CHAPTER VII
FULFILMENT
For a full week after Thérèse had thrown out her husband, that thief, she did nothing but search the flat. She behaved as though she were spring cleaning and divided up her work. From six in the morning till eight in the evening, she pushed about on feet, knees, hands and elbows spying for secret cracks and fissures. She discovered dust in places where she had not suspected it, even at her cleanest moments, and attributed it to the thieff for such people are dirty. With a stiff sheet of brown paper she probed into fissures which were too narrow for her stout hairpins. Afterwards she blew the dirt off, and dusted the paper over. For she could not bear the idea that she might touch the lost bankbook with a dirty piece of paper. For this work she wore no gloves — it would have spoilt them — but they lay near by, washed to glistening whiteness, in case she should find the bankbook. The beautiful carpets, which might have been damaged by so much tramping to and fro, were rolled in newspaper and stacked in the corridor. She searched each single book for its real contents. She was not yet seriously thinking of a sale. First she must talk it over with a sensible man. All the same, she noted the number of pages and felt a respect for books with more than 500, they must certainly be worth something, and she weighed them up in her hand before replacing them, like plucked chickens in the market. She was not cross about die bankbook. She was happy to give herself up to the flat. She could have done with more furniture. You had only to think the books away to see at once what sort of a person had lived here: a thief. After a week she knew the truth: there wasn't a bankbook. In a case like this a respectable woman calls the police. She waited before registering her complaint until she had used up the last of her housekeeping money. She wanted to prove to the police that her husband had run away with everything and left her without a penny. When she went marketing she made a wide detour to avoid the caretaker. She was afraid he would ask after the Professor. True he hadn't yet made a move, but he would certainly do so on the first of the month. On the first he got his monthly tip. This month he wouldn't get a penny; already she saw him begging outside her door. She was fully determined to send him off empty-handed. No one could force her to give him anything. If he was insolent, she'd report him.
One day Thérèse put on her starchier skirt. It made her look younger. Its blue was just a trifle lighter than the other one which she wore every day. A dazzling white blouse went well with it. She unbolted the door into her new bedroom, glided over to the wardrobe mirror, said 'Here I am again' and grinned from ear to ear. She looked not a day over thirty, and had a dimple in her chin. Dimples are beautiful. She fixed a rendezvous with Mr. Brute. The flat was hers now; Mr. Brute could come. She'd like to ask him what she'd better do. Millions are locked up in those books, and she'd be happy to give someone a share. He needs capital. She knows he's a good manager. She's not one to sleep on all that beautiful money. What good is it to her now? Saving's good, earning's better. All of a sudden you've doubled it. She hasn't forgotten Mr. Brute. Women don't forget him. Women are like that; they're all after him. She'd like some too. Her husband's gone. He won't come back. The way he behaved, she wouldn't like to say. He didn't treat her right, but he was her husband just the same. So she'd rather not say. He was a thief but he wasn't clever. If everyone were like Mr. Brute! Mr. Brute has a voice. Mr. Brute has eyes. She'd found a new name for him, it was called Puda. It's a beautiful name, Mr. Brute is even more beautiful. Mr. Brute is the most beautiful. She knows ever so many men. Does she like one of them as she likes Mr. Brute? Let him prove it if he thinks she's anything to hide. He mustn't think. He must come. He must say that about her magnificent hips. He says it so beautifully.
