Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (39 page)

The carriage continued uphill. If all were well, he should have
turned onto the main street a long time ago. What did they intend to do
with him? Where was the carriage taking him? Did they intend to continue this farce? And what would they do? What would it be? Perhaps an
explanation? A happy reunion at another place? A reward for passing the
test creditably? Initiation into the secret society? Undisturbed possession
of the magnificent nun-? The windows of the carriage were shut and
Fridolin tried to look out-but they were opaque. He tried to open the
windows, first the one on the right, then the one on the left-but it was
impossible. The glass partition between him and the coachman's box was
just as opaque, and just as tightly closed, as the windows. He knocked on
the glass, he called out, he shouted, but the carriage went on. He tried to
open both doors, first the one on the left, then the one on the right, but
neither would budge, and his renewed shouting was drowned out by the rattling of the wheels and the whistling of the wind. The carriage began
to jostle, going downhill, faster and faster. Fridolin, gripped with anxiety
and alarm, was just about to smash one of the opaque windows when the
carriage suddenly halted. Both doors opened simultaneously as if
through some mechanism, as though Fridolin was sarcastically being
given the choice between the right and the left door. He jumped out of
the carriage; the doors closed with a bang-and, with the coachman paying not the slightest attention to Fridolin, the carriage drove away across
an open field into the night.

Clouds raced across an overcast sky, the wind rustled, and Fridolin
stood in the snow which was casting a faint light all round. As he was
standing alone with an open fur coat over a monk's robe, the pilgrim hat
on his head, an uncanny feeling overcame him. The main street was
some distance away, and a row of dimly flickering lamps indicated the
direction of the city. But Fridolin ran straight across the sloping, snowcovered field, seeking a shortcut to get to others as quickly as possible.
With feet soaked, he came to a narrow, barely lit side street, and at first
walked between high fences groaning in the wind. Turning at the next
corner, he stumbled into a somewhat broader street where scattered small
houses alternated with empty construction sites. Somewhere a clock
tower struck three in the morning. Someone in a short jacket, hands in
trouser pockets, head down between his shoulders and hat pulled over his
forehead, was coming toward Fridolin. Fridolin prepared himself for an
attack, but suddenly the vagrant unexpectedly turned around and ran
away. What does this mean? Fridolin asked himself. Then he realized
that he must present a rather uncanny appearance, took his pilgrim's hat
from his head, and buttoned up the coat under which the monk's habit
was flapping down to his ankles. Again he turned a corner and came into
a suburban main street. A man in peasant dress walked past him and
greeted him as one greets a priest. The light of a street lantern fell upon
the street sign fastened to a corner house. Liebhartstal-so he wasn't
very far from the house he had left less than an hour ago. For a second he
was tempted to go back and wait in the vicinity to see what would happen. But he gave up the idea immediately, realizing that he would only
expose himself to grave danger without getting any closer to solving the mystery. The image of the events that were probably taking place in the
villa at this moment filled him with anger, despair, shame, and fear. This
feeling was so unbearable that Fridolin almost regretted that the vagrant
he had met had not attacked him; yes, he almost regretted that he wasn't
lying against a fence in the deserted street with a knife gash between his
ribs. That at least might have given some kind of meaning to this senseless night with its absurd, unfinished adventures. To return home in his
present state seemed to him positively ridiculous. On the other hand,
nothing was lost yet. Tomorrow was another day. He vowed that he
would not rest before he had found the beautiful woman whose dazzling
nakedness had so intoxicated him. Only now did he think of Albertinewith the feeling that he would first have to win her too, as though she
could not, must not, be his again before he had betrayed her with all the
other women of this night, with the naked woman, with Pierrette, with
Marianne, and with the hooker on the narrow street. And shouldn't he
also try to find the insolent student who had bumped into him deliberately, so that he could challenge him to a duel with sabers, or better yet,
with pistols? What did someone else's life, what did his own, matter to
him? Should one always stake one's life only out of a sense of duty and
self-sacrifice, never out of a whim or a passion, or simply to match oneself against fate?

And once again the thought came to him that even now his body
might be carrying the germ of a fatal disease. Wouldn't it be absurd to die
because a child with diphtheria had coughed in his face? Maybe he was
already ill. Didn't he have a fever? Perhaps at this very moment he was
lying in bed at home-and everything that he thought he had experienced
tonight was merely delirium?

