Wolf Among Wolves (57 page)

Ma Krupass sat lost in thought. One could see that, despite her self-knowledge and her fear of imprisonment, even now she regretted the loss of the studs. Petra could almost have laughed at the foolish old woman. But then she thought of Wolfgang Pagel, and although at first she wanted to say: “But that’s different from studs!”—she yet thought: Perhaps I’m only imagining that it’s different. What Wolf is to me, the studs are to Ma Krupass.

And then she remembered again that it was now over with Wolf. She thought of the little house in the rag-and-bone yard; she could already visualize it (scarlet-runners on the summerhouse), and knew for certain now that there would be no more Madame Po and sweltering back room, no more screaming of tin being cut in the factory below, no more staying in bed through lack of clothes, no more cadging for a few rolls. No more passive waiting. Instead of that, cleanliness and order, a day regularly divided up by work, meals and
rest … a prospect so overwhelming that she almost wept for happiness. She gulped and gulped again, but then pulled herself together. Going to the old woman, she took her hand and said: “Yes, I’ll do it, Ma Krupass, and gladly. I’m very grateful to you.”

VII

For a long time, for an immeasurably long time, almost an hour, the Rittmeister and young Pagel had played together. They had communicated with each other in whispers. Pagel had listened to the Rittmeister’s suggestions and had followed them or not, according to how he judged the state of play. Young Pagel, cool and calculating in his gambling, had not been a bad teacher. Herr von Prackwitz realized, when Pagel discussed the chances in a whisper, how foolishly he had been playing before. Now he could see that the sharp = nosed gentleman with the monocle, even though he seemed self-controlled, played like a fool. The Rittmeister was now able to make more sensible suggestions which, though noted, were often not accepted by the ex-officer cadet. And at first a slightly irritated, and then later a really bitter, attitude gradually became stronger in the Rittmeister. Young Pagel, on the whole, despite a few triumphs, was on the down-grade, however. If he himself was not aware of it, the Rittmeister noticed how he continually had to delve into his pocket for fresh counters. The young fellow had every cause to follow the advice of one who was an older man and his former superior. Time and again it had been on the tip of the Rittmeister’s tongue to say: “Do for once what I tell you! There, you’ve lost again!” And if he continued to swallow those words (though with great difficulty), it was not because young Pagel, after all, might play as he liked with his own money. There was no doubt about this: the Rittmeister himself was merely a tolerated spectator with three or four counters in his pocket and hardly any cash in reserve. So it was not this which kept him as the superior from calling the second lieutenant to order. It was rather the vague fear that Pagel might stop playing on the slightest excuse and want to go home. He trembled at the thought. It was the worst thing he could imagine—not to be able to go on sitting here, not to be able to continue watching the ball, not to hear the voice of the croupier which would at last, perhaps next time, announce the great coup. It was this fear alone, vague though it was, which restrained the explosive Rittmeister. Yet it was doubtful how long even this would be effective in view of his ever-increasing embitterment. A conflict between the two men was inevitable. And it came, of course, in a manner quite different from that expected.

The ball had been thrown and was rattling, the wheel was whirring round, the croupier had called. People hurried to withdraw their chips and replace
them. Time passed quickly, accelerated, always busy. That moment when the ball seemed to balance on the edge of a number, undecided whether to fall into it or continue—that moment, when time seemed to be suspended with one’s breath and heartbeat, that one moment always seemed to be over too quickly.

Some games demand the complete attention of their devotees. The eye that wanders, if only for a moment, has already lost control. The context is lost—why are a heap of chips here, and player’s eyes glazed over there. The game is a merciless god. Only he who completely surrenders himself to the game is granted all the ecstasies of heaven, all the doubts of hell. The halfhearted, the lukewarm, are here—as everywhere—cast aside.

It was already difficult enough for Pagel to play calmly with the Rittmeister constantly chattering. But when, right in front of his eyes intent on the ball, there appeared a highly scented woman’s hand with several glittering rings, a hand holding a few counters, while a voice pleaded coaxingly: “There, you see, darling, I told you so. Now bet for me, too, as you promised”—then young Pagel’s patience gave way. Turning round savagely, he stared at the graciously smiling Valuta Vamp and snapped: “Go to the devil!” He was almost choking with rage.

