Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “You do understand, Ludwig?” murmured Siegmund Kern.

  “Yes, Father. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”

  With the palm of his hand he gently patted his father’s bony back and stared over his shoulder at a picture hanging above the piano, a picture of a snow slide in the Tyrol.

  “Well, I’ll go now—”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll just pay for the lemonade. I brought along a package of cigarettes for you too. You’ve grown big, Ludwig, big and strong.”

  Yes, and you’ve grown old and shaky, Kern thought. If I only had one of those fellows from across the border, one of the men who brought you to this—if I only had him here, so that I could smash his stupid, fat, complacent face! “You’re looking well too, Father,” he said. “The lemonade has been paid for. I’m earning a little money now. And do you know how? With our old stock. With your almond cream and your Farr toilet water. A druggist here still has a supply, and I buy from him.”

  Siegmund Kern’s eyes brightened a little. Then he smiled sadly. “And now you have to go around peddling it. You must forgive me, Ludwig.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” A lump rose in Kern’s throat and he had to swallow suddenly. “It’s the best school in the world, Father. You learn about life from the bottom up. And about people too. After that, there’s not much chance of being disillusioned.”

  “Just don’t get sick.”

  “No, I’m pretty well toughened.”

  They went out. “You have so much hope, Ludwig.”

  My God, Kern thought, he calls this hope. Hope! “Everything will get straightened out again,” he said. “It can’t go on this way.”

  “Yes—” the old man stared in front of him. “Ludwig,” he said softly, “when we’re all together again—and your mother is there too—” He gestured as though brushing something away. “We’ll forget all about this—we’ll not even think about it any more, eh?”

  He spoke softly with a kind of childish trustfulness, in a voice that was like the twittering of a tired bird. “If it weren’t for me you would be going on with your studies now, Ludwig,” he said plaintively and a little mechanically, like someone who has brooded over a consciousness of guilt for so long that the phrases have become automatic.

  “If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t be alive,” Kern replied.

  “Keep healthy, Ludwig. Won’t you take the cigarettes? After all I’m your father. I’d like to do something for you.”

  “All right, Father, I’ll keep them.”

  “Don’t forget me altogether,” the old man said and his lips suddenly began to quiver. “I meant well, Ludwig.” He kept repeating the name again and again as though unwilling to relinquish it. “Even if I didn’t succeed, Ludwig. I meant to take care of all of you, Ludwig.”

  “You did take care of us, as long as you could.”

  “Well, I’ll be going now. The best of luck to you, my child.”

  Child, Kern thought—which of us two is the child? He watched his father walk slowly down the street. He had promised to write, and to see him again. But he knew that actually he was seeing him for the last time. He looked after him, wide-eyed, till he was out of sight. And he had a feeling of emptiness.

  He went back. Marill was still sitting on the terrace reading his paper with an expression of loathing and contempt. Strange, Kern thought, how fast something can fall to pieces—in the time someone else spends quietly reading the newspaper. Orphan, fifty years old—His face twitched in bitter amusement. An orphan—as if one couldn’t be that without one’s father and mother being dead.

  Three days later Ruth Holland left for Vienna. She had received a telegram from a friend with whom she could stay, and she planned to try to get work and to attend lectures at the University.

  On the evening of her departure she went with Kern to the Black Pig Restaurant. Hitherto they had both eaten every day at the soup kitchen; but for their last evening Kern had proposed a special celebration.

  The Black Pig was a smoky little place where the food was cheap but very good. Marill had told Kern about it. He had also told him the exact prices and had particularly recommended the specialty of the house, veal goulash. Kern had counted his money and decided it would be enough to include cheese cake for dessert afterward. Ruth had once told him she loved it.

