Laughter in the Dark (12 page)

“Doesn’t it look modern? Almost surrealistic, in fact,” said Albinus fondly.

“Quite,” said Rex, holding his own wrist, as he contemplated the picture. It was modern: he had painted it only eight years ago.

Then they walked along the passage where there was a nice Linard—flowers and an eyed moth. At that moment Margot emerged from the bathroom in a bright yellow bathrobe. She ran down the corridor, almost losing one of her slippers on the way.

“In here,” said Albinus with a bashful laugh. Rex followed him into the library.

“If I am not mistaken,” he said smiling, “that was Fräulein Peters. Is she a relative of yours?”

“What’s the use of pretending?” thought Albinus
swiftly. It would be impossible to hoodwink anyone so observant—and, well, wasn’t it all rather smart—in a subtle Bohemian way? “My little mistress,” he answered aloud.

He invited Rex to stay for dinner, and the latter made no ado about accepting. When Margot appeared at table, she was languid but calm: the agitation which she had been barely able to control the night before had now changed into something very like happiness. As she sat between these two men who were sharing her life, she felt as though she were the chief actress in a mysterious and passionate film-drama—so she tried to behave accordingly: smiling absently, drooping her eyelashes, tenderly laying her hand on Albinus’ sleeve, as she asked him to pass the fruit, and casting a fleeting, indifferent glance at her former lover.

“No, I won’t let him escape again, no fear,” she said to herself suddenly, and a delicious, long-lost shudder ran down her spine.

Rex spoke a good deal. Among other amusing things he told them a funny story about an inebriated Lohengrin who happened to miss the swan and waited hopefully for the next one. Albinus laughed heartily, but Rex knew (and this was the private point of his joke) that he saw only half the joke, and that it was the other half
which made Margot bite her lips. He hardly looked at her while talking. When he did, she at once cast a downward glance at this or that part of her dress where his eyes had settled for a moment, and touched it up unconsciously.

“And soon,” said Albinus with a wink, “we’ll be seeing someone on the screen.”

Margot pouted and slapped his hand lightly.

“Are you an actress?” asked Rex. “Oh, indeed? And may I inquire in what film you are appearing?”

She answered without looking at him and felt extremely proud. He was a famous artist and she was a film star. They were now both on the same level.

Rex left immediately after dinner, reflected what he should do next and dropped into a gambling-club. A straight flush (which had not happened to him for ages) bucked him up somewhat. The next day he rang up Albinus and they went to an exhibition of pointedly modern pictures. The day after that, he had supper at Albinus’ flat. Then he called unexpectedly, but Margot was not at home, and he had to sustain a good lengthy highbrow conversation with Albinus, who was beginning to like him hugely. Rex was getting thoroughly annoyed. At length fate took pity on him, choosing for her good deed the circumstance
of an ice-hockey match at the Sport Palace.

As the three of them were making their way to their box, Albinus noticed Paul’s shoulders and Irma’s fair plait. Something of this kind was bound to happen one day or another, but although he had always been expecting it, it took him so entirely unawares that he veered awkwardly, bumping violently into Margot’s side as he did so.

“Look what you’re doing, you,” she said nastily.

“Make yourself comfortable and order some coffee,” said Albinus. “I must—er—telephone. I had quite forgotten.”

“Please, don’t go away,” said Margot, standing up again.

“It’s rather urgent,” he insisted, hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible (had Irma seen him?). “If I should be detained, don’t worry. Do excuse me, Rex.”

“Please, stay here,” repeated Margot very quietly.

But he did not notice her strange glance, nor how her cheeks flushed and her lips quivered. His back became quite round, and he hurried to the exit.

There was a moment of silence and then Rex heaved a great sigh.

“Enfin seuls,”
he said grimly.

They sat side by side in their expensive box at a little table with a very white cloth. Below, just beyond the barrier, extended the vast frozen area. The band was playing a thumping circus march. The empty sheet of ice bore an oily blue gloss. The air was hot and cold at the same time.

“Do you understand now?” asked Margot suddenly, hardly knowing herself what she was asking.

Rex was about to answer, but at that moment a crash of applause reverberated through the enormous house. He squeezed her hot little fingers under the table. Margot felt the tears rising, but did not withdraw her hand.

