When the noise subsided, the sound of rain falling on the sidewalk outside penetrated far into the room.
There on the table lay the bill. Jastrau reached for it, and in the dim mixture of daylight and artificial illumination that seemed almost obliterated by a ghostly rain-weather murkiness and tobacco-smoke fog he examined it and laboriously added it up.
Twenty-seven kroner and five øre.
For beer and fried eggs in an early-morning café.
“Well, what about it?” he heard the waiter say arrogantly.
Jastrau looked up at him with a drowsy wiliness.
“Is there a telephone?” he asked. He was so exhausted.
He would telephone Kryger. Yes, that was the thing to do. But would Kryger be up? So early?
He pulled himself together with a sudden effort and staggered off to the telephone.
“Yes—it’s me—me, Jastrau.”
“Who? What is it? Good God man, haven’t you gotten home yet?” Kryger’s voice sounded fresh from a good sleep. “There seems to be a lot of noise coming from somewhere behind you.”
“I don’t have any—any money,” Jastrau said in a woebegone tone. Then, with an effort that was both comical and pitiful, he described his situation.
Kryger laughed so that the receiver rattled, and promised to come. “Now, the money will soon be here,” Jastrau said, leaning unsteadily toward the waiter. “A beer—one more beer.”
“Certainly.” The waiter sized him up fleetingly and then suddenly began to snigger.
And soon he came balancing a beer that was half water.
The place grew more and more deserted as the forenoon wore on.
Outside, the streetcars glided by. Umbrellas bobbed and rotated. The raindrops pelted the window and ran down the pane in long, oblique rivulets and then into the street.
Whenever anyone came in, they left a trail of water behind them far into the café.
Jastrau thought for a moment about going and standing in the doorway to let the rain cool him off. But when he put on his topcoat the waiter came hurrying suspiciously toward him.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“No. I just want to get cooled off.”
“You’d better not. You’ll only catch cold.”
Hopelessly, Jastrau flopped back in his chair with his topcoat on, looking as if he had fallen into it.
It was so hard to think. His thoughts turned to jelly. And now there were almost no customers left in the café.
“Well, so there you are. Ha ha.”
It was Kryger, who had come dashing in.
“And you’re still in evening clothes. Good Lord, how you do look! Waiter, a beer.”
Kryger was fresh and lively, though his eyes were a little bloodshot from the night before.
“You must have gotten separated from us. Whew, but I’m busy! My stenographer is waiting for me at home. You know—my book on Danish industry. So let’s pay up and see that you get home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Jastrau snarled, cowering still lower in his chair.
“Well,” Kryger said with a shrug and a sudden, broad smile, “then come to my place. You can sleep on the sofa.”
“No,” was the obstinate reply.
“Well, what then? You can’t stay here. And you have to get some sleep, man. You can’t go traipsing all around town in broad daylight in this condition—and in evening clothes to boot. Ha ha—let me look at you.”
He drew Jastrau’s coat aside.
“Yes, you’re a pretty sight. A broken shirt front. And fingerprints on it—enough to suggest a murder. Ha ha. And somebody has written something on it with pencil. Let’s see what it says. Ha ha—‘Thanks for the beer,’ it says. No, you know what? You’d better be kept out of sight somewhere. I think I’d better plunk you down in a hotel.”
Jastrau tried to look down at himself, but the broken shirt front cut off his view. He passed his hand over it.
“What?” he babbled.
At last Kryger got him outside and into a taxi. For a moment the raindrops spattered against his ears.
“Where’s your hat?”
No answer.
Inside the cab, Jastrau collapsed completely.
What was it that happened then? More rain splashing on him. A sidewalk where the raindrops rebounded into the air like flashes of swamp gas. A lighted hotel door, faces with uniform caps behind a revolving glass pane, a whirring elevator. And then something to do with sitting on the edge of a bed, falling over backward and smacking his head against the wall because some idiot was tugging at his shoes. And then an attempt to choke him, and a feeling of relief as his necktie came off and a shirt was pulled over his head. A muttering and then laughter, and finally a window shade pulled down with a bang.