  But an unpleasant surprise awaited them on their arrival. There was no more goulash; they had come too late. Kern studied the bill of fare apprehensively. Most of the other dishes were more expensive. The waiter, standing beside him, ran through the list in a singsong voice: “Smoked meat with sauerkraut, pork chops and green salad, chicken paprika, fresh pâté de foie gras—”

  Pâté de foie gras, thought Kern—the fool seems to think we’re multimillionaires. He handed the menu to Ruth. “What would you like instead of goulash?” he asked. He had calculated that if he ordered chops, the cheese cake would be out of the question.

  Ruth merely glanced at the menu. “Frankfurters and potato salad,” she said. It was the cheapest item.

  “Nonsense,” Kern protested, “that’s not the thing for a farewell dinner.”

  “I’m very fond of it. After the fare at the soup kitchen it’s a feast.”

  “And how would you like to make your feast of pork chops?”

  “Much too expensive.”

  “Waiter,” Kern ordered, “two pork chops, and see that they’re big ones.”

  “They’re all the same size,” the waiter replied indifferently. “What do you wish first? Soup, hors d’oeuvres, relishes?”

  “Nothing,” Ruth said before Kern could consult her.

  They ordered a carafe of cheap wine and the waiter moved off scornfully—as though he knew by intuition that Kern had already spent a half-crown of the money that was to have been his tip.

  The place was almost empty. A single guest sat at a table in the corner. He had a broad, red face marked by dueling scars, and he was wearing a monocle. He sat with a glass of beer in front of him, watching Kern and Ruth.

  “Too bad that fellow’s sitting there,” Kern said.

  Ruth nodded. “If it were only someone else. But he—he reminds you—”

  “Yes, you can be sure he’s no exile,” Kern said. “More likely the opposite.”

  “We’ll just not look in that direction.”

  But Kern couldn’t help it. He noticed that the man went on staring at them steadily.

  “I can’t make out what he wants,” he said angrily. “He keeps right on looking at us.”

  “Perhaps he’s an agent of the Gestapo. I’ve heard this town is crawling with spies.”

  “Shall I go over and ask him what he wants?”

  “No!” Ruth laid her hand on Kern’s arm in terror.

  The chops were served. They were crisp and tender, and fresh green salad came with them. But Ruth and Kern did not enjoy them as much as they had anticipated; they were too nervous.

  “He can’t be here on our account,” Kern said. “No one knew that we were coming here.”

  “That couldn’t have been it,” Ruth agreed. “Perhaps he is here by accident. There’s no doubt, though, that he’s watching us.”

  The waiter carried out the dishes. Kern looked after him disconsolately. He had planned this meal as a treat for Ruth, and now the fellow with the monocle had spoiled it. Angrily he got up; he had made up his mind. “Just a moment, Ruth—”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked anxiously. “Stay here!”

  “No, no, this has nothing to do with the man over there. I’m just going to speak to the proprietor.”

  As a precaution he had put two small bottles of perfume in his pocket before he left the hotel. Now he meant to see if he could arrange with the proprietor to trade one of them for two pieces of cheese cake. They were worth a good deal more, but that didn’t matter. After the failure of the chops, Ruth should at least have the dessert she liked best. Perhaps he could arrange for coffee as well.

&
nbsp; He went out and made his proposal to the proprietor. The latter immediately got red in the face. “Aha, trying to run out without paying your check! Think you can eat here and not pay for it, do you? Well, my friend, there’s just one thing for you—the police!”

  “I can pay for what I’ve eaten!” Kern angrily tossed the money on the table.

  “Count it carefully,” the proprietor said to the waiter. “Pack up your trash,” he snapped at Kern. “What are you trying to get away with anyway? Are you a guest or a peddler?”

  “For the time being I’m a guest,” Kern declared furiously, “and you are—”

  “One moment!” said a voice behind him.

  Kern spun around. The stranger with the monocle was standing directly behind him. “May I ask you a question?”

  The man moved a few steps away from the counter. Kern followed him. His heart was beating wildly. “You’re German exiles, aren’t you?” the man asked.

  Kern stared at him. “What’s that to you?”

  “Nothing,” the man replied calmly. “Only I happened to hear what you were just talking about. Will you sell me the perfume?”

