“Well, this Brummer woman,” the uncle continued, “went on to have a child by my nephew, a healthy boy who was christened Jakob, I suppose with my humble self in mind, because even my nephew’s no doubt passing references to me seem to have made a great impression on the girl. Just as well too, let me say. For the parents, to avoid paying for the child’s upkeep or to avoid being touched by the scandal themselves—I must state that I am not acquainted either with the laws of the place, or with the circumstances of the parents, of whom all I have are two begging letters that they sent me a long time ago, to which I never replied, but which I was careful to keep and which now constitute the only, one-sided, written communications between us in all these years—to resume then, the parents, to avoid scandal and paying maintenance, had their son, my dear nephew, transported to America with, as you may see, lamentably inadequate provision—thus leaving the boy, saving those miracles that still happen from time to time and particularly here in America, entirely to his own devices, so that he might easily have met his death in some dockside alleyway on his arrival, had not the maid written to me, which letter, after lengthy detours, came into my possession only the day before yesterday, and acquainted me with the whole story, together with a personal description of my nephew, and, very sensibly, also with the name of the ship on which he was travelling. Now, if it were my purpose at this point to entertain you, gentlemen, I might well read out some choice passages from this letter”—he pulled from his pocket two enormous, closely written pages, and waved them around—“It would certainly make a hit, written as it is with a certain low, but always well-intentioned, cunning and with a good deal of affection for the father of her child. But neither do I want to amuse you more than is necessary, nor do I want to injure any tender feelings possibly still entertained by my nephew, who may, if he cares to, read the letter for himself in the privacy of his own room, which already awaits him.”
Actually, Karl had no feelings for the girl. In the crush of an ever-receding past, she was sitting in the kitchen, with one elbow propped on the kitchen dresser. She would look at him when he went into the kitchen for a glass of water for his father, or to do an errand for his mother. Sometimes she would be sitting in her strange position by the dresser, writing a letter, and drawing inspiration from Karl’s face. Sometimes she would be covering her eyes with her hand, then it was impossible to speak to her. Sometimes she would be kneeling in her little room off the kitchen, praying to a wooden cross, and Karl would shyly watch her through the open door as he passed. Sometimes she would be rushing about the kitchen, and spin round, laughing like a witch whenever Karl got in her way. Sometimes she would shut the kitchen door when Karl came in, and hold the doorknob in her hand until he asked her to let him out. Sometimes she would bring him things he hadn’t asked for, and silently press them into his hands. Once, though, she said “Karl!” and led him—still astonished at the unexpected address—sighing and grimacing into her little room, and bolted it. Then she almost throttled him in an embrace, and, while asking him to undress her she actually undressed him, and laid him in her bed, as though she wanted to keep him all to herself from now on, and stroke him and look after him until the end of the world. “Karl, O my Karl!” she said as if she could see him and wanted to confirm her possession of him, whereas he couldn’t see anything at all, and felt uncomfortable in all the warm bedding which she seemed to have piled up expressly for his sake. Then she lay down beside him, and asked to hear some secret or other, but he was unable to tell her any, then she was angry with him or pretended to be angry, he wasn’t sure which, and shook him, then she listened to the beating of his heart and offered him her breast for him to listen to, but Karl couldn’t bring himself to do that, she pressed her naked belly against his, reached her hand down, it felt so disgusting that Karl’s head and neck leapt out of the pillows, down between his legs, pushed her belly against his a few times, he felt as though she were a part of him, and perhaps for that reason he felt seized by a shocking helplessness. He finally got to his own bed in tears, and after many fond goodnights from her. That had been all, and yet the uncle had managed to turn it into a big deal. So the cook had thought of him, and informed his uncle that he was arriving. That was nice of her, and one day he would like to pay her back.
“And now,” said the Senator, “I want to hear from you loud and clear, whether I am your uncle or not.”
“You are my uncle,” said Karl and kissed his hand, and was kissed on the forehead in return. “I’m very glad I’ve met you, but you’re mistaken if you think my parents only say bad things about you. But there were a few other mistakes in what you said, I mean, not everything happened the way you described it. But it’s difficult for you to tell from such a distance and anyway I don’t think it matters if the gentlemen here have been given an account that’s inaccurate in a few points of detail, about something that doesn’t really concern them.”
“Well spoken,” said the Senator, and took Karl over to the visibly emotional captain, and said, “Haven’t I got a splendid fellow for a nephew?”
The captain said, with a bow of the kind that only comes with military training, “I am delighted to have met your nephew, Senator. I am particularly honoured that my ship afforded the setting for such a reunion. But the crossing in the steerage must have been very uncomfortable, you never know who you’ve got down there. Once, for instance, the first-born son of the highest Hungarian magnate, I forget his name and the purpose of his voyage, travelled in our steerage. I only got to hear about it much later. Now, we do everything in our power to make the voyage as pleasant as possible for steerage passengers, far more than our American counterparts, for example, do, but we still haven’t been able to make a voyage in those conditions a pleasure.”
“It did me no harm,” said Karl.
“It did him no harm!” repeated the Senator, with a loud laugh.
