The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood Page B

true. You know how people talk.”
    “And I know how you listen, Fritz.”
    He grinned; not in the least offended: “There’s a story going round that eventually Norris is some kind of cheap crook.”
    “I must say, I should have thought that ‘cheap’ was hardly a word one could apply to him.”
    Fritz smiled a superior, indulgent smile.
    “I dare say it would surprise you to know that he’s been in prison?”
    “What you mean is, it’d surprise me to know that your friends say he’s been in prison. Well, it doesn’t in the least. Your friends would say anything.”
    Fritz didn’t reply. He merely continued to smile.
    “What’s he supposed to have been in prison for?” I asked.
    “I didn’t hear,” Fritz drawled. “But maybe I can guess.”
    “Well, I can’t.”
    “Look, Bill, exuse me a moment.” He had changed his tone now. He was serious. He laid his hand on my shoulder. “What I mean to say, the thing is this. Eventually, we two, we don’t give a damn, hell, for goodness’ sake. But we’ve got other people to consider besides ourselves, haven’t we? Suppose Norris gets hold of some kid and plucks him of his last cent?”
    “How dreadful that would be.”
    Fritz gave me up. His final shot was: “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you, that’s all.”
    “No, Fritz. I most certainly won’t.”
    We parted pleasantly.
    Perhaps Helen Pratt had been right about me. Stage by stage I was building up a romantic background for Arthur, and was jealous lest it should be upset. Certainly, I rather enjoyed playing with the idea that he was, in fact, a dangerous criminal; but I am sure that I never seriously believed in it for a moment. Nearly every member of my generation is a crime-snob. I was fond of Arthur with an affection strengthened by obstinacy. If my friends didn’t like him because of his mouth or his past, the loss was theirs; I was, I flattered myself, more profound, more humane, an altogether subtler connoisseur of human nature than they. And if, in my letters to England, I sometimes referred to him as “a most amazing old crook,” I only meant by this that I wanted to imagine him as a glorified being; audacious and self-reliant, reckless and calm. All of which, in reality, he only too painfully and obviously wasn’t.
    Poor Arthur! I have seldom known anybody with such weak nerves. At times, I began to believe he must be suffering from a mild form of persecution mania. I can see him now as he used to sit waiting for me in the most secluded corner of our favourite restaurant, bored, abstracted, uneasy; his hands folded with studied nonchalance in his lap, his head held at an awkward, listening angle, as though he expected, at any moment, to be startled by a very loud bang. I can hear him at the telephone, speaking cautiously, as close as possible to the mouthpiece and barely raising his voice above a whisper.
    “Hullo. Yes, it’s me. So you’ve seen that party? Good. Now when can we meet? Let’s say at the usual time, at the house of the person who is interested. And please ask that other one to be there, too. No, no. Herr D. It’s particularly important. Goodbye.”
    I laughed. “One would think, to hear you, that you were an arch-conspirator.”
    “A very arch conspirator,” Arthur giggled. “No, I assure. you, my dear William, that I was discussing nothing more desperate than the sale of some old furniture in which I happen to be—er—financially interested.”
    “Then why on earth all this secrecy?”
    “One never knows who may be listening.”
    “But, surely, in any case, it wouldn’t interest them very much?”
    “You can’t be too careful nowadays,” said Arthur vaguely.
    By this time, I had borrowed and read nearly all his “amusing” books. Most of them were extremely disappointing. Their authors adopted a curiously prudish, snobby, lower-middle-class tone, and, despite their sincere efforts to be pornographic, became irritatingly vague in the most important