Authors: Helen Macinnes
“I do believe you enjoy this,” she said in amazement.
He laughed. “What about you?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Well, we can have breakfast on the train. We’ll travel luxuriously and get some sleep before Strassburg.”
As Richard had predicted, they breakfasted well. Frances watched him in the dining car with amusement.
“Every moment you look more and more like a cat before a dish of cream.” Richard gave a laugh which degenerated into a yawn.
He said, “Well, I feel something is making sense. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we have finished our visit. Let’s go back to the compartment.”
“And sleep.”
“I’ll have a pipe first.”
Frances thought this strange. Richard didn’t usually smoke a pipe until after lunch. However, back in the empty compartment she understood. Out of certain pages in the guide-book which he had studied last night he made very efficient lighters. When all that remained of them was curled fragments of charred paper
he threw the expurgated book out of the window. It landed satisfactorily in a broad irrigation ditch. Richard watched it disappear, and then relaxed in his corner, stretching his legs. He gave Frances a satisfied smile.
“Everything all right with you?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Good. Everything’s all right with me.” His eyes closed. “Sorry,” he added, his voice fading.
Frances looked at the trees and the fields and the sky. The express devoured the miles. Someone, she thought, ought to stay awake. But the journey was completely uneventful and, apart from an inner excitement at crossing the frontier, it was as dull as the scenery in the last stages of their travels. Once the minor thrills at Strassburg had passed—when the engine had been changed for a (no doubt) superior German model, when the carriages had the last French dust swept from them efficiently and contemptuously by a squad of German cleaners, when their bags and money and passport had been thoroughly examined—there only remained the sagging feeling of relief. By the time they reached Nürnberg, Frances was cross and tired. She was resigned to a holiday in which the main excitement would be merely a succession of tensions. Richard was resigned to the fact that so far their luck had been almost too good to last.
It was very late when they did arrive at Nürnberg. Frances waited at the entrance to the Hauptbahnhof and stared across the warm darkness of the enormous square. Richard had told her that the old town lay beyond. Its lights were few. It seemed already asleep within its walls.
The porter had found them a taxi, at last. Richard gave the driver the name of the hotel. The driver looked at them. His face was large and round and expressionless.
“It isn’t here, any more,” he said.
The porter was listening. “The Königshof is near the same place. It is highly esteemed,” he volunteered.
“All right, then,” said Richard, “the Königshof.”
They sat in silence during the short journey to the hotel.
“You could have walked,” said the driver as they got out of the taxi. He seemed as if he disapproved of their extravagance.
Richard made no reply.
“Did you know the Goldner Hahn well?” the driver asked suddenly.
“I stayed there in ’32. What happened to it?”
The man was silent.
“What happened to it?” Richard asked again.
The man hesitated. “Oh, they went away.” His voice was as expressionless as his face. Richard noted Frances’ speculative interest. He knew what she was thinking.
She was still silent when they reached their room. It was warm inside; the massive furniture made it feel still warmer. She opened a window and looked out into the Königstrasse. The houses had high steep roofs, some of them pitted with attic windows, while others turned their gable-ends to the street. This was better, this was more like what she had imagined. She remained standing at the window watching the moonlight on the roofs. When she moved at last she found that Richard had unpacked some things for her. She smiled her thanks.
“Cheer up, old girl. You’ll feel better in the morning,” he said.
I hope, she added to herself.
But when Tuesday morning came and the constant hum of traffic outside their window awoke Frances, she did feel better. Richard was already dressed, and reading his Baedeker. They had breakfast in their room, and discussed their plans as they ate. Richard advocated the minimum of unpacking. No one noticed what you wore here, anyway.
While Frances had slept, he had decided to work in an opposite direction from their Paris experience. Instead of
waiting the few days until Saturday came, they would call on Fugger tomorrow, and then they could spend three or four days playing the tourist in Nürnberg. But to Frances, he only remarked that today they could explore the old town, and leave the Castle and the Museum and the churches for the rest of the week.
“Unless I fry to death,” Frances said. She looked out at the bright sunlight in the street, promising heat even at this early hour. Resignedly she chose the thinnest town dress she had. Richard approved of the effect when she was at last ready, but he also looked at his wristwatch just slightly more pointedly than was necessary.
