by Joseph Roth
They stopped off at several government buildings, where the district captain looked for earlier comrades, witnesses to his youth. Brandl had become a police superintendent, Smekal a department head, Monteschitzky a colonel, and Hasselbrunner an embassy councilor. Father and son went to shops: at Reitmeyer on Die Tuchlauben they ordered a pair of formal ankle boots, matte, kidskin, for court balls and official audiences; a pair of formal trousers at Ettlinger, a royal and military tailor on Die Wieden. And then something unbelievable happened at Schafransky, jeweler to the Emperor: the district captain picked out a silver cigarette case, solid and with a fluted back—a de luxe item, to be engraved with the words In periculo securitas. Your Father.
They landed at the Volksgarten and had coffee. The round tables on the terrace shone white in the dark-green shade, the siphons turned blue on the tablecloths. When the band paused, they heard the jubilant singing of the birds. The district captain raised his head and, as if drawing memories from above, he began, “I once met a girl here. How long ago was it?” He got lost in mute calculations. Long, long years seemed to have waned since then; Carl Joseph felt as if it were not his father sitting next to him, but a distant forebear. “Her name was Mizzi Schinagl,” said the old man. In the dense crowns of the chestnut trees, he looked for the vanished portrait of Fräulein Schinagl as if she had been a bird.
“Is she still alive?” Carl Joseph asked out of courtesy, and as though to find a clue for assessing bygone eras.
“I hope so! In my day, you know, we weren’t sentimental. We said goodbye to girls and also to friends—”
He broke off suddenly. A stranger stood at their table, a man with a trilby and a flowing tie, a very old gray cutaway with slack ends, and thick long hair down the back of his neck, his broad gray face poorly shaved—a painter obviously, with that exaggerated clarity of the traditional artistic physiognomy that seems unreal and clipped from old illustrations. The stranger put his portfolio on the table and was about to hawk his works with the arrogant equanimity that poverty and a sense of mission seemed to inspire in him in equal parts.
“Why, Moser!” said Herr von Trotta.
The painter slowly rolled his heavy lids up from his large bright eyes, perused the district captain for a few seconds, then held out his hand and said, “Trotta!”
The next moment he had doffed both amazement and gentleness. He hurled the portfolio down so hard the glasses trembled, and he shouted “Damn it!” three times in a row as mightily as if damning were in his power; he scanned the neighboring tables triumphantly as if expecting applause from the patrons; he sat down, removed his trilby and tossed it on the gravel by the chair, shoved the portfolio from the table with his elbows, described his work as “garbage,” poked his head toward the lieutenant, frowned, leaned back again, and said, “Your son, Herr Governor?”
“This is my boyhood friend, Herr Professor Moser,” explained the district captain.
“Damn it, Herr Governor!” Moser repeated. He simultaneously reached for a waiter’s tuxedo tails, stood up and whispered an order like a secret, sat down, and lapsed into silence, fixing his eyes on the direction from which the waiter would carry the drinks. Finally a seltzer glass stood in front of him, half filled with slivovitz as clear as water; he passed it to and fro several times under his flaring nostrils, brought it to his mouth with a tremendous sweep of his arm as if to drain a huge tankard chugalug, but finally took only a small sip and then stuck out his tongue to gather the drops from his lips.
“You’ve been here two weeks and you haven’t come by!” he began, with the prying severity of a higher rank.
“My dear Moser,” said Herr von Trotta. “I arrived yesterday and I’m going back tomorrow morning.”
The painter stared into the district captain’s face for a long time. Then he set the glass to his lips again and drained it without stopping, like water. When he tried to put it down, he missed the saucer, and so he let Carl Joseph take the glass from his hand. “Thank you!” said the painter and leveled his forefinger at the lieutenant. “Extraordinary, the resemblance to the Hero of Solferino! Only a little softer. A weakish nose. Soft mouth. But things may change in time.…”
“Professor Moser did a portrait of Grandfather,” remarked old Trotta. Carl Joseph looked at his father and at the painter, and his grandfather’s portrait emerged in his memory, blurring under the ceiling of the study. His grandfather’s relationship to this professor seemed incomprehensible; his father’s intimacy with Moser startled him. He saw the stranger’s broad, dirty hand drop with a friendly smack on the district captain’s striped trousers, and he saw the gentle, defensive retreat of his father’s thigh. There the old man sat, dignified as ever, leaning back, virtually deterred by the smell of alcohol aimed at his chest and his face, and yet he smiled and put up with it all.
