Dirty Snow (10 page)

He couldn't do anything. He waited for her on the sidewalk, where the falling snowflakes melted on his lips.

“Don't you want to see me anymore?”

“Of course I do.”

“You've been avoiding me for two days.”

“I never avoid anyone. I've been busy.”

“Frank!”

Was she thinking about the old Vilmos woman, too? Was she smart enough to have connected him with the story in the paper?

“Why don't you trust me?” she reproached him.

“I do trust you.”

“You don't tell me about the things you do.”

“Because it's not a woman's business.”

“I'm frightened, Frank.”

“Of what?”

“Frightened for you.”

“What good could that do you?”

“Don't you understand?”

“Yes.”

It was beginning to get dark. A fine snow was falling, and when a fine snow like that kept coming down for days you found yourself desperately waiting for a blizzard—big flakes that would purge the sky and let the sun through, if only for a moment. Like after a summer thunderstorm.

“Come with me.”

They walked along arm in arm. Girls always liked that.

“Your father hasn't said anything to you?”

“Why?”

“He doesn't suspect anything?”

“It would be terrible if he suspected.”

“You think?” Frank's skepticism shocked her.

“Frank!”

“He's a man like any other, isn't he? He's made love, too, hasn't he?”

“Be quiet!”

“Is your mother dead?”

She hesitated, awkward. “No.”

“They're divorced?”

“She left him.”

“Who for?”

“A dentist. Let's not talk about it, Frank.”

They had passed the tannery. They reached the Old Basin, which—before the dam was built—had once been an anchorage. There was very little water in it now and the old boats that had been left there, God knows why, were slowly rotting away, some of them upside down. In summer, where they were walking was a grass-covered embankment where the neighborhood children came to play.

“Was he good-looking, this dentist?”

“I don't know. I was too young.”

“Did your father try to get her back?”

“I don't know, Frank. Let's not talk about Papa.”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“What did he do, before?”

“He wrote books and magazine articles.”

“Books about what?”

“He was an art critic.”

“Did he go to museums?”

“He knew all the museums in the world.”

“And you?”

“A few.”

“Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Rome?”

“Yes. And London, Berlin, Amsterdam, Berne …”

“Did you stay at good hotels?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“What do you do when you're together, the two of you?”

“Where?”

“At home, when your father has finished driving his streetcar.”

“He reads.”

“And you?”

“He reads aloud. He explains what he reads.”

“What does he read?”

“All kinds of books. Poetry, often.”

“You like that?”

How she wanted to talk about something else! She sensed him stiffen, that he detested her. There was no use in her leaning more heavily on his arm, twining her fingers around his. He pretended not to understand.

“Come on!” he suddenly decided.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nearby. To Timo's. You'll see.”

It wasn't yet the hour for Timo's. There was no music. The people you saw there now were making deals with Timo or with one another. There were no women. And the colors of the walls and the lampshades seemed garish. It was like going into a theater in the middle of the day while a rehearsal was going on. It was almost as if such a place couldn't exist at this time of day.

“Frank …”

“Sit down.”

“I wish you'd taken me to the movies.”

Because of the darkness, right? But that was just what he didn't want at the moment. Not the sour taste of her saliva. Not running his fingers along her garter.

“He doesn't mind not seeing anyone?”

It took her a moment to understand that he was still talking about her father.

“No. Why should he mind?”

“I don't know. Were you rich, before?”

“I think so. I had a governess for a long time.”

“Does it pay well, driving a streetcar?”

She groped for his hand under the table, begging, “Frank!”

Ignoring her, he called out, “Timo! Come here. We'd like something especially good. Appetizers to start with. Then lamb chops with french fries. And you can begin by bringing us a bottle of Hungarian wine, you know the one.”

He leaned toward her. He was going to talk about her father again. The telephone rang. Timo, wiping his hands on his white apron, answered it, looking at Frank.

“Yes … Yes … I can find that … Not too much, no, but not cheap … Who? I haven't seen him today … But your friend Frank is here …”

He put his hand over the receiver and said to Frank, “It's Kromer. Do you want to speak to him?”

Frank got up and went to the telephone.

“Is that you? Did you make out all right? Good … Yes … I'll get them to you tonight. Where are you now? … At home? You're dressed? Alone? You'd better drop by our friend Timo's … I can't explain … What? … Something like that … No, not today! You'll have to be satisfied with just looking … From a distance … No, I tell you! If you make a fool of yourself, you'll spoil everything …”

When he sat down again, Sissy asked, “Who was that?”

“A friend.”

“Is he coming here?”

“Of course not.”

“I thought you asked him to come.”

“Not now … Tonight.”

“Listen, Frank …”

“What now?”

“I want to go.”

“Why?”

Thick lamb chops with fries were brought to them on a silver dish. It must have been months, years since she had eaten fries, to say nothing of breaded chops trimmed with frilled paper.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Too bad.”

She didn't dare tell him she was frightened, but he sensed she was.

“What is this place?”

“A restaurant. A bar. A nightclub. It's anything you like. It's heaven. It's Timo's.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Every day.”

She tried to chew the meat, couldn't, put down her fork, and sighed as though from weariness. “I love you, Frank.”

“Is that such a catastrophe?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you say it with such a tragic air, like it was a catastrophe.”

Looking straight ahead of her, she repeated, “I love you.”

And he wanted to say,
Well, I don't love you.

