I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) Read online

  It seemed she couldn’t care less that he had been a cadet. “Yes,” she said, “nowadays all sorts become drivers. That’s the way it is… one just has to…”

  He tried to smile. She looked away, but then turned towards him again. He was above average height, well built, only his hands were rough. As she looked at his face, she noticed he had beautiful eyes.

  She blushed slightly, nodded curtly, and turned away.

  “So, no car?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she said quickly, and walked on.

  He stared after her.

  2

  HE FINISHED HIS SHIFT AT SIX. He didn’t take the car home, however, but gave it, together with the day’s takings, to the other driver, Georg Haintl, in Margaretenstrasse. Then he caught a tram to Fünfhaus, one of the outer suburbs, where he rented a room from Herr Oxenbauer, a railwayman, near the garage where he kept his cab.

  Without taking off his coat, he sat down on his bed and leant against the shabby old wall-hanging depicting a lurcher giving chase to a hare.

  The smell of petrol wafted from the adjacent room; the door to it, blocked by a washstand, was shut.

  He got up and flung the window open.

  On the far side of a backyard, which was bordered only by a low wall, rows of street lights flickered around the perimeter of a large undeveloped plot of land. In the darkness of an adjoining garden, shrubbery rustled in the wind. He pulled off his coat, threw himself on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  Shortly afterwards, the railwayman’s teenage daughter brought him his supper on a black tray with a faded golden pattern. She was about to put it on his bedside table, but he motioned with his head to the other table.

  “Why does it smell of petrol?”

  “I can’t smell anything,” she said.

  “I should have known!” he turned on her. “Every time there’s a smell, I’m told there’s no smell at all, every time the soup’s off, I’m told it’s not off at all, and so on!”

  She went out, slamming the door. He followed her with his eyes from under closely knit brows.

  She didn’t like him because she couldn’t stand Marie Fiala.

  Marie Fiala was his girlfriend.

  She arrived about ten minutes later. When she entered, he was still lying on his bed and hadn’t eaten anything.

  She kissed him and asked why he hadn’t touched his food. Wasn’t he hungry? They’d be late for the film. Unless, of course, he didn’t want to go. In which case there was no need to go out at all. She didn’t really mind. And she sat down in her coat, next to him.

  “I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” he said.

  She nodded, got up and took her coat off. In the meantime he went over to the table and ate a few mouthfuls. She joined him at the table. She wasn’t pretty, but had a good figure and marvellous blonde hair, which now shimmered in the light of the lamp.

  “Would you like me to sort out some of your things?” she asked.

  “That’d be nice,” he mumbled, picking up the tray with the uneaten food and putting it outside the door. “Have you eaten already?” he asked, when he was back in the room.

  “Yes,” she said. She had opened the wardrobe, taken out a few of his underclothes, and was holding them up to the light.

  “We can always go to the cinema later,” he said.

  “I’m easy either way,” she replied.

  She took her handbag and rummaged in it for a needle and thread. He offered her a cigarette, which she stuck between her lips before getting down to work.

  He shut the window, sat down on the bed, leant on his elbows and looked at her. The light played on her hair.

  They were planning to get married, but kept putting it off for various reasons: if the truth be known, only because they’d already known each other for too long. In the meantime she’d lost her job as a shop assistant, had then been unemployed for months at a stretch, and was now helping out here and there at a friend’s, taking in washing and doing mending and stitching jobs.

  She still hoped, of course, that he’d marry her, only she never mentioned it.

  He watched her all the while she was working, and sometimes made a comment or two. She asked him where he’d been all day, and he in turn asked her what she’d been doing.

  Every now and then, she returned the inspected items to the wardrobe and brought new ones to the table.

  Finally she put her needle away. He kissed her hands, drew her to him and kissed her on the lips. Then they stroked each other’s cheeks.

  They remained like that for some time and listened to the wind blowing round the house. And they thought how long they had already known each another. Or rather, they didn’t think, they simply felt how unhappy they were.

  At about nine they went to the cinema after all.

  Then he took her home.

  He didn’t have to go to work till midday the next day.

  At about nine he took the tram to the centre.

  In Alleegasse he didn’t see the commissionaire, who was probably on an errand. He was therefore able to walk up and down in front of Marisabelle’s house without having to engage in tedious conversation.

  It was a sunny autumn day. At the top of the street, where it climbed slightly, the wind blew dead foliage from the Theresianum Gardens. The tall windows of the palace reflected the sky above.

  Sponer stopped at a Packard that was parked in front of one of the houses.

  The chauffeur started talking to him, but almost immediately the owner of the car appeared, and they drove off.

  At about eleven Marisabelle came out of the entrance. She was again wearing the same grey suit and a fox over her shoulders.

  Sponer went up to her straight away, before she had even closed the gate, and his heart began to pound.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “for troubling you yesterday, I only wanted… I’m…”

  She looked at him while the gate swung shut.

