Amerika (15 page)

By way of farewell, the Irishman threw the coffeepot onto the stone tiles; they left the building unobserved and stepped out into the thick yellowish morning fog. They marched along the side of the road, mostly in silence; Karl had to carry his trunk, as the others would probably take a turn only if he asked; every now and then an automobile shot out of the fog, and the three of them turned their heads to look at the mostly gigantic cars, so eye-catching in design and passing by so quickly that one didn't even have time to notice whether they were carrying any passengers. Then, stretched out in five uninterrupted lines, came columns of vehicles, transporting provisions to New York, that took up the entire width of the street and were so tightly packed that no one could cross the street. Now and then the street broadened out into a square, in the center of which a policeman strode up and down on a towerlike platform in order to keep an eye on everything and to use his small baton to direct the traffic on the main street as well as that flowing in from the side streets, which then moved toward the next square and the next policeman without any supervision but kept in reasonably good order voluntarily by the silent and alert coachmen and chauffeurs. Most remarkable, Karl found, was the general calm. Had the unsuspecting animals bound for the slaughterhouse not bellowed so loudly, one could surely have heard only the clip-clop of the animals' hooves and the whizzing of the tires. Of course, the traffic did not always move at the same speed. Whenever traffic had to be redirected along certain squares because of the great crush from the sides, all lines were held up and could only proceed step by step, but then for a while the traffic would rush past at lightning speed before suddenly calming down again, as if everything were controlled by a single brake. Yet there was no sign of dust rising from the street—everything moved in the clearest air. There were no pedestrians about, or any sign of solitary market women rambling toward the city, as in Karl's homeland, but every now and then great open vehicles appeared with some twenty women standing on top, baskets slung over their backs—and so maybe they were actually market women—craning their necks to look out over the traffic so as to find out whether there was any hope of moving along faster. One could then see similar vehicles, with several men sauntering on them, hands stuck in their trouser pockets. Among the numerous signs attached to one of these automobiles Karl noticed the following inscription and gave a little cry as he read: “Hiring dockworkers for Jakob Trucking Company.” Just then the car was moving quite slowly, and a small animated hunched-up man, standing on the steps of the car, invited the three wanderers to climb aboard. Karl hid behind the locksmiths, as though his uncle might be aboard the car and could see him. He was glad that the other two also rejected the invitation, although he was somewhat hurt by the arrogant expression with which they did so. They should certainly not think they were too good to enter his uncle's service. He let them know this at once, though of course not in so many words. Whereupon Delamarche requested that he kindly cease meddling in matters of which he had no understanding: this was a fraudulent way of hiring people, it was utterly disgraceful, and the Jakob corporation was notorious all over the United States. Karl did not reply and from then on directed his remarks more to the Irishman; he even asked him to carry his trunk for a moment, which after repeated requests from Karl, the former finally did. He kept on complaining about the weight of the trunk, though, until it became quite clear that his sole aim was to lighten the trunk by removing the Veronese salami, which he had probably first noticed with delight at the hotel. Karl had to unpack it; then the Frenchman took it to cut it up with his daggerlike knife and ate almost all of it himself. Robinson received a slice only every now and then, whereas Karl, who was obliged to carry his trunk again so that it would not get left on the country road, received nothing, as though he had already helped himself to his share. Begging for a little piece would be too petty, he thought; but his blood was boiling.

All of the fog had disappeared; shimmering in the distance was a tall mountain range whose wavy ridges led to an even more distant sunny haze. By the roadside lay poorly cultivated fields that stretched out past factories that stood smoke-blackened in the open countryside. In individual tenements set down at random, the windows trembled; moving to and fro and caught in various shades of light, and on all of the flimsy little balconies, women and children attended to various tasks, while all about them, covering and obscuring them, hung cloths and articles of linen, which fluttered in the morning wind and billowed vigorously. If one's gaze slid from the houses, one could see larks high above in the sky and below them swallows flying not far over the heads of the three travelers.

