Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
There appeared a blue skirt and an enormous parcel. Thérèse followed. Both were hers. At her side came the caretaker. With his left hand he lifted an even larger parcel high above his head and threw it over into his right hand, which caught it easily.
CHAPTER VII
FULFILMENT
For a full week after Thérèse had thrown out her husband, that thief, she did nothing but search the flat. She behaved as though she were spring cleaning and divided up her work. From six in the morning till eight in the evening, she pushed about on feet, knees, hands and elbows spying for secret cracks and fissures. She discovered dust in places where she had not suspected it, even at her cleanest moments, and attributed it to the thieff for such people are dirty. With a stiff sheet of brown paper she probed into fissures which were too narrow for her stout hairpins. Afterwards she blew the dirt off, and dusted the paper over. For she could not bear the idea that she might touch the lost bankbook with a dirty piece of paper. For this work she wore no gloves — it would have spoilt them — but they lay near by, washed to glistening whiteness, in case she should find the bankbook. The beautiful carpets, which might have been damaged by so much tramping to and fro, were rolled in newspaper and stacked in the corridor. She searched each single book for its real contents. She was not yet seriously thinking of a sale. First she must talk it over with a sensible man. All the same, she noted the number of pages and felt a respect for books with more than 500, they must certainly be worth something, and she weighed them up in her hand before replacing them, like plucked chickens in the market. She was not cross about die bankbook. She was happy to give herself up to the flat. She could have done with more furniture. You had only to think the books away to see at once what sort of a person had lived here: a thief. After a week she knew the truth: there wasn't a bankbook. In a case like this a respectable woman calls the police. She waited before registering her complaint until she had used up the last of her housekeeping money. She wanted to prove to the police that her husband had run away with everything and left her without a penny. When she went marketing she made a wide detour to avoid the caretaker. She was afraid he would ask after the Professor. True he hadn't yet made a move, but he would certainly do so on the first of the month. On the first he got his monthly tip. This month he wouldn't get a penny; already she saw him begging outside her door. She was fully determined to send him off empty-handed. No one could force her to give him anything. If he was insolent, she'd report him.
One day Thérèse put on her starchier skirt. It made her look younger. Its blue was just a trifle lighter than the other one which she wore every day. A dazzling white blouse went well with it. She unbolted the door into her new bedroom, glided over to the wardrobe mirror, said 'Here I am again' and grinned from ear to ear. She looked not a day over thirty, and had a dimple in her chin. Dimples are beautiful. She fixed a rendezvous with Mr. Brute. The flat was hers now; Mr. Brute could come. She'd like to ask him what she'd better do. Millions are locked up in those books, and she'd be happy to give someone a share. He needs capital. She knows he's a good manager. She's not one to sleep on all that beautiful money. What good is it to her now? Saving's good, earning's better. All of a sudden you've doubled it. She hasn't forgotten Mr. Brute. Women don't forget him. Women are like that; they're all after him. She'd like some too. Her husband's gone. He won't come back. The way he behaved, she wouldn't like to say. He didn't treat her right, but he was her husband just the same. So she'd rather not say. He was a thief but he wasn't clever. If everyone were like Mr. Brute! Mr. Brute has a voice. Mr. Brute has eyes. She'd found a new name for him, it was called Puda. It's a beautiful name, Mr. Brute is even more beautiful. Mr. Brute is the most beautiful. She knows ever so many men. Does she like one of them as she likes Mr. Brute? Let him prove it if he thinks she's anything to hide. He mustn't think. He must come. He must say that about her magnificent hips. He says it so beautifully.
At these words she balanced up and down before the mirror. It made her feel how beautiful she was. She took off her skirt and had a look at her magnificent hips. How right he is. He's so sensible. He's not only superior, he's everything. How could he have known? He'd never seen her hips. He notices everything. He looks carefully at all women. Then he asks, can't he sample them? A man ought to be bold. If he isn't, he's not a man. Is there a woman who could say no to him? Thérèse touches her hips with his hands. They are as soft as his voice. With her smiling dimples she looks in his eyes. She'll give him something, she says. Back to the door she goes, and fetches the bunch of keys hanging there. Before the mirror, she hands over the present with a jingle, and says he can come to her rooms whenever he likes. She knows he won't steal anything, even if she isn't there. The bunch of keys falls to the ground and she is ashamed because he won't have
them. She calls: Mr. Puda, mayn't she call him just Puda. He says nothing, he can't tear himself" away from her hips. It's beautiful. But she would like to hear his voice too. She tells him a dark secret. She has a savings book and he can look after it for her. Will she just tell him its number too? She teases him. She starts back, he shouldn't ask that of her, she wouldn't do a thing like that. Not till she knows him better. She hardly knows him at all. But did he say anything? Where is ht ? She looks for him round her hips, but there she is cold. It is warm in her bosom. His hands dangle there under her blouse, but where is he? She looks for him in the mirror but only sees her skirt. It looks as good as new and blue is the most beautiful of colours, because she is true to Mr. Puda. She puts it on again, it suits her well, and if Mr. Puda likes she will take it off again. He'll be coming to-day, he'll stay all night, he'll come every night, he is so young. He has a harem, but he'll get rid of them all for her sake. Once he behaved like a brute. That's his name. He can't help his name. She's all of a sweat, and now she will go to him.
