Little Man, What Now? (17 page)

How did Pinneberg know? He had been round the back; the lavatory was round the back, and to get to it you had to go through that Berlin-style living-room, since the Pinnebergs slept at the front. And really cosy it had looked in that living-room with just the mushroom-shaped lamp on, and the whole company sitting on the two big divans. The ladies, very young, very elegant, very high-society, and those Dutchmen—Dutchmen were supposed to be blond and fat, but these were dark, tall and thin. And all of them were sitting around drinking wine and smoking. And Holger Jachmann, who was walking up and down in his shirt sleeves as usual, was just at that moment saying: ‘Nina, will you stop being all refined and making a fuss; I hate that.’ And he didn’t sound nearly as friendly and jovial as he usually did.

And in the midst of it all was Mrs Mia Pinneberg. Not that she
stuck out too much, she’d made herself up wonderfully, so that she only looked slightly, ever so slightly older than the young girls. She’d undoubtedly been a part of whatever was going on, but what had been going on till four in the morning? True there had been long periods during which nothing was heard but a faint murmur in the distance, and then suddenly there would be another fifteen minutes of noisy merriment. Cards. They must have been playing cards for money, with two painted young girls, Claire and Nina, and three Dutchmen, for whom Mullensiefen was meant to have been invited, but in the end Jachmann’s arts had sufficed. Wasn’t that clear enough, Pinneberg? Though of course it might have been something quite different …

What sort of thing? If Pinneberg knew anybody, he knew his mother. She had good reason to get mad if he so much as mentioned the bar. And that business was different from how she said it was. It wasn’t ten years ago, it was five, and he hadn’t looked through a curtain, he had sat at a table, and three tables along sat Mrs Mia Pinneberg. But she hadn’t seen him, she was too far gone for that. Manager in a bar! She needed managing herself. At first she hadn’t been able to deny it and spun some story about a birthday party. Later on, the drunkenness and necking at that birthday party was all forgotten, gone, denied, and all that had happened was that he’d looked through a curtain and his managerial mother had stood respectably behind the bar. That was what it had been like then—so what was to be expected now?

It was all too clear.

And here he was back in the Little Tiergarten. Pinneberg had known it since childhood. It had never been particularly pretty, no comparison with its larger brother on the other side of the Spree, just a makeshift bit of green. But on this first of October, half wet and half dry, half cloudy, half sunny, with the wind blowing out of all corners and a lot of ugly brownish-yellow leaves, it looked particularly desolate. It wasn’t empty, far from it. Masses of
people were there, clothed in grey, and sallow-faced. Unemployed people, waiting for something, they didn’t themselves know what, for who waited for work any more …? They were just standing around, without any plans; it was equally unpleasant at home, so why shouldn’t they stand around? There was no sense in going home now, since they always ended up there anyway, however reluctantly, and there was plenty of time for that.

Pinneberg, however, ought to go home. He ought to go home quickly, as Lammchen would be waiting for him. But he lingered among the unemployed, went a few steps, then stopped again. Externally, he didn’t belong to them, his outer shell was smart. He was wearing the reddish-brown winter ulster that Bergmann had let him have for thirty-eight marks, and the hard black hat, also one of Bergmanns’, no longer completely in fashion, the brim’s too wide, so shall we say three marks twenty, Pinneberg?

Externally then, Pinneberg did not belong to the unemployed, but internally …

He had just been to see Lehmann, the head of Personnel at Mandels department store; he had gone to get a job and he’d got one, it was a simple commercial transaction. But as a result of this transaction Pinneberg had the feeling, despite the fact that he was about to become a wage-earner again, that he was much closer to these non-earners than to people who earned a great deal. He was one of them, any day he could find himself standing here among them, and there was nothing he could do about it. He had no protection.

He was one of millions. Ministers made speeches to him, enjoined him to tighten his belt, to make sacrifices, to feel German, to put his money in the savings-bank and to vote for the constitutional party.

Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, according to the circumstances, but he didn’t believe what they said. Not in the least. His innermost conviction was: they all want something
from
me,
but not
for
me. It’s all the same to them whether I live or die. They couldn’t care less whether I can afford to go to the cinema or not, whether Lammchen can get proper food or has too much excitement, whether the Shrimp is happy or miserable. Nobody gives a damn.

And all these people standing round in the Little Tiergarten, and a real zoo it was, full of proletarian animals rendered harmless by lack of food and lack of hope, they shared the same fate. Three months’ unemployment and—goodbye, reddish-brown overcoat! Goodbye to any prospects for the future! Jachmann and Lehmann could have a quarrel on Wednesday evening, and suddenly I’ll be worthless again. Goodbye.

