Amerika (17 page)

As if in response a man with a bright flashlight came climbing up toward the group from the street. It was a waiter from the hotel. No sooner had he spotted Karl than he said: “I've spent almost half an hour looking for you. I've already searched through all the bushes on both sides of the road. The head cook says to let you know she urgently needs the straw basket she loaned you.” “Here it is,” said Karl, sounding uncertain in his excitement. Delamarche and Robinson had stepped aside in a seemingly unassuming manner, as they always did before welloff strangers. The waiter took the basket and said: “Well, the head cook wants to know whether you haven't had second thoughts and wouldn't perhaps want to spend the night at the hotel. Besides, the other two gentlemen would be welcome if you'd like to take them along. The beds are already prepared. It's a warm night, but here on this slope it's not entirely safe sleeping outdoors, for one can encounter snakes.” “Since the head cook is so kind, I shall indeed accept your invitation,” said Karl, and then he waited for his companions to respond. However, Robinson simply stood there impassively; Delamarche gazed up at the stars, with his hands in his pockets. Both evidently took it for granted that Karl would take them along. “Well,” said the waiter, “in that case I have been instructed to take you to the hotel and to carry your bags.” “Then could you please wait a minute,” said Karl, who bent down in order to pick up a few items that still lay about, and put them in the trunk.

Suddenly he straightened up. The photograph was missing; it had been at the very top of the trunk, and now there was no sign of it. Everything else was still there—only the photograph was missing. “I cannot find the photograph,” he said to Delamarche. “What kind of photograph,” asked the latter. “The photograph of my parents,” said Karl. “We didn't see a photograph,” said Delamarche. “There was no photograph in there, Mr. Rossmann,” said Robinson in confirmation. “But that's impossible,” said Karl, whose imploring glances drew the waiter closer. “It was right on top, and now it's gone. If only you hadn't played that prank with the trunk.” “We can't possibly be mistaken,” said Delamarche, “there was no photograph in the trunk.” “It meant more to me than anything else in that trunk,” said Karl to the waiter, who walked about, searching in the grass. “You see, it's quite irreplaceable, I can't get another copy.” And once the waiter abandoned his futile search, Karl added: “It was the only picture I had of my parents.” Whereupon the waiter said, in a loud voice and without mincing words: “Perhaps we could also search through the pockets of these gentlemen.” “Yes,” Karl said at once, “I have to find that photograph. But before I start searching through your pockets, I want to say that the person who voluntarily gives me the photograph will receive the entire trunk together with all of the contents.” After a moment of general silence, Karl said to the waiter: “So my companions clearly wish to have their pockets searched. But I'm still willing to promise the entire trunk to the person in whose pocket the photograph is found. That's the best I can do.” The servant set about searching Delamarche at once, since he considered him more difficult to handle than Robinson, whom he left for Karl. He informed Karl that both had to be searched at the same time, since one of them could discard the photograph without being seen. On his first try Karl found one of his ties in Robinson's pocket, but he did not take it and called out to the waiter: “No matter what you find on Delamarche, please let him keep everything. I only want the photograph, nothing except for the photograph.” As Karl searched through Robinson's chest pockets, his hand brushed against his hot fat chest, and all of a sudden he realized that he was perhaps doing his companions a great injustice. He now hurried as much as he could. In any case all was in vain; the photograph was simply not to be found, neither on Delamarche nor on Robinson.

“It's no use,” said the waiter. “They've probably torn up the photograph and thrown away the pieces,” said Karl, “I thought they were my friends, but in secret they sought only to do me harm. Well, not Robinson, he would never have hit on the idea that I'm very attached to the photograph, but Delamarche most certainly would.” In front Karl could see only the waiter, whose lantern lit up a small circle, whereas everything else, including Delamarche and Robinson, was completely in the dark.