  “I don’t have my car today,” he continued quickly. “I only wanted to apologize.”

  She didn’t reply immediately. “What for?” she asked, finally.

  “About yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to force you into anything.”

  “Really,” she said, and it seemed as though she wanted to say something else.

  “But I’d have had no other opportunity of speaking to you…”

  “You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes,” he said, and looked down.

  She leant against the gate and smiled, although he didn’t notice it. But when he looked up again, she merely said, “What about?”

  “I just wanted,” he said after a pause, “to… just to see you…”

  She took her handbag, which was under her left arm, transferred it to the other arm, fiddled for a moment with the fingers of her glove, and then looked up at Sponer again.

  “But,” he said, “you walked away so quickly… I quite understand you were annoyed that I spoke to you yesterday, I do apologize, but otherwise I wouldn’t have had any opportunity to…”

  She watched him while he spoke, and also, after he broke off, she kept looking into his face; finally, she lowered her eyes. “Look here,” she said, pulling her gloves on, “you really shouldn’t be talking to me like this here.”

  “Would you,” he said, “at least allow me to…”

  She remained silent.

  “…accompany you for a short distance?”

  “No,” she said. She stood there for a moment, drew the fox round her shoulders, and strode off.

  He took two or three steps after her, stopped and glanced around. No one appeared to have noticed them. He took another couple of steps, hesitated, and then followed Marisabelle at a distance of about thirty yards.

  She walked in the direction of the centre, without turning round once. At the next side street she stopped for a moment and then crossed the street. She reached up to her shoulder once and adjusted her fur. She ackno
wledged the greetings of a man whom she passed near Karlskirche. Her gait was carefree and relaxed, as if unconcerned whether anyone was following her or not.

  Sponer caught up with her at Karlsplatz Gardens.

  She neither appeared surprised, nor gave any indication that she suspected he had been following her. But she stopped at the edge of the gardens, where the leaves were falling. A couple of large crows pecked about on the grass. She placed one foot on the base of a low trellis that bordered the grass, opened her handbag, looked in the mirror and pulled her short veil farther down. Then she let her handbag slide down, and looked at him.

  His eyebrows were drawn tight. “You know,” he said, “what I’m going to say to you, don’t you?”

  She lifted the mirror once more and looked at her mouth. “And what do you expect me to answer?” she asked.

  He remained silent.

  She wiped some powder from her cheek. Then she snapped her handbag shut. “Well?” she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re a strange person,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked in astonishment.

  She looked at him. She nearly said, “Because you’ve such beautiful eyes,” but instead she only said, “Because to start with, you accost me, and then you just stand there and expect me to carry on talking. Is that what you always do?”

  He blushed. “No,” he said.

  Every woman wants to have an affair with a man who finds her attractive.

  “You wouldn’t even have spoken to me otherwise.”

  He hesitated for a second. “I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said.

  She looked at the lawn, where the leaves were falling. “You just can’t say a thing like that,” she said. “All right, you can say a few words to me, but you can’t suddenly say you love me. You don’t even know me.”

  “I know, of course, who you are,” he said.

  She looked hard at him.

  “You’ve been making enquiries about me?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  So, he’d been making enquiries about her, had he? She had got in his cab, he’d driven her just that once, fallen in love with her, tried to find out who she was, waited in front of her house either in his cab, when on duty, or without his cab, when off duty. He had fallen in love with her. He had beautiful eyes. She’d spoken a few words to him. He was a handsome man, a driver. That was all there was to it.

  She thrust her handbag under her arm.

  “Listen,” she said, “please go now. You’ve told me that you like me, but you don’t have to fall in love with everyone you like. Perhaps you don’t even realize yourself that we don’t have anything in common. We can’t just stand here any longer like this. Someone passing may see us. You’d better go now.”

  He didn’t finish work till about eight. Then he telephoned Marie Fiala at her neighbour’s, who had a phone; after that, they met in a small coffee house out in the suburbs.

  They had often met there before, and would sit happily for hours on end, even if sometimes they didn’t say a word to each other, but just sat there and smoked. As usual, there were a few people sitting at the tables and on the red benches along the wall, reading newspapers; waiters rested their trays on the counter for an instant; the cashier dispensed lumps of sugar; and the waiters carried on serving. The lamps were enveloped in a fine haze of cigarette smoke; the fan hummed for a bit and then went dead; everything was still again.

  Later, however, the silence was interrupted when she remarked that he wasn’t talking. They knew each other too well. She loved him, of course, and had no end of things to say, but one can’t carry on talking if the other person is unwilling to speak. For his part, he loved her after a fashion. She was there and he simply took her for granted. He’d had a few fleeting affairs on the side, but had broken them off every time, and always returned to her just because she was there. She hadn’t even noticed anything—at least that’s what he thought.