How long?
The first thing he was conscious of was a shiver running up and down his spine. In a bed with nothing on except an undershirt. Gray wallpaper teeming with flowers. A white ceiling of strange proportions—almost like in a storeroom. And, behind a dark window shade, the rain beating down incessantly. Oh, that everlasting sound. For a long time he had been listening to it as to a piece of ominous music in which the violins gave a foreboding of disaster. Rain, rain.
But why was it that the sound of the rain seemed to have some meaning? He could hear it splashing down in a courtyard. It came gushing out of a downspout, went gurgling through the sewers. And the sound had some meaning, some very definite significance.
With a start he jumped out of bed to dispel the ominous symbol, whatever it might mean, and found himself standing dazed in the middle of the floor in his short undershirt. There was a draft. His bare thighs felt cold. It was undoubtedly best to roll up the window shade and close the window, the hasp of which was constantly rattling.
He rolled up the shade to look out at a rain-dark sky, drenched rooftops, and the building walls surrounding a courtyard, all with closed windows and identical curtains on every floor, as if they were attired in uniform. He was obviously in a hotel. And now he recognized the courtyard. Down on the lower floor was the Bar des Artistes. So that was where he was.
He shut the window and went back. How had he gotten here? There on a chair lay his white shirt with its broken front, smudged and dirty. And what was that, written in pencil? “Thanks for the beer,” it said. He scratched his head thoughtfully and vaguely recalled a picture, a scene from a Bible story, a scene so stupid that he involuntarily had to make a wry face. He was aware that he had made a fool of himself, and the thought made him cringe. Thanks for the beer!
Crestfallen and bewildered, he looked around the room. His dress coat and white vest hung askew over the back of a chair, as if parodying a cripple. They were spotted and dirty, with a long dribble of egg yolk down the lapel of the coat, a white splotch of powder on the shoulder, and some hairs left there by a woman. He tried unsuccessfully to rub off the spots. They had contaminated him emotionally, too, he thought. And his pants? They hung on the door hinge, with the fly immodestly open, and loose, empty legs. His shoes and socks lay scattered about on the threadbare carpet. Bits and pieces of him all around. He began to shiver—to feel wretched. His festive garments had become a fool’s costume, with inscriptions on them as on a board fence. Thanks for the beer! Here he was, as if cut up into pieces and lying around, one appalling part of him over a chair, another on the floor. But suddenly he began to think about the pieces as a whole, and that was even more unpleasant. So that was how he had looked—a fashionable fool in tails and white tie, soiled, scribbled on, insulted. And now he had to get back into that degrading costume again, he must get back into it because he had to get home. It was his clothes which seemed to be the most humiliating thing about the entire situation.
But would it not be better to crawl back into bed and sleep, obliterate himself? For it was unbearable to think. But if he were going home, it must be in these clothes. The thought of it made him wince. And Johanne—oh, Johanne. Now she had won a comple
te victory. He could see her drawing herself up and growing rigid, her blue eyes flashing with contempt. But he had to get the better of her, and he simply must go through with it. And in that outfit—with writing on the shirt front and all: Thanks for the beer! Ah, Johanne, you have a sot for a husband, indeed you do. Why did he always go off the deep end when he drank? Otherwise he was quiet and steady enough, and industrious too. Was he not? His job, of course, was impossible—altogether impossible. A person could not be completely honest when he had to earn a living. But wasn’t he honest, honest in his reviews? Yes, he was. He made enemies because of them. But then why did he have a guilty conscience? Because that he did. It was like some form of punishment that had assailed him from within. And he had become aware of it as soon as he had gone to work as reviewer for Dagbladet. He wished to God he could find out in what way he had transgressed. He had been honest, completely honest. But why, then, had he stagnated, become sterile? Why?
