She was no longer thinking of showing her body off, but was reflecting, although she had practically decided. Only she was uncertain how to tell him. In the end she said as innocently as possible, “You’re to deliver a letter for me, Herr Meier:”
“Yes, Fraulein.”
Suddenly it was in her hand. Whence she had taken this longish envelope of blue paper was a mystery; as far as one could judge at Meier’s distance it was unaddressed.
“You’re going this evening to the village?”
He was utterly taken by surprise and quite uncertain of himself. Was this merely conversational, or did she know something? That, however, was impossible.
“I don’t know. Perhaps I will. If you wish it, Fraulein, certainly.”
“A gentleman will ask you for a letter. Hand it over.”
“What gentleman? I don’t understand.”
Suddenly she became exasperated. “You needn’t understand anything. You’re simply to do as I tell you. A gentleman will ask you for the letter and you’ll give it to him. That’s quite simple, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Fraulein,” he said. But it sounded rather feeble—he was so much wrapped up in his own thoughts.
“Then that’s everything, Herr Meier.” And she handed him the letter. He could hardly believe it, but he held the letter in his hand, a weapon against her. You wait, my little lamb. Any more of your sauce. He pulled himself together. “It shall be done, Fraulein.”
And again he descended the ladder.
“I should say so,” her voice challenged him from above. “Or else I shall tell Grandpa and Papa who it was started to burn down the wood.”
The voice stopped. Meier paused midway, so as not to miss a word. There! And that was that! “Burn down.” A shot in the heart. Bravo! Splendid for fifteen years old. She had a future before her.
“And the Herr Lieutenant doesn’t like jokes, either,” added the voice—and now he heard her fat, lazy flesh rolling over on the other side, the deck chair groaning. Fraulein Violet von Prackwitz yawned comfortably up there while Herr Bailiff Meier got on with his work.
Right you are, he told himself, that’s O.K. by me.
But he did not get on with his work immediately. Deep in thought he trotted along to his room, the letter in the outside pocket of his linen jacket and his hand on its smooth surface all the time. He must feel that he had really got the letter, that it was there, this letter which he would straightway read. She had said little enough, the artful bitch, but she had said enough for him. Quite enough. So she knew the Lieutenant, that mysterious, somewhat raged but overbearing gentleman who convened nocturnal meetings at the village magistrate’s, and before whom Forester Kniebusch stood to attention. And she had met this Lieutenant between twelve and three today, or else she could not have known about the fire.
If, therefore, this Lieutenant nodded in such a friendly way to Herr Bailiff Meier, it was not because he thought Black Meier so much more efficient than that old slacker Kniebusch, but because he knew that Meier had already been chosen for go-between. The Lieutenant, it seemed, knew his way about in Neulohe. A secret agreement of long standing.
You have gone far, you two, thought Meier. I can picture it all. And when I’ve read the letter—you’re a fool, nevertheless, you proud silly goose. Do you think I shall hand it over without having a look at what you’ve written? I want to know, and then I’ll consider what to do. Perhaps I’ll tell the Rittmeister—what’s a bit of a forest fire against that? You won’t have me by the short hairs on that matter. But I don’t think I’ll say anything to the Rittmeister after all. You’re so silly that it never occurs to you that a fellow like the Lieutenant will jilt you. You need only look at him, of course, to see that. Then I’ll be there—no, my child, I don’t mind. I don’t take offense. It’s not much fun and a lot of trouble to break in young horses—it’s better they should know their paces first. You shall pay me then for every impertinent, arrogant word, for every “Yes, Fraulein”—and for this letter above all. How does one open letters? With steam, I’ve heard, but how can I quickly manage that in my room? Well, I’ll try to open the flap with a knife, and if the envelope gets spoiled I’ll take one of my own. Yellow or blue—he’ll hardly notice which.…
He reached the office. Without even taking off his cap he sank into the chair at the desk. Putting the letter on the worn ink-stained baize, he stared at it. He was damp with sweat, his body was limp, his mouth parched. He was utterly exhausted. He could hear the hens clucking in the farmyard, the dairymen clattering with pails and milk cans in the cow barn. He should think so—high time for milking!
The letter lay before him, the flies buzzed monotonously; it was unbearably close. He wanted to look at the barometer on the wall (perhaps a storm would come after all) but he didn’t look up. It was all the same to him!
The letter, the clean blue rectangle on the stained baize. Her letter.
Lazily, carelessly, he seized the paper knife, drew the letter nearer, and put both down. He wiped his sweating hands on his jacket.
Then he took the paper knife and slowly, one might say luxuriously, inserted the blunt point into the small gap under the flap. His gaze was intent; a light, satisfied smile hovered about his thick lips. Yes, he could open the letter. By careful pushing, lifting, pressing, he loosened the carelessly stuck flap and saw a corner of the writing. There were tiny fibers which did not want to yield—but at the same time he saw Vi as he had just seen her on the deck chair … She stretched her body, her plump white flesh quivered … she threw up her arms and tiny curls glistened in the armpits.…
Black Meier groaned.
He was staring at the letter which he had opened meantime—but he was absent, half a mile away on a flat sun-baked roof—flesh to flesh, skin to skin, hair to hair. “Dearest!”
A wave subsided, shining with the colors of beautiful, living human flesh lit up by the evening sun.… Black Meier groaned again. “Well, I never,” he wondered. “That bitch must have made me quite crazy. But it’s the heat as well.”
The envelope had opened without tearing. It would not be necessary to gum the flap—Fraulein Violet had fastened it so carelessly. Well, let us read it.… But first he wiped his hands on his jacket—they were wet with perspiration again.
He drew the paper out of the envelope and unfolded it. The letter was not very long but, for all that, it was full of meat.
Dearest! My dearest darling! My only one! You have only just gone and again I am quite crazy about you. I tremble all over and vibrate, so that I have to shut my eyes over and over again. Then I see you. I love you
100,000,000 kisses and even more. I press you to my heart which beats quite madly.
“God,” said little Meier and stared at the sheet. “She really loves him. Loves him so with three o’s and yours underlined. A kid still wearing her nappies! He’ll play her up. Well, all the better.”
He copied the letter on the typewriter, meticulously counting the noughts in the sum of kisses. (“Sheer inflation—she’s up to date”) and refastened the envelope.
The copy he put into Volume 1900 of the
Would there be a storm? Should he get in the crop? Nonsense, she was talking rubbish.
He went out to his mowing machine.
VII
“I thought you would look me up today, my poor Mathilde.”
Frau von Anklam, over seventy, the white-haired and shapeless widow of a major general, had emerged with difficulty from the easy-chair in which she was passing her afternoon nap. She held her visitor’s hand in hers and looked compassionately and anxiously out of her large brown eyes, still beautiful. At the moment she spoke in a dramatic manner, as if at a death; but she could also speak in another key—that of the regimental commander’s wife who keeps the ladies of the regiment in order and propriety.
