The Berlin Stories

by Christopher Isherwood

  “You’re perfectly justified, of course, I deserve all the unkind things you say. Don’t spare me. But I promise you most solemnly, the thought that I was implicating you in any sort of crime never once entered my head. You see, everything has gone off exactly as we planned. After all where was the risk?”

  “There was more risk than what you think. The police knew all about our little expedition before we’d even started.”

  “The police? William, you’re not in earnest!”

  “You don’t think I’m trying to be funny, do you? Bayer told me to warn you. They’ve been round to see him and make inquiries.”

  “My God . . .”

  The last traces of stiffness had gone out of Arthur. He sat there like a crumpled paper bag, his blue eyes vivid with terror.

  “But they can’t possibly . . .”

  I went to the window.

  “Come and look, if you don’t believe me. He’s still there.”

  “Who’s still there?”

  “The detective who’s watching this house.”

  Without a word, Arthur hurried to my side at the window and took a peep at the man in the buttoned-up overcoat.

  Then he slowly went back to his chair. He seemed suddenly to have become much calmer.

  “What am I to do?” He appeared to be thinking aloud rather than addressing me.

  “You must clear out, of course; the moment you’ve got this money.”

  “They’ll arrest me, William.”

  “Oh no, they won’t. They’d have done it before this, if they were going to. Bayer says they’ve been reading all your letters . . . Besides, they don’t know everything for certain yet, he thinks.”

  Arthur pondered for some minutes in silence. He looked up at me in nervous appeal.

  “Then you’re not going to . . .” He stopped.

  “Not going to what?”

  “To tell them, well — er — everything?”

  “My God, Arthur!” I literally gasped. “What exactly, do you take me for?”

  “No, of course, dear boy . . . Forgive me. I might have known . . .” Arthur coughed apologetically. “Only, just for the moment, I was afraid. There might be quite a large reward, you see . . .”

  For several seconds I was absolutely speechless.

  Seldom have I been so shocked. Open-mouthed, I regarded him with a mixture of indignation and amusement, curiosity and disgust. Timidly, his eyes met mine. There could be no doubt about it. He was honestly unaware of having said anything to surprise or offend. I found my voice at last.

  “Well, of all the . . .”

  But my outburst was cut short by a furious volley of knocks on the bedroom door.

  “Herr Bradshaw! Herr Bradshaw!” Frl. Schroeder was in frantic agitation. “The water’s boiling and I can’t turn on the tap! Come quick this moment, or we shall all be blown to bits!”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” I told Arthur, and hurried out of the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three-quarters of an hour later, washed and shaved, I returned to Arthur’s room. I found him peering cautiously down into the street from behind the shelter of the lace curtain.

  “There’s a different one there now, William,” he told me. “They relieved each other about five minutes ago.”

  His tone was gleeful; he seemed positively to be enjoying the situation. I joined him at the window. Sure enough, a tall man in a bowler hat had taken the place of his colleague at the thankless task of waiting for the invisible girl friend.

  “Poor fellow,” Arthur giggled, “he looks terribly cold, doesn’t he? Do you think he’d be offended if I sent him down a medicine bottle full of brandy, with my card?”

  “He mightn’t see the joke.”

  Strangely enough, it was I who felt embarrassed. With indecent ease, Arthur seemed to have forgotten all the unpleasant things I had said to him less than an hour before. His manner towards me was as natural as if nothing had happened. I felt myself harden towards him again. In my bath, I had softened, regretted some cruel words, condemned others as spiteful or priggish. I had rehearsed a partial reconciliation, on magnanimous terms. But Arthur, of course, was to make the advances. Instead of which, here he was, blandly opening his wine-cupboard with his wonted hospitable air.

  “At any rate, William, you won’t refuse a glass yourself? It’ll give you an appetite for supper.”

  “No, thank you.”

  I tried to make my tone stern; it sounded merely sulky. Arthur’s face fell at once. His ease of manner, I saw now, had been only experimental. He sighed deeply, resigned to further penitence, assuming an expression which was like a funeral top-hat, lugubrious, hypocritical, discreet. It became him so ill that, in spite of myself, I had to smile.

