Amerika (25 page)

T
he suburban street in which the automobile halted must have been quite remote, for there was not a sound to be heard anywhere; on the curb children sat playing; a man with a large bundle of old clothes strung over his shoulders had his eyes fixed on the windows of the buildings as he shouted up; in his weariness Karl felt uncomfortable stepping from the automobile onto the asphalt, which seemed bright and warm in the morning sun. “You really live here?” he shouted into the automobile. Robinson, who had slept peacefully throughout the trip, muttered a few affirmative words and then seemed to wait for Karl to lift him out. “So there's no need for me here anymore. Goodbye,” said Karl, intending to set off down the slightly sloping street. “But what do you think you're doing, Karl?” cried Robinson, who was so worried that he had already risen and now stood in the car, fully upright, save for his quivering knee. “But I must go,” said Karl, who had noticed how quickly Robinson was recovering. “In your shirtsleeves?” asked Robinson. “Well, I'll soon earn enough to buy myself another jacket,” Karl answered, and giving Robinson a confident nod, he raised a hand in farewell and would have left had the chauffeur not called out: “Just a moment, sir.” Disagreeably enough, the chauffeur claimed that he was owed an additional sum for waiting outside the hotel. “Yes indeed,” Robinson cried out from the automobile, confirming that the chauffeur's demand was justified, “I had to wait such a long time for you. You do have to give him a little something.” “Well, if only I had something left,” said Karl, reaching into the pockets of his trousers, although he knew that it would be futile. “You're the only one I can turn to,” said the chauffeur, rising with his legs spread wide apart, “I can't ask anything of that sick man there.” Approaching from the gate was a young fellow with a wasted nose who halted a few paces away and began to listen to what was being said. Just then a policeman on his rounds through the street looked down at the man in shirtsleeves, sized him up, and halted. Robinson, who had also noticed the policeman, cried out stupidly from the other window, “It's really nothing, nothing at all,” as if one could shoo away a policeman the way one shoos away a fly. The children, who had been observing the policeman, were alerted by his coming to a standstill to the presence of Karl and the chauffeur, and they scampered toward them. In the doorway opposite stood an old lady, staring intently.

“Rossmann,” cried a voice from above. It was Delamarche shouting down from the top balcony. Only indistinctly visible against the whitish blue sky and evidently still in his dressing gown, he was observing the street through opera glasses. Spread out beside him was a red parasol, with a woman evidently sitting underneath. “Hello,” he shouted strenuously in an effort to be heard, “is Robinson there too?” “Yes,” answered Karl, powerfully boosted by another louder yes from Robinson in the car. “Hallo,” the voice shouted back, “I'm coming.” Robinson leaned out of the car. “What a man,” he said, and this praise of Delamarche was addressed to Karl, the chauffeur, the policeman, and anybody else who chose to listen. Above on the balcony, which everyone was still absently watching although Delamarche was already gone, a strapping woman in a red dress rose, took the opera glasses from the balustrade, and looked down at the crowd, who only gradually averted their gaze. While waiting for Delamarche, Karl looked in the main gate and farther along into the courtyard, which was being crossed by an almost unbroken line of office workers, each carrying on his shoulders a small though clearly very heavy box. The chauffeur had walked over to his car and, so as not to waste time, set about polishing its headlights with a rag. Robinson patted all his limbs, seemed astonished by how little pain he sensed no matter how intently he observed himself, and therefore lowered his face and began to loosen carefully one of the thick bandages on his leg. The policeman held his little black truncheon in front of his chest and waited quietly, with the great patience that policemen must always demonstrate, whether they are carrying out their regular duties or lying in wait. The fellow with the wasted nose sat down on a gatepost and stretched out his legs. The children gradually approached Karl, taking little steps, for although he took no notice of them, they considered him to be the most important of them all on account of his blue shirtsleeves.