“You should get an overhaul,” said the painter. “You’ve grown shabby! Your father looked very different.”
The district captain stroked his whiskers and smiled.
“Yes, old Trotta!” the painter resumed.
“Check,” the district captain said abruptly and quietly. “Do forgive us, Moser, we have an appointment.”
The painter remained seated; father and son left the garden.
The district captain tucked his arm under his son’s. This was the first time that Carl Joseph felt his father’s gaunt arm on his chest. The paternal hand in the dark-gray kid glove rested in slightly bent familiarity on the blue sleeve of his uniform. It was the same hand that, haggard and wrathful, encased in the stiff clattering cuff, could admonish and warn, leaf through papers with sharp, quiet fingers, shove drawers into their compartments with grim jolts, twist keys so resolutely that the locks seemed locked for all eternity. It was the hand that drummed on the table’s edge with lurking impatience if things were not to the master’s liking and on the windowpane if something awkward had occurred in the room. This hand could raise its thin forefinger if someone had neglected something in the house; it could clench into a mute, never-striking fist, settle tenderly around the forehead, remove the pince-nez gingerly, bend lightly around the wineglass, bring the black Virginia cigar caressingly to the lips. It was his father’s left hand, long familiar to the son. And yet he sensed he was only just learning that it was the father’s hand, the paternal hand. Carl Joseph felt a desire to press this hand to his chest.
“You know, Moser—” the district captain began, paused a while, cast about for a fair judgment, and finally said, “He could have made something of himself.”
“Yes, Pápa!”
“When he did Grandfather’s picture, he was sixteen years old. We were both sixteen years old. He was my only friend at school. Then he enrolled at the academy. Well, liquor got hold of him. But he’s still.…” The district captain paused, then said, only after a few minutes; “Among all the people I saw today, he’s still my friend.”
“Yes—Father.”
This was the first time Carl Joseph had ever pronounced the word father. “Yessir, Papá!” he quickly corrected himself.
It was getting dark. The evening fell vehemently into the street.
“Are you cold, Papá?”
“Not a bit!”
But the district captain strode faster. Soon they were near the hotel.
“Herr Governor!” someone boomed behind them. Moser, the painter, had clearly followed them. They turned. There he stood, hat in hand, lowering his head, humble, as if to undo his ironic salutation. “Please excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I noticed too late that my cigarette case is empty.” He displayed an open, empty tin container. The district captain pulled out his cigar case, “I don’t smoke cigars,” said the painter.
Carl Joseph held out a pack of cigarettes.
Moser awkwardly put his portfolio on the pavement, at his feet, filled his cigarette case, asked for a light, curved both hands around the small blue flame. His hands were red and sticky, too large for their wrists; they trembled softly, recalled sens
eless tools. His nails were like small, flat, black spades that had just been grubbing in soil, feces, colored pulp, and tobacco juice. “We won’t be meeting again,” he said, bending over for his portfolio. He stood up, thick tears rolling down his cheeks. “Won’t be meeting again!” he blubbered.
“I have to go up to my room for a moment,” said Carl Joseph and entered the hotel.
He ran up the stairs to his room, leaned out the window, anxiously observed his father, saw the old man producing his wallet, the rejuvenated painter putting his ghastly hand on the baron’s shoulder two seconds later, and heard Moser exclaiming, “Well, Franz, on the third, as usual!”