Many of these sights reminded Karl of his homeland, and he was not sure whether it would make sense for him to leave New York and head inland. In New York there was the sea and always the possibility of returning to his homeland. So he halted and told his two companions that he did after all wish to remain in New York. And when Delamarche simply attempted to drive him on, he refused to let himself be driven and said he still had a right to make decisions for himself. The Irishman first had to intervene and declare that Butterford was much more beautiful than New York, and then both had to plead with him repeatedly before he would set off again. And even then he would not have gone on had he not told himself that he might be better off in a place where he had only a slight possibility of returning to his homeland. Certainly he would work better and get ahead there, for he would no longer find himself held back by useless thoughts.

And now he was pulling the other two, who were so pleased with his eagerness that, without waiting to be asked, they took turns carrying the trunk; Karl could not quite understand precisely how he gave them such great pleasure. They arrived in a region that sloped upward, and each time they halted and looked back, they could see the panorama of New York, with its harbor, stretching out ever farther. The bridge connecting New York to Boston hung delicately over the Hudson and trembled if one narrowed one's eyes. It appeared to bear no traffic, and a long, smooth, lifeless strip of water stretched out underneath. In both of these giant cities everything appeared empty and erected to no avail. And there was scarcely any difference between large and small buildings. Down in the invisible depths of the streets life probably went on as usual, but all they could see above them was a light haze that was motionless yet seemed easy to chase away. Peace had even descended on the harbor, the largest in the world, and only here and there—perhaps influenced by the memory of vessels seen from close up—could one see a ship dragging itself forward a little. Yet one could not follow it for long; it escaped one's gaze and disappeared.

But Delamarche and Robinson could obviously see a great deal more; they pointed right and left, arching their outstretched arms over squares and gardens, which they identified by name. They found it impossible to understand how Karl could have spent over two months in New York and seen little more of the city than a single street. And they promised him that once they had made enough money in Butterford, they would go with him to New York and show him all the worthwhile sights, paying special attention to those districts where one could amuse oneself royally. And then Robinson began to sing a song at the top of his voice, with Delamarche clapping his hands in accompaniment; Karl recognized it as a melody from an operetta in his homeland, and on hearing the English libretto, he found that he now liked it much better than he had at home. Then there was a little outdoor concert, in which everybody took part except for the city below, which supposedly enjoyed the melody yet seemed oblivious to it.

Karl asked once where the Jakob Trucking Company was and immediately saw the extended index fingers of Delamarche and Robinson pointing either to the same spot or possibly to different ones that were miles apart. When they set off again, Karl asked when was the earliest they would have earned sufficient money to be able to return to New York. Delamarche said that might well take only a month, for there was a shortage of labor in Butterford, so the wages were quite high. Since they were such good comrades, they would naturally pool their money and in this way even out any incidental differences in their earnings. Karl disliked the notion of pooling their wages, although the two of them would of course earn more as skilled workers than he would as an apprentice. Besides, Robinson noted, if there was no work to be found in Butterford, they must certainly keep going and either find jobs as farm workers somewhere or possibly go to California and find work at the gold-panning sites out there, which was the plan Robinson himself favored, judging by his elaborate stories. “But why did you become a locksmith only to decide now that you want to go to those gold-panning sites,” asked Karl, who was less than pleased to discover that it would be necessary to undertake further uncertain journeys of that nature. “Why did I become a locksmith?” said Robinson. “Well, certainly not because I wanted this mother's son to end up starving. Those gold-washing outfits pay very well.” “Once did,” said Delamarche. “Still do,” said Robinson, and he spoke of many acquaintances who had grown rich from working there and were still there but no longer had to lift a finger and who, for friendship's sake, would help him—and of course his comrades also—to make a fortune. “Once we get to Butterford we'll force them to give us jobs,” added Delamarche, and although he was giving voice to Karl's own innermost thoughts, his choice of words was not exactly confidence-inspiring.