At these words she balanced up and down before the mirror. It made her feel how beautiful she was. She took off her skirt and had a look at her magnificent hips. How right he is. He's so sensible. He's not only superior, he's everything. How could he have known? He'd never seen her hips. He notices everything. He looks carefully at all women. Then he asks, can't he sample them? A man ought to be bold. If he isn't, he's not a man. Is there a woman who could say no to him? Thérèse touches her hips with his hands. They are as soft as his voice. With her smiling dimples she looks in his eyes. She'll give him something, she says. Back to the door she goes, and fetches the bunch of keys hanging there. Before the mirror, she hands over the present with a jingle, and says he can come to her rooms whenever he likes. She knows he won't steal anything, even if she isn't there. The bunch of keys falls to the ground and she is ashamed because he won't have them. She calls: Mr. Puda, mayn't she call him just Puda. He says nothing, he can't tear himself" away from her hips. It's beautiful. But she would like to hear his voice too. She tells him a dark secret. She has a savings book and he can look after it for her. Will she just tell him its number too? She teases him. She starts back, he shouldn't ask that of her, she wouldn't do a thing like that. Not till she knows him better. She hardly knows him at all. But did he say anything? Where is ht ? She looks for him round her hips, but there she is cold. It is warm in her bosom. His hands dangle there under her blouse, but where is he? She looks for him in the mirror but only sees her skirt. It looks as good as new and blue is the most beautiful of colours, because she is true to Mr. Puda. She puts it on again, it suits her well, and if Mr. Puda likes she will take it off again. He'll be coming to-day, he'll stay all night, he'll come every night, he is so young. He has a harem, but he'll get rid of them all for her sake. Once he behaved like a brute. That's his name. He can't help his name. She's all of a sweat, and now she will go to him.
Thérèse took back the rejected keys, ponderously locked up the room again, scolded herself for having used the mirror in the best room when she had that little broken piece in the other room, and laughed heartily because she'd searched in vain for the keys in the inside pocket which didn't exist in this skirt at all. The sound of her laughter was foreign to her, she never laughed, she thought she was hearing some stranger in the house. Then suddenly, for the first time since she had been alone, she had an uncanny feeling. Hastily she sought out the hiding place of her savings book; it lay in its proper place. So there weren't any burglars in the flat; they would have taken her savings book first. For safety she took it with her. In the entrance hall passing the caretaker's door she stooped low. She had a lot of money with her and was afraid he might ask for his tip to-day.
The noisy traffic in the streets increased Therese's joy. Swiftly she glided to the feast; her goal lay in the heart of the town. Street by street the noise grew louder. All the men turned to look at her. She noticed it alright, but she lived for one alone. She had always hoped to live for one man alone and now it had happened. A car was impertinent; it almost ran her down. She tossed her head at the chauffeur, said: 'I ask you, I've no time for you!' and turned her back on the danger. In future Puda would protect her from the crowd. She wasn't alone either because everything now belonged to her. While she was walking through the town she took possession of all the shops. There were pearls in one of them which matched her skirt, in another diamonds for her blouse. She'd never have worn a fur coat, no respectable woman does, but she'd like to hang one or two in her wardrobe. Her own linen was more beautiful than any in the shops, the lace on it was ever so much broader. But she didn't mind if she took a few shop-windows with her. All those riches she put into her savings book which grew fatter and fatter; everything was safe there, and he would be allowed to look at it !
She came to a halt in front of his shop. The letters in the shop front came close to her eyes. First she read Gross & Mother, then Brute & Wife. She liked that. She even wasted some of her busy time just looking at it. The rivals went for each other; Mr. Gross was a weakling and got beaten up. The letters danced for joy, and when they had finished dancing she read suddenly, Gross & Wife. That didn't suit her at all. She exclaimed: 'The cheek of it!' and stepped inside.
