Mysteries (6 page)

“He must’ve been, sure. Anyway, they’re all crazy about her, he wasn’t the only one.”

Nagel became lost in thought and said nothing further. Then the hotel keeper breaks the silence and remarks, “Well, I’ve been telling you these things in confidence and I beg you to—”

“Righto,” Nagel replies. “You may rest easy on that score.”

When Nagel went down to breakfast a little later, the hotel keeper was already in the kitchen relating that, at last, he had had a regular chat with the man in yellow in Number 7. “He’s an agronomist,” the hotel keeper said, “and he’s come from abroad. He says he’ll be here for several months. God only knows what sort of man he is.”

THAT SAME DAY, in the evening, Nagel happened to come across Miniman all of a sudden. An endless and tedious conversation took place between them, a conversation that lasted well over three hours.

It all went as follows, from beginning to end:

Johan Nagel was sitting in the hotel café with a newspaper in his hand when Miniman came in. There were also some other people sitting around the tables, including a stout peasant woman with a black-and-red knitted kerchief over her shoulders. They all seemed to know Miniman; he bowed politely right and left as he came in, but was received with loud yells and laughter. The peasant woman even got up and wanted to dance with him.

“Not today, not today,” he says to the woman evasively, and with that he walks straight up to the hotel keeper and addresses him, cap in hand: “I’ve brought the coal up to the kitchen; I suppose that will be all for today?”

“Yes,” the hotel keeper replies, “what else should there be?”

“No,” Miniman says, quietly withdrawing.

He was exceptionally ugly. He had calm blue eyes, but horrible protruding front teeth and an extremely twisted gait because of a physical defect. His hair was quite gray; his beard on the other hand was darker, but so sparse that his skin showed through everywhere. The man had once been a sailor, but was now living with a relative who had a small coal business by the quayside. He hardly ever raised his eyes from the floor when he spoke to somebody.

They called to him from one of the tables; a gentleman in a gray summer suit eagerly beckoned to him, showing him a bottle of beer.

“Come and have a glass of mother’s milk. Besides, I’d like to see what you look like without a beard,” he says.

Respectfully, cap still in hand and with bent back, Miniman approaches the table. As he passed Nagel he gave him a special bow and moved his lips slightly. He takes his stand before the gentleman in gray and whispers, “Not so loud, Your Honor, I beg you. There are strangers present, as you can see.”

“But good heavens,” the deputy judge says, “I only wanted to offer you a glass of beer. And here you come and scold me for talking too loud.”

“No, you misunderstand me, and I beg your pardon. But since there are strangers present, I’d rather not start with those old tricks again. And I can’t drink beer, not now.”

“Oh, you can’t? So you can’t drink beer?”

“No, but thank you, not now.”

“So, you thank me, but not now? When will you thank me then? Ha-ha-ha, a fine parson’s son you are! Just look at the way you express yourself.”

“Oh, you misunderstand me; well, never mind.”

“There, there, no nonsense. What’s the matter with you?”

The deputy pulls Miniman onto a chair, and Miniman sits there for a moment but gets up again.

“No, leave me alone,” he says, “I can’t stand drink; nowadays I can stand it even less than I used to, God knows why. I get drunk before I know it and become all confused.”

The deputy rises, looks intently at Miniman, pushes a glass into his hand and says, “Drink.”

Pause. Miniman looks up, brushes his hair off his forehead and remains silent.

“All right, I’ll do as you wish, but just a few drops,” he says. “Only a little, to have the honor of drinking a toast with you!”

“Drink up!” shouts the deputy, having to turn away so as not to burst out laughing.

“No, not quite, not quite. Why should I drink up when I dislike it? Well, don’t take offense and knit your brows on that account; anyway, since you insist, I’ll do it this once. I just hope it won’t go to my head. It’s ridiculous, but I can take so little. Skoal!”

“To the last drop!” the deputy shouts again, “bottoms up! There now, that’s right. And now we’ll sit down and make some faces. First, you can grind your teeth a little, and then I’ll snip off your beard and make you ten years younger. But first you’ll grind your teeth, all right?”

