Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "No," she replied.

  "Right again," said I.

  The rum, as I could see from the colour, was broken-down. The salesman had lied to Pat, evidently. I drank the glass.

  "First rate," said I, "give me another. Where did you get it?"

  "From the shop at the corner."

  Aha, thought I: another damned pastry shop, of course. I resolved to look in there and tell the fellow off.

  "Well, I suppose! ought to go now, Pat, eh?" I asked.

  She looked at me. "Not straight away—"

  We were standing by the window. The lights flicked up from below.

  "Show me your bedroom, will you?" said I.

  She opened the door and switched on the light. I stood at the door and looked in. All sorts of things passed through my head.

  "So that's your bed, Pat," said I at last.

  She smiled. "Whose else should it be, Robby?"

  "True." I glanced up. "What absurd things one says. I meant: so that's where you sleep. And there's the telephone. Now I know that too. Now I'll go. Good-bye, Pat."

  She put her. hands to my cheeks. It would be marvellous to stay there now in the gathering darkness, close side by side under the soft blue cover in the bedroom—but there was something stopped me; it was no inhibition, nor fear, nor yet prudence—it was simply a very great tenderness that overwhelmed desire.

  "Good-bye, Pat," said I. "It has been lovely here. Lovelier for me than you can perhaps imagine. As for the rum —that you should have thought of it—"

  "But that was nothing."

  "For me it was. I'm not used to such things, Pat."

  The Zalewski joint. I sat around awhile. I did not like Pat's being indebted to Binding for anything. Finally I went across the passage to Erna Bönig.

  "A business call, Erna," said I. "Tell me, how are things in the female labour market?"

  "Come," replied Erna, "there's a blunt question out of a hard heart I Rotten, if you want to know."

  "Nothing doing?"

  "What line?"

  "Secretary, assistant—"

  She shook her head. "Hundreds of thousands' without a job. Can the lady do anything particular?"

  "She looks marvellous," said I.

  "How many words?" asked Erna.

  "What?"

  "How many words can she write a minute? In how many languages?"

  "No idea," said I; "but, Erna, the personal touch, you know—"

  "My dear boy," replied Erna, "I know all about it— lady of good family, seen better days, compelled, and so on. Hopeless, I tell you. The only chance is if someone has a special interest and pushes her in somewhere. You know why, of course. But you won't be wanting that, I presume?"

  "Funny question," said I.

  "Not so funny as you think," replied Erna somewhat-bitterly. "I know cases." I thought of the business with her own boss. "But let me give you a bit of advice," she went on. "Get busy yourself and earn enough for two. That's the simplest solution. Get married."

  "Come off the grass," said I, laughing. "I'm not so sure of myself as all that."

  Erna gave me a queer look. Suddenly all the life seemed to go out of her and she appeared old and almost withered. "I'll tell you something," said she. "I live pretty well and have all kinds of things I don't need. But believe me—if a man were to come to me and propose that we should live together, properly, decently, I'd leave all this junk and go with him into,an attic if need be." Her face regained its former expression. "But wipe that out—everybody has some sentimental corner." She winked at me through her cigarette smoke. "Even you, apparently?"

  "Ach, well—" said I.

  "Now, now," warned Erna. "You fall for it easiest when you are least expecting—"

  "Not me," I replied.

  I stuck in my room until eight o'clock—then I had had enough of sitting around and went to "The Bar" to meet someone to talk to."

  Valentin was there. "Sit down," said he, "what will you drink?"

  "Rum," I replied. "I've taken rather a fancy to rum since this afternoon."

  "Rum is the soldier's milk," said Valentin. "But you are looking very well, Bob."

  "Yes?"

  "Yes, younger."

  "Stuff," said I. "Pros't, Valentin."

  "Pros't, Bob."

  We put the glasses on the table and looked at one another. Then we both burst out laughing.

  "Old boy," said Valentin.

  "Damned old soak," I replied. "What shall we drink now?"

  "Same again."

  "Right."

  Fred filled the glasses. ;

  "Well, pros't, Valentin." ;

  "Pros't, Bob."

  "Wonderful word, 'pros't,' eh?"

  "Word of all words."

  We said it several times more. Then Valentin left.

  I continued to sit. Apart from Fred nobody was there. I looked at the old, lighted maps, the ships with their yellowing sails, and thought of Pat. I should have liked to ring her up, but I forced myself not to. I did not want to think so much about her. I wanted to take her as an unexpected, delightful gift, that had come and would go again—nothing more. I meant not to give room to the thought that it could ever be more. I knew too well that all love has the desire for eternity and that therein lies its eternal torment. Nothing lasts. Nothing.

  "Give us another glass, Fred," said I.

  A man and a woman came in. They had a cobbler at the bar. The woman looked tired, the man lustful. They left again soon.