“Brute,” said Frances with her sweetest smile, and led the way out of the room.
There was that feeling of continual coming and going in the entrance hall which characterises a busy town hotel. Just as well for us, thought Richard. Frances and he were only two more in the constant stream. The other guests were mostly German. They were serious-looking men and women who walked quickly as if they had important business to attend to. Perhaps they had. He noted the number of uniforms of one kind or another, and even—astounding thing—the quick, precise salutes and the violent two-worded greeting. It was astounding because it was so theatrical, so incongruous in a peaceful hotel lobby. He caught Frances’ eye, and they both smiled gently. He imagined himself coming into a lecture hall at Oxford, surveying the rows of young faces before him, making a rigid salute and barking out “God save the King” in a parade-ground voice, before turning to his lecture on the metaphysical poets. He knew what his undergraduates would do. They
would telephone anxiously for a doctor, two male nurses and a straitjacket—and they would be right.
As they reached the front door, Frances paused to look at the roughly paved street and then at her shoes.
“I thought the heels were a mistake,” said Richard.
Frances looked stubborn. “Well, if I change into my hiking shoes, I’ll have to change my whole outfit. I’ll manage.”
A young man had come out of the hotel door; he halted as he heard Frances’ voice, and looked at her, giving what Hollywood has perfected as the “double take.” Then the pavement was crowded with the stamp of heavy boots. Frances was separated from Richard by a wall of brown shirts. She stepped backwards to the safety of the doorway, lost her balance and felt her heel sink cruelly into something soft. The young man winced, but stood his ground.
“I’m so sorry,” Frances said and removed her heel. “
Verzeihung…
” That must have been a sore one, she thought.
“Pardon me,” the young man said, lifting his hat and trying to walk away without limping.
Frances’ handbag seemed to be infected with her embarrassment: it slipped from under her arm, and opened as it reached the pavement. The last uniform had passed, and in the temporary lull Richard bent down for the bag and jammed the odds and ends back into place. The powder case rolled towards the man, who had turned as Frances had said, “Damn.” He picked it up, and handed it silently with a twist of a smile to Richard.
“Thank you,” said Richard, and he meant it.
“You’re welcome.” He raised his hat again and walked quickly away, as if afraid of what Frances would do next. Richard looked down at her and shook his head.
“You surpassed yourself there, my sweet Dora. Now if you would really like to go some place, we can start on the old town. This way.” He caught her arm as she moved off in the wrong direction.
“He was rather nice-looking. American, wasn’t he? I liked his voice.”
“Yes; yes; and rich baritone,” Richard answered absent-mindedly. He was looking for a place to cross the street.
The exploration of the old town filled in the time till lunch. Two o’clock found them exhausted in a beer restaurant, Richard having decided that the heat of the day called for a liquid lunch. Frances atoning for the slow progress caused by her shoes—she
had
managed, but at a price—sat in sweet martyrdom as she talked and laughed. It was strange how the smell of beer clung to the room. The coffee did not taste very much like coffee, but she sipped it and kept her eyes off the beer mugs. She had never liked the stuff; from now on she would hate it. Even the table smelled of beer. Richard was asking her a question. How would she like a tram ride? Heavens, there was nothing she wanted less.
“Must we?” she asked as pathetically as possible.
Richard nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
She lowered her voice. “Telephone book?”
“No good. I had a look at it when you were powdering your nose.”
“Nothing there at all?”
“Nothing.”
Frances resigned herself to the inevitable. “Well, let’s go now, and get it over.”
Richard finished his beer slowly. It was a good thing that one of them was having fun, thought Frances. Then she began to wonder. She had been in such a constant depression ever since they had arrived in Nümberg. It was as if Gibbon’s idea of the Middle Ages had interpreted itself here in the tortuous streets, the thick walls, the narrow crowding houses. A triumph of religion and barbarism.
“Well?” said Richard.
“I thought I liked Gothic.”
“You like it spiritual and aspiring, my sweet.”
“Perhaps it is that. Tell me, Richard, was Gibbon ever in Nümberg?”