One could gauge the great height of the building from the time it took Delamarche to reach them. And Delamarche came rushing down, his dressing gown still only loosely tied. “So you're here!” he cried, sounding pleased yet stern. Each big step he took briefly exposed his colorful underwear. Karl could not quite understand why Delamarche walked about in the city, in that enormous tenement and out here in the middle of the street, dressed in such casual clothes, as if he were in his private villa. Like Robinson, Delamarche had greatly changed. His dark, smooth-shaven, scrupulously clean face, with its coarsely bulging muscles, looked proud and imposing. The bright sheen of his eyes, which were always half closed, came as a surprise. His violet dressing gown was certainly old, stained, and too large for him, but from this ugly article of clothing billowed a powerful dark cravat of heavy silk. “Well?” he said, addressing the question to everybody present. The policeman moved a little closer and leaned against the hood. Karl offered a brief explanation. “Robinson is worn out, but if he makes an effort, he can manage to get up the stairs; this chauffeur here wants an additional sum on top of the fare I've already paid. I'm leaving. Good day.” “You're not leaving,” said Delamarche. “That's exactly what I told him,” Robinson announced from inside the car. “I am leaving,” said Karl, and he moved a few paces. Delamarche was already standing behind him, however, and now pushed him back forcibly. “I'm telling you, you're staying,” he shouted. “Let me go,” said Karl, preparing to fight for his freedom with his fists, however slight the prospect of success with a man such as Delamarche. After all, the policeman was still standing there, the chauffeur too, and now and then groups of workers came down this street, which to be sure was usually quiet; would they just stand by if Delamarche did him an injustice? Certainly he would not have wanted to be left alone in a room with him, but out here on the street? Quietly, Delamarche paid the chauffeur, who pocketed the undeservedly large sum amid much bowing and approached Robinson out of gratitude, evidently in order to discuss how best to lift him out. Karl noticed that there was nobody watching; maybe Delamarche would more easily tolerate his leaving if he did so silently; it would be best if a fight could be avoided, so Karl stepped onto the street in an attempt to escape as quickly as possible. The children flocked toward Delamarche so as to make him aware of Karl's flight, but he himself did not have to intervene since the policeman held out his truncheon and said, “Stop!”

“What's your name,” he asked, sticking his truncheon under his arm and slowly pulling out a book. Whereupon Karl looked at him closely for the first time; he was a powerfully built man, but his hair had already gone completely white. “Karl Rossmann,” he said. “Rossmann,” said the policeman, who was doubtlessly repeating the name merely because he was a calm and methodical individual, but Karl, who was encountering American authorities for the first time, saw in this repetition a sign that he was considered somewhat suspect. And things certainly did not look good for him, since even Robinson, who was so preoccupied with his own worries, waved his hands vigorously from inside the car, beseeching Delamarche to help Karl. However, Delamarche fended him off with a quick head-shake and looked on impassively, with his hands stuck in his huge pockets. The fellow sitting on the gatepost explained everything that had occurred from the very start to a woman who had just come out through the main door. The children stood in a half circle behind Karl, gazing silently up at the policeman.

“Show me your papers,” said the policeman. This was surely only a formality, for if you don't have a jacket, you probably don't have identification papers either. So Karl did not answer, preferring to respond in detail to the next question, thereby concealing insofar as possible the fact that he had no papers. But then came the next question: “So you don't have any papers?” and Karl had to answer: “Not on me.” “Well, that's no good,” said the policeman, and he surveyed the circle of people pensively, tapping with two fingers on the cover of his book. “Do you have an income of any sort?” the policeman finally asked. “I was an elevator boy,” said Karl. “You were an elevator boy, in other words you aren't anymore, and so what are you living off now?” “I'll be looking for new work.” “So you were let go?” “Yes, an hour ago.” “Suddenly?” “Yes,” said Karl, raising his hand as if to excuse himself. He could not tell the whole story here, and even had this been possible, it seemed hopeless to ward off a threatened injustice by talking about an injustice he had suffered. And if he had not obtained his rights through the kindness of the head cook and the insight of the head waiter, he could certainly not expect it from this crowd on the street.