And now of course the idea of taking those two to the hotel was completely out of the question. The waiter swung the trunk up on his shoulders, Karl took the straw basket, and they left. Karl was already out on the road when he interrupted his thoughts, stood still, and shouted into the dark: “Listen here! If one of you still has the photograph and wants to bring it to me at the hotel—he will still get the trunk and won't—I swear—won't be reported.” There was no real answer from above, only a few muffled sounds, the first words of a call from Robinson, whom Delamarche evidently shut up at once. Karl waited quite a while to see whether the two above might not change their minds. He shouted twice, at intervals: “I'm still here.” But there was no answering cry, only a stone that rolled down the slope, perhaps by accident, perhaps from a poorly aimed throw.

V

AT THE OCCIDENTAL HOTEL

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A
t the hotel Karl was led at once into some kind of office, where the head cook stood, notebook in hand, dictating a letter to a young typist. Her extremely precise dictation and the controlled and elastic pounding of the keys raced past the only intermittently audible ticking of the clock, which indicated that it was already twelve o'clock. “Well!” said the head cook; she closed her notebook, and the typist jumped up and pulled the wooden case over the machine without taking her eyes off Karl as she went about this routine task. She still looked like a schoolgirl; her apron had been very carefully ironed and, for instance, even had ruffles at the shoulders; her hairdo went up very high, and after noting these details, one was slightly surprised to see her serious face. After first bowing to the head cook, then to Karl, she went off, and Karl involuntarily gave the head cook a searching glance.

“It's nice that you did come,” said the head cook. “What about your companions?” “I didn't bring them,” said Karl. “They'll surely be marching off early tomorrow morning,” said the head cook, as if seeking to explain the matter to herself. Mustn't she think that I too am marching off? Karl asked himself, and so as to exclude all doubt, he said: “Our parting was less than amicable.” The head cook seemed to regard this as welcome news. “So you're free?” she asked. “Yes, I'm free,” said Karl, to whom nothing seemed more worthless than this freedom. “Now then, wouldn't you like to take a job at the hotel?” the head cook asked. “Very much so,” said Karl. “I've dreadfully few skills. For instance, I cannot even write on a typewriter.” “That's not so important,” said the head cook. “Well, you would for the time being receive only a very minor position, and then it would be up to you to get ahead by applying yourself diligently and staying alert. In any case I think it would be better, and more fitting, if you were to settle down somewhere instead of strolling about the world like that. You really don't seem the type.” “Uncle would agree with all of that,” Karl said to himself, nodding in assent. Just then it occurred to him that the person toward whom she showed such concern still hadn't introduced himself. “Excuse me,” he said, “I haven't introduced myself, my name is Karl Rossmann.” “You are a German, aren't you?” “Yes,” said Karl, “I haven't been in America very long.” “So where are you from?” “From Prague, in Bohemia,” said Karl. “Well, I never!” cried the head cook, in German but with a strong English accent, almost raising her arms, “then we're compatriots. My name is Grete Mitzelbach, and I come from Vienna. And I certainly know Prague extremely well; I worked for six months at the Golden Goose on Wenceslas Square. Just imagine!” “When were you there?” asked Karl. “That was many years ago.” “The old Golden Goose was torn down two years ago,” said Karl. “Ah yes,” said the head cook, who had become lost in thoughts of bygone days.

Suddenly becoming animated again, she took Karl's hands and cried: “Now that you've turned out to be my compatriot, you absolutely mustn't go away. You simply cannot do that to me. Would you like, say, to be a lift boy? Just indicate ‘yes,' and the post is yours. Once you've seen a bit more, you'll realize that it isn't especially easy to find such jobs, since it's impossible to imagine a better place in which to start out. You'll get to meet all of the guests, you'll always be visible and will be entrusted with little tasks; in short, every single day you'll get a chance to better your lot. And I'll take care of everything else!” “I should very much like to be a lift boy,” said Karl, after a brief pause. It would be pointless to have reservations about the lift boy position simply because of his five years in secondary school. Here in America there would be sufficient reason to feel ashamed of those five years in secondary school. Besides, Karl had always liked lift boys; he had always considered them the jewels of a hotel. “Isn't a knowledge of foreign languages required?” he insisted. “You speak German, and beautiful English too. That's quite sufficient.” “I first began to learn English on coming to America two and a half months ago,” said Karl; he thought he should not hide the only advantage he possessed. “That's already enough of a recommendation,” said the head cook, “when I think of the difficulties I myself had with English. But that was some thirty years ago. I was talking about this only yesterday. You see, yesterday was my fiftieth birthday.” And with a smile she sought to determine from Karl's countenance the impression her dignified age had left. “Then I wish you good luck,” said Karl. “One can always use that,” she said; she shook Karl's hand and was half-saddened again by this old expression from her homeland, which had occurred to her while she was speaking German.

