“Are you still a man of your word, Erwin? I mean, will you still stand by what you once promised me?”
“Of course I will,” I answered sullenly, “for instance I would keep to an agreement, whether I was drunk or sober at the time it was settled.”
She took no notice of my irony.
“When you were going to Hamburg,” she said, “you promised me faithfully you would come to the doctor’s with me. Will you keep your word, will you come with me to see Dr Mansfeld this afternoon?”
“Stop,” I said excitedly, “you’ve got things mixed up again, Magda! I never promised you to go to the doctor’s in any event, I only promised to do so if I came back ill. But I have come back perfectly healthy.”
“Yes, so healthy,” said Magda bitterly, “that the night you came back you emptied every bottle in my larder. And since then you haven’t been sober for a minute. But I see you don’t want to keep your word.”
“I would keep my word, but in this case I haven’t given any word, not like that.”
“But Erwin,” Magda began again, but quietly now, “why do you struggle so against having yourself examined for once by the doctor. If it’s as you say and the doctor confirms it, then everything’s all right … but if not …”
“Well, what then?” I asked ironically.
“… then something will have to be done about your health. Because you’re ill, Erwin, you’re so ill, you have absolutely no idea …”
“Oh, stop it,” I said, rather bored. “You won’t get round me that way. You talk soft to me, but I can see by your eyes that you don’t mean well. I’m not going to allow my wife to order me about, however efficient she may be.”
“I don’t want to order you about at all …”
“Oh, please: first you cancel my contracts, then I’m supposed to go to the doctor’s because you imagine some nonsense, finally you’d like to take my place as boss here, eh? During my absence you’ve been making yourself quite comfortable in my chair, haven’t you?”
“All right then,” she said, and now her eyes had a really wicked gleam, and no trace of mildness was left in her voice, “you don’t want to, you don’t want to do anything but drink and cause trouble. But I’m not going to allow you to ruin me and the firm. Ruin yourself as much as you like. But then I’ll have to take other steps …”
“Take them, take them,” I said sarcastically, “and see how you get on.… By the way, would you be good enough to tell me what steps you happen to be thinking of?”
My irony made her beside herself with rage.
“Certainly I’ll tell you,” she cried furiously. “First of all I’ll get a divorce …”
“Well, well,” I laughed. “So you’re going to get a divorce. I didn’t know I’d given you grounds for divorce yet. But that can probably be rectified—and what else have you in mind?”
But she had had enough.
“You’ll see,” she said, and sat down again at her desk and her papers.
“I can wait,” I answered.
I took the brandy bottle and laid it with my uneaten sandwiches in the brief-case.
“Get this quite clear: by law everything belongs to me. You had nothing when we married. House, furniture, business: all mine!”
I laughed as I saw her furious gesture of protest.
“Yes, you enquire from a lawyer first, then you’ll think again about a divorce, and now,” I said, and took my hat from the hook, “I’ll leave my firm on loan to you. Be very industrious, dear Magda, and cancel plenty of nice contracts, and … why, what’s the matter? Are you trying to give
My sarcasm had made her frantic with rage. She had snatched up the nearest thing to hand, a blotter, and thrown it at me. I only just managed to dodge it. She looked at me, trembling, white as a sheet. I thought it best not to provoke her any more, I put the blotter back in its place, and left the office.
11
I was firmly decided not to return too soon. Let her play about there for a bit on her own; I couldn’t do a thing right, anyway. The whole business had bored me for some time past: now I had a more interesting task on hand, better suited to my present mood—my fight with Magda! Let her match herself against me, and she would find out how much the cleverer I was, and how much more I knew about the law!
I was on my way again, my brief-case under my arm, through a lovely though rather hot day at the end of spring. The Queen of Alcohol—I had neglected her for far too long—she certainly wasn’t dull. Apart from that, it was time I got my shoes back. Nobody was going to say that in my drunkenness I had scattered my clothes over half Europe. Nobody, not even Magda. It was quite clear what this capable lady intended, to whom I had been married up till now. Divorce, all very well, but divorces aren’t arranged so quickly as that; certain preparations have to be made, e.g., an examination by the doctor. Magda had been on good terms with Dr Mansfeld for years. He had always treated her whenever she was ill. I knew him less, I never had much the matter with me. She would probably talk him over to her way of thinking and then I should probably be put under restraint in a home for inebriates. That’s what my fine Magda would like: her husband shut up in a home, preferably third-class of course, while she gets her hands on his property and runs the firm. But there were other doctors, more clever and capable than good old Dr Mansfeld who was only an ordinary G.P., after all: right away within the next few days I would go to one or more of them and get certificates attesting to my perfect health. With such a target before my eyes it should be easy not to drink for a day or two before my visit to the doctor. She would soon find out whom she had to deal with, would Magda; despite fifteen years of married life, she didn’t know her husband at all! Anyway, before I’d give up my property to her, I’d sooner burn the house down over her head, that was certain.
So my thoughts ran, on my way to the village inn, and the filling-in of all the details shortened the journey for me in the most agreeable fashion. For instance, I could dwell on the idea of being shut up in some institution cell, disciplined with cold water and fed on bad food, while Magda ate veal cutlets and asparagus in our pretty dining- room. Tears of self-pity nearly came into my eyes at the thought of my hard lot and Magda’s injustice. In between times, I fed my sandwiches to the village ducks and geese, for as usual lately, I wasn’t in the least hungry, and every so often I dived behind a hedge and took a drink. I never quite lost the feeling of shame that I, Erwin Sommer, was hiding behind a hedge, pouring schnaps into myself like the lowest tramp. I could never take it for granted, I never became quite so blunted. But it just had to be, it couldn’t be otherwise.
I had finished the bottle shortly before reaching my goal. I threw the bottle into the ditch and began my last five minutes’ walk. It was striking noon from the village steeple; before me, behind me, and all around, the villagers were coming from the fields, with hoes and spades over their shoulders. Some of them greeted me, some gave me keen sidelong looks, and others nudged each other, pulled faces and laughed as they passed me by. It may only have been the usual critical village attitude to townsfolk, but I had the suspicion that it might be noticeable I had been drinking, perhaps, or that something about my clothing was disarranged. I was already acquainted with the fact that the worst thing about alcohol was the feeling of uncertainty it gave, as if something was not quite right. You can look in the mirror as often as you like, look your clothes over, try every button, but when you have had something to drink, you are never sure that you have not overlooked something, something quite obvious that has been neglected despite the closest attention. One has similar experiences in dreams, one moves quite happily in the most exclusive society, and suddenly discovers that one has forgotten to put one’s trousers on. Well then, I found it irksome to be so stared at, and besides, it occurred to me that this busy noonday hour would not be the right time for me to go looking for my pretty one. I turned aside into a field path and threw myself down on the grass under a shady bush. At once I fell asleep, into that pitch-black sleep that alcohol induces, in which one is, so to speak, extinguished, one dies a modified death. There are no more dreams, no notion of light and life—off into nothingness!
When I woke up, the sun was already low. I must have been asleep for four, perhaps five hours. As usual nowadays, my sleep had not refreshed me, I woke up old and tired, a shaky feeling in my limbs. My bones were stiff when I stood up; and I found walking very difficult. But I knew by now that all this would be better as soon as I had had my first few drinks, and I hurried to reach the inn.
I had chosen a good time: the bar-room was empty again, there was nobody behind the bar either. Stiffly, I let myself fall into a wicker chair and called for some service. First a woman’s head appeared in the crack of the
