Amerika (14 page)

Just then a bell rang out twelve times in rapid succession, with each chime breaking into the previous one; Karl could feel a breeze on his cheeks from the great movement of the bells. “What was this village that had such bells!

“It's high time,” said Karl, and merely extending his hands to Mack and Klara without shaking theirs, he ran into the corridor. He could not find the lantern and regretted having tipped the servant prematurely. He tried to grope along the wall toward the open door to his room but had scarcely gone halfway when he saw Mr. Green, candle in hand, tottering hastily toward him. In the same hand as the candle he held a letter.

“Rossmann, what took you so long? Why have you kept me waiting? And what were you up to at Miss Klara's?” He's asking so many questions! thought Karl. And now he's even pushing me up against the wall, for he now stood right before Karl, who leaned his back against the wall. In this corridor Green took on ridiculously large proportions, and Karl jokingly asked himself whether Green might not have gobbled up good old Mr. Pollunder.

“You're really not a man who's true to his word. You promise to come down at twelve but instead you lurk about Miss Klara's door. Whereas I promised you something interesting for midnight, and here I am with it already.”

Whereupon he handed Karl the letter. The envelope was addressed thus: “For Karl Rossmann. To be handed to him personally, at midnight, wherever he may be found.” “Besides,” Mr. Green said as Karl opened the letter, “it should be noted that I drove here from New York for your sake, so you shouldn't make me run down these corridors after you.”

“From my uncle!” said Karl, after merely glancing at the letter. “I was expecting it,” he said, turning to Mr. Green.

“I couldn't care less whether you were expecting it or not. Just read it,” he said, holding out the candle for Karl.

By its light Karl read:

My beloved nephew! As you will have realized during our unfortunately all too brief time living together, I am very much a man of principle. This is very unpleasant and sad not only for those around me but also for myself, yet it is to my principles that I owe everything that I am and no one can ask that I should forsake the ground on which I stand, no one, not even you, my dear nephew, even if you were the first to show up, should I ever consider allowing such a general attack against me to proceed. Then I would much rather catch you in these two hands, with which I'm holding this paper and writing these lines, and lift you up in the air. But since there is at present no sign that this could ever happen, after the incident today I am absolutely obliged to send you away and urgently entreat you not to call on me in person nor to contact me either by letter or through intermediaries. Contrary to my will you decided to leave me this evening, and so you should now abide by that decision throughout your life, for only then will it have been a manly one. As bearer of this message I have chosen my best friend Mr. Green, who will certainly come up with enough lenient words for you, which I don't presently have at my disposal. He is a man of influence and, even if only for my sake, he will support you by word and deed as you take your first independent steps. In trying to understand our separation, which in concluding this letter I again find incomprehensible, I must tell myself over and over again: Karl, nothing good ever comes from your family. Should Mr. Green forget to hand over your trunk and your umbrella, remind him to do so. With best wishes for your continuing well-being,

Your faithful Uncle Jakob.

“Are you finished?” asked Green. “Yes,” said Karl. “Have you brought my trunk and my umbrella?” asked Karl. “Here it is,” said Green, and he took Karl's old trunk, which he had hidden with his left hand behind his back, and put it on the floor beside Karl. “And the umbrella?” Karl insisted. “It's all here,” said Green, and he pulled out the umbrella, which he had hung from one of his trousers pockets. “A certain Schubal, a chief machinist of the Hamburg Amerika Line, brought your belongings, claiming to have found them on the ship. You can thank him at some point.” “At least I now have my old belongings again,” said Karl, laying his umbrella on the trunk. “But the senator would like to inform you that you should treat them more carefully in the future,” declared Mr. Green, and then, evidently out of sheer curiosity, he asked: “But what's that odd-looking trunk?” “It's the trunk that the soldiers in my homeland have to carry when they report for duty,” answered Karl. “It's my father's old army trunk. It's extremely practical in other ways too.” He added with a smile: “Unless one happens to leave it lying about.” “You've learned a lesson at last,” said Mr. Green, “and you probably don't have a second uncle in America. I'm also giving you a third-class ticket to San Francisco. I decided that you should go there, first because you'll have better employment prospects in the East, and second because your uncle has his hand in everything you could be considered for here, and we must absolutely avoid the possibility of your meeting again. In 'Frisco you can work away undisturbed, just start off quietly at the very bottom and try to work your way up bit by bit.”