  By the time he had entered the coffee house, she still hadn’t arrived. He had sat down on one of the benches and stared in front of him. She arrived a few minutes later. He stood up and helped her out of her coat. They then chatted, and though the conversation dragged rather, they still continued talking. The waiter placed a couple of newspapers on the table. Sponer picked one up and, answering her every so often, leafed desultorily through the paper.

  After some time he realized that Marie was no longer speaking. He looked at her and saw tears in her eyes.

  She wiped them away hastily.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, and forced herself to smile.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She merely shook her head.

  “Shall we leave?” he asked after a pause.

  “No,” she said. “Unless you’d rather…”

  He asked for the bill.

  They left the premises, but instead of going back to his room, he took her home. They didn’t have far to go, just a couple of hundred yards. They’d been going out for years; now it was just a couple of minutes’ walk together.

  At the main entrance they kissed each other, and she suddenly let her head fall on his shoulder.

  He stroked her hair. Then she opened the front gate and went in.

  It was the end of a love affair that just would not end.

  The next day he was on duty again. At about eleven he drove to Alleegasse, parked the cab in the side street, next to the other cabs, and walked to the corner.

  The commissionaire was there as usual and struck up a conversation with Sponer, but since the latter answered only in monosyllables, he left him and strode over to the other drivers. At half past eleven Marisabelle appeared. She must have reckoned that Sponer would be there, for she glanced round, saw him and remained standing at the main entrance.

  He walked straight up to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said hastily, “to bother you again… but my car’s over there, otherwise I’d have waited for you farther down. I…”

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted you to… I only wanted to say a few words to you…”

  She took hold of the door handle. “I told you already that you’re not to speak to me.”

  “Y-yes,” he stuttered, “not here. But I just wanted to ask if you… seeing as my car’s here…” He fell silent and looked at her.

  Her lips trembled. “Leave me alone,” she said.

  “Please listen!” he begged.

  “No, go away,” she said, and pushed the gate open with her shoulder.

  “Please, don’t go,” he pleaded.

  “No, leave me alone!” she shouted, and stepped back.

  He took a step forwards as though to stop her, but she slipped through the gate and slammed it shut in front of him.

  For a brief moment he was about to follow her, but turned round and went over to his cab. The other drivers looked on, but pretended that nothing had happened. He got in and sat motionless for a second, then he turned the engine on, swung sharply out of the rank, and sped off.

  He had to speak to her. She had got it all wrong. It wasn’t a case of someone simply chatting up a girl in the street!

  After he’d calmed down a bit, he drove various fares till about half past three, then parked again in Alleegasse itself, rather than in the side street.

  The drivers who were now standing on the corner were different to the ones who were there in the morning.

  He waited till after six, but with no luck.

  The commissionaire kept looking across, then got up and took a couple of steps towards him to strike up a conversation, but turned back, for he now found the whole thing rather odd; and besides, Sponer was giving him strange looks. He retraced his steps to his usual spot on the street corner, which he soon vacated, however, and went into the hotel.

  He could keep a lookout from there.

  After six, by
which time it had already got dark, Marisabelle finally came out of the house. Sponer got out immediately.

  She was followed closely by a young man of about eighteen, who closed the gate. Marisabelle stopped as soon as she caught sight of Sponer. When her companion drew level with her, she said something to him quickly in a soft voice. The young man raised his head, and went straight over to Sponer.

  “Will you stop pestering my sister?” he said in a loud, clear voice, standing straight in front of him. “Is that understood? Clear out of here, or else! If I see you in front of this house once more, you’ll have only yourself to blame for the consequences!”

  He turned round, took Marisabelle by the arm, and they walked off in the other direction.

  Sponer stood rooted to the ground, then took a step forward to go after the young man and box his ears, but he restrained himself and got back into his cab.

  Barely controlling his anger, he turned on the engine, screeched round the next corner and sped up the side street. At the crossing with Favoritenstrasse he slowed down, but, fuming with rage and finding himself in a maze of back streets, with no idea where he was going, he decided to head for one of the railway stations. It was beginning to rain; he raced though the city, with its brightly lit windows and cars glistening in the wet, towards the Westbahnhof. Spray thrown up by the wind blew across his path. His cheeks were burning. He pulled off a glove and wiped his face with his bare hand.

  As he turned into the station approach, he nearly ran over a dog, which jumped back, barking at him.

  A lot of cabs were already lined up in rows at the arrivals exit. He backed into an empty space, switched off the engine and stared straight ahead.

  After a few minutes there was some movement among the parked cabs. He glanced at his watch. The Paris–Munich express had probably just pulled in. People were streaming out of the exit. The cabs edged forward, picking up fares and luggage, and disappeared in the direction of the centre. Finally it was Sponer’s turn. One of the porters standing by the taxi rank picked up two suitcases, shoved one on the seat next to Sponer and the other in the back.