All day they halted only once, at an inn where they sat outdoors at what Karl believed was a cast-iron table, and ate almost raw meat that could not be cut with a knife and fork and had to be torn apart. The bread was shaped like a cylinder, and each loaf had a long knife sticking out of it. The black beverage that was passed around with the food left a burning sensation in one's throat. But Delamarche and Robinson liked it and frequently raised their glasses to celebrate the fulfillment of various wishes, holding their glasses in the air for a moment before clinking them. Seated at the adjacent tables was a group of workers in lime-spattered overalls, all drinking the same beverage. Numerous passing automobiles blew clouds of dust across the tables. Large newspaper sheets were handed around; people talked excitedly about the construction workers' strike, the name Mack was often mentioned; Karl asked about him and discovered that he was not only the father of the man he knew but also the biggest building contractor in New York. The strike was costing him millions and possibly also jeopardizing his business. Karl could not believe a word of this gossip, coming as it did from such ill-informed and malicious people.

For Karl the meal was further spoiled by the thought that they would scarcely be able to pay the bill. The obvious thing to do would have been for each to pay for himself, but on several occasions Delamarche, and indeed Robinson too, had mentioned that they had spent the last of their money on the previous night's lodgings. There was no sign of a watch, ring, or other disposable item on either of them. Besides, Karl could hardly scold them for having profited a little from the sale of his clothes, for that would be insulting and would lead to a parting of ways. Rather astonishingly, however, neither Delamarche nor Robinson was at all concerned about the bill; indeed, they were in such good spirits that they kept trying to strike up conversations with the waitress, who walked proudly up and down between the tables, with a heavy gait. Her hair was loosened at the sides and hung over her forehead and cheeks; she pulled it back continually by running her hands through it. Finally, just when one might at last have expected her to say a few friendly words to them, she approached their table, put both hands on it, and asked: “Who's paying?” No hands ever shot up faster than those of Delamarche and Robinson, who pointed at Karl. Karl was not startled, for he had certainly foreseen this and could not really blame his comrades for making him pay for a few trifles—after all, he himself had expected to receive certain benefits through them—though it would have been more decent to talk things over before matters came to a head. Only he found it embarrassing that he first had to retrieve the money from his secret pocket. He had originally intended to save the money for an extreme emergency and at least for the time being put himself, so to speak, on the same level as his colleagues. Outweighing the advantage he had through that money and, above all, through not disclosing it to his companions was the fact that they had been in America since early childhood, that they had sufficient knowledge and experience to be able to earn money, and finally that they were not accustomed to a better standard of living than their current one. This payment need not necessarily upset Karl's previous intentions concerning his money, for he could easily part with a quarter pound, simply put a quarter pound on the table and announce that this was all he had and that he was willing to sacrifice it for their journey to Butterford together. It should be perfectly adequate for going on foot. But he was not sure whether he had enough small change, and besides, those coins and the banknotes that he had put away with them were now somewhere in his secret pocket, and the best way of finding anything in there was to empty the entire contents onto the table. Moreover, there was absolutely no need for his companions to find out about this secret pocket. Fortunately, his companions still seemed more interested in the waitress than in Karl's efforts to come up with the money for the payment. Delamarche enticed the waitress to approach them by requesting that she put the check down on the table between Robinson and himself, and she succeeded in warding off their insistent advances only by putting her entire hand on the face of one or the other and pushing him away. Sweating from the exertion, Karl hunted about in his secret pocket for the coins with one hand and took them out one by one while gathering them under the table in the other. Although he was not yet entirely familiar with the American currency, he finally managed to gauge from the pile of coins that he had a sufficiently large sum, and laid it on the table. The clinking of the coins immediately disrupted their joking. To Karl's annoyance and to the astonishment of everybody else, there was nearly a full pound lying there. Although no one asked Karl why he had never said a word about the money, which would have sufficed for a comfortable rail journey to Butterford, he was still highly embarrassed. After paying for the meal, he put the money away slowly, although not before Delamarche had taken from his hand a coin that he needed as a tip for the waitress, whom he embraced and pressed against his body, handing her the money from the other side.