“No, I won’t, not in front of these people I don’t know. You mustn’t insist, I really won’t do it,” Miniman answers, wanting to leave. “Besides, I don’t have time,” he says.

“Don’t have time? That’s too bad. Ha-ha, that’s really too bad. Not even time?”

“No, not right now.”

“Now listen: suppose I told you I’ve long been thinking of getting you a new coat, to replace the one you’re wearing right now—. Anyway, let me see; sure, it’s completely rotten, look! It comes unstuck at the touch of a finger.” And the deputy finds a little hole into which he bores his finger. “It gives way, it doesn’t hold the least bit—look at this, hey, look!”

“Leave me alone! For God’s sake, what have I ever done to you? And leave my coat alone, too!”

“But good Lord, I promise to get you another coat tomorrow, I promise it in the presence of—let me see: one, two, four, seven—yes, seven people. What’s the matter with you this evening? You put on airs and act rude, wanting to trample us all underfoot. Oh yes, you do. Just because I touched your coat.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to be rude. You know I would do you any favor whatsoever, but ...”

“All right, then do me the favor of sitting down.”

Miniman brushes his gray hair from his forehead and sits down.

“Good. And now, do me the favor of grinding your teeth a little.”

“No, that I won’t do.”

“You won’t, eh? Yes or no?”

“Good God, what harm did I ever do you? Can’t you just leave me alone? Why should I, of all people, be the laughingstock of everybody? That stranger over there is looking in our direction, I see; he’s keeping an eye on us and I dare say he’s laughing, too. Things never change; the very first day you came here as a deputy judge, Dr. Stenersen jumped on me and taught you right away to make fun of me, and now you’re teaching the gentleman over there to do the same. They learn it by turn, one after the other.”

“There, there now, yes or no?”

“No, I tell you!” Miniman screams, jumping up from his chair. But as if afraid he’d been too overbearing,
¹
he sits down again and adds, “I
can’t
even grind my teeth, you must believe me.”

“You
can’t?
Ha-ha, surely you can. You’re a whiz at grinding your teeth.”

“Upon my word, I can’t!”

“Ha-ha-ha! You’ve done it before, after all.”

“Yes, but then I was drunk. I don’t remember, my head was spinning. I was sick for two days afterward.”

“Right,” says the deputy. “You were drunk at the time, I admit that. Anyway, why are you blabbering about this in front of all these people? You wouldn’t catch me doing anything like that.”
²

At this point the hotel keeper left the café. Miniman is silent; the deputy looks at him and says, “Well, what do you say? Don’t forget that coat.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” Miniman replies. “But I won‘t, and I can’t, drink any more, now you know.”

“You will and you can, both! Did you hear what I said? You will and you can, I said. Even if I have to pour it down your throat....” At these words the deputy rises with Miniman’s glass in his hand. “Now, open your mouth!”

“No, by God in heaven, I won’t drink any more beer,” cries Miniman, pale with emotion. “No power on earth can make me do it! I’m sorry, but it makes me sick, you have no idea what it’s like. Don’t hurt me so, I sincerely beg you. I’d rather—rather grind my teeth a little without any beer.”

“Well, that’s another matter; damn it, yes, that’s quite another matter, if you’ll do it without beer.”

“Yes, I’d rather do it without the beer.”

At last Miniman grinds his terrible teeth, amid the loud laughter of the bystanders. Nagel is ostensibly still reading his paper, sitting quietly in his place by the window.

“Louder, louder!” cries the deputy. “Grind them more loudly, or we can’t hear you.”

Miniman sits stiffly upright, holding on to his chair with both hands as if afraid of falling off, grinding his teeth to make his head quiver. Everybody laughs, the peasant woman laughs so hard that she has to wipe her eyes; not knowing what to do for laughter, she witlessly spits twice on the floor in sheer delight.

“God save me from the likes of you!” she squeals, quite overcome. “Oh, that deputy!”
³

“There! I can’t grind them any louder,” Miniman says, “I really can’t, as God is my witness. Believe me, I can’t anymore.”

“All right, take a rest for a moment and then start over. But you have to grind your teeth. Then we’ll snip off your beard. But taste your beer, will you; yes, you must. Here, it’s ready for you.”