“And you were let go without a jacket?” asked the policeman. “Well yes,” said Karl; so in America too the authorities made a point of asking questions even when they could see perfectly well for themselves. How annoyed his father had become over the useless questions the authorities had asked when they were applying for his passport. Karl had a great desire to run away and hide somewhere instead of having to listen to more such questions. And the policeman even asked the question that Karl had most feared, and probably because of the unease with which he had anticipated the question, he responded more carelessly than he might otherwise have done. “Which hotel did you work at?” He lowered his head and did not answer; that was a question he absolutely did not want to answer. What had to be avoided at all costs was the following: that he would be escorted back by the police to the Occidental Hotel, that hearings would be held to which his friends and enemies would be summoned, and that the head cook would completely abandon her favorable, if already weakening, opinion of Karl; she had thought he was at the Pension Brenner and would now find that he had come back in his shirtsleeves, did not have her visiting card, and had been picked up by a policeman; whereas the head waiter would perhaps give a knowing nod, and the head porter would talk of the hand of God that had finally caught the rascal.

“He was employed at the Occidental Hotel,” said Delamarche, and moved close to the policeman. “No,” cried Karl, stamping his foot, “that isn't true.” Delamarche looked at him, narrowing his mouth mockingly as though there were matters of a very different nature that he could still disclose. Karl's unexpected outburst set the children in motion, and they approached Delamarche in order to examine Karl closely from that position. Robinson had leaned his head completely out of the car and was so intent on what was happening that he remained absolutely quiet; he blinked from time to time but otherwise remained motionless. The fellow at the gate clapped his hands in delight; the woman beside him gave him a dig in the side to silence him. Just then the porters were on their breakfast break; all emerged, holding great pots of black coffee, which they stirred with little bread sticks. Several sat down on the pavement, all slurped their coffee.

“Surely you know the boy,” the policeman asked Delamarche. “Better than I'd like,” said Delamarche. “I did a lot for him at one time, but he showed little gratitude, as you can easily understand even after only asking him a few questions.” “Yes,” said the policeman, “he does seem a stubborn youth.” “He certainly is,” said Delamarche, “but that isn't even his worst trait.” “Really?” said the policeman. “Oh yes,” said Delamarche, and sticking his hands in his pockets, he launched into a speech that caused his whole gown to sway, “he's a fine fellow all right. My friend over there in the car and myself, we happened to come across him when he was living in misery; he had no idea then about conditions in America, having just come from Europe, where they couldn't find any use for him either; so we took him along, let him live with us, explained everything to him, tried to get him a job, believing despite all the signs to the contrary that we could still manage to turn him into a useful person; and then one night he disappeared, was simply gone, under circumstances I'd rather not disclose. Isn't that so?” Delamarche asked at last, tugging Karl by his shirtsleeve. “Step back, children,” cried the policeman, for they had pressed so far forward that Delamarche almost tripped over one of them. Meanwhile the porters, who had initially underestimated the potential interest of this questioning by the policeman, began to pay attention and gathered in a tight circle behind Karl, who could no longer have retreated a single step and whose ears were continually engulfed by the babbling voices of the porters, who did not so much speak as thunder in an English that was absolutely incomprehensible and may have included a smattering of Slavic words.

“Thanks for the information,” said the policeman, saluting Delamarche. “In any case I shall take him and make sure he's brought back to the Occidental Hotel.” But Delamarche said: “May I ask that you leave the boy in my care for now, I've got a few things to sort out with him. I promise to take him back to the hotel myself.” “That I cannot do,” said the policeman. Delamarche said, “Here's my visiting card,” and handed him a small card. The policeman looked at it appreciatively but said with an engaging smile: “No, it's pointless.”

However wary of Delamarche Karl had been, he now saw him as his sole means of salvation. Though there was admittedly something rather suspect about the way in which he appealed to the policeman to let him take Karl, it would be easier to persuade Delamarche rather than the policeman not to escort him back to the hotel. And even if he had to go back to the hotel with Delamarche holding his arm, it would not be quite so bad as being taken there under police escort. But of course, Karl could not divulge that he did want to go to Delamarche's, for in that case everything would be lost. And he gazed apprehensively at the policeman's hand, which could at any moment jump up and seize him.