Billiards at Half-Past Nine (24 page)

Schrella watched Nettlinger’s finger solemnly go down the list of dishes, stopping at certain items—a smack of the lips, a headshake, indecision—“I always weaken when I read
poularde.”
Schrella lit himself a cigarette, glad to have avoided Nettlinger’s lighter this time. He sipped at his martini again and let his eyes follow Nettlinger’s index finger, which had arrived at the desserts. Their confounded thoroughness, he thought, ruins your appetite even for something good and sensible like roast chicken; they just have to do everything better, and they are evidently well on the way to topping even the Italians and the French in the art of epicurean indulgence.

“Please,” he said, “I’ll stick to chicken.”

“And smoked salmon?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re missing something really tasty there. And you must be hungry as a horse.”

“I am,” said Schrella, “but I’ll make up on the dessert.”

“Up to you.”

The waiter brought another two martinis on a tray that must have cost more than a night’s lodging. Nettlinger took one glass from the tray, passed it to Schrella, took his own, leaned forward and said, “Here’s to your special health and prosperity.”

Schrella said, “Thank you,” nodded and drank. “One thing still isn’t clear to me,” he said. “How was it they arrested me right off at the frontier?”

“By rotten luck your name was still on the Wanted List. Attempted murder comes under the statute of limitations after twenty years, and you ought to have been struck off two years ago.”

“Attempted murder?” asked Schrella.

“Yes, what you tried with Vacano comes under that heading.”

“You know very well I had no part in it; I never even approved of that business.”

“So much the better, then,” said Nettlinger. “If that’s the case there won’t be any difficulty at all getting your name definitively struck off the Wanted List. All I could do was vouch for you and arrange for your provisional release. I couldn’t have the entry annulled. Now the rest will be merely a matter of form. Do you mind if I begin my soup?”

“Not at all,” said Schrella.

He looked away toward the station while Nettlinger ladled his soup from the silver bowl. The pale yellow lumps of marrow in the soup undoubtedy came from the noblest breed of cattle which had ever grazed on German pastures;
the smoked salmon on the tray gleamed golden between the green lettuce leaves, the toast was gently browned and silvery drops of water clung to the pats of butter. Yet the sight of Nettlinger eating caused Schrella to fight down a wretched feeling of compassion. He had always thought of eating as an act of great brotherliness, in humble or in grand hotels a feast of love. Having to eat alone had always seemed to him like a curse, and the sight of men eating alone, in waiting rooms and breakfast rooms and the countless boardinghouses in which he had lived, had always been for him a vision of damnation. He had always sought company at meals, sitting for preference near a woman. Just the few words exchanged as he broke a roll of bread, the smile across the soup plate, the objects passed from hand to hand, made the purely biological operation bearable and pleasurable. Men like Nettlinger, whom he had watched in infinite number, reminded him of men condemned, and their meals, of hangmen’s meals. Though they knew and observed the customary table manners, they ate without ceremony, in deadly seriousness which murdered their pea soup or their
poularde
. And furthermore felt obliged to note the price of every mouthful they ate. He looked away from Nettlinger toward the station again, reading the huge banner which hung above the entrance:
Welcome to our Homecomers
.

“Tell me,” he said, “would you describe me as a Home-comer?”

Raising his eyelids as if emerging from the depths of grief, Nettlinger looked up from the slice of toast on which he was spreading butter.

“That depends,” he said. “Are you in fact still a German citizen?”

“No,” said Schrella, “I’m stateless.”

“Pity,” said Nettlinger, bending over his slice of toast again, spearing a morsel of smoked salmon from the dish and laying it on. “If you could manage to prove you had to flee not for criminal but political reasons, you could collect a pretty
handsome restitution payment. Would you like me to check into the legal position?”

“No,” said Schrella. He leaned forward as Nettlinger pushed back the salmon dish. “Are you going to let some of that marvelous salmon go back?”

“Of course,” said Nettlinger. “But really you can’t.…”

He looked round, shocked, as Schrella took a slice of toast from the plate and, with his fingers, some salmon from the silver dish and laid it on the toast. “…  you really can’t.…”

“You haven’t any idea of all the things one can do in such a distinguished hotel as this. My father was actually a waiter in these sacred halls. They wouldn’t bat an eyelid if you chose to eat your pea soup with your fingers, in spite of its being unnatural and impracticable. But the Unnatural and the Impracticable precisely would cause the least of sensations here, hence the high prices; it’s the price of waiters who don’t bat their eyelids; but eating bread with your fingers and laying fish on it with your fingers—that is neither unnatural nor impracticable.”