Fridolin opened his eyes as wide as possible, passed his hand over
his forehead and his cheeks, and felt his pulse. Hardly any faster. Everything was all right. He was completely awake.

He continued down the street toward the city. A couple of market
wagons came up behind him, rumbled past, and here and there he met
shabbily dressed people whose day was just beginning. Behind the window of a cafe, on a table over which a gas flame flickered, sat a fat man
with a scarf around his neck, sleeping with his head in his hands. The houses were still enveloped in darkness; a few windows here and there
were illuminated. Fridolin thought he could feel that people were gradually awakening. It seemed to him that he could see them stretch in their
beds and arm themselves for their miserable and sour day. A new day
faced him too, but for him it was not miserable and gloomy. And with a
strange beating of his heart he became happily aware that in only a few
hours he would be walking between the beds of his patients in his white
hospital coat. At the next corner stood a one-horse carriage, the coachman asleep on the box. Fridolin woke him up, gave him his address, and
climbed in.

V

It was four o'clock in the morning when Fridolin walked up the stairs to
his flat. Before he did anything else he went into his consulting room and
carefully locked the costume in an armoire. As he wished to avoid waking Albertine, he took off his shoes and clothes before going into the bedroom. He carefully turned on the dim light on the little table beside his
bed. Albertine was lying there quietly, her arms folded around her neck;
her lips were half open, and painful shadows surrounded them. It was a
face that Fridolin did not know. He bent down to her forehead, which immediately became lined with furrows, as though he had touched it, and
her features distorted themselves strangely. Suddenly, still asleep, she
laughed so shrilly that Fridolin became frightened. Instinctively he called
her name. She laughed again, as though in answer, in a strange, almost
uncanny way. Fridolin called her once more in a louder voice. At that she
opened her eyes wide, slowly and with difficulty, and stared at him as
though she didn't recognize him.

"Albertine!" he called for the third time. Only then did she seem to
come to her senses. An expression of repulsion and fear, even of terror,
came into her eyes. With her mouth still open, she raised her arms, senselessly and as if in despair.

"What's wrong?" asked Fridolin with bated breath. And since she
continued to stare at him as if horrified, he added, in an attempt to calm
her. "It's me, Albertine." She breathed deeply, tried to smile, let her arms fall on the bed covers, and as from a distance asked, "Is it morning already?"

"Not yet, but soon," replied Fridolin. "It's after four. I've just come
home." She was silent. He continued, "The councillor is dead. He was already dying when I came-and naturally I couldn't-leave the family
alone right away."

She nodded but seemed hardly to have heard or understood him.
She stared into space right through him, and he felt-though he knew at
the same moment that the idea was ridiculous-that she knew everything
that had happened to him that night. He bent over her and touched her
forehead. She shuddered slightly.

"What's the matter?" he asked again.

She only shook her head slowly. He stroked her hair. "Albertine,
what's the matter?"

"I've been dreaming," she said distantly.

"What did you dream?" he asked mildly.

"Oh, so much. I can't quite remember."

"Maybe if you try?"

"Everything was so confused-and I'm so tired. You must be tired,
too."

"Not in the least, Albertine. I won't be able to sleep very much. You
know when I come home so late-the best thing would be for me just to
go immediately to my desk-it's in just such morning hours that-" He
interrupted himself. "But wouldn't it be better if you told me your
dream?" He smiled a little unnaturally.

She answered: "You should really lie down and get a little rest."

He hesitated a while, then did as she suggested and stretched himself out at her side. But he was careful not to touch her. A sword between
us, he thought, remembering a half-joking remark of that sort that he had
once made in similar circumstances. They both lay there silently, with
open eyes, and each of them felt the nearness and the distance of the
other. After a while he raised his head on his arm and looked at her for a
long time, as though he could see much more than just the outline of her
face.

"Your dream!" he suddenly said again, and it was as though she had expected this demand. She held out her hand to him; he took it and, as
was his custom, held her slender fingers in his hand as if playing a game,
more absentmindedly than tenderly. She began:

"Do you remember the room in the small villa on Lake Worther
where I lived with my parents the summer that we got engaged?"

He nodded.

