A Perfect Waiter (17 page)

Because Erneste had opened the door carefully, as he always did when he assumed that Jakob was still asleep, it was several seconds before Klinger, and soon afterward Jakob, became aware that they were no longer alone. In Klinger's case, that happened at latest when Erneste closed the door softly but not inaudibly behind him. Although the stuffy little room was naturally filled with sounds of human origin, with noises of varied provenance and odors as well, every sound and odor had vanished from the scene Erneste would later see again and again. It was a silent, lifeless, almost monochrome picture.

Also visible in that picture was Klinger's jacket, which lay behind him and to one side. He, who set so much store by his outward appearance, had let it fall to the floor, and half on top of it, half in front of it, lay his vest. His shirt was half-unbuttoned down the front, and his undershirt, beneath which the shape of Jakob's left hand could be glimpsed, had ridden up. It was easy to guess what the other hand was holding.
A plump bluebottle was launching repeated assaults on the window pane, but Erneste was the only one who registered its futile attempts to escape. Lying on the unmade bed was Jakob's damp towel, the one he used to keep himself cool, and lying on that was a shiny new 5-franc piece, a reward for his contribution to Klinger's wellbeing. Erneste's right hand started to twitch at the sight of it. No one had been expecting him.

Being unusually tired that day, he had asked Monsieur Flamin for permission to knock off early, almost as if he'd had a presentiment of some kind. In fact, he was merely tired. He'd had no presentiment, because if he'd had the least suspicion he certainly wouldn't have acted on it.

It had been just two o'clock when he went upstairs, wanting to see Jakob and have a rest. Now he was standing behind Jakob and facing Klinger, a simple situation devoid of mystery.

Klinger had finished his lunch shortly before one as usual; Erneste had seen him leave. He had accompanied his wife to her room, then hurried off to see Jakob. His children were still out on the terrace.

He was cupping Jakob's head in both hands. His thumbs were pointing upward, his palms covering Jakob's ears and blotting out any distant sounds. Nothing could have made it plainer that Jakob's body, which Erneste had hitherto regarded as his property, was his no longer, yet it didn't matter in the least whether Jakob had sold his body or was placing it at Klinger's disposal for pleasure's sake. What Jakob was doing, he was doing of his own free will,
not under any kind of compulsion. None of the arguments he might adduce to justify his behavior could change that. Jakob's body had ceased to belong to Erneste and his voice would no longer reach him. Jakob had passed into Klinger's possession.

Klinger straightened up. Whatever had prompted him to look up at that moment, an intake of breath or the absence of it, he now met Erneste's troubled gaze. Initial surprise gave way to a look of utter consternation. A member of the Grand Hotel's staff had caught the celebrated author, the husband and father of two children, being fellated in an attic like a male prostitute's john. There were more repugnant forms of illicit sexual intercourse between males, undoubtedly, but this one was embarrassing enough to bring the blood rushing to his cheeks.

It was only another two or three seconds before Jakob, too, grasped what had happened, because Klinger pushed him away. One glance at Klinger's face was enough: Jakob turned, saw Erneste standing where he had expected to see a closed door, and stared at him open-mouthed, a little saliva trickling down his chin. Klinger stooped and took hold of his waistband, which slipped through his fingers, then primly covered his nakedness.

Not a word was said as he hurriedly got dressed—not a word for as long as he was still present. Jakob, who made no move to rise and get dressed too, handed him his vest and jacket, picking them up in turn without taking his eyes off Erneste. Erneste stepped aside and opened the door,
and Klinger went out without meeting his eye. For a while the door remained wide open. Klinger's hurried footsteps could be heard descending the stairs. Erneste and Jakob were alone together.

Klinger's supposition that Erneste must have been appalled by his discovery hung in the air, undisputed and unconfirmed. Erneste looked down at his slice of cake. He took a bite and drank some coffee, waiting because he knew that Klinger would go on without being prompted.

“Until that moment I knew nothing of your relationship with Jakob—he had never mentioned you. I was even unaware that he shared his room with someone, although I felt sure he'd already acquired a certain amount of experience in the relevant respect. In the big city, though, not in Giessbach. When you walked into that room, which I'd thought he occupied on his own, I naturally concluded that it was an error—that you'd mistaken the door or were an unknown roommate who was horrified by what met his eye because he'd never seen such a thing before. It wasn't until later that I grasped the truth of the matter. Jakob told me in America about the part you'd played in his life. An important part, he said, and I believed him. I would certainly have believed you too, but I seem to recall we didn't exchange a word, did we? Later I realized that the man who had caught us together, a faceless individual, was the impassive waiter who sometimes
escorted us to our table in the dining room. But what would have been the point of trying to wean myself from Jakob? It was too late. I was besotted with him—I wouldn't have given him back to anyone.”

Klinger spoke in a halting but resolute voice. He searched for the right words and seemed to know that they came easily to him as long as he had a listener, and Erneste was prepared to absorb every last detail Klinger confided in him. He spoke as if he had been waiting for this moment for decades.