A girl in white tights with a silvery, fluff-hemmed short skirt had come running across the ice on the toes of her skates and, having gained impetus, described a lovely curve and leaped, and turned, and was gliding again.

Her glittering skates flashed like lightning as she circled and danced, cutting the ice with an excruciating impact.

“You jilted me,” Margot began.

“Yes, but I have dashed back to you, haven’t I? Don’t cry, baby. Have you been with him long?”

Margot tried to speak, but again a huge hubbub
filled the house. The ice was empty again. She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her hands to her temples.

Among catcalls, clappings and clamor, the players were leisurely gliding across the ice—first the Swedes, then the Germans. The visitors’ goalkeeper, in his brilliant sweater, with great leather pads from instep to hip, slid slowly toward his tiny goal.

“He’s going to get her to divorce him. Do you understand what a very awkward moment you’ve chosen for coming?”

“Nonsense. Do you really believe he’s going to marry you?”

“If you upset things he won’t.”

“No, Margot, he’ll not marry you.”

“And I tell you he will.”

Their lips continued to move, but the clamor around drowned their swift quarrel. The crowd was roaring with excitement as nimble sticks pursued the puck on the ice, and knocked it, and hooked it, and passed it on, and missed it, and clashed together in rapid collision. Shifting smoothly this way and that at his post, the goal-keeper pressed his legs together so that his two pads combined to form one single shield.

“…  it’s dreadful that you’ve come back.
You’re a beggar compared with him. Good God, now I know you’re going to spoil everything.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, we’ll be very careful.”

“I’m going mad,” said Margot. “Get me out of this din. Let’s go. I’m sure he won’t come back now, and if he does, it’ll be a good lesson.”

“Come to my place. You must come. Don’t be a fool. We’ll be quick. You’ll be home in an hour.”

“Shut up. I won’t take any risks. I’ve been working to get him that far for months, and now he’s ripe. Do you really expect me to throw it all up now?”

“He won’t marry you,” said Rex in a tone of conviction.

“Will you take me home or not?” she asked, almost screaming—and the thought flashed through her mind: “I’ll let him kiss me in the taxi.”

“Wait a bit. Say, how do you know I am broke?”

“I can see that in your eyes,” she replied, and then stopped her ears, for now the noise had reached its climax: a goal had been scored, the Swedish goalkeeper was lying prone on the ice, and the stick which had been struck out of his hand spun round and round as it slid away on the ice like a lost oar.

“Well, what I say is this: it’s a waste of time to put it off. It’s got to happen sooner or later. Come on. There’s a fine view from my window when the blind is down.”

“Another word and I’ll drive home alone.”

As they were making their way along the back of the boxes. Margot gave a start and frowned. A plump gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses was staring at her with disgust. Seated by his side was a little girl following the game through a large pair of field glasses.

“Look round,” snapped Margot to her companion, “do you see that fat bloke with the child? That’s his brother-in-law and his daughter. Now I see why my worm crawled away. Pity I didn’t notice them before. He was very rude to me once, so I wouldn’t mind if somebody gave him a good hiding.”

“And yet—you can talk of wedding bells,” was Rex’s comment as he walked down the soft wide steps by her side. “He’ll never marry you. Now look here, my dear, I’ve got a new suggestion to make. And that’s final, I guess.”

“What’s that?” asked Margot suspiciously.

“I’ll take you home all right, but you’ll have to pay for the cab, my dear.”

P
AUL
gazed after her and the rolls of fat over his collar grew the color of beetroot. Despite the sweetness of his nature, he would not have minded doing to Margot what she suggested doing to him. He wondered who her companion might be, and where Albinus was; he felt sure that that gentleman must be somewhere about, and the thought that the child might suddenly see him was intolerable. He was much relieved when the whistle blew and he could escape with Irma.

They reached home. She looked tired, and in response to her mother’s questions about the match only nodded, smiling that faint mysterious smile which was her most charming peculiarity.

“It’s amazing the way they dash about on the ice,” said Paul.

Elisabeth looked at him thoughtfully and then turned to her daughter. “Time for bed, time for bed,” she said.

“Oh, no,” entreated Irma sleepily.

“Goodness, it’s nearly midnight, you’ve never been up so late.”

“Tell me, Paul,” said Elisabeth, when Irma was safely tucked up, “I’ve a feeling that something happened. I was so restless while you were away. Paul, tell me!”