Smiling, he took the final sliver of salmon from the dish, separated the slices of toast again and slid the fish between them. Nettlinger was watching him angrily.

“Probably,” Schrella said, “you feel very much like killing me now, not from the same motives as in the past, I must admit, but the intention is the same. Now listen to what the son of a waiter has to tell you: a really well-bred man never submits to the waiters’ tyranny, and among the waiters, of course, are some who think as well-bred people do.”

He ate his sandwich, while the waiter, aided by a busboy, prepared for the main course, setting up complicated constructions on little tables to keep it warm, distributing cutlery and plates, clearing away the dirty dishes; wine arrived for Nettlinger and beer for Schrella. Nettlinger tasted his wine. “Just a shade too warm,” he said.

Schrella let them serve his chicken, potatoes and salad,
toasted Nettlinger with his glass of beer and watched how the waiter poured the rich, dark-brown gravy over Nettlinger’s portion of sirloin.

“By the way, is Vacano still alive?”

“Of course,” said Nettlinger, “he’s only just fifty-eight, and—you’ll doubtless find the word strange in my mouth—he’s one of the incorrigible ones.”

“Oh,” asked Schrella, “how am I to interpret that? Can there really be incorrigible Germans?”

“Well, he is faithful to the same traditions he followed in 1935.”

“Hindenburg and the rest? Respectability, loyalty, honor and so on?”

“Exactly. Hindenburg could be the caption for him.”

“And the caption for you?”

Nettlinger looked up from his plate, holding his fork firmly in the piece of meat he had just cut off. “If only you could understand me,” he said. “I’m a democrat. A democrat by conviction.”

He lowered his head to the piece of sirloin again, raised up the fork with the meat speared on it and thrust it into his mouth, touched his lips with his serviette and then, shaking his head, reached for his wine glass.

“What became of Trischler?” asked Schrella.

“Trischler? I can’t say I remember him.”

“Old Trischler who lived down in the Lower Harbor, where they broke up ships later on. Can’t you remember Alois either? He was in our class.”

“Oh,” said Nettlinger, taking some celery from the dish. “Now I remember. We looked for Alois for weeks without finding him, and Vacano himself interrogated old Trischler, but he got nothing out of him, nothing at all out of him or his wife.”

“You don’t know whether they are still alive?”

“No. But that district down there was bombed a lot. If you want, I’ll see you get down there. Good God,” he said softly,
“what’s going on now, what are you doing?”

“I’d like to go,” said Schrella. “Excuse me, but I’ve got to get out of here now.”

He stood up, drank down his beer standing, made a sign to the waiter and, as the latter came noiselessly up to them, indicated the silver platter on which three pieces of roast chicken were still simmering over the spirit flame, in gently spluttering fat.

“Would you please have them wrapped for me,” said Schrella, “so the fat doesn’t leak out?”

“Certainly,” said the waiter. He took the platter off the flame and had begun to go when he turned back again and asked, “The potatoes too, sir—and perhaps a little salad?”

“No, thank you,” Schrella said, smiling, “the French fries go soft and the lettuce loses flavor.” He looked into the gray-haired waiter’s well-groomed face for a trace of irony, but none was there.

Nettlinger looked up angrily from his plate. “All right,” he said, “you want to get back at me. I can understand that. But do you have to do it this way?”

“Would you prefer me to kill you?”

Nettlinger made no reply.

“In any case, it’s not revenge,” Schrella said, “I just have to get out of here, I can’t stand it any longer, and I’d have kicked myself for the rest of my life if I’d let that chicken go back. Perhaps you can blame my instinct for economy; if I were sure they permitted the waiters and busboys to eat up leftovers, I’d have left it—but I know they don’t allow it here.”

He thanked the boy who had brought his coat and helped him on with it, took his hat, sat down again and asked, “Do you know Mr. Faehmel?”

“Yes,” said Hugo.

“Do you know his phone number, too?”

“Yes.”

“Would you do me a favor and call him up every half-hour,
and when he answers tell him a Mr. Schrella would like to see him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure there’s a phone booth where I’m going, or I’d do it myself. Did you get my name?”

“Schrella,” said Hugo.

“Right. I’ll ask for you at about half-past six. What’s your name?”

“Hugo.”

“Thank you very much, Hugo.”

