by Leo Perutz
Vit¬torin stared at the green silk shade of the managing director's desk lamp with a sheepish, helpless smile on his face. The interview had taken a course bewilderingly at odds with his preconceived plan. He had felt certain that he would meet with a cool, casual, businesslike reception. He would then have found it easy to decline the managing director's offer of a steady job and demand his terminal grant - the money he needed - as of right. The fact that the managing director had spoken to him in such a benevolent, even friendly manner, and had commended his knowledge of foreign languages, was an unforeseen hurdle. Could he summarily give notice under such circumstances? Yes, he had to have that money. The managing director was looking impatient and drumming on the leather blotter with his pencil.
"Please excuse me," Vit¬torin said with sudden decision. "I apologize for taking up a little more of your valuable time, but I've no choice. This isn't easy for me, you understand ..."
He faltered. It wasn't so simple to find the right words. He tried again.
"I'm in an embarrassing position. I don't know how you'll take this, sir, but circumstances compel me to . . ."
The managing director sat back and looked at him over the top of his glasses.
"Yes, well, I think I've a rough idea of what's troubling you," he said. "It's odd, but all you gentlemen back from the war suffer from the same problem. None of you seems to have managed to accumulate any assets while on active service. Never mind. Pursuant to a directive issued on August 17th of the current year, the management is empowered to grant all ex-servicemen employees with families to support a one-time ex gratia payment equivalent to three months' salary. Are you married?"
"No - that's to say, I intend -"
The managing director brushed this aside.
"No hurry," he said, "there's plenty of time. You aren't a breadwinner, so I can only authorize a quarter's advance on salary to be repaid in monthly instalments from January ist onwards. Go and see Herr Weber on the second floor."
The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.
"Yes, speaking . . . Good afternoon, Herr Nussbaum . . . Yes indeed, I have the file in front of me . . . No, I'm afraid I don't share your point of view, we've met you more than half-way . . . What? Out of the question. We like to be accommodating, but . . . It's a matter of . . . Kindly allow me to speak . . . Exactly, it's a matter of. . . Please think it over. I'll give you until tomorrow to reconsider my proposal ... I should regret that too . . . What did you say? Do so by all means, Herr Nussbaum. I shall await the outcome of the hearing with an easy mind. And the same to you, sir. Goodbye."
Vit¬torin seized the opportunity to demonstrate his professional enthusiasm and knowledge of the firm's clientele.
"Adolf Nussbaum & Co., No. 15 Praterstrasse," he said. "Soaps and fats. Telegraphic address: Fettbaum, Vienna. That was the boss himself, if I'm not much mistaken."
"Quite right, Herr Nussbaum in person. Have you had dealings with the firm?"
"Of course, they're one of our oldest customers. They export mainly to the Balkan States and the Levant. Herr Adolf Nussbaum is a very quick-tempered gentleman. He threatens to sue at the drop of a hat."
"Good," said the managing director. "I can see you won't take long to get back into the swing. About that advance: apply to Herr Weber in Personnel, as I said - tell him to submit the cash voucher for my signature. Oh yes, and while you're here, take this folder and drop it in at the forwarding department on your way out."
Kohout had volunteered to obtain the passport and visas required for the journey. He felt quite competent to undertake this far from easy task because he had seen and learnt a great deal during his two weeks in Dr Sigismund Eichkatz's law office, where he had been engaged as a kind of confidential clerk.
Dr Eichkatz owed his brisk flow of business to a capacity for observing and, at the same time, circumventing the laws and ordinances that hampered his clients' entrepreneurial activ-ites. He respected those laws because, having been devised by the human brain, they betrayed their provenance all too clearly in their flaws and imperfections, and he despised them because they clothed themselves in an aura of infallibility. He never permitted himself to infringe them because he knew that their rigid immutability was no match for a nimble mind. They crushed the fools who broke them and gave free rein to the sagacious souls who paid them the respect they demanded.