“But I'm detaining you here,” she cried. “You must be very tired, and besides, we can discuss everything much better in the daytime. One's joy at meeting a fellow countryman can make one quite heedless. Come, I shall take you to your room.” “I do have one other request, Madame Head Cook,” said Karl, espying a telephone stand on a nearby table. “It's possible that tomorrow, perhaps even at a very early hour, my former companions will bring me a photograph that I urgently need. Could you kindly telephone the porter and ask that he either send those people to me or have someone get me?” “Certainly,” said the head cook, “but wouldn't it suffice if he took the photograph from them? Besides, what kind of photograph is it, if you don't mind my asking?” “It's a photograph of my parents,” said Karl, “no, I must speak to those people in person.” The head cook, who did not answer, relayed the appropriate order over the telephone to the porter's lodge, referring to Karl's room as number 536.

They passed through a door directly opposite the entrance and entered a short corridor, where a small lift boy was sound asleep, leaning on the balustrade of an elevator. “Well, we can help ourselves,” said the head cook softly, motioning to Karl that he should enter the elevator. “A ten- to twelve-hour workday is just a little too much for such a boy,” she said as they ascended in the elevator. “But it's peculiar in America. Take that little boy, for instance; he too only came half a year ago, with his parents; he's an Italian. Right now it seems as if he could not possibly endure the work, there's no flesh left on his face, he falls asleep while he's on duty though he is by nature very willing—but he has only another six months to serve, either here or somewhere else in America, and will have no difficulty enduring everything, and in five years time he'll be a strong man. I could go on for hours, giving you more such examples. And it's not you I have in mind, since you're such a sturdy youth. You're seventeen years old, aren't you?” “Next month I shall be sixteen,” replied Karl. “You're still only sixteen!” said the head cook. “Well, don't lose heart!”

Once upstairs she led Karl into a room, an attic room with a sloping wall, though otherwise very snug-looking in the light from two glow lamps. “Don't be startled by the decor,” said the head cook. “You see, it's not a hotel room but a room in my apartment, which has three rooms, so you won't disturb me in any way. I shall lock the connecting door so you can feel completely at ease. As a new hotel employee, you will of course receive your own room tomorrow. If you had come with your companions, I should have given you a bed in the servants' dormitory, but since you came alone, I think this will suit you better, even if you have only a sofa to sleep on. And now sleep well so you can fortify yourself for the work ahead. He'll probably not yet be too strict tomorrow.” “Thank you very much for your kindness.” “Wait,” she said, halting at the door, “you'd have been awakened before long.” And she went to a side door in the room, knocked, and cried: “Therese!” “Yes, head cook,” the voice of the little typist replied. “When you come to wake me in the morning, you must go through the corridor, there's a guest sleeping in this room. He's dead tired.” She smiled at Karl as she said so. “You got that?” “Yes, head cook.” “Well then, good night!” “I wish you good night.”

“You see,” the head cook said by way of explanation, “I've been sleeping very badly these past few years. At present I can certainly be satisfied with my position and really don't need to worry at all. But those earlier worries must be causing my insomnia. I can count myself lucky if I manage to fall asleep at three in the morning. But since I have to be back on duty as early as five, or at the latest at five-thirty, I need to have someone awaken me gently, so I don't become even more nervous than I already am. And so it's Therese who wakes me. But you really know everything now and I haven't gone yet. Good night!” And despite her heaviness she almost glided from the room.

