" 'He says it's a new regulation,' said Helen.
" 'He's lying,' I replied. 'I'd know about it. Refugees always get wind of these things. If you go, they're quite capable of taking your passport away.'
" 'And then I'd be a refugee like you?'
" 'Yes. Unless you decided to go back.'
" 'I'm staying,' she said. 'I'm not going to any consulate and I'm not going back.'
"We hadn't spoken about it before. This was the decision. I did not answer. I just looked at Helen. Behind her I saw the sky and the trees in the park and a narrow glittering strip of lake. Her face was dark in the bright light. 'You're not responsible,' she said impatiently. 'You didn't talk me into it and it has nothing to do with you. Even if you didn't exist, I wouldn't go back. Now are you satisfied?'
"'Yes,' I said, surprised and rather ashamed. 'But that's not what I was thinking about.'
" 'I know that, Josef. So let's not talk about it any more. Never.'
" 'Krause will come back,' I said, 'or somebody else.'
"She nodded. 'They'll make trouble if they find out who you are. Why don't we go south?'
" 'We can't go to Italy. Mussolini's police are too chummy with the Gestapo.'
" 'Isn't there any other south?'
" 'Yes. The Swiss Ticino. Locarno, Lugano.'
"We took the train that afternoon. Five hours later we were sitting outside the Locanda Svizzera on the piazza in Ascona, in a world that was not five, but fifty, hours away from Zurich. The landscape was Italian, the town was full of tourists, and no one seemed to have a thought in his head except to swim, to lie in the sun, and to live it up while it was still possible. Do you remember those last months of peace? There was a strange feeling in the air all over Europe," said Schwarz.
"Yes," I said. "Everyone was hoping for a miracle. A second Munich. Then a third. And so on."
"It was a kind of twilight between hope and despair. Time
stood still. In the shadow of impending disaster everything else seemed unreal. It was as if an enormous medieval comet shared the sky with the sun. Everything was out of focus. And everything was possible."
"When did you go to France?" I asked.
Schwarz nodded. "You're right. Everything else was temporary. France is the uneasy home of the homeless. All roads lead back to France. A week later Helen received a letter from Herr Krause, telling her to report at once to the consulate in Zurich or Lugano. It was urgent.
"We had to leave. Switzerland was too small and too well organized. We'd be found wherever we went. And any day my papers could be checked; they'd see that my passport was phony and deport me. We went to Lugano, but steered clear of the German consulate. Instead we went to the French consulate. We received tourist visas good for six months. I had counted on three months at the most.
" 'When shall we go?* I asked Helen.
" 'Tomorrow.'
"We had our last dinner in the garden of the Albergo della Posta in Ronco, a village perched like a swallow's nest high up in the hills overlooking the lake. Japanese lanterns hung between the trees, cats crept over the walls, and from the terraces below came the smell of roses and wild jasmine. The lake with its islands—there was said to have been a temple of Venus on one of them in Roman times—lay motionless; the mountains roundabout were cobalt blue against the bright sky. We ate spaghetti and piccata, and drank the nostrano wine. It was an evening of almost intolerable sweetness and melancholy.
" 'It's too bad that we have to leave,' said Helen. Td have been glad to spend the summer here.'
" 'You'll have plenty of chances to say that.'
" 'Is there anything better to say? I've said the opposite often enough.'
" 'The opposite?'
" It's too bad that I have to stay here.'
"I took her hand. Her skin was very brown—she tanned easily; two or three days did the trick—and that made her eyes look lighter. 'I love you very much,' I said. 'I love you and this moment and the summer that won't last and this countryside we are leaving, and for the first time in my life myself, because I am nothing but a mirror that reflects you, and that way I have two of you. God bless this evening and this hour!'
" 'God bless everything! Let's drink to it. And God bless you, because you've finally dared to say something that would normally make you blush.'
" I'm blushing,' I said. 'But only inside and I'm not ashamed. I've got to get used to it. Even a caterpillar has to get used to the light when it emerges from the darkness and discovers it has wings. How lucky the people are here! And how the wild jasmine smells! The waitress says there are whole forests full of it.*
"When the wine was gone, we walked through the narrow streets and took the old road that leads past the Ronco cemetery, with its flowers and crosses, and down along the hillside to Ascona. The south is a sorcerer; the palms and oleander blot out your thoughts and free your fancy. More and more stars appeared. The sky was like the flag of an ever-expanding United States of the universe. The cafes on the piazza in Ascona sent beams of light far out into the lake, and a cool breeze blew from the valleys.
"We came to the house we had rented on the lake shore. It was small, but there were two bedrooms. That seemed to be enough for local morality. 'How long can we live on the money we have?' Helen asked.
" 'For a year if we're careful. Maybe a year and a half.'
" 'And if we're not careful?'
" 'Just this summer.'
" 'Let's not be careful,' she said.
" 'A summer is short.'