  Kern thought he knew now what the man wanted. If he sold him the perfume then he would be guilty of peddling without a license and could be arrested immediately and deported.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I have nothing to sell. I’m not a peddler.”

  “Then let’s trade. I shall give you what the proprietor refused to give—pastry and coffee.”

  “I don’t understand at all what you want,” Kern said.

  The man smiled. “I know you’re suspicious. But let me explain. I live in Berlin and in an hour I’m going back there. You can’t go back.”

  “No,” Kern said.

  The man looked at him. “That’s the reason I’m standing here and it’s the reason I should be glad to do you this small favor. I was a company commander during the war. One of my best men was a Jew. Now will you give me the little bottle?”

  Kern handed it to him. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I thought something quite different about you.”

  “I can well imagine.” The man laughed. “And now you must not leave the young lady alone any longer. Very likely she is already frightened. I wish you both the best of luck.” He shook hands with Kern.

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  Kern went back bewildered. “Ruth,” he said, “either this is Christmas or I’m crazy.”

  The waiter appeared immediately. He was carrying a tray with coffee and a three-tiered silver stand piled with pastries.

  “Why, what’s this?” Ruth asked in amazement.

  “These are the wonders of Kern’s Farr Perfume.”

  Kern beamed and poured out the coffee. “Now we each have the right to our choice of pastries. What would you like, Ruth?”

  “A piece of cheese cake.”

  “Here’s your cheese cake. I’ll take a chocolate cream puff.”

  “Shall I pack up the rest for you?” asked the waiter.

  “The rest? What do you mean?”

  The waiter indicated the three tiers with a sweep of his hand. “This has all been ordered for you.”

  Kern looked at him in complete amazement. “All this for us? Where is the—isn’t the gentleman coming—”

  “He left some time ago. Everything has been taken care of. So now—”

  “Wait,” Kern said hastily, “for heaven’s sake wait. Ruth, have an éclair? Or one of these flaky ones? Or a seed cake?”

  He filled her plate and took a few more for himself. “There,” he said, sighing with contentment, “please put up the rest in two packages. You’re to take one with you, Ruth. My, it’s nice to be able to do something for you for once.”

  “The champagne is already on ice,” said the waiter, picking up the silver stand.

  “Champagne! That’s a good joke!” Kern laughed.

  “No joke.” The waiter pointed toward the door where the proprietor himself had appeared, carrying an ice-filled cooler from which protruded the neck of a champagne bottle.

  “You won’t hold it against me.” The latter smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course I was only joking before—”

  Kern leaned back in his chair, wide-eyed. The waiter nodded. “Everything’s paid for.”

  “I’m dreaming,” Kern said, rubbing his eyes. “Have you ever had champagne, Ruth?”

  “No. Up to now I’ve only seen it in the movies.”

  Kern with difficulty regained his composure. “My man—” He addressed the proprietor in a dignified tone. “You see what a bargain I offered you: a bottle of the world-famous Kern perfume in exchange for two ridiculous pieces of cheese cake. Now you see what a connoisseur is willing to pay for it.”

  “No one can know everything,” the proprietor apologized. “Drinks are more in my line.”

  “Ruth,” Kern said, “from today on I believe in miracles. If a white dove were to fly in through the window this minute, carrying in its beak two passports for us, good for five years, or an unrestricted work permit—it wouldn’t astonish me a bit!”

  They emptied the bottle. It would have seemed a sin to leave even a drop. They didn’t especially like the taste, but they went on drinking and became merrier and merrier, and at the end they were both a little drunk.

  When they were ready to leave Kern picked up the packages of pastries and prepared to give the waiter a tip. But the waiter waved him aside. “It’s all been attended to—”

  “Ruth,” Kern stammered, “life is overwhelming us. Another day like this and I’d become a romantic.”