Dr Eichkatz was an expert in the outflanking manoeuvres peculiar to guerrilla warfare. His name was uttered with reverence in certain quarters of Vienna, and his address circulated in the coffee-houses where dealers traded in jute, cattle, barley, or artificial silk. In October 1918, when it became clear that his office staff, which comprised a typist and a receptionist, was no longer equal to the demands of his expanding practice, Dr Eichkatz augmented it by one. Kohout, with whom he had become acquainted in the billiard room of the Café Élite, was employed to keep the filing system up to date and rake in outstanding fees from tardy payers.
Vit¬torin, having telephoned his friend to expect him, was greeted with the long-suffering air of a man whose shoulders bore the full brunt of a responsible job.
"You'll have to wait awhile," Kohout told him. "I've got to deal with the people in the waiting-room first. Sit down and listen for a bit — it's quite entertaining sometimes. I'll be through in half an hour, then we can discuss things in peace. The boss won't disturb us if I tell him I've got a visitor." He broke off. "Fräulein Gusti, that's the Doctor's bell. He wants you!"
The typist scurried into the inner office, only to reappear a moment later.
"Herr Kohout, quick, the Spannagel file!"
Dr Eichkatz's irritable voice, resonant as a pipe-organ, came drifting through the open door.
"You expect too much of me, Herr Spannagel. I'm a lawyer, not a prophet. I've no idea how your case will turn out. If I were a clairvoyant I wouldn't practise law, I'd go on the stage with you, Herr Spannagel."
"For heaven's sake shut the door, Herr Kohout," Fräulein Gusti called from her typewriter. "He's playing the fool again today."
Kohout shut the door of the inner office and turned to Vit¬torin.
"It's like that all the time here. I'm not going to be able to stand it for long, believe me. I mean, did you see those people outside in the waiting-room? Some clients, eh? What faces! If you sentenced them all to three years' hard labour you wouldn't be doing them an injustice. All right, here we go. Fräulein Gusti, give that typewriter a bit of a rest, would you? I can't hear myself speak."
He extracted a folder from the stack of files on his desk and raised his voice in a stentorian bellow.
"Herr Jonas Eiermann, if you please!"
Out of the waiting-room came a short, stout, bearded man in a raincoat rather too small for him. He deposited his hat on Kohout's desk, bowed, washed his hands with imaginary soap, turned to Vit¬torin, said "Eiermann", and sat down.
"Herr Eiermann," Kohout began, "I gather you wish to be sued for the repayment of a debt of fourteen kronen in the district court at Innsbruck. May I ask you for something on account?"
"Why, don't you think my credit's good?" Herr Eiermann demanded.
"Good or bad, it makes no difference," Kohout told him. "We don't give credit and we make no exceptions. Money in advance, that's our rule. You fork out, we sue. I'm not lifting a finger till I see a hundred and sixty kronen on this desk in hard cash."
"I can't run to a hundred and sixty," Herr Eiermann replied after a pause for thought.
"All right, I'm prepared to accommodate you. How much can you run to?"
"A hundred at the outside."
"Very well, make it a hundred. Fräulein Gusti, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for —"
"But I can't raise the hundred for another three weeks."
"Three weeks?" Kohout exclaimed. "Out of the question. How much can you raise right away, today?"
Herr Eiermann grimaced as if he had swallowed something nasty. He was obviously in the throes of some internal convulsion.
"Fräulein, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for sixty kronen and let's get this settled."
"But I don't have the sixty kronen on me," said Herr Eiermann.
"You don't have them on you? I guessed as much. You decline to pay, in other words?"
"I never said that!" Herr Eiermann protested, sounding hurt.
"I see, so you are prepared to pay. How much do you actually have on you, if I may make so bold?"
"I'm not sure. Thirty, maybe."
"A pleasure to do business with you," Kohout said wearily. "All right, for God's sake pay your thirty kronen and get it over."
Herr Eiermann produced a leather briefcase of indeterminate colour, rummaged in the various compartments, and brought out three crumpled banknotes.
Kohout took them between finger and thumb and dropped them into his open desk drawer. Then he ushered Herr Eiermann into Dr Eichkatz's office.
Dr Eichkatz, seemingly exhausted, was seated at the desk with his eyes shut and his massive bald head propped on his hairy fists. The Virginia cigarette that dangled from his flaccid lips had gone out. His gaunt frame came to life as Herr Eier-mann walked in.