"That's where the dream began. I was entering this room-I don't
know where I was coming from-like an actress stepping onto the stage.
I only knew that my parents had gone on a trip and had left me alone.
That puzzled me, for our wedding was supposed to be the next day. But
my wedding dress hadn't arrived yet. Or was I mistaken? I opened the
wardrobe to look, and instead of the wedding dress a great many other
clothes were hanging there--costumes, actually, like in an opera, splendid, oriental. Which of these should I wear for the wedding? I wondered.
At that point the wardrobe suddenly fell shut or disappeared, I can't remember exactly. The room was very bright, but outside the window it
was pitch black.... All of a sudden you were there-galley slaves had
rowed you here-I saw them disappear into the darkness. You were
dressed in splendid clothes, in gold and silver, with a dagger in a silver
sheath at your side, and you lifted me down out of the window. I too was
now gorgeously dressed, like a princess. We both stood outdoors in the
twilight, and a fine grey mist reached up to our ankles. It was our familiar
countryside: the lake was there, in front of us were the mountains, and I
even saw the country houses that looked like the tiny houses out of a toy
box. But we two, you and I, we floated, no, we flew, above the mist and I
thought: So this is our honeymoon. Soon we were no longer flying but
walking on a forest path, the one to the Elisabeth Heights, and suddenly
we found ourselves very high up on the mountain in a clearing which
was surrounded on three sides by forest, while behind us was a steep
towering cliff. Above us was a starry sky more blue and more expansive
than ever it is in reality, and that was the cover of our bridal chamber.
You took me in your arms and loved me very much."

"I hope you loved me back," remarked Fridolin, with an invisible,
malicious smile.

"I think even more than you loved me," Albertine answered seri ously. "But how can I explain to you-despite the intimacy of our embrace, our love was very melancholy, as though with a premonition of future sorrow. The meadow was light and covered with flowers, the forest
around glistened with dew, and over the rocky wall sunbeams quivered.
And now the two of us had to return to the world and to others; in fact, it
was high time we left. But then something awful happened. Our clothes
had disappeared. I was seized with unspeakable terror and a burning
shame that almost consumed me, and at the same time with a rage
against you, as though you alone were to blame for the misfortune-and
all of that, the horror, the shame, and the rage, too, was more vehement
than anything I have ever felt while awake. But you, conscious of your
guilt, rushed away naked as you were in order to go down and get us
clothes. And when you had disappeared, I became almost gay. I neither
felt sorry for you nor was I worried about you-I was just delighted to be
alone, and ran happily about the meadow and sang. It was the melody of
a dance that we heard at the carnival ball. My voice was beautiful, and I
wished that everyone down in the city could hear me. I didn't see this
city, but I knew it was there. It was far below and was ringed by a high
wall-a really fantastical city that I can't describe. It was neither an oriental city nor an old German one, exactly-rather it was first one and
then the other. In any case, it was a city buried long ago. But suddenly I
was lying on the meadow, stretched out in the sunshine-far more beautiful than I really am, and while I was lying there a young man dressed in
a light, fashionable suit came out of the forest. He looked, I now realize,
somewhat like that Dane I told you about yesterday. He went his way,
greeted me very politely as he walked by, but otherwise paid no attention
to me. He went straight to the cliff and looked at it attentively, as though
he were considering how to get over it. At the same time, however, I also
saw you. You were rushing from house to house and store to store in the
sunken city, sometimes beneath rows of trees, sometimes through a kind
of Turkish bazaar, and you bought me the most beautiful things you
could find: clothes, linens, shoes, jewelry-and then you put them all in
a small handbag of yellow leather, which somehow held everything. But
all the time you were being pursued by a mob of people that I couldn't
see but whose muffled, threatening shouts I could hear. And now the other man, the Dane who had been standing in front of the cliff, appeared
again. He walked toward me again from the forest-and I knew that he
had circled the whole planet during this time. He looked different from
the way he did before, but he was the same nevertheless. Like the first
time, he stood once more in front of the cliff, then disappeared again,
then came out of the woods again, disappeared and reappeared. That happened two or three or a hundred times. He was always the same man and
yet always different. Every time he walked by me he greeted me, but finally he stood still in front of me and looked at me searchingly. I laughed
more seductively than I've ever laughed in my entire life. He stretched
his arms out toward me-and now I wanted to flee, but I couldn't-and
he sank down beside me on the meadow."