “Are you a Jew too, sir?”
“I can’t say unhappily and I can’t say happily, so shall we say—what can we say?”
Lotte laughed, and in order to make her position quite clear she said, “I’m an actress, an actress and nothing more.”
Herbert took the bedding in one hand and picked up the suitcase in the other. In doing so he revealed himself to be a man of imposing stature, and a mature distinction it was possible to fall in love with at first sight.
The place reminded her of a seedy hotel, yellowing mirrors in the bathrooms, broken toilet bowls and dripping taps, where the chambermaids spoke in impertinent voices and the doormen reached out to them with big, strong hands. In such rundown places she had spent the best years of her life. Undeniably, they had their charms. But in recent years these charms had faded. The torn mattresses, the food. Life on the road had wrought havoc with her body. People had stopped calling her by her name and started calling her the actress, and the meaning of this epithet in such places was only too clear.
They crossed a passage, an entrance lobby, went downstairs, and were immediately greeted by the following sight: people sitting round low tables, illuminated by oil lamps, playing cards. The silence was so tense you could cut it with a knife.
“Wonderful,” said Herbert, as if he were seeing this scene for the first time. “You play poker?”
“No,” said Lotte, surprised by the silent scene.
“Neither do I. Wonderful, the way they forget themselves. You see that old man, only a few weeks ago he was lying in bed without a hope in the world. He was revived, believe it or not, by poker. See how he pulls out the cards and throws them on the table. They say he’s an outstanding player. An inspiring sight, don’t you think?”
The Retreat Page 2