" 'Yes,' she said with sudden violence. 'A summer is short, and life is short, but why? Because we know how short they are. Do those cats out there know that life is short? Do birds know? Or butterflies? For them it goes on forever. Nobody has told them. Why have we been told?'
" 'There are a number of answers to that.'
" 'Give me just one.'
"We were standing in the dark room. The doors and windows were open. 'One is that life would be unbearable if it went on forever.'
" 'You think we'd be bored? Like God? That's not true. Give me another.'
" 'That there's more unhappiness than happiness. And that it's merciful to have life end some time.'
"Helen was silent for a moment. Then she said: 'There's not a grain of truth in all that. We only say such things because we know we are not here to stay and there's nothing we can hold on to. There's no mercy in that. We just invent it. We invent it because it's our only hope.'
" 'Don't we believe in it all the same?' I asked.
" 'I don't.'
" 'You don't believe in hope?'
" I don't believe in anything. One day our number is up and that's all.' She threw her clothes on the bed. 'It's the same with everybody. A prisoner hopes to escape. Maybe he even succeeds. But next time he won't be so lucky.'
" 'That's all he hopes for. A surcease. That's all there is.'
" 'Yes, that's all there is. It's the same with the world and the war. It hopes for another surcease. But nothing can prevent the war.'
" 'Maybe war can be prevented,' I said. 'But not death.'
" 'Don't laugh!' she cried.
"I moved toward her. Recoiling, she slipped through the door into the open.
" 'What's the matter?' I asked in surprise. It was lighter outside, and I saw that her face was bathed in tears. She didn't answer and I didn't ask again. 'I'm drunk,' she said finally. 'Can't you see that?'
" 'No.'
" 'I've had too much wine.'
" 'Not enough. There's another bottle.'
"There was a stone table in the meadow behind the house. I put the fiasco on it and went inside for glasses. When I came back, I saw Helen crossing the meadow in the direction of the lake. I did not follow her at once. I filled the glasses; the wine looked black in the soft glow of the lake and the sky. Then I went slowly through the meadow to the palms and oleanders by the shore. I was worried about Helen, and heaved a sigh of relief when I saw her. She was standing by the water, bowed and
curiously passive, as though waiting for something, a voice or perhaps a vision. I stood still, not so much to watch her, but for fear of frightening her. After a while she sighed and stood up straight. Then she stepped into the water.
"When I saw her swimming, I went back for a towel and her bathrobe. Then I sat down on a block of granite and waited. Her head with its coil of hair looked very small in the distance; she was all I had in the world, I thought, and my impulse was to call to her to come back. But at the same time I sensed that she had something to settle with herself, something unknown to me, and that this was the crucial moment; to her the water was fate, question and answer. She had to fight this out alone, as everyone must—the best someone else can do is to be there and perhaps to supply a little warmth.
"Helen swam out in an arc, turned, and headed back toward me in a straight line. I saw her coming closer, her dark head against the purple lake. And then she rose slender and bright from the water and ran to me.
" 'It's cold. And spooky. The maid says there's a great big octopus living under the islands.'
" 'The biggest fish in this lake are old pike,' I said, wrapping her in the towel. 'No octopi. All the octopi are in the new Germany. But water is always spooky at night.'
" 'If we can think there are octopuses, there must be some,' said Helen. 'You can't think anything that doesn't exist.'
" 'That would be an easy way to prove the existence of God.'
" 'Don't you believe it?'
" 'I believe everything tonight.'
"She pressed against me. I dropped the wet towel and gave her her bathrobe. 'Do you think we live more than once?' she asked.
" 'Yes,' I said without hesitation.
"She sighed. Thank God. I wouldn't want to argue about that, not now. I'm tired and cold. I keep forgetting that this water comes down from the mountains.'
"Along with the wine, I had brought a bottle of grappa from the Albergo della Posta. Grappa is a clear brandy made of grape husks, strong and spicy and good for times like this. I went inside for it and poured her a large glassful. She drank it slowly. 'I hate to leave here,' she said.
" 'You'll have forgotten it by tomorrow,' I replied. 'We're going to Paris. You've never been there. It's the most beautiful city in the world.'
" 'The most beautiful city in the world is the one where you are happy. Is that a platitude?'
"I laughed. 'Let's not worry about style!' I said. 'If that's a platitude, we can't have too many of them. Do you want some more grappa?'
"She nodded, and I brought out another glass for myself. We sat at the stone table in the meadow until Helen grew sleepy. I took her to bed. She fell asleep beside me. I looked through the open door at the meadow, which slowly turned blue and then silvery. Helen woke up an hour later and went to the kitchen for water. She came back with a letter that had come while we were in Ronco. It must have been lying in her room. 'From Martens,' she said.
"She read it and put it down. 'Does he know you're here?' I asked.
"She nodded. 'He told my family that he had advised me to go to Switzerland to be examined again, and that I should stay a few weeks.'
" 'Did you go to him for treatment?'