Thérèse took back the rejected keys, ponderously locked up the room again, scolded herself for having used the mirror in the best room when she had that little broken piece in the other room, and laughed heartily because she'd searched in vain for the keys in the inside pocket which didn't exist in this skirt at all. The sound of her laughter was foreign to her, she never laughed, she thought she was hearing some stranger in the house. Then suddenly, for the first time since she had been alone, she had an uncanny feeling. Hastily she sought out the hiding place of her savings book; it lay in its proper place. So there weren't any burglars in the flat; they would have taken her savings book first. For safety she took it with her. In the entrance hall passing the caretaker's door she stooped low. She had a lot of money with her and was afraid he might ask for his tip to-day.
The noisy traffic in the streets increased Therese's joy. Swiftly she glided to the feast; her goal lay in the heart of the town. Street by street the noise grew louder. All the men turned to look at her. She noticed it alright, but she lived for one alone. She had always hoped to live for one man alone and now it had happened. A car was impertinent; it almost ran her down. She tossed her head at the chauffeur, said: 'I ask you, I've no time for you!' and turned her back on the danger. In future Puda would protect her from the crowd. She wasn't alone either because everything now belonged to her. While she was walking through the town she took possession of all the shops. There were pearls in one of them which matched her skirt, in another diamonds for her blouse. She'd never have worn a fur coat, no respectable woman does, but she'd like to hang one or two in her wardrobe. Her own linen was more beautiful than any in the shops, the lace on it was ever so much broader. But she didn't mind if she took a few shop-windows with her. All those riches she put into her savings book which grew fatter and fatter; everything was safe there, and he would be allowed to look at it !
She came to a halt in front of his shop. The letters in the shop front came close to her eyes. First she read Gross & Mother, then Brute & Wife. She liked that. She even wasted some of her busy time just looking at it. The rivals went for each other; Mr. Gross was a weakling and got beaten up. The letters danced for joy, and when they had finished dancing she read suddenly, Gross & Wife. That didn't suit her at all. She exclaimed: 'The cheek of it!' and stepped inside.
Immediately somebody kissed my dear lady's hand. It was his voice. Two paces oft she raised her bag in the air and said: 'Here I am again.' He bowed and asked: 'What can I do for you, dear lady? What can I show you, dear lady? A new bedroom suite? For a new husband?' For months Thérèse had been tormented by the fear that he wouldn't recognize her again. She did everything to ensure recognition. She looked after her skirt, washed it, starched it, ironed it daily, but the superior young man had so many lady friends. Now he said: 'For a new husband?' She grasped his secret meaning. He had recognized her. She lost all shyness, she didn't even look round to see if anyone else was in the shop, but came close up to him and repeated word for word, what she had practised before the mirror. He looked into her face with his moist eyes. He was so beautiful, she was so beautiful, everything was beautiful, and when she got to the bit about the magnificent hips, she fiddled with her skirt, hesitated, clutched tight hold of her bag and began again at the beginning. He swung his arms and interjected cries of: 'What can I show you, dear lady? But, dear lady! What can I show you, dear lady?' To make her speak lower, he came even nearer, his mouth opened and shut close to hers, he was exactly her height and she went on speaking louder and faster. She forgot not a word, each one bunt, explosive, from her mouth, for her breath was coming violently and in jerks. When she got to the hips for a third time, she unfastened her skirt behind, but pressed her bag tight against it so that it stayed up. The salesman was sick with terror; she was talking as loud as ever and her red, sweating cheeks brushed against his. If only he could have understood her, he hadn't an idea who she was or what she wanted. He gripped her by her fat arms and groaned: "What can I do for you, dear lady?' she had just about got to her hips again, rounded them off, magnificent and shrill, breathed 'Ah yes!' and levered herself into his arms. She was fatter than he and thought herself embraced. At this juncture her skirt slid to the ground. Thérèse noticed it and was more delighted than ever, everything was happening so natural. But when she sensed his resistance, she was filled with fear in the midst of her bliss and sobbed: 'If I may make so bold!' Puda's voice was saying: 'But, dear lady! But, dear lady! But, dear lady!' She was the 'dear lady*. Other voices boomed around her; they weren't beautiful, people were staring, let them stare, she was a respectable woman. Mr. Puda was bashful, he pulled and pulled, but she wouldn't leave go; behind his back her hands were inextricably locked. He yelped: 'Just a moment, dear lady, if you please dear lady, let me go, dear lady!' Her head rested on his shoulder and his cheeks were like butter. Why was he so bashful? She wasn't bashful. They could cut her hands off, but leave go of him, never. Mr. Puda stamped his feet and shouted: 'Allow me, if you please, I don't even know you, allow me, please, let go of me!' Then a lot of people came and beat on her hands, she began to cry, but leave go, never. A strong hand pulled her fingers one by one apart and tore Mr. Puda suddenly away from her. Thérèse staggered, passed her sleeves over her eyes, said: 'I ask you, who could be such a brute!' and stopped crying. The strong hand belonged to a large, stout woman. So Mr. Puda had got married! A shocking din was going on in the shop; when Thérèse s eye fell on her skirt on the ground, she understood why.
