The Radetzky March (46 page)

The guests walked in a circle around the empty, mirrorlike parquet floor. They circled round and round, each person a mourner behind the corpse of the one in front of him, and, at the center of the room, the invisible corpses of the heir apparent and the monarchy. Everyone was drunk. And if someone hadn’t drunk enough, his head spun anyway from the indefatigable circling.

Gradually the bands accelerated the beat, and the legs of the walkers began to march. The drummers drummed incessantly, and the heavy sticks began pelting the bass drum like lively young drumsticks. The intoxicated drummer struck a silver triangle, and Count Benkyö pranced for joy. “The bastard’s gone!” the count yelled in Hungarian. But everyone understood him as if he had spoken German. Suddenly a few guests began to hop; the bands boomed out the Funeral March faster and faster. In between, the triangle smiled, sharp, silvery, and drunk.

Eventually Chojnicki’s footmen began clearing away the instruments. The smiling musicians put up with it. The violinists stared googly-eyed after their violins, the cellists after their cellos, the horn players after their horns. A couple of string players were still sliding their bows over the deaf-and-dumb cloth of their sleeves, with their heads swaying to the strains of inaudible melodies that were simmering in their drunken minds. When the drummer’s percussions were hauled away, he kept brandishing his sticks in the air. Eventually, the bandleaders, having drunk the most, were dragged away like the instruments, each by two footmen. The guests laughed. Then the rooms grew still. No one uttered a sound. They all remained wherever they stood or sat and did not budge. After the instruments the bottles were cleared away, and any half-full glass remaining in anyone’s hand was removed.

Lieutenant Trotta left the house. On the steps leading to the entrance sat Colonel Festetics, Major Zoglauer, and Rittmaster Zschoch. The rain had stopped. Every now and then drops fell from the thinning clouds and from the eaves. Huge white sheets
had been draped over the stones for the three men to sit on. They looked as if they were sitting on their own shrouds. Large jagged splotches of rain gaped from their dark-blue backs. The wet tatters of a streamer now clung permanently around the rittmaster’s neck.

The lieutenant halted before them. They didn’t stir. Their heads stayed down. They recalled a group of military dummies in a waxworks.

“Herr Major,” said Trotta to Zoglauer, “tomorrow I’m going to apply for my discharge from the army!”

Zoglauer stood up. He held out his hand, tried to speak, but was tongue-tied. The sky was gradually turning light. A gentle breeze tore the clouds apart; the faces could be seen distinctly in the shimmering silver of the brief night, which already contained an inkling of morning. Everything was astir in the major’s haggard face. The tiny creases shifted into one another, the skin twitched, the jaw wandered to and fro, it seemed to be almost swinging, a few tiny muscles rippled around the cheekbones, the eyelids fluttered, and the cheeks quivered. Everything was astir because of the turmoil unleashed by the confused words, unspoken and unspeakable, inside the mouth. A hint of madness flickered across this face. Zoglauer squeezed Trotta’s hand for a few seconds—eternities. Festetics and Zschoch were still squatting motionless on the steps. They could smell the strong scent of elder. They heard the gentle dripping of the rain and the delicate rustling of wet trees, and now the voices of animals, which had gone silent before the storm, began timidly awakening. The music inside the house had faded. Human speech was all that drifted through the closed and curtained windows.

“Maybe you’re doing the right thing, you’re young!” Zoglauer finally said. It was the most meager, the most ludicrous fraction of what he had been thinking during those seconds. He swallowed the rest of his thoughts, a huge tangled coil.

It was long past midnight. But in the small town the people were still standing in front of their houses, talking on the wooden sidewalks. They fell silent when the lieutenant walked past.

By the time he reached the hotel, day was dawning. He opened his closet. He put two uniforms, the civilian suit, the
underclothes, and Max Demant’s sword into the trunk. He worked slowly in order to fill out the time. He clocked the length of each motion. He stretched out his movements. He feared the empty time remaining until his report.

Morning had come. Onufrij brought the dress uniform and the glossy waxed boots.

“Onufrij,” said the lieutenant, “I’m leaving the army.”