  I emptied the glass. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not gone to see Pat this afternoon. I would never be free again of that picture—the twilit room, the soft, blue evening shadows, and the beautiful, curled-up figure of the girl talking in her deep, husky voice about her life and her desire for life. Damn it, I'm getting sentimental. What had been till now a breathless, surprising adventure was melting into the mists of affection; had it not already laid firmer hold on me than I knew or cared for; hadn't I discovered only to-day how much I had changed? Why had I gone away? why did I not stay with her as I had meant to? Ach, damn, I would think no more about it, one way or the other. Let come what may—I suppose I should go mad if I lost her—but she was there, she was there now—what else mattered? To hell with it. What was the use trying to make safe and sure our little life? Sooner or later the great wave must come and sweep all away.

  "What about a drink with me, Fred?" I asked.

  "Sure," said he.

  We had two absinths. Then we tossed for two more. I won. That didn't seem to me right. So we went on tossing. But it was five times before I lost. Then I did so three times in succession. . . .

  "Am I drunk or is it thundering outside?" I asked.

  Fred listened. "It's thunder all right. The first storm this year."

  We went to the door and looked at the sky. There was nothing to be seen. It was merely warm, with now and then a roll of thunder. "We'd better have one on the strength of it," I suggested. Fred was all for it.

  "Damned liquorice water," said I putting down the empty glass again on the bar. Fred also thought we might now try something with a bit more kick in it. He suggested cherry brandy—I was for rum. In order not to quarrel we drank both by turns. That Fred should not have to work so hard pouring out, we took larger glasses. We were now in fine fettle. Off and on we would go out to see if there wasn't lightning as well. We should have liked very much to see some lightning, but we had no luck. It would flash the moment we were inside again. Fred told me about his girl, whose father owned a Caféteria. But he wasn't marrying till the old man was dead and he was quite sure that she would get the restaurant as well. I thought he was a bit overcautious, but he argued that the old man was such an untrustworthy old blighter, he was quite capable of making over the restaurant, at the last minute, to the Methodist Church. At that I yielded my point. For the rest Fred was fairly hopeful. The old chap had caught cold and Fred was of opinion it might prove to be influenza, which was pretty dangerous at his age. I felt
obliged to say that unfortunately influenza meant nothing at all to alcoholics, quite the contrary, an old soak might be on his last legs and get influenza and thrive on it and put on weight even. Fred thought it did not signify, in that case he might get run over by a bus. I agreed that that was more than likely, especially on wet asphalt. Fred thereupon went out to see if it were raining yet. But it was still dry. Only the thunder was a bit louder. I gave him a glass of lemon juice to drink and went to the telephone. At the last moment I remembered that I did not want to telephone. I waved my hand at the instrument and made to raise my hat. But then I observed that I hadn't it on.

  When I returned Köster and Lenz were there. "Breathe on me," said Gottfried.

  I breathed. "Rum, cherry-brandy and absinth," said he. "Absinth, you dirty pig."

  "If you mean to suggest I'm drunk, you are mistaken," said I. "Where have you come from?"

  "A political meeting. But it was too silly for Otto. What's that Fred's drinking?"

  "Lemon juice."

  "You'd better have a glass too," said he.

  "To-morrow," I replied. "I'm going to have something to eat now."

  Köster had been looking at me anxiously. "Don't look at me like that, Otto," said I. "I've only got a little bit tight out of pure joie de vivre. Not from worry."

  "Then it's O.K.," said he. "But come and have something to eat all the same."

  By eleven o'clock I was as sober as a bone again. Köster suggested we should have a look at Fred. We went in and found him lying behind the bar counter as if he were dead.

  "Take him next door," said Lenz. "I'll do the serving here in the meantime."

  Köster and I brought Fred round again. We gave him some warm milk to drink. The effect was instantaneous. Then we sat him on a chair and told him to have a rest for half an hour, Lenz would see to everything outside.

  Gottfried did see to it too. He knew all the prices and the whole gamut of cocktails. He swung the mixer as if he had never done anything else.

  After an hour Fred was back again. He had a cast-iron stomach and recovered quickly.

  "Sorry, Fred," said I, "we ought to have had something to eat first."

  "I'm in order again," he replied. "Does you good once in a while."

  "No doubt about that." I went to the telephone and rang up Pat. All I had been thinking was suddenly of complete indifference to me. She answered. "I'll be at the front door in a quarter of an hour," I called and hung up quickly. I was afraid she might be tired and refuse to hear of it. I wanted to see her.

  She did come. As she opened the front door I kissed the glass where her head was. She was about to say something but I did not give her the chance. I gave her a kiss and together we ran down the street till we found a taxi. It was thundering and there were flashes of lightning. "Quick, before it rains," I called.