Richard laughed suddenly. Curious faces turned to look at them. They waited until the interest had subsided, and then they left.
“We must take a No. 2 tram, but God knows in which direction,” said Richard.
“Going east or west? “
“Roughly east.”
“Then it’s this side.”
A tramcar was approaching; there was no time for any argument. He followed Frances aboard with some misgivings, and then watched her trying to appear oblivious as the conductor agreed that they would be driven along the Marienstrasse.
“On a moor, or a hill or some place like that,” said Richard, “but in a strange muddled-up town… It’s quite beyond me how you know these things.”
Frances relented. “I cannot tell a lie, darling. You saw the Lorenz Church?”
“Well, yes. We were just beside it.”
“Well, what way does a church point?”
“East, of course… Upon my Sam!” He grinned. “You know, Frances, just at the stage when a man thinks women have no brains they confound him by some low cunning like that. Go on, have your laugh. You deserve it.”
As they approached the Marientor, he pressed her hand.
“Keep your eyes open,” was all he said. Frances remembered the name he had told her last night. They sat in silence, watching the shops and business houses, as the lumbering tramcar clanked its slow way along the Marienstrasse. They were now in the newer part of the town: the street was broader and the names on the shops were less easy to see. Frances guessed that Richard had the idea that Fugger might be the name of some business; it was the one chance. For if there had been no Fugger of Marienstrasse in the telephone directory then the only other way to find Mr. Fugger was either to make inquiries at the post office, which would be dangerously stupid, or to explore the Marienstrasse themselves. There must be a name to see, somewhere, or else no one could possibly get in touch with the retiring Mr. Fugger.
The tram had come to the end of the Marienstrasse. They had seen nothing which could help them.
“We’ll have to walk. Sorry, Fran; you must be tired.” They got off at the next stop, and started back towards their street.
“We’ll try this side again,” said Richard, and took Frances’ arm. They walked slowly along, and covered two-thirds of the street. Then Frances suddenly felt Richard’s hand tighten. They stopped. as they had done at half a dozen other points in the street. It was a small bookseller’s shop with a narrow window space and doorway, completely overshadowed by the larger, more prosperous buildings on either side. They looked at the books displayed in the window. They were mostly curiosities with the title pages open to show the brown spots of age. There were also some music books. One, a collection of songs, was lying open.
“Very interesting,” Richard said, and they walked on. He hoped Frances wouldn’t look at the sign above the window. She didn’t. It was of no help, anyway. It merely said B
UCHHANDLING
in faded letters; but above the door had been small, neat white lettering: A. F
UGGER
.
Next morning they left their hotel at half-past nine, and began their search through the bookshops of Nürnberg. Richard wanted a certain collection of early German lyrics. The two bookshops which they first tried were very modern; they specialised in books with streamlined printing and magnificent photographs, or in imposing editions of carefully selected authors. In the second shop, the assistant shook his head decisively. The only place they would be likely to find such a book might be in the smaller second-hand dealers. They thanked him, and walked towards the Marienstrasse. It was just eleven o’clock as they reached the small bookshop with the brown-spotted title pages displayed in the window. Richard noted that the books had been changed since yesterday, except for the collection of old songs, and that it had been moved to another corner of the window.
Inside the shop, there was the sleepy, dusty feeling which its
outside had promised. The bookshelves ran to ceiling height around the walls, and there were books overflowing on to the two large tables which crowded the narrow room.
At a corner of one table, a girl with glasses was working with scissors and paste. She had a white face and dull blue eyes, and her hair was tightened back so ruthlessly that it hurt Frances to look at it. She looked up expectantly as the door creaked shut behind them. Frances had the feeling that the girl was disappointed. She left her work reluctantly, and came forward with no smile on her pale lips. No, she didn’t think they had any such edition. She had never heard of it. As she recognised them as foreigners, she asserted her knowledge still more: she was sure, absolutely sure that such an edition did not exist. She neither offered to verify it from any catalogue, nor moved over to the poetry section to find anything else which might interest Richard. He exchanged glances with Frances, and then he searched in one of his pockets and brought out a small clipping. He handed it to the girl.