Immediately somebody kissed my dear lady's hand. It was his voice. Two paces oft she raised her bag in the air and said: 'Here I am again.' He bowed and asked: 'What can I do for you, dear lady? What can I show you, dear lady? A new bedroom suite? For a new husband?' For months Thérèse had been tormented by the fear that he wouldn't recognize her again. She did everything to ensure recognition. She looked after her skirt, washed it, starched it, ironed it daily, but the superior young man had so many lady friends. Now he said: 'For a new husband?' She grasped his secret meaning. He had recognized her. She lost all shyness, she didn't even look round to see if anyone else was in the shop, but came close up to him and repeated word for word, what she had practised before the mirror. He looked into her face with his moist eyes. He was so beautiful, she was so beautiful, everything was beautiful, and when she got to the bit about the magnificent hips, she fiddled with her skirt, hesitated, clutched tight hold of her bag and began again at the beginning. He swung his arms and interjected cries of: 'What can I show you, dear lady? But, dear lady! What can I show you, dear lady?' To make her speak lower, he came even nearer, his mouth opened and shut close to hers, he was exactly her height and she went on speaking louder and faster. She forgot not a word, each one bunt, explosive, from her mouth, for her breath was coming violently and in jerks. When she got to the hips for a third time, she unfastened her skirt behind, but pressed her bag tight against it so that it stayed up. The salesman was sick with terror; she was talking as loud as ever and her red, sweating cheeks brushed against his. If only he could have understood her, he hadn't an idea who she was or what she wanted. He gripped her by her fat arms and groaned: "What can I do for you, dear lady?' she had just about got to her hips again, rounded them off, magnificent and shrill, breathed 'Ah yes!' and levered herself into his arms. She was fatter than he and thought herself embraced. At this juncture her skirt slid to the ground. Thérèse noticed it and was more delighted than ever, everything was happening so natural. But when she sensed his resistance, she was filled with fear in the midst of her bliss and sobbed: 'If I may make so bold!' Puda's voice was saying: 'But, dear lady! But, dear lady! But, dear lady!' She was the 'dear lady*. Other voices boomed around her; they weren't beautiful, people were staring, let them stare, she was a respectable woman. Mr. Puda was bashful, he pulled and pulled, but she wouldn't leave go; behind his back her hands were inextricably locked. He yelped: 'Just a moment, dear lady, if you please dear lady, let me go, dear lady!' Her head rested on his shoulder and his cheeks were like butter. Why was he so bashful? She wasn't bashful. They could cut her hands off, but leave go of him, never. Mr. Puda stamped his feet and shouted: 'Allow me, if you please, I don't even know you, allow me, please, let go of me!' Then a lot of people came and beat on her hands, she began to cry, but leave go, never. A strong hand pulled her fingers one by one apart and tore Mr. Puda suddenly away from her. Thérèse staggered, passed her sleeves over her eyes, said: 'I ask you, who could be such a brute!' and stopped crying. The strong hand belonged to a large, stout woman. So Mr. Puda had got married! A shocking din was going on in the shop; when Thérèse s eye fell on her skirt on the ground, she understood why.
Quite close to her there was a crowd of people, laughing as if they had been paid to do it. Walls and ceiling quivered, the furniture swayed. Someone shouted: 'Call an ambulance!' Someone else 'Police'! Outraged, Mr. Brute brushed down his suit —he had a particular affection for its padded shoulders — and chanted over and over again: 'Manners, too, nave a limit, dear lady!' and as soon as he was satisfied with the state of his suit, began to wipe his tainted cheek. Thérèse and he, alone, were not laughing. His saviour, the '& Mother', eyed him suspiciously, she scented some love affair at the back of this incident. As she had an interest in him, she was more inclined to call the police. This shameless creature deserved a lesson. He had had his already. Apart from that he was a nice fellow — though she would never have said so openly. Business demands ruthless discipline. In spite of this calculation she laughed, harsh and loud. Everyone was talking at once. Thérèse put on her skirt again in the midst of the crowd. The girl from the cash-desk laughed at the skirt. Thérèse allowed no reflections on it and said: 'I ask you, jealousy!' And she pointed to the broad lace insertions in her petticoat, which looked like something too, she didn't have all her best things on top. The laughter went on and on. Thérèse was relieved, she had been afraid of his wife. A piece of luck her kissing him like that, she would never have another chance. As long as they were all laughing, no harm would come to her. You don't send for the police if you're laughing. A lean salesman — not a man at all, just like her late husband, that thief— said: 'Mr. Brute's lady friend!' Another —and he was a man —said: 'A fine lady friend! The others laughed even louder; she thought diat mean. I ask you, I am a fine woman!' She screamed: 'Where's my bags' Her bag had gone. 'Where's my bag? I shall call the police!' & Mother found this too much. 'Quite! she exclaimed. 'Now I shall call the police!' She turned round and made for the telephone.
Mr. Gross, the little chief, her son, had been standing all the time just behind her trying to say something. Nobody listened to him. He plucked frantically at her sleeve, she pushed him away and proclaimed in a raucous mannish voice: 'We shall teach her a lesson! We shall see who is master here!' Mr. Gross couldn't think what to do next. He had lifted the receiver before he dared the uttermost and pinched her. 'But she's a customer,' he whispered. 'What?' she asked.
'A superior bedroom suite.' He alone had recognized Thérèse.