Quite close to her there was a crowd of people, laughing as if they had been paid to do it. Walls and ceiling quivered, the furniture swayed. Someone shouted: 'Call an ambulance!' Someone else 'Police'! Outraged, Mr. Brute brushed down his suit —he had a particular affection for its padded shoulders — and chanted over and over again: 'Manners, too, nave a limit, dear lady!' and as soon as he was satisfied with the state of his suit, began to wipe his tainted cheek. Thérèse and he, alone, were not laughing. His saviour, the '& Mother', eyed him suspiciously, she scented some love affair at the back of this incident. As she had an interest in him, she was more inclined to call the police. This shameless creature deserved a lesson. He had had his already. Apart from that he was a nice fellow — though she would never have said so openly. Business demands ruthless discipline. In spite of this calculation she laughed, harsh and loud. Everyone was talking at once. Thérèse put on her skirt again in the midst of the crowd. The girl from the cash-desk laughed at the skirt. Thérèse allowed no reflections on it and said: 'I ask you, jealousy!' And she pointed to the broad lace insertions in her petticoat, which looked like something too, she didn't have all her best things on top. The laughter went on and on. Thérèse was relieved, she had been afraid of his wife. A piece of luck her kissing him like that, she would never have another chance. As long as they were all laughing, no harm would come to her. You don't send for the police if you're laughing. A lean salesman — not a man at all, just like her late husband, that thief— said: 'Mr. Brute's lady friend!' Another —and he was a man —said: 'A fine lady friend! The others laughed even louder; she thought diat mean. I ask you, I
am
a fine woman!' She screamed: 'Where's my bags' Her bag had gone. 'Where's my bag? I shall call the police!' & Mother found this too much. 'Quite! she exclaimed. 'Now I shall call the police!' She turned round and made for the telephone.
Mr. Gross, the little chief, her son, had been standing all the time just behind her trying to say something. Nobody listened to him. He plucked frantically at her sleeve, she pushed him away and proclaimed in a raucous mannish voice: 'We shall teach her a lesson! We shall see who is master here!' Mr. Gross couldn't think what to do next. He had lifted the receiver before he dared the uttermost and pinched her. 'But she's a customer,' he whispered. 'What?' she asked.
'A superior bedroom suite.' He alone had recognized Thérèse.
& Mother set down the receiver, swept round and, at a moment's notice, and without exception, sacked the assembled staff: 'I will not have my customers insulted!' The furniture swayed again, but not-with laughter. 'Where is the lady's bag? In three minutes it must be found!' One and all the staff flung themselves on the floor and crawled obediendy in search of it. Not one had failed to see that Thérèse had meanwhile found and picked up her own bag, which was lying exactly where & Mother had been stationed. Mr. Brute was the first to get up again and to notice, with surprise, the bag under Therese's arm. 'But I see, dear lady,' he chanted, 'you have already found your bag dear lady. You were born under a lucky star, dear lady. What can I snow you, dear lady, if I may inquire?' His obsequious zeal was requited with the approval of & Mother. She marched across to him and nodded. Thérèse said: 'Nothing to-day.' Brute bowed low over her hand and breathed with soft humility: 'I kiss your lovely hand, dear lady.' He kissed her arm just above her glove, hummed 'I kiss your little hand, Madame,' and, sketching an elegant gesture of renunciation with his left hand, stood aside. The start leapt to its feet and formed into a guard of honour. Thérèse hesitated, direw back her head proudly and fired as a parting shot: 'Excuse me, are congratulations permitted?' He did not understand what she meant, but custom bade nim bow low. Then she walked out through her guard of honour. Every back was bent and every voice raised in salutation. Behind them stood & Mother, assuring Thérèse of her best attention in a voice of thunder. The chief at her apron strings said nothing. He had already taken too much on himself to-day. He ought certainly to have told her earlier that the lady was a customer. When Thérèse was at the door, which, held open for her by two attendants, had become a triumphal arch, he vanished swiftly into his office. Perhaps & Mother would forget him. To the very last Thérèse heard wondering exclamations. 'A smart lady!' 'That beautiful skirt!' 'Isn't it blue!' 'And so rich!' 'Like a princess!' 'Brute's a lucky devil!' It was not a dream. Over and over again the lucky devil kissed her hand. Now she was in the street. Even the door closed slowly and respectfully. Through the glass panels they stared after her. Once only she turned round, then glided away, smiling.