Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque Page A

wasn’t necessary. Veber had known all he need know. He knew that Ravic was not permitted to operate. That was enough. That he worked with him nevertheless, was his affair. In this way he made money and could arrange for operations he did not dare perform himself. No one knew about it—only he and the nurse—and she kept quiet. It was the same with Durant. Whenever he had an operation to perform he stayed with the patient until he went under the anesthetic. Then Ravic came and performed the operation forwhich Durant was too old and incompetent. When the patient awoke later on, there was Durant, the proud surgeon, at his bedside. Ravic saw only the covered patient; he knew only the narrow iodine-stained area of the body bared for the operation. He very often did not know even on whom he operated. Durant gave him the diagnosis and he began to cut. Durant paid Ravic about one-tenth of what he received for an operation. Ravic didn’t mind. It was better than not operating at all. With Veber he worked on a more friendly basis. Veber paid him a quarter of the proceeds. That was fair.
    Ravic looked through the window. And what besides? There wasn’t much else left. But he was alive, that was enough. At a time when everything was tottering he had no wish to build up something that was bound shortly to fall into ruins. It was better to drift than to waste energy; that was the one thing that was irreplaceable. To survive meant everything—until somewhere a goal again became visible. The less energy that took, the better; then one would have it afterwards. The antlike attempt to build up a bourgeois life again and again in a century that was falling to pieces—he had seen that ruin many. It was touching, ridiculous, and heroic at the same time—and useless. It made one weary. An avalanche couldn’t be stopped once it had started to move; whoever tried, fell beneath it. Better to wait and later to dig out the victims. On long marches one had to travel light. Also when one was fleeing—
    Ravic looked at his watch. It was time to look at Lucienne Martinet. And then go to the Osiris.
    The whores in the Osiris were waiting. Although they were examined regularly by an official physician, the madame was not content with that. She could not afford to have anyone contract adisease in her place; for that reason she had made an arrangement with Veber to have the girls privately re-examined each Thursday. Sometimes Ravic substituted for him.
    The madame had furnished and equipped a place on the first floor as an examination room. She was proud of the fact that for more than a year none of her customers had caught anything in her establishment; but in spite of all the girls’ precautions seventeen cases of venereal disease had been caused by customers.
    Rolande, the
gouvernante
, brought Ravic a bottle of brandy and a glass. “I think Marthe has got something,” she said.
    “All right. I’ll examine her carefully.”
    “I haven’t let her work since yesterday. Naturally, she denies it.”
    “All right, Rolande.”
    The girls came in in their slips, one after the other. Ravic knew almost all of them; only two were new.
    “You don’t have to examine me, doctor,” said Léonie, a red-haired Gascon.
    “Why not?”
    “No clients the whole week.”
    “What does madame say to that?”
    “Nothing. I made them order a lot of champagne. Seven, eight bottles a night. Three businessmen from Toulouse. Married. All three of them would have liked to, but none of them dared because of the others. Each was afraid if he came with me the others would talk about it at home. That’s why they drank; each thought he would outlast the others.” Léonie laughed and scratched herself lazily. “The one who didn’t pass out wasn’t able to stand up.”
    “All right. Nevertheless, I’ve got to examine you.”
    “It’s all right with me. Have you a cigarette, doctor?”
    “Yes, here.”
    Ravic took a swab and colored it. Then he pushed the glass