Karl was looking forward to his sleep, for the day had greatly fatigued him. And he could not have wished for more comfortable surroundings for a long, undisturbed sleep. True, the room was not set up as a bedroom—it was more like a living room or rather one of the head cook's reception rooms, and a wash table had been brought in just for him for the night, but instead of feeling like an intruder, Karl felt all the better cared for. His trunk had been put back in order again and was now probably more secure than it had been in a long time. On a low cabinet with drawers and covered with a large coarsely woven woolen blanket were various photographs, some framed, others under glass; while looking around the room, Karl stopped to gaze at them. They were mostly old photographs; the majority depicted girls dressed in outmoded, uncomfortable clothes with loosely fitting but elongated little hats, their right hands propped on their umbrellas, facing the viewer but keeping their eyes averted. Among the portraits of the gentlemen, Karl was especially struck by the picture of a young soldier with a shock of wild black hair who had laid his military cap on a little table and stood completely erect, filled with proud yet suppressed laughter. The buttons on his uniform had been gilded after the shot was taken. All of these photographs were no doubt still from Europe, as one could probably have read on the reverse, but Karl did not want to handle them. Just the way these photographs here were arranged, that's how he would like to set up the photograph of his parents in the room that would soon be his.

Stretching out after a thorough washing of his entire body, which he had sought to carry out as quietly as possible on account of his neighbor, and eagerly anticipating how pleasant it would be to sleep on his settee, Karl thought he could hear a faint knock on one of the doors. It was impossible to determine on which door—perhaps it had simply been some incidental noise. Besides, the sound did not repeat itself at once, and Karl was almost asleep when it came again. But now there was no longer any doubt that it was indeed a knock and that it came from the typist's door. On his tiptoes Karl ran to the door and asked so softly that even if, despite everything, someone were still asleep next door, his voice couldn't have awakened anyone: “You'd like something?” The reply came at once: “Would you care to open the door? The key is on your side.” “Please,” said Karl, “I must get dressed first.” For a moment there was silence, followed by the words: “It's not necessary. Just open the door and get in bed. I shall wait a moment.” “Fine,” said Karl, who did as he was told, and he also turned up the electric light. “I'm in bed now,” he said in a louder voice. And then, from her dark room, dressed exactly as she had been in the office downstairs, the little typist emerged; during all that time she had probably not thought of going to sleep.

“Many apologies,” she said, standing slightly stooped before Karl's settee, “and please don't give me away. I don't wish to disturb you for long, I know you're dead tired.” “It's not that bad,” said Karl, “but perhaps it would have been better if I had put on my clothes.” He had to lie down flat so that he could be covered up to his neck, for he did not own a nightshirt. “Well, I shall only stay for a moment,” she said, reaching for a chair. “May I sit beside the settee?” Karl nodded. She seated herself so close to the settee that Karl had to move toward the wall so that he could look up at her. She had a round regular face—only her forehead was unusually high, but perhaps solely on account of her hairstyle, which didn't entirely suit her. Her outfit was very clean and meticulous. In her left hand she was squeezing a handkerchief.

