Dirty Snow (26 page)

“Who introduced you?”

Kromer, again. It would be so much easier to put his cards on the table, especially since, as far as Frank could tell, Kromer was holed up somewhere out of reach.

He was asked about people he didn't know. He was shown photographs. Either they meant to exhaust him completely, driving him to the limit of his endurance, or else they imagined he knew a lot more than he really did.

When he left the office he could almost taste the dawn. The air was full of the scent of the neighborhood wood fires. Had the window been open? He couldn't recall. He'd seen it, but he couldn't have sworn—that is, not in front of the old gentleman, not in response to definite questions—that it hadn't been a dream. But his eyes must have been open. He was sure of that.

He couldn't recall. And now they were here, dragging him out of bed again. He walked, the civilian in front, the soldier behind, the noise of the two pairs of boots on each side. He was still asleep. He had plenty of time. They always kept him waiting on the gray painted bench. But this time they didn't. Without stopping they crossed the room, heading straight into the office.

Lotte and Minna were standing there.

Did he seem displeased when he caught sight of them? He hadn't realized it. His mother gave a start, he saw that. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but controlled herself. “Frank!” she stammered, with a pity in her voice he no longer understood.

She felt the urge to blow her nose in one of those lace handkerchiefs she always soaked in perfume. As for Minna, she hadn't moved. She hadn't said a thing. He saw her standing there, very straight and pale, with tears running down her cheeks.

It was because of his missing teeth, his beard, his reddened eyelids, his jacket that was now twisted hopelessly out of shape. Those things never crossed his mind anymore. He hadn't bothered to change shirts.

But they were deeply upset. He wasn't. He was almost as hardened as the old gentleman now. Instantly, he noticed that his mother had dressed in gray and white, an old habit she fell into whenever she wanted to appear distinguished. She used to dress up like that when she came to see him at school, his real school, and even then she had worn those same light little demi-veils to cover her eyes. They hadn't come back in fashion yet.

She smelled like a bath, like powder and scent. She must have come from home. In prison, she would never have had an opportunity to do herself up like that.

But why Minna? To look at them, you'd have thought it was a mother and some young relative who'd come to pay a visit. With her little tailored blue suit, white blouse, and hardly any makeup, Minna looked just like a young relative.

He looked around for the suitcase and the packages they must have brought, but there weren't any in the room, and he understood. And that Lotte was so embarrassed proved he was right. She didn't know where to begin. She looked at the old gentleman more than at her son. Perhaps she wanted Frank to understand that she hadn't come of her own accord.

“They have very kindly allowed me to visit you again, Frank. I inquired if I could bring Minna along, since she's always asking about you, and this gentleman was good enough to grant permission.”

It wasn't true. It was the old gentleman's idea. Two weeks ago he had wanted to know about Bertha; a week ago it was all Anny. Now, in his unhurried way, he had gotten to Minna. He hadn't needed to rush things, since she was there right at hand. Minna turned away, embarrassed.

Pretty clever. Frank didn't believe in accidents. Finally, the old gentleman had understood that if there was any girl among those who had filed through Lotte's house that Frank might have felt even the slightest affection for, it was Minna.

Frank hadn't been in love with her, of course. He had been intentionally cruel to her. He no longer remembered exactly what he'd done. There were many things he had done when he was still outside that he had erased from memory. Toward Minna, though, he felt something like a pang of guilt. He knew he'd behaved disgustingly.

All three of them standing. Ridiculous. The old gentleman noticed it first and had chairs brought in for Lotte and Minna. He motioned for Frank to sit down on the stool, the stool from the seated interrogations.

He went back to looking preoccupied. You would have sworn that what was happening didn't concern him in the least. He appeared to be busy with his files, finding and classifying his little scraps of paper.

“Frank, I have to talk to you. Don't be afraid.”

Why say that? Afraid of what?

“I've been thinking these last six weeks.”

Six weeks already? Or only? He was struck by that. He would have liked to look at her less coldly, but he couldn't. She was afraid that she would burst into tears if she raised her eyes to his face. Was he so terrible to look at? Because of his missing two front teeth? Because he was dirty?

“Frank, I'm sure that if you did anything bad it was because you let yourself be led astray. You're too young. I know you. It was my fault letting you go out with friends who were so much older.”

She lied badly. And yet Lotte knew how to lie. When she talked about her clients, about men in general, she always boasted that she could fool them as she pleased. Was she lying badly on purpose, to let him know she had come on their orders?

No automobile in the courtyard. They must have taken the streetcar.

“People of sound judgment have advised me, Frank.”

“Who?”

“Well, Inspector Hamling, for one.”

If she mentioned that name, it was because he had been permitted.

“I know you don't like him very much, but you're wrong. You'll understand later on. He's a very old friend of mine, perhaps my only friend. He knew me when I was a young girl, and if I hadn't been so stupid …”

Frank's eyes narrowed. He had a new thought, one that hadn't crossed his mind before. If the chief inspector came to see them so often, acting so friendly and familiar in spite of Lotte's more than dubious professional situation, if he appeared to take them under his protection and claimed the right to speak to Frank the way he had, well, wasn't there probably a very good reason for it?

He felt almost as tense as he used to. For a moment he assumed the expression he'd worn on the worst days in the rue Verte, and Lotte, who had been about to confide something, let the matter drop.

It was better that way. If Kurt Hamling happened to be his father, he didn't want to know.

“He has always taken an interest in us, in you—”

“All right!” He cut her short.

“He knows you better than you think. He's sure that you let yourself be led astray by others but that you refuse to admit it. It's false honor, Frank, that's what he says, and he's right.”

“I have no honor.”

“These gentlemen have been patient with you, I know.”

What did she mean by that?