"'Off and on.'
"'What for?'
" 'Nothing special,' she said, and put the letter in her bag. She did not give it to me to read.
" 'Where did you get that scar?' I asked.
"There was a thin white line across her abdomen. I had noticed it before, but her brown skin made it more conspicuous.
" 'A slight operation. Nothing of any importance.'
" 'What kind of operation?'
" The kind we don't talk about. Women have these things,'
"She put the light out. 'It's good you came for me,' she whispered. 'I couldn't have stood it any more. Love me! Love me and don't ask questions. Never.'
CHAPTER 10
"Happiness!" said Schwarz. "How its colors run in your memory! Like cheap shirts in the laundry. Only unhappy people can count. We went to Paris and found rooms in a small hotel on the Quai-des Grands-Augustins, on the left bank of the Seine. There was no elevator, the stairs were warped and worn with age, and the rooms were small; but we had a view of the Seine, the bookstalls on the quay, the Palais de Justice and Notre-Dame. We had passports. We were human beings until September, 1939.
"We were human beings until September, and it made no difference whether our passports were genuine or not. But it made a difference when the 'phony war' began. 'What did you live on when you were here before?' Helen asked me one day. 'Were you allowed to work?'
" 'Of course not. I wasn't even allowed to exist. How would you expect a nonexistent person to get a work permit?'
" 'What did you live on then?'
" 'I don't remember,' I answered truthfully. 'I worked at various trades. None of the jobs lasted very long. The French are no great sticklers for legality. You can always find something to do if you'll accept low wages. I loaded crates at Les Halles; I waited on table; I peddled ties, socks, and shirts; I gave German lessons; once in a while the refugee committee gave me a little something; I sold my belongings; I wrote some short articles for Swiss newspapers.'
" 'Couldn't you get a newspaper job again?'
" 'No. For that you need working papers and a residence permit. My last job was addressing letters. Then came Schwarz and my apocryphal existence.'
" 'Why apocryphal?'
" 'Because I was supposed to be someone else, living under the cover of a dead man's name. I'd ceased to exist as myself.'
" 'I wish you'd call it something else,' said Helen.
" 'It doesn't much matter what I call it. A double life, a borrowed life. Or a second life. Yes, maybe that's the most accurate. We're like castaways who have no regrets, because they've lost their memory—it's memory that makes people feel that they've lost the good things without improving the bad ones.'
"Helen laughed. 'What are we now? Impostors, corpses, or ghosts?'
" 'Legally we are tourists. We are allowed to be here, but not to work.'
" 'Fine,' she said. 'Then we won't work. Let's go to the He Saint-Louis and sit on a bench in the sun. Then we'll go to the Café de France and eat on the sidewalk. How's that for a program?'
" 'It's a fine program,' I said. And we stuck to it. I stopped looking for odd jobs. For weeks on end we were together from early morning to early morning. Out in the world time stormed by: extras, troop movements, emergency sessions of the Chamber, but all that had nothing to do with us. It simply wasn't there. We were living in eternity. When your world is brimful of feeling, there's no room for time. You're on another shore, beyond time. Or don't you believe that?"
Schwarz turned to me with a look of desperate appeal. "You don't believe it?" he asked.
I was tired, and, I couldn't help it, impatient. Stories about happiness are without interest, and Schwarz's fantasies about eternity left me pretty cold, too. "I don't know," I answered absently. "Maybe happiness or eternity comes when we die; then the calendar stops and time with it. But if we go on living, there's no help for it—whatever we do takes place in time, and time passes."
"I won't let it die!" said Schwarz with sudden violence. "I want it to stand still like a marble statue. Not like a castle of sand that washes away in the tide! What would become of the dead whom we love? What would become of them? Wouldn't they die over and over again? Where else are they if not in our memory? Her face! I'm the only one who still knows it. Can I leave it to the ravages of time? I know it will fade even in my mind, it will be distorted and falsified, unless I can project it and set it up outside of me. The lies and fantasies of my mind will entwine it like ivy and destroy it and in the end there will be nothing left but ivy. I know that. That's why I have to save my memory from myself, from the corrosive egotism that will make me try to forget so that I can go on living. Don't you understand?"
"I understand, Mr. Schwarz," I said, treading as softly as I could. "That's why you are talking to me—
to save your memory from yourself. . . ."
I was annoyed with myself for having spoken so bluntly before. The man was mad, with a logical madness, a Don Quixote, determined to battle the windmills of time, and I had too much respect for his grief to try to analyze his condition. "If I succeed—" Schwarz could not go on. Then he took a fresh start: "If I succeed, it will be safe against anything I can do. You believe me?"
"Yes, Mr. Schwarz. Our memory is not an ivory casket in a dusty museum. It is an animal that lives and eats and digests. It consumes itself like the phoenix in the legend, so that we can go on living and not be destroyed by it. That's what you are trying to prevent."
The night in Lisbon Page 12