“Yessir, Herr Lieutenant,” said Onufrij. He went out, along the corridor, down the stairs, into his room, packed his belongings in a colored handkerchief, tied it to the thick end of his stick, and placed everything on the bed. He decided to return home, to Burdlaki; the harvesting would be starting soon. Now there was nothing to keep him in the Imperial and Royal Army. This was known as “deserting,” and you could be shot. But the constables reached Burdlaki only once a week, and he could hide. How many others had already done the same! Panterleimon, Ivan’s son; Grigorii, Nikolai’s son; pockmarked Pavel; red-haired Nikofor. Only one man had been caught and condemned, but that had been a long time ago.

As for Lieutenant Trotta, he submitted his discharge request during his report. He was instantly furloughed. He took leave of his fellow officers on the drilling grounds. They didn’t know what to say to him. They surrounded him in a loose circle until Zoglauer finally hit on the right wording. It was extremely simple—“Good luck!”—and everyone repeated it.

The lieutenant went to see Chojnicki.

“There’s room here any time,” said the count. “By the way, let me pick you up!”

For a second, Trotta thought of Frau von Taussig.

Chojnicki read his mind and said, “She’s with her husband. His current attack is going to last for a long time. He may stay there for good. And he’s right. I envy him. Incidentally, I’ve visited her. She’s grown old, dear friend, she’s grown old!”

The next morning at ten, Lieutenant Trotta entered the district headquarters. His father was sitting in his den. As soon as the lieutenant opened the door, he saw him. His father sat opposite the door, next to the window. Through the green blinds the sun traced thin stripes on the dark-red carpet. A fly
buzzed, a clock ticked on the wall. The room was cool, shady, and filled with summery hush, as it had been long ago during vacations. Nevertheless a vague new glow clung to all the objects here. One couldn’t tell where it came from. The district captain stood up. He himself emanated the new shimmer. The pure silver of his beard tinged the greenish light of the day and the reddish glow of the carpet. It exhaled the radiant mildness of an unknown, perhaps otherworldly day that was already dawning in the midst of Herr von Trotta’s earthly life, just as the mornings of this world begin to dawn while the stars of the night are still shining. Many years ago, when the boy had come from Hranice to spend his vacation, his father’s whiskers had been a small black cloud divided in two.

The district captain remained standing at his desk. He let his son approach, placed his pince-nez on the documents, and held out his arms. They kissed quickly.

“Sit down!” said the old man, pointing to the armchair where Carl Joseph had sat as a cadet on those Sundays, from 9 to 12
A.M.
, his cap on his knees and his radiant snow-white gloves on the cap.

“Father,” Carl Joseph began, “I’m leaving the army.”

He waited. He instantly sensed that he could explain nothing while sitting. So he got up, stood facing his father at the other end of the desk, and looked at the silvery whiskers.

“After this disaster,” said the father, “that struck us two days ago, such an act amounts to…to…desertion.”

“The whole army has deserted,” Carl Joseph replied. He left the desk. He began walking up and down the room, his left hand on his back, his right hand accompanying his words. Many years ago, that was how the old man had walked through the room.

A fly buzzed, the clock ticked. The sunny stripes on the carpet grew brighter and brighter. The sun was rising quickly; it must be very high by now. Carl Joseph broke off and glanced at the district captain. The old man sat there. Both hands dangled limply, half hidden in the stiff, round, shiny cuffs on the arms of the chair. His head sank to his chest, and his whiskers rested on his lapels. He’s young and foolish, the son thought. He’s a dear young fool with white hair. Perhaps I’m his father, the Hero of
Solferino. I’ve grown old; he has merely lived for many years. Carl Joseph walked up and down, explaining.

“The monarchy is dead, it’s dead!” he cried and halted.

“Probably,” murmured the district captain.

He rang for his assistant. “Tell Fräulein Hirschwitz that we are lunching twenty minutes later today.”

Then he said, “Come on,” stood up, and took his hat and cane. They walked to the town park.

“Fresh air can’t hurt,” said the district captain. They avoided the pavilion where the blond girl served soda water with raspberry syrup. “I’m tired!” said the district captain. “Let’s sit down!” For the first time since he had begun serving in this town, Herr von Trotta sat on an ordinary bench in the park. With his cane tracing aimless lines and figures on the ground, he said, “I went to see the Kaiser. Actually I didn’t want to tell you. The Kaiser himself took care of your problem. Not another word about it!”

Carl Joseph slipped his hand under his father’s arm. He now felt the old man’s thin arm as he had felt it years ago during an evening stroll in Vienna. This time he didn’t remove his hand. They stood up together. They went home arm in arm.