  “It’s no good, Arthur. I can’t keep it up!”

  He was too cautious to reply to this, except with a shy, sly smile. This time, he wasn’t going to risk an over-hasty response.

  “I suppose,” I continued reflectively, “that none of them were ever really angry with you, were they, afterwards?”

  Arthur didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Demurely he inspected his fingernails.

  “Not everybody, alas, has your generous nature, William.”

  It was no good; we had returned to our verbal card-playing. The moment of frankness, which might have redeemed so much, had been elegantly avoided. Arthur’s orientally sensitive spirit shrank from the rough, healthy, modern catch-as-catch-can of home-truths and confessions; he offered me a compliment instead. Here we were, as so often before, at the edge of that delicate, almost visible line which divided our two worlds. We should never cross it now. I wasn’t old or subtle enough to find the approach. There was a disappointing pause, during which he rummaged in the cupboard.

  “Are you quite sure you won’t have a drop of brandy?”

  I sighed. I gave him up. I smiled.

  “All right. Thanks, I will.”

  We drank ceremoniously, touching glasses. Arthur smacked his lips with unconcealed satisfaction. He appeared to imagine that something had been symbolized: a reconciliation, or, at any rate, a truce. But no, I couldn’t feel this. The ugly, dirty fact was still there, right under our noses, and no amount of brandy could wash it away.

  Arthur appeared, for the moment, sublimely unconscious of its existence. I was glad. I felt a sudden anxiety to protect him from a realization of what he had done. Remorse is not for the elderly. When it comes to them, it is not purging or uplifting, but merely degrading and wretched, like a bladder disease. Arthur must never repent. And indeed, it didn’t seem probable that he ever would.

  “Let’s go out and eat,” I said, feeling that the sooner we got out of this ill-omened room the better. Arthur cast an involuntary glance in the direction of the window.

  “Don’t you think, William, that Frl. Schroeder would make us some scrambled eggs? I hardly feel like venturing out of doors, just now.”

  “Of course we must go out, Arthur. Don’t be silly. You must behave as normally as possible, or they’ll think you’re hatching some plot. Besides, think of that unfortunate man down there. How dull it must be for him. Perhaps if we go out, he’ll be able to get something to eat, too.”

  “Well, I must confess,” Arthur doubtfully agreed, “I hadn’t thought of it in that light. Very well, if you’re quite sure it’s wise . . .”

  It is a curious sensation to know that you are being followed by a detective; especially when, as in this case, you are actually anxious not to escape him. Emerging into the street, at Arthur’s side, I felt like the Home Secretary leaving the House of Commons with the Prime Minister. The man in the bowler hat was either a novice at his job or exceedingly bored with it. He made no attempt at concealment; stood staring at us from the middle of a pool of lamplight. A sort of perverted sense of courtesy prevented me from looking over my shoulder to see if he was following; as for Arthur, his embarrassment was only too painfully visible. His neck seemed to telescope into his body,
so that three-quarters of his face was hidden by his coat collar; his gait was that of a murderer retreating from a corpse. I soon noticed that I was subconsciously regulating my pace; I kept hurrying forward in an instinctive desire to get away from our pursuer, then slowing down, lest we should leave him altogether behind. During the walk to the restaurant, Arthur and I didn’t exchange a word.

  Barely had we taken our seats when the detective entered. Without a glance in our direction, he strode over to the bar and was soon morosely consuming a boiled sausage and a glass of lemonade.

  “I suppose,” I said, “that they’re not allowed to drink beer when they’re on duty.”

  “Ssh, William!” giggled Arthur, “he’ll hear you!”

  “I don’t care if he does. He can’t arrest me for laughing at him.”

  Nevertheless, such is the latent power of one’s upbringing, I lowered my voice almost to a whisper.

  “I suppose they pay him his expenses. You know, we really ought to have taken him to the Montmartre, and given him a treat.”