These are my only comrades, these men here, though to them I’m stuck up, a proletarian in a suit with a starched white collar. But that’s temporary. Only I know how little it means. Today, yes, today, I can earn a few bob, tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll be out of a Job …

Perhaps he was still too new to living with Lammchen, but standing here looking at these people, he scarcely thought about her. And he wouldn’t be able to tell her any of this. She wouldn’t understand. However gentle she was, she was much tougher than him. She wouldn’t stand here. She’d been in the Socialist Party, and the Anti-Fascist League but only because her father was in them, she actually belonged in the Communist Party. She had a few simple ideas: that most people are only bad because they have been made bad, that you shouldn’t judge anybody because you never know what you would do yourself, that the rich and the powerful think ordinary people don’t have the same feelings as they do—that’s what Lammchen instinctively believed, though she hadn’t thought it out. Lammchen’s heart was with the Communists.

And that is why he couldn’t tell her. Now he had to go to her and announce that he has a job, and they have reason to be happy.
And he really is happy. But behind that happiness lies the fear: will it last?

No, of course it won’t last. So, how long will it last?’

KESSLER REVEALS HIMSELF. HOW PINNEBERG STAYS ON TOP AND HEILBUTT SAVES THE DAY

It was the thirty-first of October, nine-thirty in the morning. Pinneberg was in the Gentlemen’s Clothing Department of Mandels, arranging grey striped trousers.

‘Sixteen fifty … sixteen fifty … sixteen fifty … eighteen ninety … where the hell are the trousers at seventeen seventy-five? We did have trousers for seventeen seventy-five. That clot Kessler’s gone and lost them again. Where are the trousers …?’

A little further into the department, the apprentices Beerbaum and Maiwald were brushing coats. Maiwald was a sportsman, and even an apprenticeship in Clothing can be treated as sport. Maiwald’s latest record was one hundred and nine coats impeccably brushed in one hour, though excessive zeal had resulted in the breakage of a bakelite button, for which Jänecke, the under-manager, reprimanded him severely.

The manager, Kröpelin, would certainly not have said anything. Kröpelin understood that things like that were bound to happen from time to time. But Jänecke could only become manager if Kröpelin had ceased to occupy that role, so he had to be sharp, zealous, and always thinking of the good of the firm.

The apprentices counted loudly: ‘Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety …’

Jänecke wasn’t in sight. Kröpelin hadn’t appeared yet either. They must be advising the buyer about winter coats; they badly needed new stock, there was not a single blue trenchcoat left in the stockroom.

Pinneberg was looking for the trousers at seventeen seventy-five. He could ask Kessler, Kessler was doing something only ten metres away, but he didn’t like him. For Kessler had remarked, audibly, when Pinneberg arrived: ‘Breslau? That old dodge, he’s been put in by Lehmann for sure.’

Pinneberg continued sorting. Very quiet today for a Friday. Only one customer had been in so far and he’d bought a boilersuit. Of course Kessler made that sale, he’d pushed himself forward, although it had been Heilbutt’s turn. Heilbutt, the senior salesman, was a gentleman and let that sort of thing pass, he sold quite enough anyway, and above all Heilbutt knew that when a difficult case came along, Kessler would run to him for help. That was enough for Heilbutt. It wouldn’t be enough for Pinneberg, but Pinneberg was not Heilbutt. Pinneberg bared his teeth sometimes, Heilbutt was much too dignified to do anything of the kind.

Heilbutt was standing at the back beside the cash desk doing a calculation. Pinneberg studied him, wondering whether he should ask him where the missing trousers might be. It would be a good excuse for starting up a conversation with him, but Pinneberg thought better of it. He’d tried a few times to converse with Heilbutt, who had always been impeccably polite, but somehow the conversation had petered out.

Pinneberg didn’t want to push things with Heilbutt because he admired him. It had to come spontaneously, and he was sure it would. All the while he dreamt about inviting Heilbutt to the flat in Spenerstrasse, preferably today. He wanted to show Heilbutt to his Lammchen, but above all he wanted to show his Lammchen to Heilbutt. He wanted to prove that he was no ordinary one-dimensional salesman, that he had Lammchen. Which of the others had anyone like that?

