hand on her fat, warm forearm, held up the sweater with the other, and asked with a laugh, “How much?” Rubbing thumb and forefinger together again, he added, “Pengös.”
The woman looked at him and shook her head, but he went on shrugging his shoulders and indicating that he had no money until she hesitantly picked up the sweater, turned it over, and carefully examined it, even sniffed it. She wrinkled her nose a little, then smiled and with a pencil quickly wrote a “30” next to the “14.” The soldier let go of her warm arm, nodded, raised his glass, and took another drink.
As the woman went back to the counter and eagerly began talking to the men in her throaty voice, the soldier simply opened his mouth and sang. He sang “When the Drum Roll Sounds for Me,” and suddenly realized he was singing well—singing well for the first time in his life; at the same time he realized he was drunker again, that everything was gently swaying. He took another look at his watch and saw he had three minutes in which to sing and be happy, and he started anothersong, “Innsbruck, I Must Leave You.” Then with a smile he took the money the woman had placed in front of him and put it in his pocket …
It was quite silent now in the bar. The two men with the threadbare trousers and the tired faces had turned toward him, and the woman had stopped on her way back to the counter and was listening quietly and solemnly, like a child.
The soldier finished his wine, lit another cigarette, and knew he would walk unsteadily. But before he left he put some money on the counter and, with a
“Bitte schön,”
pointed to the two men. All three stared after him as he at last opened the door and went out into the avenue of chestnut trees leading to the station, the avenue that was full of exquisite dark-green, dark-blue shadows where a fellow could have put his arms around his girl and kissed her good-bye …
DEAR OLD RENÉE
Whenever you turned up at her place around ten or eleven in the morning, she looked a real fat slattern. Her round massive shoulders bulged beneath the shapeless flowered smock, battered curlers were stuck in her lifeless hair like lead sinkers caught in muddy weeds; her face was bloated, and breadcrumbs still clung to the neckline of her smock. She made no attempt to conceal her unlovely morning appearance, for she was at home to only a few select customers—usually only me—whom she knew to be concerned less with her feminine charms than with her excellent drinks. And her drinks were excellent at that, and high-priced too; in those days she still had a very fine cognac. Besides, she gave credit. In the evening she was a real charmer: well-corseted, her shoulders and breasts high and firm, some sexy stuff sprayed on her hair and her eyes made up, scarcely a man could resist her, and perhaps I was one of the few she was willing to receive in the mornings just because she knew I was always able to withstand her charms in the evenings.
In the morning, around ten or eleven, she was a mess. Her disposition was bad then too, she was given to moralizing and to delivering herself of sententious utterances. When I knocked or rang (she preferred me to knock, “It sounds so intimate,” she used to say), I would hear her shuffling footsteps, the curtain behind the frosted-glass door would be pushed aside, and I could see her shadow. She would peer through the pattern of flowers on the glass pane, muttering: “Oh, it’s you,” and push back the bolt.
She was truly a repulsive sight, but it was the only decent tavern in the place, with its thirty-seven grimy houses and two run-down châteaux, and her drinks were first-rate; besides, she gave credit, and in addition to all this she was really very pleasant to talk to. And so the leaden morning hours would pass in no time. As a rule I stayed only until we could hear the distant voices of the company singing on its way back from drill, and it always gave you a funny
The woman looked at him and shook her head, but he went on shrugging his shoulders and indicating that he had no money until she hesitantly picked up the sweater, turned it over, and carefully examined it, even sniffed it. She wrinkled her nose a little, then smiled and with a pencil quickly wrote a “30” next to the “14.” The soldier let go of her warm arm, nodded, raised his glass, and took another drink.
As the woman went back to the counter and eagerly began talking to the men in her throaty voice, the soldier simply opened his mouth and sang. He sang “When the Drum Roll Sounds for Me,” and suddenly realized he was singing well—singing well for the first time in his life; at the same time he realized he was drunker again, that everything was gently swaying. He took another look at his watch and saw he had three minutes in which to sing and be happy, and he started anothersong, “Innsbruck, I Must Leave You.” Then with a smile he took the money the woman had placed in front of him and put it in his pocket …
It was quite silent now in the bar. The two men with the threadbare trousers and the tired faces had turned toward him, and the woman had stopped on her way back to the counter and was listening quietly and solemnly, like a child.
The soldier finished his wine, lit another cigarette, and knew he would walk unsteadily. But before he left he put some money on the counter and, with a
“Bitte schön,”
pointed to the two men. All three stared after him as he at last opened the door and went out into the avenue of chestnut trees leading to the station, the avenue that was full of exquisite dark-green, dark-blue shadows where a fellow could have put his arms around his girl and kissed her good-bye …
DEAR OLD RENÉE
Whenever you turned up at her place around ten or eleven in the morning, she looked a real fat slattern. Her round massive shoulders bulged beneath the shapeless flowered smock, battered curlers were stuck in her lifeless hair like lead sinkers caught in muddy weeds; her face was bloated, and breadcrumbs still clung to the neckline of her smock. She made no attempt to conceal her unlovely morning appearance, for she was at home to only a few select customers—usually only me—whom she knew to be concerned less with her feminine charms than with her excellent drinks. And her drinks were excellent at that, and high-priced too; in those days she still had a very fine cognac. Besides, she gave credit. In the evening she was a real charmer: well-corseted, her shoulders and breasts high and firm, some sexy stuff sprayed on her hair and her eyes made up, scarcely a man could resist her, and perhaps I was one of the few she was willing to receive in the mornings just because she knew I was always able to withstand her charms in the evenings.
In the morning, around ten or eleven, she was a mess. Her disposition was bad then too, she was given to moralizing and to delivering herself of sententious utterances. When I knocked or rang (she preferred me to knock, “It sounds so intimate,” she used to say), I would hear her shuffling footsteps, the curtain behind the frosted-glass door would be pushed aside, and I could see her shadow. She would peer through the pattern of flowers on the glass pane, muttering: “Oh, it’s you,” and push back the bolt.
She was truly a repulsive sight, but it was the only decent tavern in the place, with its thirty-seven grimy houses and two run-down châteaux, and her drinks were first-rate; besides, she gave credit, and in addition to all this she was really very pleasant to talk to. And so the leaden morning hours would pass in no time. As a rule I stayed only until we could hear the distant voices of the company singing on its way back from drill, and it always gave you a funny
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