  We got in. The first drops pattered on the roof of the cab. The car bounced over the uneven cobbles. It was grand, for with each jolt I felt Pat beside me. Everything was grand, the rain, the city, the drink, everything wide and splendid. I was in that clear, overwakeful state that follows being drunk and having got the better of it again. The inhibitions were gone, the night was charged with a deep power and full of splendour, nothing could happen now, nothing false any more.

  The rain began as we got out. While I was paying, the pavement was still spotted dark with drops, like a panther —but before I reached the door it was black and spouting silver, the water poured down so.

  I did not make a light. The flashes lit up the room. The storm was over the middle of the town. Peal rolled upon peal. "We could shout here now, for once," I called to Pat, "without fear of anyone hearing."

  The windows flamed. For an instant the black silhouettes of the trees in the graveyard sprang out against the blue-white sky and were at once felled again with a crash by the night—for an instant between dark and dark Pat's supple figure stood phosphorescent against the windowpanes—I put my arm around her shoulders, she pressed against me, I felt her lips, her breathing, I thought no more.

  Chapter XII

  Our workshop stood empty as a barn before harvest. So we had decided not to sell again the taxi we had bought, but to drive it ourselves for a while. Lenz and I were going to take it by turns. Köster and Jupp could look after the workshop quite well alone, until work came again.

  I stuffed my pockets with change, took my papers, and cruised slowly along the streets to look out a good stand for myself. This felt a bit queer the first time. Any fool could stop me and give me orders. Not a specially grand feeling. Slipped down a bit once more. I don't quite know why I should have made more of it this time than before. Still, perhaps it wasn't forever—and anyway a sight better than in an office, letting yourself be bullied by some liverish head clerk until you seized the ledger and flung it at him and got the sack.

  I selected a place where there were only five cars standing. It was opposite the Waldecker Hof Hotel in the centre of the business quarter. There one might hope for quick business.

  I turned off the engine and got out. From one of the front cars a big fellow in a leather coat came toward me. "Clear out of this," he growled.

  I looked at him calmly and calculated that it had better be an uppercut if necessary. His coat would prevent him getting his mitts up quickly enough.

  "You've no cap?" he persisted, spitting the butt of his cigarette at my feet. "You'd better clear out. Enough here. Don't want any more."

  He was annoyed at the addition, that was clear; but it was my right to stand here if I would.

  "I don't mind standing a few rounds' entrance," said I.

  That would have ended the matter as far as I was concerned. It was the usual way when one came new.

  A young driver came up. "All right, mate. Let him alone, Gustav—"

  But there was something Gustav did not like about me. I knew what it was. He sensed that I was fresh on the job.

  "I'll count up to three—" he announced. He was a head taller than I and was counting on it.

  I saw it was not much use talking. Either I must go, or fight. It was too pointed. "One," counted Gustav, unbuttoning his coat.

  "Don't be silly," said I, trying once more. "Wouldn't you sooner feel a whisky sizzling in your throat?"

  "Two—" growled Gustav.

  I saw he meant to slaughter me properly.

  "And one is—" He pushed his cap back on his head.

  "Shut your mouth, fool!" I snapped suddenly. Gustav opened his mouth in astonishment and came a step nearer. Exactly where I wanted to have him. I let fly at once—a blow like a hammer, with the whole weight of my body behind it. Köster had taught it to me. I was not much of a boxer; I considered it unnecessary—it was usually a matter of the first blow. This was a good one.

  Gustav dropped in his tracks. "Won't do him any harm," said the young driver. "He's always spoiling for it." We put him back on the box of his cab. "He'll come round shortly."

  I was a bit perturbed, for I had put my thumb out with the blow. When Gustav waked up he would be able to do what he liked with me. I told the young fellow and asked if I had not better hop it. "Nonsense," said he, "the thing is settled. Come over into the pub and stand your entrance fee. You're not a trained cabman, eh?"

  "No."

  "Neither am I. I'm an actor."

  "And you make a go of it?"

  "One lives," he replied laughing, "and it's not altogether unlike a play."

  There were five of us, two older and three younger. After a while Gustav also put in an appearance. He looked, glared across at our table, and came over. With my left hand I gripped the bunch of keys in my pocket and resolved to defend myself till I could not move any more.

  But it did not come to that. Gustav kicked a chair up and dropped into it ill-humouredly. The host put a glass in front of him. The beer came. Gustav tipped it down. A second round was called.

  Gustav looked at me askance. He raised his glass. "Pros't," said he to me, but with a face like mu
d.

  "Pros't," I replied and touched glasses.

  Gustav produced a packet of cigarettes. He proffered it to me, without looking at me. I took one and gave him a light. Then I ordered a round of double kiimmel. We drank them. Again Gustav gave me a sidelong glance.

  "Blighter," said he, but the tone was right.

  "Fathead," I replied in like manner.

  He turned and faced me. "It was a good punch."