"Herr Jonas Eiermann," Kohout announced. "Entry permit for Innsbruck, Tyrol.''
"So you want to go to Innsbruck, do you?" said Dr Eich-katz. "What's your nationality, Herr Eiermann?"
"I'm not Austrian," Eiermann replied.
"I didn't ask what you aren't, I asked what you are," the lawyer boomed. "You aren't an Eskimo either, or a member of the African race, or a Mohammedan, or a cowboy, or an English viscount, or a Hindu dancing girl. You're none of those things, I realize that. Now kindly tell me what you are."
"I'm a Polish citizen," Herr Eiermann replied, utterly intimidated.
"At last, God be praised! So you're a Polish citizen who wants to go to Innsbruck. That'll be all, Herr Kohout," said Dr Eichkatz, and Kohout withdrew.
The typist, who had finished her work, was single-mindedly devouring a cheese sandwich. Vit¬torin had risen and was striding up and down the room.
"Some clients, eh?" sighed Kohout. "Haggling with Herr Eiermann was no fun. 'Pick 'em clean!' - that's what Dr Eichkatz keeps telling me, but it's easier said than done. Extracting money from a man like that is like getting blood out of a stone."
It dawned on Kohout that Vit¬torin was growing impatient.
"Now to business," he went on. "The folks outside can wait." He glanced at Fräulein Gusti and lowered his voice. "If only that creature would push off and leave us to talk in peace. She's usually out of here like a shot at half-past five. She's got a railwayman boyfriend - he waits for her downstairs. They're engaged, more or less, but he'll never marry her."
"Tell me something," said Vit¬torin. "You stayed on for a while at Emperger's the other night. Was any more said about the matter?"
"You bet. They all poked fun at you." Kohout shifted from foot to foot and wrung his hands. "That knucklehead Emperger claimed you'd become infatuated with a Russian officer - those were his very words. The Professor said you were going to Russia to increase the sum of human suffering - you know what he's like, always trying to impress people with his philosophical turns of phrase. As for Feuerstein, he called the whole idea plain stupid."
Vit¬torin chewed his lip and stared into space.
"A thing can be stupid and necessary just the same," he said.
"Of course," said Kohout. "Have you got the money?"
"Yes, six hundred kronen."
"You must change them into dollars right away. Your best bet is to go to the Café Élite, buttonhole one of the foreign exchange racketeers in the back room, and say you want some American noodles - that's their slang term for dollar bills. Mind you don't pick a con artist, though - perhaps I'd better go with you. As for a Russian visa, you won't get one through normal channels, I've made careful inquiries. The Russian Red Cross mission in Vienna issues visas, but they can take months to come through. We'll have to handle this another way, and I know how: Galatz — that's where you're going."
"Galatz? Won't I need a Rumanian visa?"
"Yes, the Rumanian military mission will issue you with one. That won't be easy either, but money talks. Getting across the Russian border will be no problem once you're in Galatz. You can go on foot, by road, or, if you really want to play it safe, there are passport factories all over Rumania-Braila, Focshani, Bottoshani, Galatz itself. It'll cost you two hundred kronen - a tidy sum, admittedly, but you'll have to allow for that. Herr Eiermann's problem is far simpler. He only wants to go to the Tyrol, not Russia."
"Herr Eiermann?" said Vit¬torin. "You mean he's also after an entry permit?"
"Of course, didn't you hoist that in? The provincial authorities in the Tyrol won't let anyone domiciled in Galicia across the border. Herr Eiermann has urgent business in Innsbruck, so what does he do? He gets us to sue him in the local district court for non-payment of some trivial sum - fourteen kronen or whatever - and produces his summons at the checkpoint. All in order, nothing to be done. They have to let him across."
Vit¬torin was horrified.
"And that's the sort of sharp practice you engage in here?" '
"My dear fellow, what do you expect? Transactions like these are relatively kosher. People come to us with the most outrageous requests and proposals, you've no idea! I sometimes wonder why I ever studied law for four terms - a course in picking pockets would have been more to the point, but never mind, I ought to be grateful that Eichkatz took me on. I wouldn't find another job too easily, not with this arm of mine. As for home . . . My father's remarried and I don't get on with my stepmother - she makes some spiteful remark every time she puts a bite of food in front of me. If only I could go back to university and get my degree, but no: I've got to earn, earn, earn! Isn't it enough to turn you into a Bolshevik, the lousy, rotten, putrid society we're living in today?"
