Without looking at her he bowed and quit the field, found another place and started again. He was thinking that tonight he must be particularly cautious—he must take home more than usual; tomorrow at half-past twelve they intended to marry.
All right. She was an excellent girl; no one would ever love him so unselfishly, just as he was, and without comparing him with some tiresome ideal. So they would marry tomorrow; though why, he didn’t really know at the moment. It didn’t matter, it would turn out all right. But he wished he could pay more attention to the game. Just now he shouldn’t have staked on black at all. Lost! Lost! Well …
Suddenly he heard the malignant voice again. She was quarreling now with another man, speaking in high- pitched and indignant tones. Yes, of course, her nose was quite white, she sniffed snow, the bitch. No use starting a row with her; even when she was sober she didn’t know what she wanted or was doing. And now she knew less than ever.
He looked for another place.
This time everything went well. Staking cautiously, he made up what he had lost. Indeed, he could now pocket his original capital and operate with the winnings. Beside him stood a young fellow with unsteady eyes and fidgety movements, unmistakably playing his maiden game. Such people brought luck, and he succeeded in passing a hand, his left hand, across the young fellow’s shoulder without his noticing—which increased the chances of winning. In consequence he let the stake stay on one game longer than he would otherwise have dared. Again he won and the vultures cast evil glances on him. Good.
He now had enough for tomorrow, even for a couple of days longer, if the dollar didn’t mount too high—he could go home. But it was still very early. He would only lie awake for hours, analyzing the game, and be filled with remorse at not having exploited this chain of good luck.
He stood quietly there, holding the counters he had won, listening to the ball, the voice of the croupier, the gentle scratching and scraping of the rakes on the green table. He felt as if he were in a dream. The clacking of the ball reminded him of a water wheel. Yes, it made him drowsy. Life, when one felt it, reminded one of water, of flowing water;
He felt very tired. Besides, his mouth was as dry as leather. Damned nonsense that there was nothing to drink here; he’d have to go to the water tap in the lavatory. But then he wouldn’t know how the game went. Red— black—black—red—red—red—black … Of course, there was nothing but Red Life and Black Death. Nothing else was being handed out or invented. They might invent as much as they liked—beyond Life and Death there was nought. …
Nought.
Of course! he had forgotten zero; that existed, too. The even-odd gamblers always forgot zero, and their money vanished. But if zero existed, then it was Death—a reasonable assumption. Red then was Love, a somewhat exaggerated emotion. Certainly Petra was a good girl. I’m feverish, he thought. But I suppose I’m feverish every evening. I really ought to drink some water. I’ll go at once.
Instead of that he shook the counters in his hand, hastily added those from his pocket and, just as the croupier called: “That’s all,” put everything on zero. On Nought.
His heart stopped. What am I doing? he asked himself. In his mouth the sensation of dryness increased unbearably. His eyes burned, the skin tightened like parchment over his temples. For an inconceivable time the ball hummed around; he felt as if everybody were looking at him.
They all look at me. I have staked on zero. Everything we possess I have staked on zero—and that means Death. And tomorrow is the marriage.
The ball went on spinning; he could not hold his breath any longer. He breathed deeply—the tension relaxed.
“Twenty-six!” called the croupier. “Black, odd, passe.” Pagel ejected the air through his nose, almost relieved. He had been right—the gaming room had kept his money. The Valuta Vamp had not disturbed him for nothing. She was saying in a loud whisper: “Those poor fish, they want to play but they ought to play with marbles.” The vulture-like croupier shot him a sharp, triumphant glance.
For a moment, Wolfgang stood still, waiting. The feeling of relief from agonizing tension passed. If I had just one more chip, he thought. Well, it’s all the same. The day will come.
The ball whirled round once more. Slowly he went out, past the mournful sergeant major, down the dark stairs. He stood for a long time in the entrance hall until a tout opened the door.
VIII
What could he tell his good little Peter? Almost nothing. It could be compressed into one sentence. At first I won, then I had bad luck. So there was nothing special to report; of late it had been like that frequently. Of course, she could hardly gather anything from that. She thought, perhaps, it was somewhat similar to losing at cards or drawing a blank in a lottery. Nothing of the ups and downs, good fortune and despair, could be made comprehensible to her; she could be informed of the result only—an empty pocket. And that was all. But she understood much more than he thought. Too often she had seen his face when he came home of a night, still heated with excitement. And his exhausted face while he slept. And the evil changes in it when he was dreaming of gambling. (Didn’t he really know that most nights he dreamed of it, he who wanted to persuade both her and himself that he was not a gambler?) And his thin, remote face when he had not listened to her, absent-mindedly asking: “What did you say?” and still not hearing—that face which expressed so clearly what he was thinking that it seemed one could touch it, as if it had become something tangible. And his face when he combed his hair in the mirror and suddenly saw what sort of a face he had.
No, she knew enough. He did not need to say anything, nor to torment himself with explanations and apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, Wolf,” she said quickly. “Money never meant anything to us.”
He looked at her, grateful that she could have spared him this explanation. “Of course,” he said, “I shall make up for it. Perhaps this evening.”
“But,” she replied, for the first time insistent, “we have to go at half-past twelve to the Registry Office.”
“And I,” he said quickly, “have to take your clothes to Uncle. Can’t the registrar marry you as someone seriously ill in bed?”
“You may have to pay for invalids as well,” she laughed. “Surely you know that not even death is free.”
“But perhaps invalids can pay afterward,” he said, half smiling, half reflectively. “And then if he doesn’t get his money, well, a marriage is a marriage.”
For a while both remained silent. The vitiated air in the room, ever hotter with the climbing of the sun, felt unpleasantly dry to the skin. The noise of the tin-stamper seemed louder. They heard the tearful voice of Frau Thumann gossiping with a neighbor in front of their door. The over-crowded human hive of the house buzzed, shouted, sang, chattered, screamed and sobbed with multifarious voices.
“You know, you needn’t marry me,” said the girl with sudden resolution. And after a pause: “No human being has done so much for me as you.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. The window glistened in the sun. What have I really done for her? he thought, bewildered. Taught her how to handle a knife and fork—and speak correct German.
He looked at her again. She wanted to say something more, but her lips trembled as if she were struggling with tears. Her dark glance was so intense that he would have preferred to look away.
But she had already spoken. “If I thought that you only felt you ought to marry me, I wouldn’t wish it.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Or to spite your mother,” she continued. “Or because you think it would please me.”
He shook his head again. (Does
“But I always feel that you would like it, too, because you feel we belong to each other,” she said suddenly, forcing the words out with tears in her eyes. Now she spoke more freely, as if the most difficult part had been said. “Oh, Wolf, my dear, if it isn’t so, if you marry me for some other reason, don’t do it—please don’t do it. You won’t hurt me. Not so much,” she corrected hurriedly, “as if you married me and we didn’t belong to each other after all.”
“Oh, Petra, Peter, Peter Ledig!” he cried in his den of selfish solitude, overwhelmed by her humility and her
