Little Apple

by Leo Perutz

  One bleak winter's morning Vit¬torin presented himself at the offices of Pozledniye Nvosti, a newspaper edited by Pavel Milyukov. It was his eleventh such attempt, but this time he was in luck. Mikhail Mikhailovich Selyukov's name appeared on the subscribers' list, and the paper had been mailed to him at the same address for the last eight months. The address in question: Apartment 16, 2nd Floor, 124 Wahringer Gürtel, Vienna.

  Vienna . . . He could have stayed put and waited - he could have walked down the street one day, turned a corner, and ... He needn't have lifted a finger.

  The clerk in the subscription department looked up in surprise when he heard Vit¬torin's hoarse, mirthless bark of laughter.

  "I'm sorry," Vit¬torin said, gritting his teeth, "but it really is hilarious. Typhus, lice, starvation, war, imprisonment. Across Russia, half-way round Europe, through hell on earth in all its forms. I've slept on rotting straw and evaded arrest in Moscow. My comrades were shot in that accursed sugar factory. Marseille! Constantinople! I've rubbed shoulders with criminals from every corner of the earth, when all I really need have done, I see that now, was . . . Can you blame me for laughing?"

  He fell silent and stared dully at the flickering gas jet.

  "I don't understand," said the clerk. "If you wish to lodge a complaint, this isn't the place. You must apply to your legation - we can't help you. Was there something else?"

  Fräulein Fifi had just been to the theatre. It was the third time this week: Châtelet the day before yesterday, the music hall at the Olympia on Tuesday, the Trianon today. They'd left after the second act. There had been a minor altercation in the foyer between Mario and his friends - these Italians were so temperamental - but only over where they should have supper afterwards, the Fantasio or the Chez moi. In the end they'd agreed on Adrienne's for the sake of the coq en pâte, its celebrated speciality. Mario knew all the best restaurants. Now they were sitting in the hotel bar, and it was boring. Mario and his friends were talking business, discussing stocks and shares such as Creusot, Hotchkiss, Gaz Torino, Randfontein. If Randfontein or Tanganyika went up in the next few days, Fräulein Fifi would get her platinum bracelet, she knew . . . There was dancing in the ballroom across the way - she could see the couples through the open door. The young Belgian had looked in just to say hello to her. He was sorry he couldn't stay, he said. An urgent appointment, but he'd be back in half an hour. An awfully handsome young man, he was. Polite, charming, good-mannered, well-educated - a real gentleman. Unpunctual, that was his only failing. When he said he'd be back in half an hour, he . . . Still, the half-hour wasn't up yet. He'd invited her to go to Brussels with him. An opera singer, a friend of his, would test her voice. "With a voice like yours, you can't fail to make your fortune, believe me, Fräulein Fifi. The makings are there. All you need is coaching." Brussels was a lovely city, so they said. Practise scales every day? Well, why not? Mind you, there wasn't a lovelier city in the world than Paris, but Mario only intended to stay another week. Poor Mario, he didn't know he'd be travelling back to Milan on his own, not yet, but he was the one who'd always said they would have to split up sooner or later . . .

  Fifi had three alternatives: she could go to Brussels, London, or Menton. She had lots of friends. The architect whose name she could never remember wanted to take her to London with him, but London didn't appeal to her overmuch. London at this time of year? Ugh! The baron was the smartest of the lot. He lived in Paris, but he wasn't as rich as all that, according to Mario - his father kept him short. She wouldn't go to Milan, not for anything. Milan was a deadly place. It would be nice if the young Belgian showed up again . . .

  Her glass was empty. A waiter appeared like magic and plucked the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket. Mario was still going on about East Rand and Crédit Mobilier. The waiter was supposed to be a genuine count - a Count Volkonsky

  whereas the Baron was just a baron. The Baron said "tu" to Mario. How did Mario come to know an aristocrat like him? Mario was a footwear manufacturer. He looked really comical in a dinner jacket, with his jet-black moutache and his fat red face.