“But I’ve nothing to tell,” he said, growing very red in the face.

“You didn’t meet anyone?” she ventured. “You really didn’t?”

“What put such an idea into your head?” he muttered, thoroughly disconcerted by the almost telepathic sensibility which Elisabeth had developed since the separation from her husband.

“I’m always fearing it,” she whispered, slowly bending her head.

The next morning Elisabeth was roused by the nurse who came into the room with a thermometer in her hand.

“Irma’s ill, ma’am,” she said briskly. “Her temperature is up to a hundred and one.”

“A hundred and one,” echoed Elisabeth, and she suddenly thought: “That’s why I was so uneasy yesterday.”

She sprang out of bed and flew into the nursery. Irma was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling with glistening eyes.

“A fisherman and a boat,” she said, pointing up at the ceiling on which the rays of the bedside lamp cast a sort of pattern. It was quite early and snowing.

“Does your throat hurt, my pet?” asked Elisabeth, still struggling with her dressing-gown. Then she bent anxiously over the child’s pointed little face.

“My God, how hot her forehead is!” she exclaimed, stroking back the fine pale hair from Irma’s brow.

“And one, two, three, four reeds,” said Irma softly, still looking up.

“We’d better ring up the doctor,” said Elisabeth.

“Oh, there’s no need for that, ma’am,” said the nurse. “I’ll give her some hot tea with lemon and a nice aspirin. Everybody’s got the ’flu now.”

Elisabeth knocked at Paul’s door. He was shaving and with the lather still on his cheeks he went to Irma’s room. Paul often cut himself when he shaved, even with the safety razor—and now a bright red patch was spreading through the froth on his chin.

“Strawberries and whipped cream,” said Irma softly as he bent over her.

The doctor arrived toward evening, seated himself
on the edge of Irma’s bed and, with his eyes fixed on a corner of the room, began to count her pulse-beats. Irma gazed at the white hair in the cavity of his large complicated ear and at the W-shaped vein on his pink temple.

“Good,” said the doctor, looking at her over the rim of his spectacles. Then he told Irma to sit up and Elisabeth drew up the child’s nightdress. Irma’s body was very white and thin, with prominent shoulder blades. The doctor put his stethoscope to her back, breathing heavily, and told her to breathe too.

“Good,” he said again.

Then he tapped her on different parts of the chest and ploughed her stomach with icy-cold fingers. At last he stood up, patted her head, washed his hands, turned down his cuffs, and Elisabeth led him into the study, where he sat down comfortably, unscrewed his fountain pen and wrote out his prescriptions.

“Yes,” he said, “there’s a lot of influenza about. Yesterday a recital had to be canceled because the singer and her accompanist were both down with it.”

Next morning Irma’s temperature was considerably lower. Paul, on the other hand, was very seedy; he wheezed and kept blowing his nose
but flatly refused to take to his bed and even went to his office as usual. The Fräulein, too, was sniffling.

That evening when Elisabeth drew out the warm glass tube from under her daughter’s arm, she was delighted to see that the mercury had hardly risen above the red fever line. Irma blinked, the light dazzled her; and presently she turned her face to the wall. The room grew dark again. All was warm, cosy and a little absurd. Soon Irma fell asleep, but she woke up in the middle of the night from a vaguely unpleasant dream. She was thirsty and she felt for the sticky glass of lemonade which was on the bed table, emptied it and carefully set it back again, smacking her lips gently.

The room seemed to her darker than usual. In the next room the nurse was snoring violently, almost ecstatically. Irma listened to her, and then she began to wait for the friendly rumble of the electric train which emerged from underground very near the house. But it did not come. Perhaps it was too late, and the trains had stopped running. Irma lay with wide-opened eyes. Suddenly she heard from the street a familiar whistle on four notes. That was exactly how her father whistled, when he used to come home—just to let
them know that he would be with them in a moment and that supper could be served. Irma knew perfectly well that it was not he, but a man who had for the last fortnight been visiting the lady on the fourth floor—the porter’s little daughter had told her as much, and had put out her tongue when Irma observed, very reasonably, that it was stupid to come so late. She knew, too, that she must not talk about her father who was living with his little friend: this Irma had gathered from the conversation of two ladies who were walking downstairs in front of her.