Karl could hear no malice in these words; the bad news that had lain within Green all evening had been delivered, and from now on Green would seem a harmless man, one with whom one could perhaps speak more frankly than with anyone else. Even the best person, chosen through no fault of his own as the bearer of such a secret and tormenting decision, would seem suspect—at least so long as he had to keep it to himself. “Well,” said Karl, who was waiting for confirmation from this experienced man, “I will leave this house at once, for I was accepted here as the nephew of my uncle, whereas, as a stranger, I have no business here. Could you be so kind as to show me the way out and lead me to a path that will take me to the closest inn?” “But quickly now,” said Green, “you're causing me quite a bit of trouble.” On seeing the great step forward Green took, Karl hesitated; there was surely something suspect about such haste, and he grabbed Green by the bottom of his jacket; then, realizing all of a sudden what was actually happening, he said: “You've got to explain one more thing. On the envelope it merely says I should receive the letter at midnight, wherever I may be found. So why did you try to keep me here by referring to that letter when I wanted to leave at a quarter past? You went beyond your instructions.” Prefacing his answer with an exaggerated gesture that indicated the futility of Karl's remark, Green said: “Now does it really say on the envelope that I should run myself into the ground for your sake, and does the body of the letter really indicate that this is how those words on the cover should be interpreted? And if I hadn't kept you here, I would have had to hand you the letter at midnight on some country road.” “No,” said Karl, refusing to be deterred, “that isn't quite so. On the envelope it says: ‘To be delivered after midnight.' If you were too tired, you couldn't have followed me at all, or I would have reached my uncle's at midnight, which even Mr. Pollunder said was impossible, and finally, it would have been your duty to take your automobile—which there was suddenly no further mention of—and return me to my uncle's, since I was pleading to go back. Doesn't the inscription clearly mean that midnight is still supposed to be my deadline? And you're to blame for my missing it.”

Karl looked sharply at Green and thought that he could discern in Green a struggle between his shame at being thus exposed and his joy on having successfully accomplished his purpose. Finally, Green pulled himself together and, as if interrupting Karl, who had, however, been silent for some time, said brusquely: “I don't want to hear another word from you!” and swinging open a small door, he pushed Karl, who had picked up his trunk and umbrella, out into the garden.

Karl was astonished to find himself standing outside. Abutting the house was a staircase without a banister that opened out before him. He had only to go down the steps and turn right a little into the driveway leading to the country road. In this bright moonlight one could not get lost. From the garden below he could hear the constant barking of dogs running about loose in the shadow of the trees. Otherwise it was so quiet that one could hear quite distinctly the sound of the dogs who after their great leaps slammed into the grass.

Karl made his way safely out of the garden, without being bothered by the dogs. He could not determine with any certainty in which direction New York lay; on the way over he had not paid sufficient attention to such details, which would have served him well now. In any case, he said to himself, it was not absolutely necessary that he should go to New York, where nobody expected him and one person most certainly did not. He therefore chose a direction at random and went on his way.

IV

THE MARCH TO RAMSES

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A
fter a brief march Karl reached a small inn, which was in fact only one final little station in the New York railway network and consequently rarely used for overnight lodgings, and asked for the cheapest bed on offer, for he thought he must start saving at once. Upon his request the innkeeper merely motioned to him, as if he were an employee, signaling that he should ascend the stairs, where he was received by a disheveled old woman, who, annoyed at being roused from her sleep, scarcely listened to him and, amid repeated admonishments that he tread softly, led him to a room where, after first hissing “Shush!” she shut the door.

It was so dark that Karl could not tell at first whether the curtains were merely drawn or the room was perhaps windowless; finally he noticed a little attic window and pulled back the cloth, letting in some light. The room had two beds, though both were already occupied. Karl saw two young people, who were fast asleep and seemed less than trustworthy, especially since for no apparent reason they slept fully dressed and one even had his boots on.

Just as Karl uncovered the attic window, one of the sleepers lifted his arms and legs up a little into the air, presenting such a spectacle that Karl, despite his worries, laughed inwardly.

He soon realized that, aside from the fact that there was no other place to sleep, neither a settee nor a sofa, he would get no sleep, for he ought not to jeopardize his trunk, which he had only just recovered, as well as the money he was carrying. Nor did he want to go away, for he dared not go past the chambermaid and the landlord and leave the inn so soon. Finally, it was perhaps no less unsafe here than out on the country road. But it was remarkable that there was no sign of a single piece of luggage in the entire room, at least so far as one could make out in the twilight. But perhaps, and this was most likely, the two young people were house servants, who would soon have to rise to prepare for the guests and therefore slept fully clothed. So while there was no special honor in sleeping with them, there was no danger in it either. Still, he should certainly not lie down to sleep until all such doubts had been resolved.

On the floor near one of the beds was a candle with some matches, and Karl crept over to fetch them. He had no qualms about lighting the candle, for according to the innkeeper's instructions, the room belonged to him as much as to the other two, who had moreover already benefited from half a night's sleep, had possession of the two beds, and were therefore much better off than he. In any case, in bustling about he made every possible effort to avoid waking them up.

