explaining to a child. “I don’t keep money here overnight. But tomorrow morning …”
He had correctly summed up the situation. True, the dealer disapproved of a rebellious son who took away from his mother and sold a cherished picture; true, since he had learned that fact the temperature of the conversation had fallen; but in spite of his disapproval he would not for one moment hesitate to make use of that combination of circumstances to buy. This man with the black Assyrian beard, tall, assured and rich, had his weak spot—we all have. There was not the slightest reason for Pagel to feel ashamed; on the contrary. He (Pagel) was forced to sell; the big man was not obliged to buy.
Pagel spoke quietly. “I must have the whole amount in half an hour. I need the money this evening, not tomorrow morning. There are other buyers …”
The art dealer made a gesture which signified that this picture at any rate was no longer the concern of any other dealer. “The money shall be found somehow. At the moment I don’t exactly know how. But it will be found.”
He whispered to his assistant, Mainz, who nodded and went out.
“Please come with me, Herr Pagel. Yes, you can leave the picture here—I have bought it.”
Pagel was shown into the dealer’s office, a large gloomy room. Here the only pictures on the walls were some bold and dashing charcoal drawings by an unknown artist.
“Please sit down. Over there. Here are cigarettes. Whisky and soda I’ll put within your reach. It may take”— slightly sarcastic—“even thirty-five minutes. So make yourself comfortable—come in!”
One after another the employees of the establishment entered, beginning with the historians of art with their degrees and ending with the totally unlettered charwomen who had by now started their evening work. Dr. Mainz had instructed them, and they went without a word to their employer’s desk, pulled their fortunes out of pockets, waistcoat pockets, purses or wallets, and laid it down while their chief counted. “Dr. Mainz, one million four hundred and thirty-five thousand. Fraulein Siebert, two hundred and sixty thousand. Fraulein Plosch, seven hundred and thirty-three thousand. I thank you, Fraulein Plosch.”
There must have existed in this firm a good relationship between employer and employee, for everyone gave as a matter of course. These shorthand-typists, accountants, gallery attendants, forwent what they had intended to do that evening. Sometimes they cast a look at the gentleman in the chair who was drinking whisky and soda, and smoking; it was not a look of hostility, but of detachment. Immaterial to them why this man in the shabby tunic needed money so urgently that they had to forgo their evening pleasures; but it did concern them if a picture which their chief wanted to buy was taken away from the firm. The giving up, counting, noting down of the money, was taken by both sides quite naturally; without exaggerated thanks or facetiousness and without embarrassed explanations on the side of the employer—a naturalness which almost induced Pagel to explain and excuse himself, to say that he really needed the money that evening, that his girl was in prison and he ought …
Yes, what ought he to do? Have money at once, at any rate, plenty of money!
Wolfgang Pagel said nothing.
“Stop, Fraulein Bierla,” said the dealer. “I see you have still fifty thousand in your purse. Excuse me, but this evening we have to scrape together every mark.”
Embarrassed, the beautiful brunette muttered something about fares.
“You don’t need any money for fares. Dr. Mainz has ordered taxis for closing time. The drivers will take you wherever you want to go.”
The paper money piled up. The dealer, rummaging in his own pocket-book and emptying it, said disparagingly to Dr. Mainz: “If you read the newspapers and listen to what people say, you hear that everyone is swimming in money. It’s in every pocket, it crackles in every hand. But here is what twenty-seven people, you and me included, carry on them. Not even seven hundred marks in peace time. A ridiculously exaggerated affair, this era of ours. If the people saw clearly, for once, how few figures stand in front of so many noughts they wouldn’t allow themselves to be so bemused.”
Dr. Mainz whispered something hurried and urgent.
“Yes, of course, telephone immediately. Meanwhile I’ll go to my wife. I’m sure to get money there.”
While Dr. Mainz telephoned some Herr Director Nolte, who ought to be receiving 250 paper dollars that evening, but was now asked to wait till tomorrow morning, Pagel reflected what an unaccustomed disorder had been brought into this place by his demand. But he realized with surprise in what an orderly fashion the disorder was being cleared up, without noise or bustle—taxis waiting at the door, every employee being driven where he wanted, the individual amounts neatly noted on a piece of paper.… In the moment disorder arose everything was being done to remove it in the shortest possible time.
I’ve also let disorder arise, he thought gloomily, but it never occurred to me to remove it. It has increased, has invaded spheres of which I never dreamed. Now all my life is in disorder.
He remembered how often he had asked Petra to dress before Frau Thumann brought in the morning coffee. I’ve always played a part to myself and, above all, to her, he thought. Disorder is not turned into order by putting a blanket over it. On the contrary—it is turned into something which no one dares to defend. Into a lying, cowardly disorder. Did Peter understand that? What did she really think? Was that the reason why she put so much value on our marrying? For the sake of order? She always did what I suggested, without protest. Fundamentally I know nothing about what she really thought.
The dealer returned, laughing and flourishing a fat wad of notes.
“At my house everyone’s staying at home tonight. My wife’s delighted; she was going to some ghastly first night, followed by a celebration of the dramatist already bursting with his own importance. She’s glad that we can’t go now, and is telephoning all the world enthusiastically, declaring that we’re without a penny—tomorrow I shall read about my insolvency in the newspapers. And you, Dr. Mainz?”
It appeared that Dr. Mainz, too, had been successful. Herr Director Nolte would wait for his 250 dollars till tomorrow morning.
“A thousand dollars—seven hundred and sixty millions,” said the dealer. “It took,” he pulled out his watch, “thirty-eight minutes to collect, however. I must apologize for the eight minutes.”
Why does he scoff at me? thought Pagel, exasperated. He should rather ask me why I need the money. People often do find themselves in situations where they need cash immediately. People very easily find themselves in such situations, but the question of responsibility also arises. Am I to blame for the blunders of the police? He became annoyed.
“It’s rather a lot of paper, but such is the spirit of our age,” the art dealer smiled. “Shall I have it tied up for you? You would rather put it in your pockets? It’s raining hard. Well, you’ll probably take a taxi.… Immediately to the right, as you go out of the door, in front of the Hotel Esplanade.… Or shall I call one?”
“No, thank you,” Pagel had replied grumpily, stuffing the notes into his pockets. “I’ll walk.”
And now he was passing through Konigstrasse, wet through, his hands protectingly over his two outer pockets. People might get angry with him as his mother did, or mock him as this picture chap did; they might get into difficulties as Peter did; but he was going to do exactly what he wanted, and full steam ahead. He wouldn’t break into the money; he had no intention of taking a taxi even though his pockets were bursting with money. If he didn’t want to, then neither rain nor necessity could force him.
Nor did he go straight to the police station where Petra was confined; he went first to Frau Thumann, to look round. Now as ever he was convinced that there was plenty of time for everything. He was like a mule: the more he was thrashed the more obstinate he became.
Or was he, perhaps, afraid of what he would learn at the police station? Was he afraid of the shame he would feel when he saw Petra in such a deplorable situation?
Whistling, he crossed Alexanderplatz and turned into Landsbergerstrasse. What would give Petra greater pleasure—a tobacco shop or a flower shop? Or perhaps an ice-cream bar?
IX
Oberwachtmeister Leo Gubalke was not the sort of man who, on duty or off, was inclined to interference, spite, or bickering. That terrible temptation was not his which besets a man into whose mouth the words of power are placed: “Obey or die!” Although now and then he was subject to those petty meannesses from which no self- esteem is immune, it was always his exaggerated sense of order and punctuality which led him astray.