& Mother set down the receiver, swept round and, at a moment's notice, and without exception, sacked the assembled staff: 'I will not have my customers insulted!' The furniture swayed again, but not-with laughter. 'Where is the lady's bag? In three minutes it must be found!' One and all the staff flung themselves on the floor and crawled obediendy in search of it. Not one had failed to see that Thérèse had meanwhile found and picked up her own bag, which was lying exactly where & Mother had been stationed. Mr. Brute was the first to get up again and to notice, with surprise, the bag under Therese's arm. 'But I see, dear lady,' he chanted, 'you have already found your bag dear lady. You were born under a lucky star, dear lady. What can I snow you, dear lady, if I may inquire?' His obsequious zeal was requited with the approval of & Mother. She marched across to him and nodded. Thérèse said: 'Nothing to-day.' Brute bowed low over her hand and breathed with soft humility: 'I kiss your lovely hand, dear lady.' He kissed her arm just above her glove, hummed 'I kiss your little hand, Madame,' and, sketching an elegant gesture of renunciation with his left hand, stood aside. The start leapt to its feet and formed into a guard of honour. Thérèse hesitated, direw back her head proudly and fired as a parting shot: 'Excuse me, are congratulations permitted?' He did not understand what she meant, but custom bade nim bow low. Then she walked out through her guard of honour. Every back was bent and every voice raised in salutation. Behind them stood & Mother, assuring Thérèse of her best attention in a voice of thunder. The chief at her apron strings said nothing. He had already taken too much on himself to-day. He ought certainly to have told her earlier that the lady was a customer. When Thérèse was at the door, which, held open for her by two attendants, had become a triumphal arch, he vanished swiftly into his office. Perhaps & Mother would forget him. To the very last Thérèse heard wondering exclamations. 'A smart lady!' 'That beautiful skirt!' 'Isn't it blue!' 'And so rich!' 'Like a princess!' 'Brute's a lucky devil!' It was not a dream. Over and over again the lucky devil kissed her hand. Now she was in the street. Even the door closed slowly and respectfully. Through the glass panels they stared after her. Once only she turned round, then glided away, smiling.
That was how it was when a remarkable man loved you. He had married. How could he have waited for her? She should have come back sooner. How he had folded her in his arms! Then suddenly he had taken fright. His new wife was in the shop. His wife had a fortune, he couldn't carry on like that. He was a respectable man. He knew what was done. He knew everything. He had embraced her in front and defended himself behind. So that his wife should hear, he had protested. Such a clever fellow! He had eyes! He had shoulders! He had a cheek! His wife was strong. She looked like somebody, but she never noticed a thing. Because of her bag, she had wanted to call in the police at once. That's the right sort of wife. That's just the sort of wife she would be herself; the thief wouldn't leave sooner, so she'd got there too late. The thief wasn't her fault? He kissed her hand. He had Ups! He had been waiting for her. First of all she was the only one he would take a fortune from. All of a sudden another turned up with the biggest fortune; women never let him alone, so he'd married her. He couldn't turn his back on all that beautiful money. But he loved her alone. He didn't love his new wife. When she came, everyone had to go on hands and knees looking for her bag. The door was a mass of eyes and all were staring after her. Why did she wear her new skirt? How happy she was! How lucky she'd kissed him after all. Who could say when she'd have another chance? The skirt suited her well, the petticoat too. The lace on it was expensive. She wasn't one of those. But she thought to herself, poor fellow, why shouldn't he have something of my hips? He thought them magnificent. Now he's had a look at them. Even a married man she didn't grudge his bit of fun.