First he wanted to check his trunk so as to survey his belongings, which he could barely recall, and in any case the most valuable items would certainly be gone. For if anything got into Schubal's hands, there was little hope of getting it back in one piece. Schubal could certainly have counted on receiving a big tip from his uncle, and if any items had been missing he could always have pointed a finger at the person who was supposed to have watched over the trunk, namely Mr. Butterbaum.

On first opening the trunk, Karl was horrified. All those hours during the voyage he had spent arranging and rearranging the trunk, whereas now everything had been stuffed in so wildly that the lid sprang open as he released the lock. Yet to his delight Karl soon realized that the disorder was merely due to his having during the voyage worn the suit, which was not meant to be packed in the trunk and had been added in with the other things. There was absolutely nothing missing. In the secret pocket of his coat Karl found not only his passport but the money from home, so that when he added in the sum he was carrying, he was well provided for, at least for now. Even the underwear he wore on arrival was there too and had been washed and ironed. He immediately put his watch and money away in his trusty secret pocket. But it was unfortunate that the Veronese salami, which had not disappeared either, had communicated its smell to all of his belongings. Unless it could somehow be eliminated, Karl faced the prospect of going about for months enveloped in this smell.

As he searched through a few objects at the very bottom—a pocket Bible, letter-writing paper, and the photographs of his parents—his cap slipped off his head and fell into the trunk. He recognized it instantly in its old setting; it was his cap, the cap his mother had sent along to be used as a travel cap. However, out of caution he had not worn that cap on the ship, for he knew that people in America generally wore caps rather than hats and therefore wanted to avoid wearing it out before he arrived. And so Mr. Green had amused himself with it at Karl's expense. Perhaps his uncle had given him this task? And in one furious involuntary motion he reached out and seized the lid of the trunk, which slammed shut.

Now there was no going back—he had awakened the two sleepers. First one stretched and yawned; then the other immediately followed suit. Almost the entire contents of the trunk had spilled across the table; if they were thieves, then all they had to do was come over and take their pick. Seeking not only to forestall that possibility but also to clarify the situation at once, Karl approached the beds, candle in hand, and explained why he had the right to be there. They did not appear to have expected an explanation for, still far too drowsy to be able to speak, they simply gazed at him without showing the least astonishment. Although both were still youths, their facial bones had begun to protrude prematurely—whether owing to heavy labor or to some other such ordeal—their unkempt beards hung from their chins, their hair had not been cut in a long time and was very unkempt, and they rubbed their deep-set eyes and even pressed their knuckles into them drowsily.

Determined to take advantage of their temporary weakness, Karl said: “My name is Karl Rossmann, and I am a German. Since we're sharing a room, could you please tell me your names and nationality? I just want to say at once that I'm not claiming a bed, since I arrived so late and have absolutely no intention of sleeping. Besides, you shouldn't take offense at my fine clothes. I am utterly poor and without prospects.”

The smaller of the two—the one still wearing his boots—indicated through his arms, legs, and facial expressions that he was not in the least bit interested and that this was not the right time for such chatter, and then he lay down and fell asleep at once; the other, a dark-skinned man, also lay down again, but before falling asleep, he held out his hand casually and said: “That fellow there is Robinson, and he's an Irishman; my name is Delamarche, I am a Frenchman and am asking for some quiet.” No sooner had he said those words than he blew out the candle with a great expenditure of breath and fell back on the pillow.

“So the danger has been averted for now,” Karl said to himself, and returned to the table. If their sleepiness was not merely a pretense, everything would be fine. The only unpleasant thing about all this was that one was an Irishman. Karl could no longer quite recall in what book he had once read that one should be wary of Irishmen in America. Of course, that time at his uncle's would have afforded him the best opportunity to resolve this question about the danger posed by the Irishmen, but he had utterly failed to seize it, believing that he would always be well situated. Now he at least wanted to take a closer look at the Irishman in the light of the candle, which he had relit, and in doing so he discovered that this man actually looked more tolerable than the Frenchman. There was still a trace of roundness in his cheeks, and he had a friendly smile on his face as he slept, insofar as Karl, standing on his tiptoes some distance away, could make out.

Nevertheless, still firmly determined not to sleep, Karl sat down on the only chair in the room, put off packing his trunk, for he had the whole night to do so, and leafed about for a while in the Bible, without reading anything. Then he picked up the photograph of his parents in which his diminutive father stood erect whereas his mother sat a little shrunken in the armchair in front. Father had one hand resting on the back of the armchair; the other was clenched into a fist on an illustrated book lying open beside him on a flimsy little jewelry cabinet. There was also another photograph depicting Karl with his parents; his father and mother gave him sharp looks, whereas he had to follow the photographer's instructions and keep his eyes on the camera. That photograph, though, he did not get to take along on the voyage.