“He often mentioned you later on, in America, but ours wasn't the kind of relationship that lent itself to intimate revelations or conversations. I won't pretend to you: he mentioned you to humiliate me, not out of nostalgia or love. I knew my young friend too well—I'd seen through him long ago—but that didn't quench my infatuation, my absolute readiness to make a fool of myself and remain dependent on him, or my devotion to his beauty—far from it. He knew me too—he knew me as a master knows his dog. He had no need to beat his dog. One look, one word sufficed and it came to heel
—I
came to heel. Jakob exploited his strength and my weakness to the full, and always to his own advantage. I was the ridiculous old man, he the glamorous youngster. He was handsome, and he knew how to make the most of his looks, in fact he even managed to enhance them as time went by. Knowing him, you'll understand what I mean, I'm sure. I still don't know how he did it, but his physical beauty seemed self-perpetuating. He was in possession of the drug I needed
daily and couldn't dispense with. I was compelled to buy it from him because I couldn't live without it. So he kept me prisoner, titillating and exciting me until I had to possess him. Only then was I at peace—at peace and utterly at his mercy. But when he refused me I couldn't work. He starved me of oxygen. The snake lay basking in the Californian sunshine, replete and content, whereas the rabbit nearly expired of thirst.

“I'd devised a pretext for keeping him near me all the time: I managed to persuade him to learn to type. Because no one was allowed to disturb me while I was working, we spent hours alone together. No one took it amiss if I closeted myself with Jakob during the day. As my secretary, it was his duty to be available at all times. Nobody suspected anything. I enabled him to lead a comfortable life in my gradually shrinking shadow, and I enabled myself to delight in his constant presence. I was happy to be privileged to kiss and fondle him now and then. Occasionally he permitted me to do more than that. Meantime, he typed my manuscripts without understanding much of what he read—not a difficult job because my handwriting is legible. He also waited table at lunch and dinner. My wife insisted on that. “What a handsome boy he is,” she used to say. “It's nice to have someone like him around.” I liked to watch him on such occasions and see the pleasure his appearance inspired in other people, and sometimes he would give me a glance that epitomized our complicity. Then I felt proud—and yearned to kiss his hands in front of everyone, but I naturally restrained
myself. After dinner, if he didn't have to drive us anywhere, his time was his own. He had a room over the garage, not that I ever entered it. He used to go out at nights. I left him to his own devices and allowed him to use the car, but I never asked him whom he met and what he got up to. He picked up English quickly and made himself popular, and how could I have reproached him for his popularity? The awakening came later, much later, after the war broke out, when my initial euphoria had waned and my suspicions were gradually taking shape. That was over twenty years ago, when we were living in New York. If I'd told my wife the truth …”

Klinger fell silent although, or because, there was something on the tip of his tongue.

“I'm now convinced that she had her suspicions, at least. She never voiced them, although my dependence on him was so blatant, it stared at me from every mirror. What an absurd picture I must have presented to the world around me! But, whether my wife knew or not, we could never speak about it either then or later, not even after my son's death. She let me have my way, acted as if she knew nothing, turned a blind eye. She was indulgent and understanding. A wonderful wife—too wonderful, perhaps, because her indulgence proved to be unintentional cruelty. The others who were in on the secret, if they existed, did not make themselves known. They must have been embarrassed by the situation, embarrassed by my relationship with a servant and secretary, embarrassed by the difference in our ages. None of them cared to
broach the subject of sex between two men, the divine conception of the unnatural. To whom? To me? I would have told them to go to hell, everyone knew that. In those who saw through me, the ecstasy in which I lived, my double life, aroused either revulsion or compassion. Compassion at best, but chiefly revulsion and utter disgust. Had someone else been involved, it would have aroused the same emotions in me. But I myself was smitten, and the smitten are always guiltless. I knew such men and had always shunned them. I detested their effeminate manners and affectations and persuaded myself that they were all like that. But Jakob was different. His masculinity was wholly natural—he was a man, no doubt about that. I was different too, but in what respect did I really differ from other men? Well, you observe yourself from within yourself; you don't see what others see. Sooner or later someone will publish a biography that illuminates the darker side of Julius Klinger the homosexual. I won't live to see it, but whatever they write about me, the truth lies in my books. In others it may lie elsewhere.”

“I wasn't a voyeur,” Erneste said. “There aren't any books about me.”

“No,” said Klinger.

He reached for his empty cup but didn't fill it.

“What was I supposed to think you were? I took you for a chance intruder, in fact I soon forgot all about you. Once I left the room, your face was expunged from my memory. Jakob never mentioned you while we were in
Giessbach. Doubtless he had his reasons for deluding me into believing myself the only one privileged to feast on his youth and his body, just as I had my reasons for believing him. I felt rejuvenated! And I was, too.”

Klinger gave a sudden laugh.

“I was just as corrupt as Jakob. Each in our own way, we were convinced of the incontestable rightness of our conduct. That was the basis of our personal wellbeing, and what could be more important than our wellbeing, as long as we weren't hurting a third party? Nor were we, as long as he didn't find out. I didn't know of that third party's existence—I genuinely knew nothing about you, and it wouldn't have changed a thing if I had. That incident in the attic, which ought to have opened my eyes, was never mentioned. After all, what did it matter if another young man, a waiter who'd mistaken the door, had seen me indulging in my proclivity?

“We met in my own room after that. He never mentioned you until he discovered your uses as a weapon against me. The name of that weapon was youth and the target was my age—it couldn't fail. At some stage he started to use you against me, first you, then an assortment of young men he brought in off the street. That's why I probably know you better than you imagine. It's a long time ago, but I haven't forgotten it all, a few details have stuck in my mind. Jakob used his memories to torment me, and the memories best suited to hurting me were of you, his first love, the person who in his eyes surpassed me in every respect: youth, potency, lack of inhibition. You
were the bullet that always hit the target. There was an even more lethal one, but of that I learned only later. It strayed into our convoluted relationship and killed someone else. Why did you come?”

“You used to pay him.”