Miniman shakes his head in silence. The deputy takes out his wallet and puts a twenty-five øre piece on the table. Then he says, “By the way, you usually do it for ten, but I won’t begrudge you twenty-five. I’m raising your wages. There!”

“Please, don’t torture me anymore, I won’t do it.”

“You won’t do it? You refuse?”

“God in heaven, won’t you ever stop and leave me alone! I’m not going to humor you anymore for the sake of that coat, I’m a human being, after all. What do you want with me?”

“Now let me tell you something. As you can see, I’m flicking this bit of cigar ash into your glass, right? And I take this ordinary match here and that trifle of a match there and drop them into the same glass as you watch. There! And now I guarantee you that you will drink your glass to the dregs, despite everything. Yes, you will.”

Miniman jumped up. Visibly trembling, his gray hair again falling over his eyes, he looked the deputy squarely in the face. This went on for several seconds.

“No, that’s too much, that’s too much!” the peasant woman cries out. “Don’t do it! Ha-ha-ha! Lord help me, the way you go on!”

“So you won’t? You refuse?” asks the deputy. He, too, gets up and remains standing.

Miniman made an effort to speak, but couldn’t utter a word. Everybody was looking at him.

Then, suddenly, Nagel rises from his table by the window, puts his paper down and walks across the room. He takes his time and makes no noise, and yet he attracts everybody’s attention. Stopping beside Miniman, he puts his hand on his shoulder and says in a loud, clear voice, “If you pick up your glass and throw it in the face of that cub over there, I’ll give you ten kroner in cash and save you from all possible consequences.” He pointed straight at the deputy’s face and repeated: “I mean that cub there.”

Suddenly there was dead silence. Terror-stricken, Miniman looked from one to the other and said, “But—oh, but—?” He got no further, but repeated his words in a trembling voice again and again, as if asking a question. Nobody else said anything. Bewildered, the deputy backed off a step and found his chair; he had turned white as a sheet and could say nothing, like the rest. He was all agape.

“I repeat,” Nagel went on, in a loud, deliberate voice, “that I’ll give you ten kroner if you throw your glass into that cub’s face. I’m holding the money right here, in my hand. You shouldn’t worry about the consequences.” And, in fact, Nagel did hold out a ten-krone bill so Miniman could see it.

But Miniman behaved very strangely. He immediately slipped away to a corner of the café, running with short, crooked steps, and sat down there without answering. His head bowed, he looked furtively in every direction, repeatedly pulling up his knees as if terrified.

Then the door opened and the hotel keeper came back in. He began puttering with his own things by the counter and paid no attention to what was going on around him. Only when the deputy jumped up and raised both his arms with a furious, nearly voiceless yell in front of Nagel, did he notice and ask, “What on earth—?”

But nobody answered. The deputy gave a couple of wild blows, but each time ran up against Nagel’s fists. He was getting nowhere. Goaded on by his bad luck, he foolishly beat the air as if trying to fight off the world, until he finally lurched sideways toward the tables, tumbled against a stool and fell to his knees. He breathed heavily, and his whole figure was altered beyond recognition by rage; what’s more, he had numbed his arms knocking against that pair of sharp fists shooting up wherever he gave a blow. At this point pandemonium broke loose in the café; the peasant woman and her party fled toward the exits, while the rest yelled in chorus and tried to intervene. Finally the deputy gets on his legs again and walks up to Nagel, stops and screams, his hands extended straight in front of him—screams in ludicrous despair at not finding the right words, “You confounded—you damn dude—oh, go to hell!”

Nagel looked at him and smiled, walked over to the table, picked up the deputy’s hat and handed it to him with a bow. The deputy snatched his hat and, in his rage, was about to fling it back, but thought better of it and slammed it on his head. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. There were two big dents in his hat as he left, giving him a comical appearance.

Now the hotel keeper pushed forward and demanded an explanation. Turning to Nagel, he grabbed his arm and said, “What’s going on here? What’s the meaning of all this?”

“Oh, please, don’t grab me by the arm,” Nagel answered, “I won’t run away. Besides, nothing is going on here; I insulted the man who just left and he tried to defend himself. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Everything is all right.”