He therefore scrutinized the one before him all the more carefully, trying to catch his father's eye from various angles. But no matter how hard he tried to change his father's appearance by moving the candle around, he refused to become more animated; besides, there was nothing even remotely true to life about his firm horizontal mustache; it was simply not a good picture. But his mother had been better captured; her mouth was twisted as if she had endured some injury and were forcing herself to smile. To Karl it seemed that everyone who saw the picture would be so struck by this that the next moment it seemed as if the very clarity of this impression was too strong and almost nonsensical. How could a picture make one so unshakably convinced of a hidden emotion in the sitter? And for a moment he averted his eyes. When he looked back, he noticed that his mother's hand was hanging over the front of the armrest in the foreground, close enough to be kissed. He wondered whether it wouldn't actually be a good idea to write to his parents, as both of them had indeed requested, and his father very sternly so that last time in Hamburg. True enough, during that terrible evening when his mother had broken the news about the journey to America, he had sworn that he would never write, but in these very different circumstances over here, how much weight should be attached to the oath of an inexperienced youth? He could just as easily have sworn that within a mere two months of his arrival he would be a general in the American militia, whereas in reality he was sitting in the attic room of an inn outside New York with two tramps, and what was more, he had to admit that he was not out of place here. Smiling, he examined the faces of his parents, as though seeking to determine whether they still wanted to receive news from their son.

While gazing thus, he soon noticed that he was indeed very tired and could scarcely remain awake all night. The picture fell from his hands; he put his face on the cool picture, which felt good on his cheek, and fell asleep with a pleasant sensation.

Early in the morning he was awakened by a tickling under his arm. It was the Frenchman who had dared to take such liberties. The Irishman also stood by Karl's table, observing him no less attentively than Karl had observed them at night. Karl was not surprised that he had not been awakened by the noise they made as they got up; in walking about so quietly they had not necessarily acted out of malice, for he had been fast asleep, and besides, they had put little effort into dressing and evidently also into washing themselves.

They now introduced themselves properly, even with a certain formality; Karl discovered that the two youths were locksmiths, who had been long unable to find work in New York and were consequently rather down-at-heels. To prove this was so, Robinson opened his coat, and one could see that he was not wearing a shirt, as was also indicated by the loose-fitting collar attached to the back of his coat. They intended to march to the town of Butterford, a two-day trek from New York, where there were said to be job openings. They had no objection to Karl's accompanying them and promised him, first, that they would carry his trunk every now and then and, second, that if they found work, they would obtain an apprenticeship for him, something that would be easy to arrange if there were jobs available. Karl had no sooner agreed than they gave him the friendly advice that he should take off his beautiful suit, for it would be a hindrance in applying for jobs. Actually at this very inn there was a great opportunity for disposing of the suit, since the chambermaid dealt in used clothing. They helped Karl, who had not yet reached a final decision about the suit, remove it and took it away. Thus abandoned and still rather drowsy, Karl changed slowly into his old traveling clothes, chiding himself for having sold the other suit, which might hurt his chances in applying for a position as an apprentice but could only help with better jobs, and he opened the door to recall them, only to run into them right away; although they put a half dollar on the table by way of proceeds, their faces were so cheerful that one could scarcely persuade oneself that they had not made a profit and indeed an irritatingly large one.

In any case there was no time to talk about it, since the chambermaid came in, just as sleepy as she had been at night, and drove the three of them out into the corridor, explaining that the room had to be prepared for new guests. Of course there was no way that could be true; she said so out of sheer malice. Karl, who was about to tidy up his trunk, had to watch the woman grab his belongings with both hands and throw them into the trunk with full force, as if they were animals that had to be tamed. The two locksmiths tried to intervene by tugging at her dress and slapping her on the back, but if they were indeed trying to help Karl, their efforts were futile. Once the woman had shut the trunk, she pressed the handle into Karl's hand, shook off the two locksmiths, and chased the three of them from the room by threatening that if they failed to obey, she would not serve them any coffee. The woman must obviously have completely forgotten that Karl had not been with the locksmiths from the outset, since she was treating them as if they were one gang. Of course, the locksmiths had sold her Karl's clothes and thereby shown that there was a certain connection.

In the corridor they had to go back and forth for some time, and especially the Frenchman, who had taken Karl's arm, complained continually, threatening to knock down the innkeeper should he dare appear and, as if preparing to do so, he started to rub his clenched fists furiously. At last an innocent little boy came along and had to stretch up tall in order to hand the Frenchman the coffeepot. Unfortunately, there seemed to be only one coffeepot available, and it was impossible to get the boy to understand that they would like some glasses too. So only one person at a time could drink while the others stood beside him, each awaiting his turn. Although Karl had no desire to drink, he did not wish to hurt the feelings of the other two, and so, when his turn came, he simply stood motionless, holding the coffeepot to his lips.