  Fifi drank a little champagne, just to pass the time, and all at once she felt sad. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she yearned to rest her head on Mario's shoulder. She knew precisely why she was feeling so tearful: because it had rained and snowed all day and the sun was nowhere to be seen; because she wouldn't be going to Milan with Mario; because she'd missed the third act; because the poor waiter was a genuine count and had to carry trays around. Life was so awful, so lovely and so sad, and time went by so fast.

  But her fit of the blues soon passed. No more tears. She was suddenly in a good mood again - almost in high spirits. It was nice to sit here and watch people. She enjoyed trying to guess where they came from and what they did during the day. They were such a mixed bag: painters and other forms of genius, Parisian socialites, American tourists, bourgeois from the provinces. The pale, clean-shaven gentleman looked like an actor, probably a film actor. The plump man with the cigar came from Holland and was a wholesale butter merchant. Done any good business in Paris, Mynheer Vanderbeek? Really? Delighted to hear it. That fellow over there in the threadbare suit must be a student from the Latin Quarter. He was being reckless today and drinking a coffee here instead of in some cheap cafe. Why was he staring at her? Was he admiring her dress? It came from Madeleine's in rue Rougemont, my lad, if you're interested. What did he want? Why was he staring at her like that?

  Fräulein Fifi's face took on a bewildered, helpless expression. She was just about to turn to Mario - "That man over there, what's he playing at?" - when the man in question raised his head and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Without knowing why, Fräulein Fifi got up and went over to his table.

  "Georg! What are you doing here?"

  "Is it really you, Franzi? I kept looking at you and wondering if it was you or not."

  "Have I changed that much? What about you? Where have you sprung from? Tell me!"

  They both spoke at once, asked a score of questions, talked at cross purposes. She glanced at Mario, but he was still deep in conversation and hadn't even noticed that she'd left the table.

  "Hold on, I'll join you," she said. "And now, tell me all about yourself."

  "You first. If you've come from Vienna, what news of my father and my sisters?"

  "I don't know. They're fine, I think - I've been away for so long. It was just a holiday trip at first, but then I fell in love with the place."

  "Have you got a job here?" Vit¬torin asked.

  She tossed her head. "No, I do a lot of travelling. Menton, Brussels ... I may study singing - the next few days will tell. One of my gentlemen friends -"

  Vit¬torin scowled at her. "The baron, you mean?"

  "You know?" she said, taken aback. "How come you know him?"

  Then she remembered. A long-forgotten spectacle took shape in her mind's eye: two dummies ingeniously constructed of old clothes and seated on a sofa. She smiled.

  "Yes, the Baron's here too - I see him sometimes - but my friend is that gentleman over there, the one with the black moustache. He's a big industrialist from Milan. I met him in Lugano."

  Vit¬torin was still in the dark. He knew only that he had lost her, perhaps for ever. She belonged to someone else.

  "Are you fond of him?" he asked. "Do you intend to marry him?"

  "Yes - maybe, I mean, but what's the difference? He's a divorced Catholic."

  Vit¬torin said nothing.

  "Paris is wonderful, isn't it? Fantastically interesting. Do you like it here?"

  Vit¬torin still said nothing.

  "Don't keep staring at my hands," she went on, "I know they aren't my best feature. My, look at the fur that woman's wearing! Chinchilla!"

  Vit¬torin had come to a decision. He looked her full in the face.

  "What if I ask you this, Franzi? Will you come home with me - will you start a new life with me? Well, answer!"

  The question took her by surprise. She
was so bewildered she didn't know what to say.

  " 'What if?' - that's what you said, but you don't have any intention of asking me, not really."

  "Yes I do! I want to know. In two day's time my mission will be over. Two days from now I'll be free. I'll work, I'll earn a living. That's the situation. And now, answer me."

  Back to the dreary daily grind? Back to the typewriter? Up at seven every morning to brew the breakfast coffee on a gas ring? Living as a twosome in a back room overlooking an air well? Could she? It was unthinkable - he didn't have the first idea! However, she refrained from turning him down flat.

  "Do I have to decide right away, Georg?"

  "Yes, you do. I can't wait."

  "It would be lovely," she said, "but it wouldn't work."

