but to pay with his life. Beck, who had left the fray and embarked on a new liaison [Sibylle had not been destined for him!] but kept an eye on developments, would reply to them: "But he is paying, look at the life he's living." And Friedrich himself remained entangled in the inevitable conclusion of all his thinking: She is destined for me! I will one day prevail Perhaps he was a gambler. We like to seek out the banal and otherworldly explanation, and are afraid to say: "He had been chosen by Fate [the devilish or demonic, but always, one way or another, the destructive force] to love this one among all the women in the world."
He stood in front of the door of the St. Peter's Hostel, and was five minutes late. He had taken a cab to ease his journey. To take the weight off his feet. To be able to bound up the steps. Once, she had said to him: "You don't love me at all, that's just an illusion; but you love the idea of being in love with me!" He knocked on the door and opened it and knew, when he saw her lying in an iron bed crowded with toys, black dogs and brown bears, still sleepy, pink, dreamy, rubbing her eyes, looking up and then stretching out her hand, the smell of her perfume, "After the Storm," in the room, and the smell of her, Sibyllesmell, the aroma he had once whimpered to dwell in [in one of his letters to her, he had written: "In the Northland, in the upper reaches of the Baltic, where lonely pines rise out of the tundra, and beckon to your sisters in the white nights of June, where reindeer graze, unsaddled and unmilked by men, the air is so pure in the soft drift of the summer breeze that it must be like the coming and going of your sleeping breath, Sibylle"], and he knew that the accusation about being in love with love was nonsense. He would so have liked to say: "Little Sibylle," and sit down on her bed, but that wasn't possible, that didn't accord with the protocol that had established itself between them, and which broadly he respected.
"Will you go and get me some breakfast?" she asked, and he went downstairs to the dining room, and there, at the buffet, softly [because, while he enjoyed serving others, being served made him bashful] asked for breakfast for the lady in room fourteen. And while he was standing at the buffet waiting, and watching the maid disappear into the kitchen with his order, his eyes, for once raised up, happened to light upon a sign over the cupboard where the bottles were kept, a dusty, smoked sign that read in old-fashioned signwriting: ST. PETER'S HOSTEL, DOCTOR MAGNUS FOUNDATION FOR REFUGEES OF ALL NATIONS.
What was this, what did that signify: "Doctor Magnus Foundation for Refugees of All Nations"? Was Sibylle a refugee? Hardly. But then why was she sleeping in a hostel for refugees? Anyway, what refugees, and who was this Doctor Magnus that he felt able to take them in? The simplest explanation was that this was merely an old sign, a pub sign, a bit of the history of the hostel, and without any relevance to today, kept out of piety and respect, and hung up over the cupboard of wines and essences and brandies. That must be it, in the Wild Man Pub, you hardly expected to run into the wild man in person. And yet, Friedrich felt vaguely disquieted by the sign. Moved by the sleepy face of his beloved, he had been on his way back to her, to resume their old game, a man who is happy if his humble, loving gift is accepted. Now experience called on him to "Beware." What new traps were lying open for him? He was ready to tie the mask on tighter, to play the traveler passing through, merely by chance, with no particular interest. As he turned to go back upstairs to Sibylle's room, he saw Anja. She stood behind him, she must have crept into the room like an animal on velvet paws. Night hadn't changed her. She was unkempt and didn't seem to have taken off her clothes. The shaggy sheepskin hung off her just as heavily as it had the previous evening. Even the cigarette she was drawing on
He stood in front of the door of the St. Peter's Hostel, and was five minutes late. He had taken a cab to ease his journey. To take the weight off his feet. To be able to bound up the steps. Once, she had said to him: "You don't love me at all, that's just an illusion; but you love the idea of being in love with me!" He knocked on the door and opened it and knew, when he saw her lying in an iron bed crowded with toys, black dogs and brown bears, still sleepy, pink, dreamy, rubbing her eyes, looking up and then stretching out her hand, the smell of her perfume, "After the Storm," in the room, and the smell of her, Sibyllesmell, the aroma he had once whimpered to dwell in [in one of his letters to her, he had written: "In the Northland, in the upper reaches of the Baltic, where lonely pines rise out of the tundra, and beckon to your sisters in the white nights of June, where reindeer graze, unsaddled and unmilked by men, the air is so pure in the soft drift of the summer breeze that it must be like the coming and going of your sleeping breath, Sibylle"], and he knew that the accusation about being in love with love was nonsense. He would so have liked to say: "Little Sibylle," and sit down on her bed, but that wasn't possible, that didn't accord with the protocol that had established itself between them, and which broadly he respected.
"Will you go and get me some breakfast?" she asked, and he went downstairs to the dining room, and there, at the buffet, softly [because, while he enjoyed serving others, being served made him bashful] asked for breakfast for the lady in room fourteen. And while he was standing at the buffet waiting, and watching the maid disappear into the kitchen with his order, his eyes, for once raised up, happened to light upon a sign over the cupboard where the bottles were kept, a dusty, smoked sign that read in old-fashioned signwriting: ST. PETER'S HOSTEL, DOCTOR MAGNUS FOUNDATION FOR REFUGEES OF ALL NATIONS.
What was this, what did that signify: "Doctor Magnus Foundation for Refugees of All Nations"? Was Sibylle a refugee? Hardly. But then why was she sleeping in a hostel for refugees? Anyway, what refugees, and who was this Doctor Magnus that he felt able to take them in? The simplest explanation was that this was merely an old sign, a pub sign, a bit of the history of the hostel, and without any relevance to today, kept out of piety and respect, and hung up over the cupboard of wines and essences and brandies. That must be it, in the Wild Man Pub, you hardly expected to run into the wild man in person. And yet, Friedrich felt vaguely disquieted by the sign. Moved by the sleepy face of his beloved, he had been on his way back to her, to resume their old game, a man who is happy if his humble, loving gift is accepted. Now experience called on him to "Beware." What new traps were lying open for him? He was ready to tie the mask on tighter, to play the traveler passing through, merely by chance, with no particular interest. As he turned to go back upstairs to Sibylle's room, he saw Anja. She stood behind him, she must have crept into the room like an animal on velvet paws. Night hadn't changed her. She was unkempt and didn't seem to have taken off her clothes. The shaggy sheepskin hung off her just as heavily as it had the previous evening. Even the cigarette she was drawing on
Similar Books