Carl Joseph ran back down, feeling he had to protect his father; the professor saluted, stepped back, and left with a final greeting, his head high; he walked with somnambular self-confidence straight across the roadway and waved once again from the opposite pavement before vanishing in a side street. An instant later, however, he reemerged, shouting “Hold on!” so loudly that the silent street reverberated; he bounded across the roadway with incredibly sure, huge leaps and stood in front of the hotel, as casual and virtually newly arrived as if he had not taken his leave just minutes ago. And as though seeing his boyhood friend and the latter’s son for the first time, he began in a plaintive voice, “How sad it is to meet again like this! Do you still remember that we sat side by side in the third row? You were bad in Greek; I always let you copy. If you’re really honest, then say so yourself in front of your scion! Didn’t I always let you copy everything?” And to Carl Joseph: “He was a good guy, your father, but a scaredy-cat. He only started going to prostitutes very late, I had to boost his courage, otherwise he’d never have managed. Be fair, Trotta! Admit I took you!”
The district captain smirked and held his tongue.
Moser the painter geared up for a long lecture. He deposited his portfolio on the sidewalk, doffed his hat, put one foot forward, and began. “When I first met the old man, it was summer vacation; you remember, don’t you?” He suddenly broke off and felt all his pockets with flurried hands. Sweat formed thick beads on his forehead. “I’ve lost it!” he cried, trembling and reeling. “I’ve lost the money!”
At that instant, the doorman stepped out of the hotel. He greeted the district captain and the lieutenant with a vigorous sweep of his gold-braided cap but showed an angry face. He glared as if about to order the painter Moser to stop loitering, making noise, and insulting the guests in front of the hotel. Old Trotta reached into his breast pocket; the painter lapsed into silence.
“Can you help me out?” the father asked his son.
The lieutenant said, “I’ll accompany Professor Moser a bit of the way. Goodbye, Pápa!”
The district captain raised his silk hat and went into the hotel. The lieutenant handed the professor a banknote and followed his father. Moser the painter picked up his portfolio and retreated with a gravely tottering dignity.
The deep evening had already settled in the streets; the hotel lobby was also dark. The district captain, dimming into the twilight, sat in the leather chair, the room key in his hand, his cane and silk hat at his side. His son halted at a respectful distance as if wanting to submit an official report on the resolution of the Moser affair. The lamps were not lit as yet. Out of the twilit silence came the old man’s voice. “We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon at two-fifteen.”
“Yessir, Papá!”
“It occurred to me during the music that you should call on Kapellmeister Nechwal. After visiting Sergeant Slama, of course. Do you have anything to take care of in Vienna?”
“Send for the trousers and the cigarette case.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, Papá”
“Tomorrow morning you will pay your respects to your uncle. Evidently you’ve forgotten. How often have you been his guest?”
“Twice a year, Papá!”
“There you are! Give him my best. Apologize for me. Incidentally, how’s he looking, my good Stransky?”
“Very well, last time I saw him.”
The district captain reached for his cane and propped his outstretched hand upon the silver crook—his habit when standing—as if even when sitting he required a special support once Stransky’s name popped up.
“The last time I saw him was nineteen years ago. He was still a first lieutenant. Already in love with that Koppelmann woman. Incurably! The whole thing was quite deplorable. Simply in love with a Koppelmann.” He pronounced this name louder than anything else and with a sharp caesura between the two parts. “Naturally they couldn’t scrape up the dowry. Your mother nearly talked me into coming up with half.”
“He left the army?”
“Yes, that he did. And joined the Northern Railroad. How far has he gotten today? Railroad official, I believe, right?”
“Yessir, Papá!”
“There you are. Didn’t he let his son become a pharmacist?”
“No, Papá, Alexander is still in high school.”
“I see. Limps slightly, I’ve heard, right?”
“One leg’s shorter than the other.”
“Oh, well!” The old man finished contentedly, as if he had foreseen nineteen years ago that Alexander would limp.
He stood up. The lamps in the lobby flared, illuminating his pallor. “I’m getting some money,” he said. He approached the stairs.
“I’ll get it, Papá!” said Carl Joseph.
“Thank you,” said the district captain.
