Near our house, we could see that the party was still in progress. Lights and voices streamed out into the street, and the shadows of people were moving against the windows. But inside we found that my aunt had left the party and was banging about in the basement kitchen, grumbling to herself: “Why don’t they go home instead of turning my house into God know what.”
It was impossible for Kohl with his torn pants to return to his studio, which was full of people he didn’t like. “Take them off,” La Plume said, “I’ll sew them for you… Go on, you think I haven’t seen anything like what you hide in there?” But when he stepped out of them, she shook her head: “What does she do all day that she can’t wash her husband's underpants?”
I fetched a blanket that he could wrap around his legs, which were very white, unsunned. They trembled slightly, not used to being naked, and ashamed of it. Looking back now, I’m glad I got the blanket and do not have to remember that great artist the way he was at that moment, trouser-less in our kitchen.
When footsteps sounded on the basement stairs, he sat down quickly with his legs under the table where La Plume was sewing his pants. It was Mann who entered, to borrow more glasses for the party. “Cups will do,” he said, and began to collect the few we had from our shelves. “And I’m not even asking for saucers.”
“Thank you very much,” La Plume said, “so in the morning we can drink our coffee from the saucer like cats and dogs.”
“Be a sport, Mummy,” he said.
“Who's your mummy! And where do you get that ‘sport’ business, as if you’d been to Eton and Oxford.”
“Better than Eton and Oxford, I’ve attended the School of Life,” he retorted-they were always on good teasing terms.
“Yes, in the gutters of Cologne,” Kohl put in-not in a teasing way.
It was only then that Mann became aware of him: “So there you are. Everyone is asking for you: Where is the husband, the famous artist?” Next moment his attention shifted to the packet lying on the table: “Ah, her present that she's been asking for all day. I’ll take it to her-I’ll tell her you’re busy down here, flirting with two ladies.”
Kohl had instantly placed his hand on the packet, and wild-eyed, cornered, he glared up at Mann. Mann-a very big man but a coward- retreated quickly with our cups held against his chest.
“Take care you bring them back washed, you lazy devil!” La Plume shouted after him. But when he had gone, she said, “He's not a bad sort, though he gets on everyone's nerves. They say he was a very great idealist and gave wonderful speeches to the workers at their rallies.”
“We’ve heard about the wonderful speeches-from him. From no one else,” Kohl sneered. “And when the police came, he ran faster than anyone. It's only here he plays the big hero.”
“Ah, well,” sighed La Plume, “everyone lives as best they can.” This was her motto. “Here,” she said, handing him his trousers. “I wouldn’t get very high marks for sewing, but they’ll do.” He got up to step into them-just in time, for while he was still buttoning them, Marta was heard calling from the stairs.
I had noticed that, whenever Marta came into a room, the air shifted somewhat. I don’t know if this was due to other people's reactions to her, or to something emanating from her, of which she herself was unaware. I might mention here that she had a peculiar, very sweet smell-not of perfume, more of a fruit, ripe and juicy, not quite fresh.
“So where's my present? Mann says you have my present!” Her eager eyes were already fixed on it, but Kohl held on to it. “Give,” she wheedled, “it's mine.”
He shook his head in refusal, while secretly smiling a bit. But when she began to tug at it-“Give, give”-he shouted, “Be careful!” and let go, so that she captured it.
She untied it, the tip of her tongue slightly protruding. The paper came off and the drawing was revealed. She held it between her two hands and looked at it: looked at herself looking out of it. He watched her; the expression on his face became anxious, like one waiting for a verdict.
At last she said, “Not bad.”
“Not bad!” he echoed indignantly.
“I mean me, not you.” Her eyes darted to him with the same expression as in the drawing. She held it at another angle for careful study: “Yes,” was her verdict, “no wonder you fell madly in love with me.”
“I with you! Who was it who chased me all over town, from cafe to cafe, from studio to studio, like a madwoman, and everyone laughing at us both?”
“Me running after him?” She turned to La Plume: “Me in love with him? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous in all your life?”
“No, not with me. With my fame.”
He spoke with dignity and pride, and then she too became proud. She said, “Oh yes, he was famous all right, and I wasn’t the only one to run after him. Naturally: a famous artist.” She returned to the drawing, to his gift to her, and now she appeared to be studying not herself, as before, but his work.
“So?” he asked, valuing her opinion and awaiting her compliment.
This compliment seemed to be hovering on her lips-when Mann came storming into our kitchen, followed by some other guests. As with one gesture, Kohl and Marta seized the wrapping paper to conceal the drawing, but Mann had already seen it: “So that's the present he's been hiding!”
“Don’t touch!” Marta ordered, but she held it out, not only for him but high enough for others to see. They crowded forward; there were admiring cries, and Mann whistled. It was a gratifying moment for both Kohl and Marta. La Plume glowed too, and so did I; we were really proud to have an artist in our house.
The lawyer spoiled it. He peered at the drawing through his rimless glasses; he thrust out his white fingers to point out beauties-the same way he had done with my portrait. He may even have said something similar about Youth with a capital
“You know what, children?” said La Plume. “It's long past my bedtime, and if you don’t clear out, I’m going to miss my beauty sleep.”
Everyone clamored for Kohl to join them. Marta too said: “Come and drink champagne with us.
“We all know,” Mann said. “It's eighteen.” No one heard him. Marta still had her hand on Kohl's shoulder; she said, “You used to like to drink. Often a bit too much, both of us… ”
“Maybe,” he said; he shook her hand off. “But next morning I was up at five, working, and you lay in bed till noon, sleeping it off.”
“I never had a hangover.”
“No, it's true-when you got up, you were fresh and fit and ready to start making my life a misery again.” Marta may never have had a hangover, but there were days when she suffered a mysterious ailment about which she and La Plume whispered together. My aunt didn’t want me to know about it, but when she wasn’t there, Marta spoke to me as freely as she did to La Plume. It was something very private to do with her womb- I really would have preferred not to know; these were matters I wanted to keep buried in the depths of the unconscious where I could at least pretend they had nothing to do with me. Marta went into unwelcome detail, though she always warned me, “For God's sake, don’t tell Kohl. He can’t stand women being ill.”
She did however confide in Mann and the lawyer and probably everyone else too. She even told all of us that her trouble was due to an abortion brought about by herself when she was married to Kohl. “I was nineteen years old, what did I know? With a knitting needle, can you believe it? As if I’d ever knitted a thing.” When we asked if she had told Kohl-“Are you crazy? He’d have run off very fast on his fat little legs. We were bohemians, for heaven's sake, not
Although she spoke this last sentence proudly, Mann stroked her hair with his big hand and said, “My poor little one.”
She jerked her head away from him: “Don’t be a sentimental idiot. I wasn’t going to ruin my career. I was on my way-listen, I’d already been an extra three times, the casting director at UFA was taking a tremendous interest in me, his name was Rosenbaum and he’d promised me a real part in the next production. And then of course he was fired.” She made the face-it was one of scorn and disdain-with which she looked back on that part of their past.
