Heaven Has No Favorites: A Novel by Erich Maria Remarque; Translated by Richard Winston and Clara Winston Page A

the sleigh away, Boris,” she replied. “I don’t need it. This is Mr. Clerfayt. You’ve already met him.”
    Clerfayt rose, a shade too negligently.
    “Really?” Volkov said. “Oh, so I have. I beg your pardon.” He glanced at Clerfayt, and past him. “You had that sports car that made the horses shy, hadn’t you?”
    Clerfayt felt the hidden disdain. He did not reply, and remained standing.
    “I suppose you have forgotten you’re due to be X-rayed tomorrow,” Volkov said to Lillian.
    “I have not forgotten, Boris.”
    “You must be rested and well-slept.”
    “I know that. I have time enough.”
    She spoke slowly, as if answering a child who did not understand. Clerfayt realized that this was her only way of restraining her irritation. He felt almost sorry for the Russian; the man was in a hopeless situation. “Won’t you sit down?” he asked, not entirely with benevolent intent.
    “No thanks,” Volkov replied coldly, as if he were speaking to a waiter who had asked whether he wished to order anything. Like Clerfayt a moment before, he sensed the other man’s disdain.
    “I am waiting for someone,” he said to Lillian. “If you want the sleigh meanwhile—”
    “No, Boris! I am going to stay.”
    Clerfayt had had enough. “I brought Miss Dunkerque here,” he said quietly. “And I think I am capable of taking her back.”
    Volkov looked fully at him for the first time. His expression changed. He almost smiled. “I am afraid you misunderstand me,” he said. “But there would be no point in explaining.”
    He bowed to Lillian, and for a moment it seemed as if the mask of superiority were falling away, and there was nothing he could do to preserve it. Then he composed himself and went to the bar.
    Clerfayt sat down. He was dissatisfied with himself. What am Iup to? he thought. After all, I’m no longer twenty years old. “Why don’t you go back with him?” he asked.
    “Do you want to get rid of me?”
    He looked at her. She seemed really helpless, but he knew that helplessness was the most dangerous attribute a woman could have—for no woman was really helpless. “Of course not,” he said. “Then we’ll stay.”
    She craned a bit to see the bar. “He isn’t going,” she said softly. “He’s watching me. He thinks I’ll give in.”
    Clerfayt took the bottle and filled their glasses. “Good. Let’s see who holds out longest.”
    “You don’t understand him,” Lillian countered sharply. “He isn’t jealous.”
    “Isn’t he?”
    “No. He’s unhappy and sick and concerned about me. It’s easy to be superior when you’re healthy.”
    Clerfayt set the bottle down on the table. This damn loyal little bird! No sooner was she saved, than she pecked at the rescuing hand. “Possibly,” he said evenly. “But is it a crime to be well?”
    The expression in Lillian’s eyes changed. “Of course not,” she murmured. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I had better go.”
    She reached for her handbag, but did not get up. Clerfayt had had enough of her for the day, but not for anything in the world would he have let her go as long as Volkov stood at the bar waiting for her. He was not yet that old, he thought. “You don’t have to be careful about my feelings,” he said. “I’m not very sensitive.”
    “Everybody here is sensitive.”
    “I’m not from here.”
    “Yes,” Lillian said. “I suppose that’s it!”
    “What?”
    She smiled. “That’s what gets on all our nerves. Haven’t you noticed? Even your friend Hollmann’s.”
    Clerfayt looked at her in surprise. “That could be true. I probably shouldn’t have come.” He nodded toward the bar. “Do I get on Volkov’s nerves, too?”
    “Haven’t you noticed?”
    “I suppose so. He certainly doesn’t try to hide it.”
    “He’s leaving,” Lillian said.
    Clerfayt could see that. “And what about you?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be in the sanatorium too—rather than here?”
    “Who knows? The Dalai