Then, while they were eating pastry, he said, “I recommend the Bacchus Hall. It’s supposed to be the latest thing. You may run into Smekal there.”
“Thank you, Papá! Good night!”
From 11 P.M. to midnight, Carl Joseph visited Uncle Stransky’s home. The railroad official was still at the office; his wife, née Koppelmann, sent her best to the district captain. Carl Joseph walked slowly along the Ring Promenade to the hotel. He turned into Die Tuchlauben, had the trousers delivered to the hotel, and picked up the cigarette case. The metal was cool; he felt the coolness on his skin through the pocket of his thin blouse. He thought of the condolence visit he would have to pay Sergeant Slama and made up his mind not to enter that room no matter what. My sincerest condolences, Herr Slama! he would say, out on the veranda. The larks are warbling invisibly in the blue vault. You can hear the drawling whispers of the crickets. You can smell the hay, the late fragrance of acacias, the burgeoning buds in the small garden of the constabulary headquarters. Frau Slama is dead. Kathi—Katharina Luise, according to her baptismal certificate—she is dead.
They took the train home. The district captain put away the documents, cradled his head between the red velvet cushions in the window corner, and closed his eyes.
This was the first time that Carl Joseph saw the district captain’s head in a supine position, the flaring nostrils of his narrow, bony nose, the delicate cleft in the clean-shaven powdered chin, and the whiskers calmly splayed into two small wide black wings. Their extreme corners were already silvering; old age had already grazed him there and also on the temples. He’s going to die someday, thought Carl Joseph. He’s going to die and be buried. I’m going to remain.
They were alone in the compartment. The father’s slumbering countenance swayed peacefully in the reddish twilight of the upholstery. Under the black moustache, the pale tight lips formed a single line, the bald Adam’s apple on the narrow throat jutted out between the shiny corners of the stand-up collar, the infinitely wrinkled, bluish skin of the closed eyelids quivered steadily and quietly, the wide burgundy tie rose and sank evenly, and the hands were also asleep, buried in the armpits, the arms crisscrossed on the chest. A vast stillness emanated from the sleeping father. Unconscious and appeased, his severity was slumbering too, embedded in the silent vertical furrow between nose and forehead, the way a storm sleeps in the jagged fissure between mountains. Carl Joseph was familiar with this furrow, even intimate. It adorned his grandfather’s face on the portrait in the study: the s
ame furrow, the angry insignia of the Trottas, the legacy of the Hero of Solferino.
His father opened his eyes. “How much longer?”
“Two hours, Papá!”
It began to rain. It was Wednesday. The condolence visit to Slama was scheduled for Thursday afternoon. It rained again on Thursday morning. A quarter hour after lunch, when they were having coffee in the study, Carl Joseph said, “I’m going to the Slamas, Papá”
“There’s only one, unfortunately,” replied the district captain. “You’ll most likely find him in at four.”
At that instant, they heard two clear strokes from the church tower; the district captain raised his forefinger and pointed toward the window, in the direction of the bells. Carl Joseph turned red. It seemed as if his father, the rain, the clocks, people, time, and nature itself were determined to make his trip even more difficult. On those afternoons when he had managed to visit the living Frau Slama, he had also listened for the golden stroke of the bells, as impatient as today, but intent on not finding the sergeant in. Those afternoons seemed buried behind many decades. Death overshadowed and concealed them, Death stood between then and now, inserting his entire timeless darkness between past and present. And yet the golden stroke of the hours was still unchanged—and today, exactly as then, they were sitting in the study and drinking coffee.
“It’s raining,” said his father, as if first noticing it now. “Are you taking a carriage?”
“I like walking in the rain, Papá.” He wanted to say, The road I take must be long, long. Perhaps I should have taken a carriage back then, when she was alive.
It was still. The rain was drumming against the window. The district captain got to his feet. “I have to go over there.” He meant his office. “I’ll see you later.” He shut the door more gently than usual. Carl Joseph felt as if his father were standing outside for a while, eavesdropping.