Fräulein Hirschwitz came in her Sunday gray silk frock. A narrow strip of her lofty hairdo over the forehead had taken on the color of her festive garment. Despite the short notice she had managed to whip up a Sunday dinner: noodle soup, garnished roast, and cherry dumplings.

But the district captain didn’t waste a single word on the menu. It was as if he were eating a run-of-the-mill schnitzel.

O
NE WEEK LATER
Carl Joseph left his father. They hugged in the vestibule before climbing into the fiacre. In old Herr von Trotta’s opinion, shows of affection should not take place on the railroad platform in front of chance witnesses. Their embrace was swift as usual, in the damp shade of the vestibule and the cool breath of the flagstones. Fräulein Hirschwitz was waiting on the balcony, as self-controlled as a man. Herr von Trotta had uselessly tried to explain to her that she need not wave. Apparently she considered it a duty. Although it wasn’t raining, Herr von Trotta opened his umbrella. A slight overcast struck him as reason enough. Shielded by the umbrella, he mounted the fiacre. Fräulein Hirschwitz couldn’t see him from the balcony. He didn’t say a word. It was only when his son was standing in the train that the old man raised his hand and pointed his forefinger.

“It would be good,” he said, “if you could get a medical discharge. One doesn’t leave the army without good grounds!”

“Yessir, Papá!” said the lieutenant.

Just before the departure of the train, the district captain left the platform. Carl Joseph saw him walking away, his back rigid and, under his arm, the rolled-up umbrella pointing aloft like a drawn sword. He did not look back, old Herr von Trotta.

Carl Joseph received his discharge.

“What d’you wanna do now?” the other officers asked.

“I have a position!” said Trotta, and they delved no further.

He inquired after Onufrij. The regimental office told him that the orderly Kolohin had deserted.

Lieutenant Trotta went to the hotel. He slowly changed clothes. First he unbuckled his sword, the weapon and emblem
of his honor. He had dreaded this moment. He was surprised that he felt no melancholy. A bottle of 180 Proof stood on the table, but he didn’t need a drink. Chojnicki came to pick him up. His riding crop cracked downstairs—and now he was in the room. He sat and watched. It was afternoon, the church clock struck three. All the mellow voices of summer poured in through the open window. Summer itself was calling Lieutenant Trotta. Chojnicki, in a light-gray suit with yellow stripes, his yellow crop in his hand, was an envoy of summer. The lieutenant rubbed his sleeve across the dull scabbard, drew the sword, puffed on it, wiped the steel with his handkerchief, and placed the weapon in a case. It was like preparing a corpse for its funeral. Before strapping the sword case to the trunk, he balanced it once again on his palm. Then he buried Max Demant’s sword next to it. He read the inscription scratched under the hilt. “Leave the army!” Demant had said. Now he was leaving….

The frogs were croaking, the crickets were chirping. Chojnicki’s chestnuts were neighing under the window, softly tugging on the light carriage; its axles were groaning. The lieutenant stood there, his tunic unbuttoned, the black rubber neckband between the open green lapels of the blouse. He turned around and said, “The end of a career!”

“The career has ended,” Chojnicki remarked. “The career itself has come to an end!”

Now Trotta took off his tunic, the Kaiser’s tunic. He spread the blouse flat across the table as he had learned to do at the military academy. First he pushed back the stiff collar, then folded the sleeves across it and put them into the cloth. Next he folded the lower half of the blouse. It was already a small package. The gray moiré lining was iridescent. Next came the trousers, folded twice. Now Trotta put on his gray civilian suit, but he kept the belt—the last reminder of his career (he had never understood how to deal with suspenders).

“One day my grandfather,” he said, “must have packed up his military personality in much the same way.”

“Probably,” Chojnicki confirmed.

The trunk was still open. Trotta’s military personality lay inside it, a corpse folded according to army regulations. It was
time to close the trunk. Now the lieutenant felt a sudden stab of pain. His throat tightened, and tears came to his eyes; he turned to Chojnicki, trying to speak. At the age of seven Trotta had started boarding school, at ten military school. He had been a soldier all his life. Trotta the soldier had to be buried and mourned. You didn’t lower a corpse into the ground without weeping. It was good that Chojnicki was there.