“Are you staying long?” she asked. “That still isn't entirely certain,” Karl answered, “but I think I shall stay.” “That would be really great,” she said, wiping her face with her handkerchief. “I'm really very lonely here.” “I find that surprising,” said Karl, “after all, the head cook is very friendly toward you. She certainly doesn't treat you like an employee. I was beginning to think you were related.” “Oh no,” she said. “My name is Therese Berchtold, I'm from Pomerania.” Karl introduced himself also. Whereupon she looked squarely at him for the first time, as if he had through the exchanging of names become a little more alien to her. For a moment they were silent. Then she said: “I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. If it weren't for the head cook, I would be far worse off. I used to be a kitchen maid at the hotel and was in great danger of being dismissed, for I couldn't keep up with the heavy work. They do demand a lot of us here. Last month a kitchen maid fainted from sheer overexertion and spent fourteen days in the hospital. And I'm not very strong, I had to endure a great deal of suffering early on and as a result developed more slowly; you probably couldn't tell I'm already eighteen. But I'm getting stronger.” “The service here must really be very strenuous,” said Karl. “Downstairs I just saw a young lift boy asleep on his feet.” “But those lift boys actually have it best,” she said, “they earn great money in tips; besides, they don't have to struggle nearly so much as those in the kitchen. But then I had a real stroke of luck; the head cook happened to need a girl to arrange the dinner napkins for a banquet and sent down for a kitchen maid—there are some fifty such girls—I happened to be at hand and was able to please her with my work, since I've always known how to arrange dinner napkins. And so from that moment on she kept me beside her and trained me little by little to become her secretary. I've learned a lot from doing that.” “Is there so much writing to be done?” asked Karl. “Oh, a great deal,” she answered, “you probably cannot even imagine how much. You saw that I worked until half past eleven today, and today is just an ordinary day. But I don't spend all the time writing, I run many errands in the city too.” “Well, what's the city called?” Karl asked. “You don't know?” she said. “It's Ramses.” “A big city?” Karl asked. “Very big,” she answered, “I don't like going there. But you really don't want to sleep?” “No, no,” said Karl, “I still don't know why you came.” “Because there's nobody I can talk to. I'm not whiny, but when one doesn't really have anybody, one is naturally happy when someone finally listens. I saw you in the hall earlier on, I came to get the head cook just as she was taking you into the pantries.” “It's a dreadful hall,” said Karl. “I don't notice it anymore,” she answered. “I was about to say that the head cook has been as kind to me as my late mother. But the difference between our positions is too great for me to be able to talk openly with her. I used to have good friends among the kitchen maids, but they left a long time ago and I barely know the new girls. Besides, it sometimes seems to me that my present position is more exhausting than the previous one, though I don't even do so good a job, and that the only reason the head cook keeps me on in this post is out of pity. After all, if you want to become a secretary, you do of course need to have had better schooling. Though it's sinful to say so, often, often I fear I'm going mad. For God's sake,” she said, suddenly speaking much faster and groping about to find Karl's shoulders, for he had kept his hands under the blanket, “but you mustn't mention any of this to the head cook, for otherwise I'm truly lost. It would be really dreadful if, besides the trouble I'm already giving her with my work, I should hurt her feelings too.” “Of course I won't tell her anything about it,” replied Karl. “Very good,” she said, “and do stay. I should be happy if you stayed, and, if it's all right with you, we could stick together. I've trusted you from the moment I first saw you. And yet—see, that's how bad I am—I feared that the head cook could give the secretarial post to you and dismiss me. It was only after spending quite a while sitting here alone—while you were down in the office—that I realized how wonderful it would be if you took over my tasks, since you'd have a better understanding of them. If you didn't want to do those errands in the city, I could hang on to that job. In any case I would certainly be much more useful in the kitchen, especially since I've become a little stronger.” “It's already all set,” said Karl, “I'll be a lift boy, and you'll stay on as secretary. If you give the head cook even the slightest hint of your plans, I shall disclose everything else you've told me today, however much I'd regret having to do so.” Therese was so upset by Karl's tone that she threw herself down by the bed and began to whimper, pressing her face against the bedclothes. “I certainly won't disclose anything,” said Karl, “but you mustn't say anything either.” Now he could no longer stay entirely hidden under the blanket; he stroked her arm a little and, finding it impossible to come up with anything appropriate to say, simply reflected that life here was bitter. At last she calmed down, at least enough to be ashamed of her weeping, looked gratefully at Karl, and after encouraging him to sleep late the following morning, promised that if she could find the time, she would come up shortly before eight o'clock and wake him. “You're so good at waking people,” said Karl. “Yes, some things I can do,” she said, and letting her hand slide softly over his blanket in farewell, she ran into her room.