Thérèse found her way home in a dream. She noticed neither street names nor impertinences. Her good luck was a charm against bad luck. Innumerable side-tracks opened up to her, but she followed the safe one which led her back to her own property. The starched apparition was received by pedestrians and traffic alike with awe. On every side she attracted loving attention. But she noticed nothing. A crowd of salesmen attended on her. The guard of honour was of india rubber, and with her every step she drew it with her. They all kissed her hand; the air was loud with kisses, hailstorms of them all about her, she caught every one. New wives, who looked like somebody, rang up the police. Therese's bags had been stolen. There were no more Tittle chiefs, they had vanished, they were no longer in their shops, only their names could still be read over the doors. Women in dozens, not one a day more than thirty, sank into the arms of Mr. Pudas, with lips, eyes, shoulders and cheeks. Blue starched skirts fell to the ground. Magnificent hips admired themselves in mirrors. Hands would not let go. Never would hands let go. Whole shopsful laughed with pride to see so much beauty. Housekeepers dropped their dusters in amazement. Thieves restored stolen goods, hanged themselves and let themselves be buried. In all the world there was only one fortune, all the others had flowed into it. It belonged to no one. It belonged to one person only'. You could keep it. Stealing was prohibited. No need to Keep watch. You had something better to do. You churned the milk. The pat of butter which came out was pure gold and the size of a child's head. Fat savings books were bursting. Trunks for trousseaux were bursting too. There was nothing but savings books inside them. Nobody wanted to take them away. There were two people in the world who knew how to manage. One of those people was a woman; everything belonged to her. The other one was called Puda, nothing belonged to him, but instead he was allowed to manage the woman. Mothers, God rest them, turned in their graves. They grudged you every little thing. Tips to caretakers were abolished; because they all had pensions. Whatever you said came true. You got hard cash for the papers a thief had left behind. Books too earned beautiful money. The flat was sold for hard cash. A more beautiful one cost nothing. The old one hadn't even windows.
Thérèse was almost at home. The elastic guard of honour, long since snapped, had evaporated. The air was quiet again. Instead, customary things were drawing near. They were very simple, less rich, but on the other hand she was sure of them, sure of finding them and having them. When she was on the threshold, Thérèse said: 'Excuse me, it's a bit of luck for me he's married. Now I've got it all for myself' Only now did she ask herself what sort of capital she could possibly have lent to Mr. Brute. You have to have it in black and white in an affair of this kind, and signed too. She'd a right to a handsome interest. And a partnership. Thieving's forbidden. A bit of luck it never came to that. How can people be so thoughtless to part with their money! You'd never see a penny of it again.
'What's the matter with the Professor?' Bellowing, the caretaker barred her path. Thérèse started back and said nothing. She tried to think of an answer. If she told him her husband had robbed her, he'd notify the police. She wanted to put off notifying the police. Else the police would find her housekeeping money and ask her to account for it. As if he hadn't given it to her....
'I haven't seen him for a week! Don't tell me he's dead?'
'Excuse me, dead indeed. He's alive and kicking. He wouldn't know how to be dead.'
'Thought he might be ill, then. My respects to him and I'll come and call. I'm at his service any time.'
Thérèse lowered her head archly and asked: 'Maybe you know where he is? I want him urgently for the housekeeping money.'
The caretaker scented the cheat by means of his wife. So they were trying to do him out of his 'gratuity'. The Professor was hiding because he didn't want to give him anything. Anyway he wasn't a Professor. He — the caretaker — had given him the title, of his own free will. A couple of years ago he was plain Dr. Kien. So a title was worth nothing ! The trouble he'd taken to make everyone in the block call him Professor. You couldn't expect people to work for you for nothing. For services rendered you got a pension. He didn't want a present from that old stick, he wanted his gratuity. It was his pension. 'You allege,' he bellowed at Thérèse, 'your husband isn't at home?'
'But I ask you, no, not for a week. He said he was fed up. AU of a sudden he goes off and leaves me by myself. Housekeeping money, not a penny. It's not done! I'd like to know what time he goes to bed now. Respectable people go to bed at nine o'clock.'
'You are requested to inform the police!'
'But I ask you, when he goes off all on his own! He said he'd be back soon.'
'When?'
"When he felt like it, he said, he's always been like that, never thinks of anyone but himself, I ask you, other people have feelings too. It's not my fault is it?'
'Take care, sh— house, I'll come and have a look! If he's up there I'll beat you up proper. A hundred schillings that's what he owes me. Let the dirty swine look out! I'll show him what's what. I didn't used to be like that, but I'm bloody well going to be like that now!'
Thérèse was already walking along in front of him. She grasped the hatred of Kien which inspired his words. Up to now she had feared the caretaker as his only and invincible friend. Now she had her second stroke of luck that day. Once he saw that she was only telling the simple truth, he'd help her. Everyone was against the thief. Why was he a thief?