“Only I’m afraid I may have lost my suitcase—” and with that he suddenly remembered all that had taken place, and all that still remained to be done, and looked around at all those present, standing in silent respect and astonishment. None of them had moved and all were looking at him. Only in the port officials, inasmuch as their stern and self-satisfied faces told one anything, could one see regret that they had come at such an unsuitable time; the wristwatch they had laid out in front of them was probably more important to them than anything that had happened, and that might yet happen, in the room.
The first man, after the captain, to express his pleasure was, extraordinarily, the stoker. “Hearty congratulations,” he said and shook Karl by the hand, also wanting to show something like admiration. But when he approached the Senator with the same words, the latter took a step back, as though the stoker had taken things too far, and he stopped right away.
But the others saw what had to be done, and they crowded round Karl and the Senator. Even Schubal offered Karl his congratulations in the confusion, which he accepted with thanks. When things had settled down again, the last to appear were the port officials who said two words in English, and made a ridiculous impression.
To make the most of such a pleasant occasion, the Senator went on to describe, for the benefit of himself and everyone else present, various other, lesser moments, which weren’t only tolerated but listened to with interest. He pointed out, for instance, that he had copied down in his notebook some of Karl’s distinguishing features as they were described in the cook’s letter, in case they should prove useful to him. During the stoker’s intolerable tirade he had taken out the notebook for no other purpose than to amuse himself, and for fun tried to match the cook’s less than forensically accurate descriptions with Karl’s actual appearance. “And so a man finds his nephew,” he concluded, as though expecting a further round of congratulations.
“What’s going to happen to the stoker now?” asked Karl, ignoring his uncle’s latest story. It seemed to him that in his new position he was entitled to say whatever was on his mind.
“The stoker will get whatever he deserves,” said the Senator, “and whatever the captain determines. But I’m sure the company will agree we’ve had enough and more than enough of the stoker.”
“But that’s not the point, it’s a question of justice,” said Karl. He was standing between the captain and his uncle, and perhaps influenced by that position, he thought the decision lay in his hands.
But the stoker seemed to have given up hope. He kept his hands half tucked into his belt, which his excited movements had brought into full view along with a striped shirt. That didn’t trouble him in the least, he had made his complaint, let them see what rags he wore on his back, and then let them carry him off. He thought the servant and Schubal, the two lowliest persons present, should do him that final service. Then Schubal would have peace and quiet, no one to drive him to the brink of despair, as the chief cashier had said. The captain would be able to engage a crew of Rumanians, everyone would speak Rumanian, and maybe everything would go better. There would be no more stoker to speechify in the office, only his last tirade might live on fondly in their memories because, as the Senator had stated, it had led indirectly to the recognition of his nephew. That very nephew had tried to help him several times before that, and so he didn’t owe him anything for his help in having made him recognized; it never occurred to the stoker to ask anything more of him now. Anyway, Senator’s nephew he might be, but he wasn’t a captain, and it was the captain who would be having the final say in the affair— So the stoker wasn’t really trying to catch Karl’s eye, only, in a room filled with his enemies, there was nowhere else for him to look.
“Don’t misunderstand the situation,” said the Senator to Karl, “it may be a question of justice, but at the same time it’s a matter of discipline. In either case, and especially the latter, it’s for the captain to decide.”
“That’s right,” muttered the stoker. Anyone who heard him and understood smiled tightly.
“Moreover, we have kept the captain from his business for long enough, which must be particularly onerous at the moment of arrival in New York. It’s high time we left the ship, lest our completely unnecessary intervention may turn this trifling squabble between a couple of engineers into a major incident. I fully understand your behaviour, dear nephew, but that’s precisely what gives me the right to lead you swiftly from this place.”
“I’ll have them get a boat ready for you right away,” said the captain, astonishing Karl by not offering the slightest objection to the uncle’s self-deprecating words. The chief cashier hurried over to the desk and telephoned the captain’s order to the boatswain.
“Time is pressing,” Karl said to himself, “but without offending them all there is nothing I can do. I can’t leave my uncle who’s only just found me. The captain is being polite, but really nothing more. When it’s a matter of discipline, his kindness will come to an end, I’m sure uncle was right about that. I don’t want to talk to Schubal, I’m even sorry I shook hands with him. And everyone else here is just chaff.”
So thinking, he walked slowly over to the stoker, pulled his right hand out of his belt, and held it playfully in his own. “Why don’t you say anything?” he asked. “Why do you let them get away with it?”
The stoker furrowed his brow, as though looking for words for what he wanted to say. He looked down at his hand and Karl’s.
“You’ve suffered an injustice, more than anyone else on the ship, I’m convinced of that.” And Karl slipped his fingers back and forth between those of the stoker, whose eyes were shining and looking around as though feeling inexpressible bliss and at the same time daring anyone to take it away from him.
