Billiards at Half-Past Nine (33 page)

One was blonde, the other brunette, both were slender, both smiling, and both were wearing becoming costumes of red-brown tweed, and both their pretty necks grew out of snow-white collars like flower stems. They spoke French and English, Flemish and Danish fluently, without a trace of accent, and fluently, without a trace of accent their German mother tongue. They knew some Latin, too, these pretty nuns of No-Order-at-All waiting in the employees’ powder room behind the ticket office for visitors to gather in groups of twelve at the barrier. They ground out their cigarette butts with spike heels, and touched up their lipstick with a practiced sweep before they stepped outside, to ascertain the nationalities of the guided-tour addicts. Smilingly they asked after languages and countries of origin, and the tourists made their responses by solemnly raising their hands; seven spoke English, two Flemish, three German. Then the gay question as to who knew Latin. Hesitantly Ruth raised her hand. Only one? A trace of sadness appeared on the pretty face at such a scanty haul
of humanists. Only one to appreciate her metrical exactitude when she quoted the epitaphs? Smiling and holding the long flashlight pointed downward like a sword, she walked ahead of them down the steps. It smelled of concrete and mortar, like a tomb, although a faint hum testified to the presence of an air-conditioning apparatus. Out came the English, Flemish and German, without a trace of accent, recounting the proportions of gray stone blocks and the width of Roman streets—and notice the second-century staircase—the fourth-century thermal baths—look, that’s where some bored sentry scratched a kind of checkerboard on a sandstone block (What had the instructor said? ‘Always emphasize the human element.’)—here’s where the Roman children played marbles—notice how perfectly the paving stones were fitted—that’s a drain, Roman dishwater and Roman slops were emptied into that gray conduit—and the remains of a small, private Temple of Venus built for the Governor. The visitors’ grins were lit up by the neon light. English grins and Flemish grins. Were the three young Germans really not grinning? How do you explain why the foundation was built so deep? Well, at the time when it was built the ground almost certainly was swampy, underground water leaked in from the river, went greenly gurgling about gray stones. Can you hear the curses of the German slaves? The sweat poured down over blond eyebrows, across fair faces, into the blond beards, and barbarian mouths swore an alliterative oath: ‘From wounds Wotan will wage revenge on ruthless Romans, woe, woe, woe.’ “Patience, ladies and gentlemen, just a few steps more. Here the remains of a law court, and now there they are,
The Roman children’s graves.
”

(‘At this point,’ the instructor had said, ‘you should go ahead of the others into the vault and wait for the first wave of emotion to die down before you begin your explanations. It’s purely a matter of instinct, girls, just how
long
you should keep the silence, it depends of course on what kind of a group it is. But whatever you do, don’t let yourself be drawn into
discussing the fact that actually they aren’t Roman children’s graves at all, merely tombstones which weren’t even found on this particular spot.’)

The tombstones were propped against the gray walls in a semicircle. Their first emotion having duly faded away, the visitors looked up in surprise. The deep blue night sky could be seen above the neon lights. And was that not an early star, or was it only the glitter of a golden or a silver button on the banister, winding smoothly upward through the light shaft in five spirals?

“There, at the first spiral—can you see the white cross-line in the concrete?—was the approximate level of the street in Roman times. At the second spiral—you can see the white cross-line in the concrete there too, can’t you?—was the medieval level, and there, at the beginning of the third spiral, the level of the street today—no need to point out the white cross-line in the concrete—the present-day street level—and now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll proceed to the inscriptions.”