Vit¬torin rose. "You ought to come to Russia with me," he said.
"Yes," said Kohout, "I'd thought of that too."
On Kohout's advice Vit¬torin sold everything of value he possessed: his bicycle, two gold rings, the classics and deluxe editions in his bookcase, the Goertz binoculars he'd bought before the war and paid for by monthly instalments, a Kodak camera, a walking stick with an ivory handle, a tie-pin set with two small sapphires - a birthday present from his father - and, last but not least, a Domb oboe and a pair of Halifax skates. His sisters failed to notice the gradual disappearance of these articles, the proceeds of which, added to his existing nest egg, were sufficient to cover his travelling expenses. Now that nothing humanly foreseeable could prevent him from putting his plan into effect, Vit¬torin regained his peace of mind and emotional poise. The phantom that had taken possession of his brain granted him a brief spell of relaxation before plunging him into a world of adventure.
He had resolved to give no further thought to his mission, as he termed it, until that mission summoned him away. He was on leave, so to speak, but there were obligations to fulfil even now. He wanted to devote his remaining days of freedom to the people who had a claim on him: his father, his sisters, his employer, and the girl who loved him. He would give none of them cause for complaint.
He was first in the office at eight each morning. Having still to be assigned specific duties, he helped out wherever he was needed. In an effort to make himself useful and pull his weight, he performed all kinds of menial work. He answered the telephone, added up long columns of figures, and typed letters dictated to him by junior colleagues. At home he was always ready to look through his brother's French exercises, fetch books and sheet music from the lending library for his sisters, or play a game of chess with his taciturn, pipe-smoking, careworn father, who had retired into his shell. When plans for the coming week - a visit to friends, for instance, or a Sunday afternoon outing - were under discussion in the family circle, he would listen in silence with an indulgent, almost imperceptible smile that gave no inkling of how rem
ote he felt from all such concerns.
The evenings he spent with Franzi, who would emerge from her office to find him waiting at the end of the street in his old army tunic. They frequented cinemas, wine cellars, or small suburban inns, but wherever they went there were people. Never alone with him for a moment, Franzi grew tired of waiting. She would happily have shared a small bed-sitter with him as his wife or mistress, no matter which, but she realized that this wouldn't happen overnight. There were too many hurdles to surmount. Franzi became doubly impatient for the day when they would be all by themselves. She made cryptic allusions to that day, the first of December, without betraying any of the little surprises she had prepared for their assignation in her parents' apartment. She had borrowed a gramophone and some of the latest dance records from a girl at the office. Her other acquisitions included a small supply of wood and coal, a bottle of brandy, and the ingredients for a bowl of punch: rum, lemons and sugar - all of them things that had long possessed rarity value.
Two glasses of wine were enough to make Franzi frolicsome and exuberant. She would begin to take an interest in the other male customers and throw them flirtatious glances, and when these evoked a response - when someone covertly raised his glass to her or made some jocular remark - she would turn to Vit¬torin with a look of helpless bewilderment, as if to ask him what the man was after. Later, her high spirits abruptly gave way to dejection. She would rest her head on Vit¬torin's shoulder and sob till the tears streamed down her cheeks. She never omitted to explain the reason for her fit of the blues: she was crying because of the dismal autumn weather, or because her boss had shouted at her during the day, or because her mother wouldn't allow her to keep a canary, or simply because life was so sad and wonderful and short.
After walking her home, Vit¬torin often looked in at the Café Élite, where Kohout would interrupt his game of billiards to report progress. Things were shaping nicely. The Rumanian route had been abandoned because East Galicia was far more accessible: to obtain an entry permit you had only to feign a wish to visit the grave of a brother killed in action there. Once in East Galicia, Kohout declared, you were home and dry. All that remained was to get through the Red Army's lines, but for that no papers were needed. The new Russia was devoid of bureaucracy. Personal courage, resourcefulness and self-assurance - all would depend on those alone.