“You must stand up for yourself, say yes and no, otherwise people will never learn the truth. I want you to promise me to do that, because I’m very much afraid that soon I won’t be able to help you any more.” Karl was crying as he kissed the stoker’s cracked and almost lifeless hand, holding it and pressing it to his cheek, like some dear thing from which he had to be parted. His uncle the Senator appeared at his side, and, ever so gently, pulled him away. “The stoker seems to have put you under his spell,” he said, and looked knowingly across to the captain over Karl’s head. “You felt abandoned, then you found the stoker, and you’re showing your gratitude to him, it’s all very laudable. But please for my sake don’t overdo it, and learn to come to terms with your position.”
Outside the door, there was a commotion, shouting, and it even seemed as though someone was being viciously pushed against it. A rather wild-looking sailor came in, wearing a girl’s apron. “There’s people outside,” he said, pumping his elbows as though still in the crowd. Finally he came to his senses, and was about to salute the captain, when he noticed his girl’s apron, tore it off, threw it on the ground, and said: “That’s disgusting, they’ve tied a girl’s apron on me.” Then he clicked his heels together and saluted. Someone stifled a laugh, but the captain said sternly: “Enough of these high jinks. Who is it who’s outside?” “They are my witnesses,” said Schubal stepping forward, “I’d like to apologize for their behaviour. At the end of a long sea voyage, they sometimes get a little unruly.” “Call them in right away,” ordered the captain, and turning quickly to the Senator, he said kindly but briskly: “Would you be so kind now, my dear Senator, as to take your nephew and follow the sailor who will escort you to your boat? I can’t say what happiness and honour your personal acquaintance has brought me. I only wish I may have another opportunity soon of resuming our discussion of the American Navy, and then perhaps to be interrupted as pleasantly as we were today.” “One nephew’s enough for me for the moment,” said the uncle laughing. “And now please accept my thanks for your kindness, and farewell. It’s by no means out of the question that we”—he pressed Karl affectionately to himself—“might spend a little longer in your company on the occasion of our next visit to Europe.” “I should be delighted,” said the captain. The two gentlemen shook hands, Karl took the captain’s hand quickly and silently because he was then distracted by about fifteen people who had come into the office, a little chastened but very noisily still, under Schubal’s leadership. The sailor asked the Senator to let him go first, and cleared a way for him and Karl, who passed quite easily through the crowd of bowing people. It seemed these cheerful souls thought the quarrel between Schubal and the stoker was a joke that even the captain was being permitted to share. Among them Karl spotted Line the kitchen maid, who winked merrily at him as she tied on the apron which the sailor had thrown down, because it was hers.
With the sailor leading the way, they left the office and went out into a little passage, which after a few steps took them to a small door, after which a short flight of steps led them down to the boat which had been prepared for them. The sailors in the boat—into which their escort leapt with a single bound—rose to salute them. The Senator was just telling Karl to be careful as he climbed down, when Karl started sobbing violently on the top step. The Senator took Karl’s chin in his right hand, hugged him tight, and stroked him with his left hand. They went down together, one step at a time, and in a tight embrace got into the boat where the Senator found Karl a good seat directly facing him. At a signal from the Senator, the sailors pushed off from the ship, and straightaway were rowing hard. Barely a few metres from the ship, Karl discovered to his surprise that they were facing the side of the ship where the head office looked out. All three windows were occupied by Schubal’s witnesses, shouting goodbye and waving cheerfully, the uncle even waved back and one sailor managed to blow a kiss without interrupting the rhythm of his rowing. It really was as though there was no stoker. Karl examined his uncle a little more closely—their knees were almost touching—and he wondered whether this man would ever be able to replace the stoker for him. The uncle avoided his eye, and looked out at the waves, which were bobbing around the boat.
DECAY
Marjorie Bowen
I want to write it down at once, to get it ‘out of my head’ as they sa
y, though why one should suppose these things are in one’s head I don’t know—they seem to me all about us, flavouring the food we eat, colouring the sky.
Of course I’ve got the journalist’s habit of scribbling too, it is so much easier to jot things down than explain them by speech.
To us, at least.
And you are so far away it is a good excuse to send ‘newsy’ letters. Only, I’ve got a feeling that in Lima this will read, well, queer.
Still you must be interested and I must write, no, I forestall your objection, it won’t do for ‘copy.’ I’m not spoiling a good ‘scoop.’
What I have got to say can never be published.
Nor written to anyone but yourself—and you won’t speak of it, I know.
Good Lord, you won’t want to.
You’ll remember the people as they would you—we were all in the same ‘set’ together for so long—I think you were the first to break away when you got this Lima job, weren’t you?
And soon after that came the marriage of Cedric Halston.
You heard all about it, I sent you the ‘cuttings’ written by our own colleagues—you were rather fond of Halston, I think.
So was I.
Of course we were rather prejudiced by his being called Cedric and writing poetry, but it was such good stuff and he was such a decent sort and, of course, being so palpably ruined in Fleet Street! Much too good for what was too good for the rest of us, wasn’t he?
And rather more poverty-stricken than anyone ought to be it seemed to me.
Lord! The sheer sordidness of Halston, ‘hard-upishness’!
He couldn’t write his stuff for grind and worry and despair—but the little bits that struggled through as it were, were jolly fine.
Even the old Die-hards that ‘slam the door in the face of youth,’ etc., etc., said he was—well, the right stuff.
The Uncanny Reader Page 15