“They've allowed you to receive packages. They gave me permission to come see you today with Minna, who worries about you so much.”

“Is she sick?”

“Who?”

“Minna.”

Why did he break the train of Lotte's thoughts? There she was, not knowing what answer to give, casting a quick questioning look at the old gentleman.

“No, of course she isn't sick. Whatever made you think that? I had her examined again thoroughly last week. A young doctor who doesn't know anything wanted to operate, but it isn't necessary, the other doctor said. She's already doing much better.”

He sensed something mysterious, something hidden. He said casually, “So now she'll have a chance to rest?”

His mother hesitated. Why? But the old gentleman didn't seem inclined to interfere, and she ventured, “We've reopened the house.”

“With girls?”

“There are two new ones besides Minna.”

“I thought your friend Hamling advised you to close.”

“At the time, yes. He didn't know how much harm Anny could do.”

Now Frank understood. He understood why they were here. He understood everything. The old gentleman didn't miss a trick.

“You were asked to stay open?”

“I was told it would be best from every point of view.”

In other words, the apartment on the rue Verte had become a sort of mousetrap. Who looked through the transom and tried to overhear what was being said on these gentle-men's behalf?

That was why Lotte was so embarrassed.

“In short,” he said quietly, without any sarcasm, “every-thing's okay at home.”

“Very much so.”

“Sissy's well?”

“I think so.”

“You haven't seen her?”

“There's so much work, you know. I don't know whether it's the time …”

What more was there to say? They were worlds apart, separated by an unbridgeable gulf—by the scented handkerchief, even, which had become such an overwhelming presence in the room that Lotte herself noticed and stuck it back in her bag.

“Listen, Frank—”

“Yes.”

“You're young—”

“You told me that.”

“I know better than you that you're not bad. Don't look at me like that. Remember that I've never thought of anything but you. Everything I've done since you were born I've done for your sake, and now I'd gladly give the rest of my life for you to be happy.”

It wasn't his fault he wasn't paying attention. He caught the drift of her words. He was looking at Minna's handbag. It was the very same bag as Sissy's, only red, not black, Sissy's bag with the key that he had brandished at arm's length in the empty lot and finally set down on a pile of snow. He had never learned whether she had found it or not.

“I told them that you knew Kromer, because it's true. He's your friend and I don't want you to deny it anymore. Nobody can make me believe it wasn't all his idea. He was cunning enough to wriggle out of it and leave you holding the bag.”

Was that what she had come to tell him—that Kromer was safe? He was too near the stove. He was hot. Through the window—it was the first time he had sat facing this way—he could see the gate, the sentry box, the guard, a bit of street. It didn't affect him in the least to see the road again, with the streetcars going by.

“It's absolutely vital that you tell them the truth, everything you know, and they'll take that into consideration. I'm sure of it. I feel confident.”

Never had the old gentleman seemed so distant.

“Tomorrow I may be allowed to leave a package for you. What would you like me to put in it?”

He was ashamed for her, for himself, for all of them. He was tired. He felt like replying, “Put shit in it!”

He would have said that at one time. Since then he'd learned patience. Unless it was weakness. He murmured, beneath his breath, “Anything you like.”

“It isn't fair for you to take the fall for someone else, you see? Without meaning it, I've done a great deal of harm, too; I realize that now.”

And she was paying for it by letting her whorehouse be used as a trap for perverts! The most astonishing thing was that four or five months ago it would have seemed perfectly natural to Frank. Even now, he didn't exactly feel indignant. He was thinking about something else. He had been thinking about something else all through the conversation, not realizing his eyes were glued to Minna's bag.

“Tell them honestly everything you know. Don't try to play tricks. You'll get out, you'll see. I'll take care of you and—”

He wasn't listening. It was all so far away. It was true that he was always sleepy, that at certain hours of the day, especially in the morning, he had dizzy spells. It was fatigue.

She rose. She smelled good. She was bright and crisp, with a fur around her neck.

“Promise me, Frank. Promise your mother. Minna, you tell him, too …”

Minna, who didn't dare look at him, struggled to say, “I'm so unhappy, Frank!”

And Lotte ran on: “You haven't told me what you want me to bring.”

Then he said it. He was more surprised than anyone. He had thought it would happen much later, at the very end. But suddenly, he was too tired. He spoke without thinking. Without realizing it, he had made a decision.

Almost inaudibly, he said—and he was conscious of what the words meant, though only to him—“Could I see Holst?”

What happened then astonished him. It wasn't his mother who answered, and she couldn't have understood, anyway; she was quite lost. Minna choked back a sob that could just as well have been a hiccup. Minna knew a good deal more about it than Lotte.

It was the old gentleman who raised his head, looking at him. He asked, “You are speaking of Gerhardt Holst?”

“Yes.”

“Curious.”

He rummaged about among his scraps of paper, fished one out at last, and examined it closely. Frank held his breath.

“He has just asked for a visitor's permit.”

“To see me?”

“Yes.”

He wasn't going to leap with joy, to dance around the room in front of them. And yet his face was transfigured. Now he had tears in his eyes, like Minna. But he was afraid to believe it. It would be too wonderful. It would mean he hadn't made a mistake. It would mean …

“He asked to see me?”

“One minute … No.”

Frank stood paralyzed. No doubt about it, the old gentleman was a sadist.

“It was not exactly that. A certain Gerhardt Holst sent in a request to the authorities for a visitor's permit. He addressed very high authorities indeed. But it is not for himself.”

Hurry up, by God! And Lotte was listening to it all as though it were the radio!

“It is for his daughter.”

No! No! No! He mustn't cry. He must do anything to keep from crying. Otherwise, he might spoil everything. It wasn't true! It wasn't possible! The old gentleman would pick up another scrap of paper and discover he was mistaken.