And then he had turned into a sot. Yes, he was a drunkard. Why not come right out and admit it? It had come about as a result of his confusion. When he was drunk he did not feel unproductive. Intoxication was the stuff of which poems were made, poems that had to be written, and so he escaped his punishment. But punishment for what? At the same time he made himself an object of ridicule—a fashionably-dressed fool seen in all of Copenhagen’s cafés, a besmudged fool in soiled evening clothes. Oh, he could scream. He, Jastrau, a serious critic, the final court of appeal in Copenhagen’s intellectual circle. After all, he only wanted to be a human being, and he had become two different individuals—two masks.
Oh, Johanne. If only that were over with. He could come dashing wildly, recklessly, into the house, take her by surprise, begin sobbing convulsively. Yes, he could say, it was true he was a drunkard. He could admit it, confess, be penitent. Penitence—ugh! Yes, he could weep, cry out, make her gasp. How deliberately he was rehearsing the scene. Was he not actually scheming? No, no, for he was really tormented. He wanted to lay his head in her lap, rock it back and forth, for he was so apprehensive, so afraid. Jealously. Joachim Michelsen and Vuldum. And so he had a good reason for drinking. Nonsense. Was it anything more than an excuse for having committed that stupid indiscretion the other day, that act of unfaithfulness that he could now scarcely remember? He wanted to rock his head back and forth in her lap, get down on his knees, prostrate himself at full length on the floor in his evening clothes, his soiled and crumpled evening clothes. Oh, that inscription: Thanks for the beer!
But what if Oluf had come home? “Where have you and Mother been all this time?” Suppose Oluf stood there in the middle of the room, staring at him wide-eyed and frightened. What then? And what if Johanne sat there, rigid and unbending? Would it not be impossible then? Why did he always behave so insanely and unpredictably when he had been drinking? He became another person. Whiskey altered a man’s personality. He would not touch it any more. He would not.
So help him—he would not.
He turned over in bed and lay on his back. So help him—
But what could bind him to it? What sort of an oath could he take? An oath to God?
He raised his arm in the short undershirt sleeve and held up three fingers. But that signified God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, and here he was, an unbeliever. No, he could not take such an oath. It was a theatrical gesture that he had laughed at so often. Then what should he swear by? What sort of oath should he take? Place a finger on an eye and bid the devil strike him blind?
He squirmed restlessly on the bed. Why did a comic element insinuate itself into his seriousness? He would never touch whiskey again. But what oath? If there is a God, then as surely as there is a God, I will never—
If, if! It was too hypothetical. How could he find an oath that was frightful enough?
His arm was still upraised and wobbling back and forth. But now it was the flat of his hand that was held out. And that was the Fascists’ salute.
An oath, an oath, an oath!
Should he swear by Johanne? Did he love her? He wondered if she had not gone off and left him after that scene in the taxi?
By Oluf, then? He squirmed again. That would be too sentimental. Here he lay in a hotel bed, clad only in an altogether too short under-shirt, hand raised in a Fascist salute, and could not bring himself to do it. By my son, by my son—it would be too maudlin, like tears shed while drunk. There was no oath that was frightful enough. All words seemed to vanish into thin air.
He clenched his fist. An outstretched, bare arm with a clenched fist. It reminded him of a picture of a French war memorial that he had seen in a newspaper and laughed at. All gestures were ruined by poor art. But he was determined to swear, to take an oath. He would not give up.
“As surely—” he called out, then stopped. His loud voice sounded so silly there in the hotel room. Suppose the chambermaid walked by in the hallway and heard him.
“As surely—” he repeated in a normal tone, and suddenly the words of the oath formulated themselves:
“As surely as I’m afraid of getting syphilis, I will not drink whiskey again.”
It sounded as if he were talking to someone. His voice was not loud or solemn, but quite calm. Nothing but an offhand remark.
He got up, feeling strengthened. Now he must wash and get dressed. The oath was taken. The future lay clear.
But it was unpleasant to have to get into his fool’s costume again. He was assailed by disgust as he picked up each piece of clothing, held it gingerly with his fingertips, turned it about and examined it. These things were a bit of his past that still adhered to him. And he had to go home. He noticed how that thought alone set his heart to pounding. Home. Home.