Slowly the shop came to life. Only a moment ago they had been standing around in complete boredom, only doing things for show, and suddenly they were selling. Wendt was at work, Lasch
was selling, Heilbutt was selling. Kessler hadn’t waited his turn, but had gone in when it should have been Pinneberg. But soon Pinneberg had his buyer too, a student. But he was out of luck: the student, a young man with duelling scars, briskly demanded a blue trench-coat.

The thought shot through Pinneberg’s head: ‘None in stock. And he’s not the type to be talked out of it. Kessler’s going to laugh if I fall on my face. I’ve got to work it …’

He had already manoeuvred the student in front of a mirror: ‘A blue trench-coat: certainly. One moment. Can we just slip on this ulster first?

‘I don’t want an ulster,’ declared the student.

‘No, of course not. Just on account of the size. Put it on, sir. Look, exceptionally smart, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said the student. ‘Doesn’t look at all bad. And now show me a blue trench-coat.’

‘Sixty-nine marks fifty,’ said Pinneberg casually, then, feeling his way: ‘One of our special offers. Last winter this ulster cost ninety. Woven lining. Pure wool …’

‘Good,’ said the student. ‘That was about what I wanted to pay, but I wanted a trench-coat. Please show me …’

Slowly and hesitantly, Pinneberg took off the handsome Marengo ulster. ‘I don’t believe anything else would suit you as well. Blue trench-coats have gone out of fashion. People have seen too much of them.’

‘Just show me one!’ said the student vehemently. Then, in a gentler tone, ‘Or don’t you want to sell me a trench-coat?’

‘But of course, of course, of course, anything you like.’ And he smiled, just as the student had smiled at his last question. ‘But …’ he cast around feverishly. No, no more tricks. It’s worth a try. ‘But I can’t sell you a blue trench-coat.’ Pause. ‘We don’t stock blue trench-coats any more.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me so straight away?!’ said the student,
part amazed, part annoyed.

‘Because I wanted to convince you how perfectly that ulster suited you. It really looks good on you. You see,’ he continued, in a lower tone, and with a deprecating smile, ‘I only wanted to show you how much better it is than a blue trench-coat. That was just a fad, but this ulster …’

Pinneberg looked lovingly at it, stroked the sleeves, hung it up again on the hanger, and went to put it back on the rail.

‘Wait a minute!’ said the student. ‘I could try it again … It doesn’t look too bad …’

‘No, it doesn’t look at all bad,’ said Pinneberg, and helped the gentleman back into the coat. ‘An ulster looks downright distinguished. Or could I perhaps show the gentleman another ulster? Or a light-coloured trench-coat?’

He could see that the mouse was already almost in the trap. It was already sniffing at the bacon. Now he could take his chance.

‘So you do have light-coloured trench-coats,’ grumbled the student.

‘Yes, we do have something there …,’ said Pinneberg, and went to another rail.

On that rail hung a yellowish-green trench-coat, it had already been marked down twice. Its brothers from the same makers, in the same colour and the same cut, had long found their buyers. This coat seemed fated never to leave Mandels. It had the effect of making the wearer look a funny shape, and wrongly or insufficiently dressed.

‘We have something here …,’ said Pinneberg. He threw the coat over his arm. ‘There you are, a light-coloured trench-coat. Thirty-five marks.’

The student put his arms in the sleeves. ‘Thirty-five?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Yes,’ replied Pinneberg in a disparaging tone. ‘These trenchcoats aren’t very expensive.’

The student examined himself in the mirror. And once again, the coat worked its spell: a good-looking young man transformed into a scarecrow. ‘Take the thing off!’ he cried. ‘It’s hideous.’

‘It’s a trench-coat,’ said Pinneberg seriously.

And then Pinneberg made out the bill for sixty-nine fifty, gave it to the gentleman, and made his bow. ‘Thank you kindly.’

‘No, thankyou,’ laughed the student, doubtless thinking about the yellow trenchcoat.

‘Well, that’s that,’ thought Pinneberg. He quickly surveyed the department. The others were still with their original customers or had moved on to new ones. Only Kessler and he were free. So the next turn was Kessler’s. Pinneberg was not going to push in front. But then, just as he was looking at Kessler, something strange happened; Kessler began shrinking back, step by step, towards the rails at the back. It was just as if he wanted to hide. Looking towards the entrance, Pinneberg saw the reason for this cowardly retreat: first came one lady, then another, both in their thirties, followed by another, older, lady, the mother or mother-in-law, and finally by a gentleman: moustache, pale blue eyes, bald as an egg. ‘You miserable coward,’ thought Pinneberg indignantly, ‘A case like that, and you run away. Typical. Now watch me!’