  "Why not?"

  "Why do you think! What would my friends say if I simply walked out on them? And besides -"

  "So you won't?"

  "No, Georg, it really wouldn't do. Don't be angry with me."

  They were like two strangers all of a sudden. Neither of them spoke a word. Vit¬torin glanced at the clock - time was getting short. Franzi glanced oyer at Mario, uncertain how to say goodbye. There was nothing left to say.

  There was the young Belgian at last! He paused in the doorway, smitten with indecision at the sight of her in the company of a man he didn't know - not her type at all.

  "Please excuse me, Georg," Franzi said quickly, "I'm meeting someone. Will we see each other again?"

  Vit¬torin had risen.

  "I doubt it. My train leaves in forty minutes."

  "Really?" She raised her eyebrows. "Forty minutes, eh? You're still the same as ever - always leaving on the next train out. Goodbye, Georg."

  The young Belgian escorted her to the ballroom. She turned in the doorway and gave a little wave before settling herself in her partner's arms. Other couples glided past. Vit¬torin spotted the mauve-trimmed neckline of Franzi's dress and the gleam of her hair. Then she disappeared from view.

  He continued to stand there, waiting for a final glimpse of her. Five minutes went by, then six. He would have to go. Numerous couples had passed the door, swaying to the music as they stared straight through him with an air of total indifference. Franzi might have been among them, he couldn't say for sure.

  SELYUKOV

  There were only three other people in the compartment from Innsbruck onwards. The old woman in the headscarf was bound for Bischofshofen to take up a post as cook at a Gasthaus there. The plump, bald, cheerful man, who travelled for a wholesale wine firm, had samples of numerous South Tyrolean wines in his case. As soon as they pulled out of Innsbruck he begged a slice of bread from the Gasthaus cook and cut it into four equal portions. Then he produced a tasting cup from his case and invited the others to sample his Terlaner, Traminer and St Mag-dalener. The young man in the sports jacket, a power station engineer, announced that he was off to South America in a couple of years' time. Brazil - that was the land of the future.

  The wine salesman nodded. There was still money to be made in South America, he said. He used to have a relative in Lima, a maternal great-uncle to whom he would always be grateful for the remittances that had helped to finance his education. There were worse preparations for life than five years in high school. A certain standard of education was essential in his job. You had to be able to communicate with customers, find out what their interests were and what they liked to talk about; then the orders came by themselves. He'd been in the wine trade for five years. Before that he'd travelled for a typewriter manufacturer, but that was an absolute dog's life.

  "Are you going to Vienna on business?" he asked, turning to Vit¬torin.

  Vit¬torin, staring into space, didn't answer right away. He was picturing a room with red curtains, and standing in the room was Selyukov. The book on the desk was a French novel with a frontispiece depicting a naked woman. A shot! Selyukov had fired. The bullet ploughed into the door panel and splintered it. He had no time to fire again. It was Vit¬torin's turn now, but what if there was a woman in the room? Selyukov had a woman on the premises, that was absolutely certain; he'd got her hidden behind the screen. She would scream - she would call for help. Well, let her. Let her scream - let her telephone the police, it didn't matter what happened afterwards. Selyukov collapsed and lay quite still. He'd pulled the screen over on top of him as he fell . . .

  "No," said Vit¬torin, "I'm going to Vienna for purely personal reasons."

  The train made a longish stop at Salzburg. A little man with a remarkably pallid complexion was pacing the platform, his shoulders hunched up against the cold. His smart patent-leather shoes contrasted oddly with an unfashionable hat, an ill-cut overcoat, and a pair of excessively baggy trousers displaying only vestiges of a crease. He was muttering to himself as he went. Vit¬torin accosted him. The pale-faced man glanced at him, raised his hat, and walked on. Vit¬torin caught him up.

  "It's Herr Bamberger, isn't it? Don't you remember me?"

  The man came to a halt.

  "Yes, I think so. That's to say, my memory's not of the best. Can you give me a little help?"

  "My name is Georg Vit¬torin."