Then he discovered a slip of paper lying on the table.
Have called your wife to tell her that you’re sleeping in a hotel. The hall porter has thirty kroner that will take care of your room charge, food, and so forth. So in all, you owe me seventy-five.
Kryger.
As he read the note, Jastrau’s heart immediately stopped thumping and he felt a sense of relief. Johanne knew where he was. Probably she thought he was still asleep. So there was no need to telephone her just yet or to go home right away. He could wait, prolong the time until the reckoning, draw it out. And she would think he was sleeping, for she knew he needed sleep.
He examined his features in the little mirror over the washstand. There were deep, oblique wrinkles under his eyes, and his face looked bloated. Yes, it was always that way. Ecce homo. That face of a criminal. But he did not have to shave, for he had done so the previous afternoon, just before they had left for the party at Krog’s. Just dash a little cold water over his face and then put on that damned white shirt. Thanks for the beer! He caught sight of the pencil scrawl in the mirror, with the letters reversed. That way it did not look so bad, but nevertheless it was there. Thanks for the beer.
There was, however, the topcoat. He would have to put that on over the soiled crumpled shirt and the inscription. His hat? No hat—it was gone. Where? He shook his head and could not remember a thing.
And it was a strange-looking figure that walked stealthily down the stairway to the lobby, coat buttoned up around his neck and bare-headed.
The hall porter smiled behind his close-cropped mustache and gave him the thirty kroner, and then Jastrau stood hesitating for a moment in the vestibule, unable to make up his mind whether to go into the restaurant and eat a bit of lunch or go through the door to the left that led into the Bar des Artistes.
It was darker, however, in the bar. Besides, it would be easier to keep his coat on there, to make believe that he was in a hurry and would soon be on his way. Moreover, he could watch the clock in there and keep track of the time.
So reason prevailed.
Inside the bar the shades had been drawn and the lights turned on to dispel the dreary daylight. The phonograph drowned out the sound of the rain splashing on the sidewalk outside.
Jastrau walked through the
room with his topcoat on. There were only a very few afternoon customers.
“I say, haven’t you gone away yet, maestro?” It was Little P., whose bird-like head with its sparse covering of hair regarded him mawkishly from the depths of a big chair. As usual, he was seated at the round table near the cash register. And Kjær was there too, fat and red-faced, with his head leaning heavily forward. He was obviously engrossed in veiled thoughts, for he was staring dully down at a cocktail glass and breathing heavily so that his moist lips quivered and made a faint brr-ring sound as he exhaled.
“Gone away? Who, me?” asked Jastrau suspiciously as he stopped. His thoughts immediately went back to the night in the lockup. They had, he remembered, been together that evening.
And just then another voice was heard from the other direction: “Oh, hello, Herr Jastrau. What’s this? Hasn’t Herr Editor set out yet?”
It was Lundbom speaking in his nasal Swedish accent. His red, satyr-like countenance and watery, mournful eyes shone in a polite smile beneath the pale face of the clock over the bar.
Jastrau looked around mistrustfully and smiled affably. It seemed that he was being assailed by riddles from all sides. But how could they have any bearing on his brief stay in the jail cell?
“Yes. Didn’t you go to Canada?” Lundbom went on. “That’s what we thought.”
“Rubbish,” Jastrau replied, smiling and feeling relieved.
“Wasn’t it you I sold the ticket to?” Little P. remarked dubiously. He looked completely dumbfounded.
“Rubbish,” Jastrau repeated, and sat down at the table. He carefully wrapped himself up in the topcoat.
As he did so, a nervous shudder ran through Kjær’s bulky, semiconscious figure. “Who’s that?” he asked as if talking in his sleep, while he went on staring with glassy eyes at Jastrau. “Is it somebody who’s deserving of a place at my table?”
But he soon sank back into a revery. “I’m afraid it’s someone who doesn’t deserve it,” he mumbled as if ready to fall asleep again.
From behind the bar, Lundbom nodded a silent order to the little waiter.
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