  The proprietor stopped them. “Have you any more of that perfume? I thought perhaps for my wife—”

  Kern was alert at once. “It just happens that I have one more bottle with me, the last.” He pulled the second bottle out of his pocket. “But not on the same terms as before, my friend. You missed your chance. The price is twenty crowns—” he held his breath—“seeing it’s you!”

  The proprietor made a lightning calculation. He had overcharged the captain thirty crowns for the champagne and pastry, so he would still be ten crowns to the good. “Fifteen,” he offered.

  “Twenty.” Kern made a move to put the bottle away.

  “All right then.” The proprietor brought a ragged bill out of his pocket. He decided to tell his beloved, the buxom Barbara, that the bottle had cost fifty. In that way he could avoid buying her the hat she had been begging for all week, which was priced at forty-eight crowns. Two birds with one stone…

  Kern and Ruth went to the hotel. They picked up Ruth’s bag and then went to the station. Ruth had become very quiet. “Don’t be sad,” Kern said. “I’ll be following you soon. In a week at the latest I’ll have to leave here, I’m sure of that. Then I’ll come to Vienna. Do you want me to come to Vienna?”

  “Yes, come! But only if it’s best for you.”

  “Why don’t you just say: Yes, come?”

  She looked at him a little guiltily. “Doesn’t what I said mean more?”

  “I don’t know. It sounded cautious.”

  “Yes.” She suddenly looked sad. “That’s what it was—cautious.”

  “Don’t be sad,” Kern said. “A while ago you were so gay.”

  She looked at him helplessly. “Don’t pay any attention to me,” she murmured. “Sometimes I don’t make sense. Perhaps it’s because of the wine. Perhaps it’s the wine anyway. Come along, we still have a few minutes.”

  They sat down on a bench in the park and Kern put his arm around her shoulders. “Be happy, Ruth. The other does no good. I know that sounds foolish, but it isn’t foolish for us. We bitterly need what little gaiety we can get. We especially.”

  She looked straight ahead. “I’d like to be gay, Ludwig. I guess I’m serious by nature. I’d like so much to take things lightly and to make people happy. But what I say always turns out to be awkward and heavy.” She spoke the word angrily. And Kern sudd
enly noticed that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She wept without a sound, angry and helpless. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she said, “I have no reason to, especially now. But perhaps that’s why I’m crying. Don’t look at me—don’t look at me.”

  “Darling, don’t,” Kern said.

  She leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders. He drew her to him and kissed her. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was shut savagely and stubbornly as though to refuse him.

  “Ah—” She became calmer. “Do you know—” Her head dropped against his shoulder, her eyes remained closed—“Do you know …” Her mouth opened and her lips became as soft as a fruit.

  They walked on. At the station Kern disappeared and bought a bunch of roses, silently blessing the man with the monocle and the proprietor of the Black Pig.

  Ruth was filled with confusion when he presented her with the flowers. She blushed, and all the sadness left her face. “Flowers,” she said. “Roses! Why, I’m having a send-off like a movie star.”

  “You’re having a send-off like the wife of an extremely successful businessman,” Kern declared proudly.

  “Businessmen don’t give flowers, Ludwig.”

  “Yes, they do. The youngest generation has revived the custom.”

  He put her bag and the package of pastries in the luggage net. She got out with him. On the station platform she took his head in her hands and looked at him earnestly. “It was good that you were here.” She kissed him. “Now go, go on while I’m getting into the train. I don’t want you to see me cry again. Otherwise you’ll think that’s all I can do. Go—”

  He didn’t go. “I’m not afraid of good-bys,” he said. “There have been so many in my life. This is not good-by.” The train began to move. Ruth waved. Kern stood where he was until the train was out of sight. Then he went back. He had a feeling that the whole city had died.

  At the entrance to the hotel he met Rabe. “Good evening,” Kern said, drawing out his package of cigarettes and offering them to him. Rabe recoiled and lifted his arm as though to ward off a blow. Kern looked at him in astonishment. “I beg your pardon,” Rabe said, greatly embarrassed. “That’s just a kind of—a sort of involuntary reaction—”