The way the Rittmeister saw this incident was as follows: a young, very charming-looking lady had wanted to make her stake, perhaps somewhat awkwardly, over Pagel’s shoulder, and Pagel had thereupon shouted at her in the most discourteous, most insulting manner. Discourtesy toward women was hateful to the Rittmeister. Tapping Pagel on the shoulder, he said very sharply: “Herr Pagel, you, an officer! Apologize to the lady at once.”

The croupier regarded this encounter not without apprehension. He knew the lady very well and was unaware of anything ladylike about her; an illegal gambling club of this kind, however, could not possibly allow a noisy quarrel. There were the neighbors in those once very smart west-end apartment blocks. There were the owners of these properties tucked up in their matrimonial beds. Only the emergencies of the inflation had led them to hire out their respectable premises for such dubious purposes. The porter in the lodge below had been paid, but only just. A loud argument could make all of these people curious, suspicious and anxious. Therefore he threw a warning glance to his two assistants. And the assistants hurried to the battlefield. One whispered to the white-nosed Valuta Vamp: “Don’t make us any trouble, Walli,” while he said aloud: “Excuse me, madam, would you like a chair?” The other forced his way up to Pagel who, red with rage, had jumped to his feet; gently but firmly he removed the Rittmeister’s hand from the young fellow’s shoulder, for he knew that nothing makes an angry man more angry than to be gripped. At the same
time he was considering, in case the young chap in the shabby tunic caused further trouble, whether a strong hook to the jaw would be out of place or not in this elegant assembly.

The croupier himself would have liked to act as mediator, but could not for the moment leave his place. In a low voice he requested the players to take back their stakes until the little difference of opinion between the gentlemen over there was settled. He was wondering which of the two disputants he would have to throw out. For one of them had to leave, that much was clear.

The table in front of him was now almost bare, and he was just getting ready to carry out his resolve, which was to request young Pagel to leave (quietly or by force, it didn’t matter which), when the tense situation settled itself in a way which, unfortunately, did not fully correspond to the croupier’s intentions.

The Valuta Vamp, or Walli rather, who within the last hour had been able to buy from a late-comer a few doses of snow which she had consumed at a mad speed, insisted, for no reason at all, in the incalculable way of all drug addicts, on regarding the angry Pagel this time as merely comic. Terribly comic, divinely comic, devastatingly comic! She felt like bursting with laughter at his expression, she invited the others to laugh with her, she pointed her finger at him. “He’s such a sweet kid when he’s angry. I must give you a kiss, darling.” And her hilarity was only increased when Pagel, mad with rage, called her a bloody whore before the whole assembly. Almost sobbing with hysterical laughter, she cried: “Not for you, dearie, not for you.
You
don’t need to pay me anything!”

“I told you that I’d hit you one on the jaw,” shouted Pagel and hit out. She screamed.

The tone of their dialogue, the way they abused each other, had long convinced the croupier’s assistant that a hook to the jaw would be just as much in place here as in his home district in Wedding. He too hit out—and unfortunately struck Walli as she was staggering backwards. The woman collapsed without another sound.

Both the croupier and von Studmann, who had been leaning against the wall, came too late. The Valuta Vamp lay on the floor unconscious. The assistant was trying to explain how it had all happened. Von Prackwitz stood there darkly, biting his lip with anger.

Rather dictatorially Studmann asked: “Well, are we going at last, now?”

Pagel, breathing quickly, was very white, and was obviously not listening to the Rittmeister, now making sharp comments on his ungentlemanly behavior.

The croupier saw the evening threatened. Many guests were preparing to go, and precisely the more distinguished ones, the guests of substance, those who held the opinion that one may overstep the bounds of the law, but
only if all outward forms are preserved. In a few curt words he issued orders to his men: the unconscious girl was taken away into a dark adjoining room, the wheel again buzzed round, the ball rattled and jumped. In the lamplight the green cloth shone magical, soft, tempting. “There are still two stakes lying here on the table,” the croupier called out. “Make your game. Two gentlemen have forgotten their stakes.”

Many turned back.