  “Or to the opera.”

  “It’d be rather amusing to go to church.”

  We sniggered together, like two boys poking fun at the schoolmaster. The tall man, if he was aware of our comments, bore himself with considerable dignity. His face, presented to us in profile, was gloomy, thoughtful, even philosophic; he might well have been composing a poem. Having finished the sausage, he ordered an Italian salad.

  The joke, such as it was, lasted right through our meal. I prolonged it, consciously, as much as I could. So, I think, did Arthur. Tacitly, we helped each other. We were both afraid of a pause. Silence would be too eloquent. And there was so little left for us to talk about. We left the restaurant as soon as was decently possible, accompanied by our attendant, who followed us home, like a nurse, to see us into bed. Through the window of Arthur’s room, we watched him take up his former position, under the lamp-post opposite the house.

  “How long will he stay there, do you think?” Arthur asked me anxiously.

  “The whole night, probably.”

  “Oh dear, I do hope not. If he does, I shan’t be able to sleep a wink.”

  “Perhaps if you appear at your window in your pyjamas, he’ll go away.”

  “Really, William, I hardly think I could do anything so immodest.” Arthur stifled a yawn.

  “Well,” I said a bit awkwardly, “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

  “Just what I was going to suggest myself, dear boy.” Holding his chin absently between his finger and thumb, Arthur looked vaguely around the room; added, with a simplicity which excluded all hint of irony:

  “We’ve both had a tiring day.”

  Next morning, at any rate, there was no time to feel embarrassed. We had too much to do. No sooner was Arthur’s head free from the barber’s hands than I came into his room, in my dressing-gown, to hold a conference. The smaller detective in the overcoat was now on duty. Arthur had to admit that he had no idea if either of them had spent the night outside the house. Compassion hadn’t, after all, disturbed his sleep.

  The first problem was, of course, to decide on Arthur’s destination. Inquiries must be made at the nearest travel bureau as to possible ships and routes. Arthur had already decided finally against Europe.

  “I feel I need a complete change of scene, hard as it is to tear oneself away. One’s so confined here, so restricted. As you get older, William, you’ll feel that the world gets smaller. The frontiers seem to close in, until there’s scarcely room to breathe.”

  “What an unplesant sensation that must be.”

  “It is,” Arthur sighed. “It is indeed. I may be a little overwrought at the present moment, but I must confess that, to me, the countries of Europe are nothing more or less than a collection of mousetraps. In some of them, the cheese is of a superior quality, that is the only difference.”

  We next discussed which of us should go out and make the inquiries. Arthur was most unwilling to do this.

  “But, William, if I go myself, our friend below will most certainly follow me.”

  “Of course he will. That’s just what we want. As soon as you’ve let the authorities know that you mean to clear out, you’ll have set their minds at rest. I’m sure they ask nothing better than to see your back.”

  But Arthur didn’t like it. Such tactics revolted all his secretive instincts. “It seems positively indecent,” he added.

  “Look here,” I said, cunningly. “I’ll go if you really want me to. But only on condition that you break the news to Frl. Schroeder yourself while I’m away.”

  “Really, dear boy . . . No. I couldn’t possibly do that. Very well, have it your own way . . .”

  From my window, half an hour later, I watched him emerge into the street. The detective took, apparently, not the faintest notice of his exit; he was engaged in reading the name-plates within the doorway of the opposite house. Arthur set off briskly, looking neither to left nor right. He reminded me of the man in the poem who fears to catch a glimpse of the demon which is treading in his footsteps. The detective continued to study the nameplates with extreme interest. Then at last, when I had begun to get positively exasperated at his apparent blindness, he straightened himself, pulled out his watch, regarded it with evident surprise, hesitated, appeared to consider, and finally walked away with quick, impatient strides, like a man who has been kept waiting too long. I watched his small figure out of sight in amused admiration. He was an artist.