He stood up, looked down at Nettlinger, who was taking another slice of sirloin from the dish. “I’m sorry,” Schrella said, “that you see revenge in such a harmless act. I wasn’t thinking of getting even for a single instant, but perhaps you will understand that I’d like to go now. Matter of fact, I don’t want to spend much time in this hospitable city and I still have several matters to deal with. May I perhaps remind you once more of the Wanted List?”

“I’m available to you at any time, of course, officially or unofficially, as you wish.”

Schrella took the neatly packed white carton from the waiter’s hand and gave him a tip.

“The fat won’t leak out, sir,” said the waiter. “It’s all wrapped in cellophane in our special picnic carton.”

“Goodbye,” said Schrella.

Nettlinger raised his head slightly and said, “Goodbye.”

“Yes,” Jochen was saying, “certainly, and then you’ll see the sign post: ‘To the Roman Children’s Graves.’ It’s open till nine and lit at dark, Madam. Not at all, thank you very much.” He came out from behind the desk and hobbled up to Schrella as the boy was opening the door for him.

“Mr. Schrella,” he said quietly, “I’ll do everything I can to find out how Dr. Faehmel may be reached. In the meanwhile I’ve learned one thing from the Cafe Kroner. There’s a family
party there at seven in honor of old Mr. Faehmel, and you’ll certainly meet him there.”

“Thank you,” said Schrella, “thank you kindly,” and he knew no tip was called for in this case. He smiled at the old man, and walked through the door, which swung softly back into its felt-lined frame.

The entire width of the autobahn was barricaded by massive signboards. The bridge that had spanned the river at this point had been destroyed, its ramps blown clean off. Rusty wire cables hung down in tatters from the pylons. Signboards ten feet high announced what lay in wait behind them: DEATH. A skull and crossbones, menacing, ten times life size, painted in dazzling white on jet black, made the same announcement graphically to those for whom the word was not enough.

Assiduous students from the driving schools practiced their gear-changing along that dead stretch, grew familiar with speed and ground their gears, backing to the left, backing to the right. And neatly clad men and women, relaxing after work, would stroll along the roadway leading past the golf course and between the small garden plots, and peer at the ramps and the menacing signboards, behind which, seeming to mock at death, the modest little construction workers’ huts lay hidden; behind DEATH, blue fumes rising up from the stoves where the night watchmen were warming their lunches, toasting bread and lighting their pipes with splinters of wood. The steps,
of bombastic design, had survived destruction and now, on the warm summer evenings, served as seats for weary strollers; from a height of sixty feet, they could watch the progress of work. Divers in yellow suits slid down into the waters, guided the crane hooks to segments of iron or blocks of concrete, and the cranes hauled up the dripping catch and loaded it onto barges. High on the scaffolding and on swaying catwalks, up in crow’s nests fixed to the pylons, workmen severed the torn steel girders, their oxyacetylene lamps giving off blue flashes as they cut out twisted rivets and sheared away the remains of tattered cables. In the river, the columns with their transverse buttresses stood like giant empty gates framing acres of blue nothingness. Sirens signaled “Waterway clear,” “Waterway blocked,” green and red lights went on and off, as the barges carried coal and wood here and there, there and here.

Green river, cheerfulness, soft banks with their willow trees, gaily colored boats, blue flashes from the welding torches. Wiry men and wiry women, serious-faced, carrying golf clubs, went walking over the immaculate turf, behind their golf balls, for eighteen holes. Smoke rose up from the allotments, where bean shoots and pea shoots and discarded stakes were being burned, making sweet-smelling clouds in the sky, like primitive cave paintings, balled together in baroque shapes, then dissolving, against the clear, gray afternoon sky, into tormented figures until a rush of wind mangled them again and swept them away to the horizon. Children went roller skating on the rough-surfaced parking edge, fell down, cut their arms and knees and showed their scratches and abrasions to their startled mothers, extracting promises of lemonade and ice cream. Hands entwined, loving couples went wandering down to the willow trees, where the high-tide mark had long ago been bleached away, where the reed stalks stood and corks and bottles and shoe-polish cans were littered. Barge-men climbed up their swaying gangways onto land, women appeared with shopping baskets on their arms, self-confidence in their eyes; the washing
flapped in the evening wind on the spotless barges; green pants, red blouses, snow-white bed linen against the fresh, jet-black tar, gleaming like Japanese lacquer. Parts of the bridge were being hauled from the water, covered in slime and seaweed. In the background the slender gray silhouette of St. Severin’s, and in the Cafe Bellevue the exhausted waitress announced: “The cream cake’s sold out,” wiped the sweat from her broad face and fumbled in her leather purse for change. “Only raisin cake left—no, the ice cream’s sold out too.”