Then he forgot about it, since Kromer had come in, with his fur-lined coat, his big cigar, his air of being—here as everywhere—the principal actor. Without seeming to recognize Frank, he went to the bar and lifted himself onto one of the stools with a sigh of contentment.

“Who's that?” Sissy asked.

“What difference does it make?”

Why was she instinctively afraid of Kromer? He looked at them, looked at her, especially at her, through the smoke of his cigar, and when she bent her head over her plate he took the opportunity to wink at Frank.

She started eating mechanically, perhaps out of embarrassment, so as not to meet Kromer's eyes, and she ate so conscientiously that she left nothing on her plate but the bones. She even ate the fat. She wiped her plate clean with her bread.

“How old is your father?”

“Forty-five. Why?”

“He looks sixty.”

He sensed the tears coming to her eyes, which she tried to hold back. He sensed the anger in her struggling with another sentiment, and her desire to leave without a word, to walk out of the restaurant alone, without looking back. Would she even be able to find the exit?

Kromer, very excited, kept casting glances at Frank that grew more and more significant.

Then Frank gave a little affirmative nod of his head. The agreement was made.

So that was that. Too bad!

“There's cake with mocha icing.”

“I'm not hungry anymore.”

“Bring two mochas, Timo.”

At that moment, Holst was driving his streetcar. The big headlamps could have been part of him, shining out of his belly, as the car pushed forward, casting a puddle of light on the snow and on the two gleaming black tracks ahead. His little tin lunch box was there near the controls. Perhaps he took an occasional bite out of his sandwich, chewing slowly, his feet in the felt boots tied around his legs with string.

“Eat.”

“You really believe you love me?”

“How can you ask such a question?”

“If I asked you to go away with me, would you do it?”

She looked straight into his eyes. He had taken her home and now they were in her apartment. She was still wearing her hat and coat. The old man next door must be listening behind the transom. He would come. They didn't have much time.

“Would you like to go away, Frank?”

He shook his head, no.

“If I asked you to sleep with me?”

He had intentionally used an expression that would shock her.

She still looked at him steadily. It was as though she wanted him to see down to the very depths of her blue eyes.

“You want to?” she said slowly.

“Not today.”

“Anytime you want.”

“Why do you love me?”

“I don't know.” There was a catch in her voice, and her glance wavered. What had she been about to reply? There had been different words on the tip of her tongue.

He wanted to know, yet he was afraid to insist. He was a little scared of what she might say. Maybe he was wrong. He would have sworn—it was stupid, since there was nothing to make him think so—he would have sworn that she had been on the point of saying, “Because you're unhappy.”

And it wasn't true. He wouldn't let her or anyone think that. Besides, why should she care?

Their neighbor had stirred. They could hear him breathing outside the door. He hesitated, then knocked.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Sissy. It's me again …”

She couldn't help smiling. Frank left, growling a vague good night. He didn't go to his apartment. Instead he went down the stairs two at a time and headed toward Timo's.

“Tonight?” asked Kromer, his mouth watering.

Frank gave him a stony look.

“No.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“No.” He ordered a drink, but he wasn't thirsty.

“When?”

“Before Sunday night, in any case, because Monday her father's on the morning shift and he'll be home in the late afternoon.”

“Have you spoken to her about it?”

“She doesn't need to know.”

“I don't understand.” Kromer was a little uneasy.

“You want … ?”

“Of course not. But I have an idea. I'll explain when the time comes.”

His eyes had narrowed. His head ached. His skin was clammy, and every now and then he shivered, like someone coming down with the flu.

“Have you got the green card?”

“You'll have to come to the department with me tomorrow to get it.”

And then the conversation turned to watches.

What possessed him later on, a little before midnight, to loiter around in the street just to see Holst come home?

He had no intention of sleeping at Lotte's. Without letting her know, he went to Kromer's, where he sank down on the couch.

M
INNA
was ill. They had put her on the cot usually reserved for Frank, and they shifted her from place to place, depending on the time of day, because there wasn't much room for a sick person in the house. They couldn't very well let her go home to her parents in the state she was in, and they couldn't call a doctor.

“It was that Otto again!” Lotte told her son.

His real name was Schonberg. And his first name wasn't Otto. Almost all the clients had a nickname, especially if they were very well known, like Schonberg. He was a grandfather. Thousands of families depended on him, and people bowed in fear to him on the street.

“He always promises me to be careful, and then he goes and does it again.”

Minna was there with her red rubber hot-water bottle, being pushed from room to room, spending most of her time in the kitchen, looking ashamed, as though it was all her fault.

Then there was the matter of the green card, which had involved a lot of running back and forth, since at the last moment quantities of documents were needed and five photographs instead of the three Frank had taken with him.

“Why is your name Friedmaier, like your mother's? You should use your father's name.”

The redheaded official with coarse orange skin seemed to think that was suspicious. He, too, was afraid of responsibility. Kromer had to telephone the general from the poor man's own office.

Frank got his card at last, but it had taken hours. He still looked feverish, but he wasn't running a temperature. Lotte kept glancing at him surreptitiously. She wondered why he had become so animated all of a sudden.

“You'd better rest in bed for a day or two.”

He had also found a girl to take Minna's place on Saturday, the busiest day of the week at Lotte's. He knew where to go. He knew several places.

All that had taken time. He had been constantly busy and yet, during those two days, time had seemed to drag.

There was still the dirty snow, piles of it that looked like they were rotting, stained black, peppered with garbage. The white powder that loosed itself from the sky in small handfuls, like plaster falling from a ceiling, never managed to cover up the filth.