  Meanwhile, I had my own, unpleasant task. I found Frl. Schroeder in the living-room, laying cards, as she did every morning of her life, to discover what would happen during the day. It was no use beating about the bush.

  “Frl. Schroeder, Herr Norris has just had some bad news. He’ll have to leave Berlin at once. He asked me to tell you . . .”

  I stopped, feeling horribly uncomfortable, swallowed, blurted out:

  “He asked me to tell you that . . . he’d like to pay for his room for January and the whole of February as well . . .”

  Frl. Schroeder was silent. I concluded, lamely —

  “Because of his having to go off at such short notice, you see . . .”

  She didn’t look up. There was a muffled sound, and a large tear fell on to the face of the card on a table before her. I felt like crying, too.

  “Perhaps . . .” I was cowardly. “It’ll only be for a few months. He may be coming back . . .”

  But Frl. Schroeder either didn’t hear or didn’t believe this. Her sobs redoubled; she did not attempt to restrain them. Perhaps Arthur’s departure was merely the last straw; once started, she had plenty to cry about. The rent and taxes in arrears, the bills she couldn’t pay, the rudeness of the coal-man, her pains in the back, her boils, her poverty, her loneliness, her gradually approaching death. It was dreadful to hear her. I began wandering about the room, nervously touching the furniture, in an ecstasy of discomfort.

  “Frl. Schroeder . . . it’s all right, really, it is . . . don’t . . . please . . .”

  She got over it at last. Mopping her eyes on a corner of the table-cloth, she deeply sighed. Sadly, her inflamed glance moved over the array of cards. She exclaimed, with a kind of mournful triumph:

  “Well, I never. Just look at that, Herr Bradshaw! The ace of spades . . . upside down! I might have known something like this would happen. The cards are never wrong.”

  Arthur arrived back from the travel bureau in a taxi, about an hour later. His hands were full of papers and illustrated brochures. He seemed tired and depressed.

  “How did you get on?” I asked.

  “Give me time, William. Give me time . . . I’m a little out of breath . . .”

  Collapsing heavily into a chair, he fanned himself with his hat. I strolled over to the window. The detective wasn’t at his usual post. Turning my head to the left, I saw him, however, some way farther down the street, examining the contents of the grocer’s shop.

  “Is he back already?” Arthur inquired.<
br />
  I nodded.

  “Really? To give the devil his due, that young man will go far in his unsavoury profession . . . Do you know, William, he had the effrontery to come right into the office and stand beside me at the counter? I even heard him making inquiries about a trip to the Harz.”

  “Perhaps he really wanted to go there; you never know. He may be having his holidays soon.”

  “Well, well . . . at all events, it was most upsetting . . . I had the greatest difficulty in arriving at the extremely grave decision I had to make.”

  “And what’s the verdict?”

  “I much regret to say,” Arthur regarded the buttons on his boot despondently, “that it will have to be Mexico.”

  “Good God!”

  “You see, dear boy, the possibilities, at such short notice, are very limited . . . I should have greatly preferred Rio, of course, or the Argentine. I even toyed with China. But everywhere, nowadays, there are such absurd formalities. All kinds of stupid and impertinent questions are asked. When I was young it was very different . . . An English gentleman was welcome everywhere, especially with a first-class ticket.”

  “And when do you leave?”

  “There’s a boat at midday tomorrow. I think I shall go to Hamburg today, on the evening train. It’s more comfortable, and, perhaps, on the whole, wiser; don’t you agree?”

  “I dare say. Yes . . . This seems a tremendous step to take, all of a sudden. Have you any friends in Mexico?”

  Arthur giggled. “I have friends everywhere, William, or shall I say accomplices?”

  “And what shall you do when you arrive?”

  “I shall go straight to Mexico City (a most depressing spot; although I expect it’s altered a great deal since I was there in nineteen-eleven). I shall then take rooms in the best hotel and await a moment of inspiration . . . I don’t suppose I shall starve.”

  “No, Arthur,” I laughed, “I certainly don’t see you starving!”

  We brightened. We had several drinks. We became quite lively.