Her face became stony, like a goddess’s, and raising her arm a little she held the long flashlight aloft like a torch:

A quick smile at Ruth, the only one who could appreciate the original Latin; a tiny tug at the collar of her tweed jacket, to straighten it; and lowering the flashlight a little, she recited the translation:

Grief seventeen centuries old came upon all the faces, seeped into all hearts, and even paralyzed the jaw muscles of the middle-aged Flemish gentleman, who let his lower mandible hang while his tongue swiftly thrust his chewing gum into a quiet pocket of his cheek. Marianne began sobbing and Joseph pressed her arm. Ruth put her hand on her shoulder as the ever-stony face of the guide went on quoting in Flemish:

A dangerous moment when one left the gloomy vaults to climb up again into light, air, the summer evening. When the age-old pain of death buried deep in the heart was mingled with the mysteries of Venus, and when lonely tourists spat out their chewing gum in front of the ticket office and tried to arrange a date in broken German:
Tanz im Hotel Prinz Heinrich; Spaziergang, Abendessen—a lonely feeling, Fräulein
. At this juncture the vestal virgin routine was indicated, no flirtatious openings permitted, all invitations refused. For display purposes only, please do not touch. No, sir, no, no—yet feeling the breath of corruption too, feeling sympathy for the sad foreigners who, shaking their heads, bore away, taking love’s hunger with them toward precincts where Venus reigned to this very day, and was not ashamed to name her price, being up on all exchange rates, in dollars, pounds, in guilders, francs and marks.

The cashier was tearing the tickets off the roll as if the little entrance led into a cinema; it hardly gave you time for a couple of drags in the powder room, a bite of sandwich, a gulp at the thermos flask. And then as always the difficult decision as to whether it was worth saving the cigarette butt or whether it would be better to kill it off with the spike heel.
One more drag, yet another as the left hand began to fish in the handbag for the lipstick, while the heart defiantly resolved to break its vestal vows, while the cashier stuck his head in the doorway and said, “Come on, kid, there are two groups waiting already, make it snappy—the Roman children’s graves are practically a box-office hit!” And she smiled and stepped out to the barrier to inquire about nationalities and mother tongues: four spoke English, one French, one Dutch and, this time, six Germans. Pointing the long flashlight downward like a sword she descended into the gloomy vaults, to describe the age-old cult of love and decipher the age-old pain of death.

Marianne was still crying when they went outside past the line of waiting people. The Germans, English and Dutch waiting there looked away from the girl’s face, embarrassed. What were these painful secrets hidden down there in gloomy cellars? Who had ever heard of historical monuments eliciting tears? Such deep emotion for sixty pfennigs, seen on faces only very occasionally, after very bad or very good movies. Could stones actually move some people to tears, while others coldbloodedly shoved fresh chewing gum into their mouths, greedily lit cigarettes and wound their flashlight cameras round ready for the next shot, eyes already on the lookout for the next target: gable-end of a fifteenth-century bourgeois dwelling, just opposite the entrance. Click, and the gable was immortalized on a chemical basis.

“Easy, easy, ladies and gentlemen,” the cashier called out from his box. “In view of the extraordinary attendance we have decided to allow fifteen instead of twelve visitors to participate in each tour. Would the next three ladies and gentlemen please pass through—tickets sixty, catalogues one-twenty.”

They were still walking past the waiting line, which had arranged itself all the way along the wall of the building to the corner of the street. Tears still showed on Marianne’s face as she smiled at Joseph in response to the insistent pressure
of his arm, and then at Ruth in gratitude for the hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll have to hurry,” said Ruth, “we’ve only ten minutes to go before seven o’clock and we oughtn’t to keep them waiting.”

“We’ll be there in two minutes,” said Joseph, “we’re going to be on time. Mortar—even today I had to smell it—and concrete. By the way, did you know that they owe those discoveries down there to Father’s zeal for demolition? When they were blowing up the old guardhouse, one of the vaults below collapsed and opened the way into those ruins and relics. Long live dynamite. Tell me, Ruth, what do you think of your new uncle? Do you feel it in your blood when you look at him?”

“No,” said Ruth, “my blood tells me nothing, but I think he’s nice. Rather dry, rather helpless—is he coming to live with us?”

“Probably,” said Joseph. “Will we be living there too, Marianne?”

“Do you want to move into the city?”

“Yes,” said Joseph, “I’m going to study statics and go into my father’s honorable business. Don’t you like the idea?”

They crossed a busy street and went on into a quieter one. Marianne stopped in front of a shop window, let go of Joseph’s arm, eased off Ruth’s hand and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. Ruth brushed her hands over her hair and straightened her sweater.