“Well, let’s go then,” Studmann cried impatiently. “I really don’t understand you …” The Rittmeister looked at him sharply and angrily, but he followed when Pagel went out of the door without a word.

In the passage sat the sorrowful sergeant major at his little table. Fumbling in his pocket the Rittmeister fished out the two or three counters he had left, threw them on to the table and called in a tone that was meant to sound carefree: “There! For you, comrade. It’s all I possess.”

The sorrowful sergeant major slowly raised his round eyes toward the Rittmeister, shook his head and laid down three notes for the three counters.

Herr von Studmann had opened the door leading to the dark staircase and was peering down. “You must wait a moment,” said the sergeant major. “He’ll make a light for you at once. He’s just gone down with a couple of gentlemen.”

Pagel stood pale and worn-out in front of the greenish wardrobe mirror. He could distinctly hear the croupier calling: “Seventeen—red—odd.”

Of course. Red. His color! Soon he would be going down the stairs and into the country with the Rittmeister, while inside they were playing his color. And for him there would be no more playing.

The Rittmeister, in a tone intended to indicate that the past was forgiven and forgotten, but which still sounded very angry, said: “Pagel, you’ve also got some counters to change. It’s a pity to throw them away.”

Pagel dived into his pocket. Why doesn’t the fellow come to let us out? he thought. Naturally they want us to go on playing. He was trying to count the chips in his pocket. If there were seven or thirteen he would play one last time. He hadn’t played properly at all yet, today.

There must be more than thirteen, he couldn’t make out the number. Taking them out of his pocket he encountered the Rittmeister’s glance, which seemed to motion him toward the door.

There were neither seven nor thirteen. I must go home after all, he thought sadly. But he no longer had a home! The unsuspecting Studmann now stepped into the staircase to call the man with the light. Pagel looked at the counters in his hand. There were seventeen.
Seventeen! His number!
At that moment an indescribable feeling of happiness was his. The great chance had come!

He walked up to the Rittmeister and said in an undertone, with a glance through the open door at the stairs: “I’m not leaving yet. I’m going on playing.”

The Rittmeister said nothing, but his eye flickered once—as if something had flown into it.

Wolfgang stepped up to the change-table, drew out a packet of bank notes, the second. “Chips for the lot!” While the man counted and recounted, he turned to the Rittmeister and cried, almost exultingly: “Tonight I shall win a fortune. I know it.”

The Rittmeister moved his head slightly, as if he too knew it, as if it was indeed a natural thing.

“And you?” asked Pagel.

“I’ve no more money with me.” It sounded strangely guilty, and while saying it the Rittmeister glanced almost with fear at the open door.

“I can lend you some. Play on your own account.” Pagel held out a packet of money.

“No, no,” said the Rittmeister. “It’s too much. I don’t want so much.”

(Neither remembered at that moment the scene in Lutter and Wegner’s, when young Pagel had first offered him money and had been rebuked with the most scornful indignation.)

“If you really want to win,” explained Pagel, “you must have sufficient capital. I know!”

Again the Rittmeister nodded. Slowly he reached for the packet.

When von Studmann returned, the anteroom was empty. “Where are the gentlemen?”

The sergeant major made a movement with his head in the direction of the roulette room.

Von Studmann stamped his foot and went toward it. Then he turned back. I wouldn’t dream of it, he thought angrily; I’m not his governess, however much he needs one.

A door opened. The girl with whom Pagel had had the quarrel stepped out.

“Can you take me downstairs?” she asked tonelessly, speaking as if she were not quite conscious. “I feel bad, I would like some fresh air.”

Von Studmann, the eternal nursery governess, offered her his arm. “Certainly. I wanted to go anyway.” The sergeant major took a silver-gray wrap from the wardrobe and draped it over the woman’s naked shoulders.

The two descended the stairs without saying a word, the girl leaning heavily on Studmann’s arm.

VIII

The spotter, the same one who had shown them up, had been standing downstairs, taking good care not to hear the calls for him. Every player who wanted to go had to be given the opportunity of changing his mind. But when von Studmann appeared in the passage with the girl on his arm, he was fully capable of dealing with the situation. The Valuta Vamp, or Walli, he knew, and also that gold and love often play ring-around-the-rosy with each other.