  "Georg Vit¬torin - of course. Please forgive me for not recognizing you right away. What can I do for you, Herr Vit¬torin?"

  "I had a conversation with you a couple of years ago, Herr Bamberger. I've often thought of you since. All I really wanted to ask you was: did you win your war?"

  "My war?" Herr Bamberger looked mystified.

  "Yes, you predicted the collapse of our currency, and you were right. You said there was going to be a war of each against all, and you were determined to win it."

  "Forgive me, but I'm still not absolutely . . . what was your name again?"

  "Georg Vit¬torin. You were renting a room in my father's apartment at the time."

  Herr Bamberger smote his brow.

  "I've placed you at last! My memory really does let me down sometimes. How are your sisters, Herr Vit¬torin?"

  The power station engineer walked past. He respectfully raised his hat, but Herr Bamberger failed to notice.

  "One of them got married," Vit¬torin improvised. "The elder of the two, but you probably knew that." He paused. "Or aren't you still in touch with my family?"

  "I fear we've drifted apart," Herr Bamberger said politely.

  "You grew tired of the room, I suppose?"

  "Not at all. I simply found it more convenient to rent a small apartment near my office. What about you, Herr Vit¬torin?"

  "I've been travelling for the past two years. France, Spain, Turkey, Russia."

  "An educational tour?"

  "Not really. I had some personal business to attend to abroad."

  "And now? What are your future plans?"

  "That's what I'd like to discuss with you, Herr Bamberger. I don't want to go back to the old routine - I've developed an aversion to the phrase 'a steady job'. I want to be free and independent. I want to work for myself, not help to line someone else's pockets."

  Herr Bamberger stared silently, thoughtfully, into the middle distance.

  "You want my opinion? Well, if I may offer you a word of advice -"

  He broke off. A smartly dressed young man had just hurried up.

  "Excuse me," the young man said with a little bow. "We're not leaving for eight minutes. Your call to Vienna will be through in another two. Would you like me to -"

  "Thanks," Herr Bamberger cut in. "I'll take it myself."

  He turned back to Vit¬torin.

  "Do forgive me, I have to speak with Vienna urgently. Please remember me to your family. Ah yes, you asked my advice. I don't take too rosy a view of the immediate future - there's a cold wind blowing. If you want my opinion, obtain a modest but secure position in some well-established firm - that's your best hedge against the years to come. Delighted to have met you again, Herr Vit¬torin. My regards to your charming sisters."

  And he set off for the stationmaster's office.
r />   The engineer was waiting in the doorway of the compartment.

  "Are you personally acquainted with President Bamberger?" he asked as Vit¬torin resumed his seat.

  "Slightly acquainted, yes," said Vit¬torin. "Is he a president these days? What does the title signify?"

  "He's the boss of C. L. F. Holdings, didn't you know? One of our biggest industrial tycoons."

  "I see. What about the young man with him?"

  "His private secretary, at a guess. An enviable job. Some folk have all the luck. He probably earns a minister's salary, goes on nice trips in a private railway carriage —"

  "A private carriage?"

  "Of course. That's why we're six minutes late, because we waited at Schwarzach for President Bamberger's private carriage. I doubt if we'll make up the time before we get to Linz."

  Vit¬torin brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and made no comment. He had only a fleeting recollection of the elegant young man who had inherited his share of life's table d'hôte.

  "Bamberger's a dollar millionaire many times over," the engineer went on. "I read in the paper last week that he's acquired a majority holding in our company as well. I'm with Elektro-Union, by the way. How did you get to know him?"

  "He once offered me a place in his private carriage," Vit¬torin said pensively, "but I turned it down. Our destinations were entirely different."

  Suburban roofs and windows reflected the light of a bleak winter's morning. The puddles of melted snow had become coated with a thin film of ice overnight. Vit¬torin strode briskly along, shivering in his thin overcoat but heedless of the wind that drove watery snowflakes into his face and the damp chill that penetrated his clothing. Oskar tried hard to keep in step. Every now and then he glanced sideways at his long-lost brother, alarmed by the strange, set expression on his face. This was his third attempt to engage Georg in conversation.