“Are we dressed up enough?” she asked. “I wouldn’t like to offend Grandfather.”

“You’re both elegant enough,” said Joseph. “How do you like my plan, Marianne?”

“I care a great deal what you’re going to do,” she said, “I’m sure it’d be a good thing to study statics, but what are you going to do with it after you’ve learned?”

“Construction or demolition, I don’t know yet,” said Joseph.

“Dynamite will be out of date,” said Ruth, “there must
surely be better ways. Do you remember how happy Father was when he could still blow things up? He’s only grown so serious now that there’s been nothing more to blow up.… What do you think about him, Marianne? Do you like him?”

“Yes,” said Marianne, “I like him a lot. I’d always imagined he would be worse than he is. Colder. And before I knew him I was almost afraid of him, but I think he’s the last person one need be afraid of. You’ll laugh but when I’m with him I feel protected.”

Joseph and Ruth didn’t laugh. They took Marianne in the middle and continued on. They stopped in front of the Cafe Kroner and the two girls looked themselves over once again in the glass door which was faced with green silk stretched across the inside. Once again they smoothed their hair until Joseph smiled and opened the door for them.

“Good heavens,” said Ruth, “I’m so hungry. I’m sure Grandfather’s ordered something good for us.”

Mrs. Kroner was coming toward them, past the green-covered tables and over the length of green carpet, her arms raised; her silver hair was dishevelled, the expression on her face spelt disaster, her watery eyes were glistening and her voice shaking with unfeigned distress.

“Haven’t you heard yet, then?” she asked.

“No,” said Joseph, “what?”

“Something dreadful must have happened. Your grandmother has canceled the party—she rang up a few minutes ago. You are to go over to the Prince Heinrich, Room 212. I’m not only very worried, I’m very disappointed too, Mr. Faehmel; I’d even say hurt, if I didn’t think there must be very important reasons for it. Because naturally we’d prepared a surprise for a client who’s been a regular here for fifty, fifty-one years, we’ve made—well, I’m going to show it to you. And what am I going to say to the Press and the radio people; they were scheduled for around nine o’clock, after the private party—what am I going to say?”

“Didn’t my grandmother tell you what the reason was?”

“Indisposition—am I to suppose it means the, er, chronic indisposition—on your grandmother’s part?”

“We haven’t heard anything about it,” said Joseph. “Would you be kind enough to have the presents and flowers taken over?”

“Yes, certainly, but won’t you at least come and take a look at my surprise?”

Marianne nudged him, Ruth smiled, and Joseph said, “Yes, we’d like to, Mrs. Kroner.”

“I was just a young girl,” said Mrs. Kroner, “just fourteen, when your grandfather came to this city, and I used to serve out here at the cake counter. Later on I learned to wait at table, just imagine how often I laid his breakfast for him—how often I took away his egg cup and set the marmalade in front of him, and when I bent over to take away the cheese dish I used to glance at his drawing pad. Heavens, you take an interest in your clients’ lives, you mustn’t think we business people are all callous—and do you think I’ve forgotten how he became famous overnight and got that great commission? Perhaps the customers think, one goes into the Cafe Kroner, orders something, pays and leaves; but after all, someone with a life like that does not cross your path without leaving an imprint.…”

“Of course, of course,” said Joseph.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, you’re wishing the old gossip would leave you in peace, but would it be asking you too much to come and take one look at my surprise, and tell your grandfather I’d be very glad if he’d come over and see for himself? It’s already been photographed for the newspaper.”

They walked slowly after Mrs. Kroner, over the length of green carpet between the green-covered tables and stopped when she stopped, at the large, square table covered by a large linen cloth; the cloth concealed something which seemed to be of uneven height.

“It’s lucky,” said Mrs. Kroner, “that there are four of us;
may I ask each of you to hold one corner in your hands and when I say ‘up’ all lift it up at the same time.”

Marianne gently pushed Ruth to the unoccupied, left-hand corner, and they each grasped an end of the cloth. “Up,” said Mrs. Kroner, and they lifted the cloth up. The two girls stepped over and joined their corners and Mrs. Kroner carefully folded the cloth.