The caretaker slammed the door thunderously behind him. His steps, heavy with rage, terrified the tenants of the rooms below the library. For years they had been used to a deathly silence. The stairs were suddenly full of disputing people. Everyone thought it must be the caretaker. Up to now the Professor had been his Benjamin. The tenants hated Kien on account of the gratuity, which the caretaker on every possible occasion, cast in their teeth. Most probably the Professor was refusing to give him another penny. He was quite right of course, but deserved all he got. So far the caretaker had never let anyone off lightly. But it was a mystery to the tiptoe listeners, that they could hear no voices, only the well-known bellowing step.
For the rage of the caretaker was so great that he searched the flat in silence. He was saving up his anger. He was determined to make an example of Kien when he found him. Behind his grating teeth dozens of imprecations were accumulating. On his fists, the red hairs rose on end. He noticed it as he chucked aside the wardrobes in Therese's new bedroom. The sh— might be anywhere. Thérèse followed him with understanding. When he halted, she halted too, when he looked behind anything, she did likewise. He took little notice of her, after a minute or two he was as used to her as his shadow. She guessed he was holding in his mounting wrath. With his, her own grew too. Her husband wasn't only a thief, he'd gone ofFand abandoned her, a defenceless woman. She was silent, so as not to interrupt the caretaker; the closer they got to each odier, the less she feared him. Her bedroom she had allowed him to enter first. When she unbolted the other two closed rooms she went ahead of him. He glanced hastily over her old room next to the kitchen. He could only imagine Kien in a big room, however well hidden. In the kitchen he had a sudden impulse to smash all the crockery. But it would have been a shame to waste his fists; he spat on the stove and let things be. Now he stamped back into the study. On the way he stopped long to gaze at the coat stand. Kien was not suspended from it. He tossed over the huge writing desk. He needed both his fists for it and took awful vengeance for this humiliation. He grabbed at a bookshelf and flung several dozen volumes to the ground. Then he looked about him, to see if Kien would not suddenly appear. It was his last hope.
'Decamped!' he stated. His oaths had all forsaken him. He felt depressed by the loss of his ioo schillings. Together with his pension it secured him the gratification of his passion. He was a man of gigantic appetite. What would become of his spy-hole if he starved? He held out both his fists to Thérèse. The hairs were still all on end. 'Look at that!' he bellowed. 'In all my life I've never been in such a rage! Never!'
Thérèse looked at the books on the floor. He thought his fists were his apology and her compensation. She did feel compensated but not by his fists. 'But excuse me, he wasn't even a man!' she said.
'A bloody whore, that's what he was!' bellowed the injured party. 'A gangster! A wanted man! A murderer!'
Thérèse wanted to say 'a beggar' but he had already got as far as 'gangster'. And while she was thinking of'thief, his 'murderer' made any further bid impossible. He wasted little time swearing. Very soon he was mellowed again and began to pick up the books. Easily as he had thrown them down, they were hard to put back. Thérèse fetched the steps and climbed up herself. Her successful day moved her to sway her hips. With one hand the caretaker handed her the books, with the other he went for her and pinched her violently in the thigh. Her mouth watered. She was the first woman whom he had won by his method of wooing. All the others he had simply assaulted. Thérèse breathed to herself: There's a man! Again please. Aloud she said, bashfully: 'More!' He gave her a second pile of books and pinched her with equal violence on the left. Her mouth overflowed. Then it occurred to her that such things aren't done. She screamed and threw herself off the steps into his arms. He simply let her fall to the ground, broke open the starched skirt and had her.
When he got up, he said: 'That'll learn him, the old skeleton!' Thérèse sobbed: 'Excuse me, I belong to you now!' She had found a man. She had no intention of letting him go. He answered 'Shurrup!' and that very night moved into the flat. During the day he stayed at his post. At night he advised her, in bed. Litde by little he learnt what had really happened, and ordered her unobtrusively to pawn the books before her husband came back. He would keep half the proceeds as his due. He put the fear of God into her about her legal position. But he was an ex-policeman and would help her. For this reason too she obeyed him, unquestioning. Every third or fourth day they set off, heavily laden, for the Theresianum.