Pagel was rid of his money. The thirty counters disappeared under the croupier’s rake. “Seventeen” had been called out. Seventeen—also a very nice number. “Seventeen and Four” was far better than this silly game. For “Seventeen and Four” one needed a little common sense. Here one only had to sit and await sentence. The silliest thing in the world—something for slaves.
With a jerk Pagel stood up, pushed his way out through those standing behind him and lit a cigarette. First Lieutenant von Studmann, who was leaning against a wall, asked with a glance at his face: “Well? Finished?”
“Yes,” said Pagel sullenly.
“How did it go?”
“Moderately.” He puffed his cigarette greedily, then asked: “Shall we go?”
“Certainly! I don’t want to see or hear anything of this business. I’ll go and get von Prackwitz away at once. He wanted to watch for a little, just for amusement.”
“Just for amusement! All right, I’ll wait here.”
Studmann pushed through the players while Pagel took his place against the wall. He felt limp and tired. So this was what the evening, long hoped for, was really like; the evening when, with a great gambling capital, he would be able to stake as he liked! Things never came together. Today, when he could have played as long as he liked, he had no desire to. First there’s no beaker, and then there’s no wine, he thought. He was finished at last with gambling; he felt he would never again have any desire for it. Now he could peaceably travel into the country early tomorrow morning with the Rittmeister, presumably as a kind of slave driver. He would miss nothing here in Berlin. No risk of that! One did this, one could do that: everything was equally meaningless. Interesting to observe how one’s life melted away, rendering itself meaningless, just as the money that was always pouring forth from the presses also became meaningless. In one short day both mother and Petra were lost, and now even gambling, too. It had become completely meaningless.… Really, one might just as well jump from a bridge under the next train—it was just as sensible or senseless as anything else.
Yawning, he lit himself another cigarette. The Valuta Vamp stepped up to him. She seemed to have been waiting for that. “Will you give me one?”
Without a word Pagel offered her the packet.
“English? No, I can’t smoke those; they’re too strong for me. Haven’t you any others?”
Pagel shook his head with a faint smile.
“I can’t understand how you like smoking those! They’ve got opium in them!”
“Opium is no worse than cocaine,” said Pagel provokingly, looking at her nose. She couldn’t have sniffed much today, her nose wasn’t white. Of course, he had to remember the powder; naturally she had powdered herself.… With calm, objective curiosity he looked at her.
“Cocaine! You don’t think I take that, do you?”
Something of the old hostility made her voice shrill, although she was now doing her utmost to please him. And she really looked pleasant. She was tall and slim; her breasts in the low-cut dress seemed small and firm. Only, the woman was wicked; one shouldn’t forget that. Wicked. Greedy, avaricious, quarrelsome, rotten with cocaine, cold. Wicked beyond measure. Peter hadn’t been wicked, or perhaps she had been—yes, Petra had been wicked. But one hadn’t noticed it much; she had been able to hide it for a long time, until he had found her out. No, she too was finished.
“So you don’t take snow? I thought you did!” he said off-handedly to the Valuta Vamp and looked around for Studmann. He would have been glad to get away. This well-built cow of a woman bored him to death.
“Only now and again,” she admitted, “when I’m tired out. And that’s no different from taking pyramidon, is it? You can ruin yourself with pyramidon, too. I once had a girl-friend who took twenty a day. And she—”
“Yes, yes, my dear!” said Pagel. “I’m not interested. Don’t you want to go and play a bit?”
But she was not to be got rid of so easily. Nor was she in the least bit hurt; the only time she was offended was when no one intended it.
“You’ve already finished playing?” she asked.
“Yes. No more cash left. Absolutely broke.”
“You little leg-puller!” she laughed foolishly.
He looked at her. She did not believe him. She had heard something about the contents of his pockets, otherwise she would never have wasted so much time and pleasantness on a shabby fellow in a soldier’s tunic, since she deigned to consider only gentlemen in evening dress.
“Please do me a favor!” she cried suddenly. “Stake once for me!”
“What good will that be?” he asked crossly. This Studmann was taking an eternity, and he couldn’t get rid of the woman. “I think you know the game well enough without me.”
“You are bound to bring me luck.”
“Possibly. But I’m not playing anymore.”
“Oh, please—be nice to me for once!”
“You heard me. I’m not playing anymore.”
“Really not?”
“No!”
She laughed.
“Why do you laugh so stupidly?” said Pagel crossly. “I’m not playing any more!”
“You—and not playing! I don’t think!” She gave her voice a soft persuasive tone. “Come, darling, stake once for me; then I’ll be very nice to you, too.”
“Thanks very much for your favors,” said Pagel gruffly. “God, can’t I get rid of her at all? Go away, I tell you. I’m not playing any more, and as for you, I can’t stand you at any price—you disgust me!” he cried.
She regarded him attentively. “You look attractive now, sonny. I never noticed before how handsome you really are. You always sat at the table like a fool.” She tried to flatter him. “Come, darling, stake once for me! You’ll bring me luck!”
Pagel threw his cigarette away and bent very close to her. “If you speak another word to me, you damned whore, I’ll sock your teeth in!” His whole body trembled with senseless rage. Her eyes were right close to his. They were brown—suffused now with a yielding moistness.
“Hit me, then!” she whispered. “But stake for me once, darling.”
He turned round with a jerk and went quickly to the table. Seizing von Studmann by the elbow and breathing rapidly, he asked: “Are we going or aren’t we?”
“I can’t get the Rittmeister away!” von Studmann whispered back as excitedly. “Just look at him!”
IX
It was with extreme reluctance that Rittmeister von Prackwitz had accompanied young Pagel on his mysterious journey through Berlin at night. Already in Lutter and Wegner’s he had borne his company and provoking chatter only with great repugnance, hardly forgiving him the insult of the proffered money. His friend’s interest in this completely dissipated fellow, whose ample funds seemed to be questionable at the very least, he found completely out of place. If to von Studmann the little incident of the retrieved shell splinter in the skirmish before Tetelmunde appeared a little ridiculous, yet also—and especially in the case of such a young fellow—rather heroic, to von Prackwitz the ridiculous outweighed all the heroic; moreover, a character which was capable of such extravagance could seem only suspicious to him.
The worthy Rittmeister Joachim von Prackwitz found only the extravagances of others suspicious; his own he regarded with perfect benevolence. From the moment he heard that the excursion had nothing to do with some filthy naked-woman business, his pet aversion—but it was merely a little game, or to put it better, a
And when the Rittmeister had found himself standing in the little homely anteroom with its overcrowded clothes hooks, and the mustached man behind the small folding table had pleasantly asked: “Counters, gentlemen?” and the Rittmeister, after a scrutinizing glance, had said: “Seen service, eh? Where?” and the mustached fellow, clicking his heels together, had replied: “Nineteenth Saxon Transport Section—Leipzig,” then the Rittmeister had felt himself in the best of moods and completely at home.
