That wasn’t a bad exit. Hopefully they won’t think I’m jealous. – Cousin Paul and Cissy Mohr: I’m certain something's going on between those two. Nothing in the world would interest me less. – Turn around one last time and smile at them. Smile and laugh. Do I look less grumpy now? – God, they’re still playing. I’m better at tennis than Cissy Mohr, and Paul’s no matador either. But he is good-looking, with the open collar and that ‘bad-boy’ expression he has. If only he were less affected. No need to worry, Auntie Emma . . .
What a lovely evening! It would have been perfect weather for a hike to the cabin on the Rosetta. The way the Cimone soars into the sky! Simply sublime. – We could have set out at five o’clock. I would have been ratty and miserable to start with, of course. But just the fleeting sort of miserable. Nothing more splendid than to be walking in the mountains as the day breaks over them. – That one-eyed American at the cabin, he’d looked like a boxer. Maybe he’d had his eye boxed out in a prize-fight. Perhaps I’ll get married in America—but never to an American. Or perhaps I shall marry an American but live in Europe. Villa on the Riviera. Marble steps descending into the sea. I, draped naked on the marble. – How long were we in Menton for? Seven years, or thereabouts. I must have been thirteen or fourteen. Ah, we belonged to a far better set in those days. Why on earth was the hike called off? We all would have been back by now, so I don't know what the fuss was about. It was four when I left for tennis, and the express letter Mama telegraphed about still hadn’t arrived by then. Who knows whether it’s here now. There would have been time for one more set. – Why is this young couple smiling at me? We’re not friends. They’ve been in the hotel since yesterday, eating at the table by the window where the Dutchmen used to sit. Am I being a grump? Or stuck-up? I’m no snob. What did Fred tell me I was, on the way home from Corolianus? Fulsome. No: winsome. ‘Not stuck-up, Else; you’re far too winsome!’ – A pretty word. He always finds pretty words. – What am I dragging my feet for? Am I really so afraid of Mama’s letter? No doubt it contains something horrific. Express! Maybe I’ll have to go back home. Oh, what a pain. What a life – the silk sweaters and stockings don’t make a whit of difference. The poor relation put up by the wealthy aunt. No doubt she’s ruing it now. Shall I have to put in writing, dearest Aunt, that my every waking thought is not filled with visions of Paul? Ah, but I don’t dream about anyone. I’m not in love – not with anyone. I have never been in love. Not even with Albert, though for a week I thought I might have been. I’m incapable of falling in love it seems. Strange thing. For I’m clearly a sensual person. And also winsome but also a grump—thank God. I was thirteen the first time I fell truly in love. With Van Dyk. – No: no: it was with the Abbé Des Grieux, and I suppose with Renard as well. And at sixteen I fell in love at the Wörthersee. – Ah, but there wasn’t anything in that. What’s brought on all this harking back? Hardly as if I’m old enough to be planning a memoir. I’m not even keeping a diary like Bertha is. Fred is a nice boy, nothing more. Perhaps if he were more elegant . . . So I am a snob after all. Papa certainly thinks so. He teases me about it. Oh, dear Papa, you make me worry so. Has he ever been unfaithful to Mama? Of course he has. Many times. Mama is fairly stupid. She doesn’t have the faintest idea about who I am. Nor does anyone else. Fred? – An inkling perhaps, but only the very faintest. – Oh, but isn’t the evening air sublime! The hotel looks so warm and happy from the outside. You can almost feel it. All the happy carefree people in there, so loudly enjoying themselves. Happy carefree people such as myself. Ha! Shame. I wish I’d been born into the carefree life. It all could have turned out so much better. It really is a shame. – The Cimone really is aglow tonight—so very red. Paul would call it: alpenglow. But this isn’t alpenglow, Paul, not by any stretch. It really is heartbreakingly pretty. Ah, why must we go back to the city!
‘Good evening, Fräulein Else.’ – ‘How do you do, madame Winawer.’ ‘Back from tennis?’ – Clearly. Why even ask? ‘Yes, madame Winawer. We played for three hours. Is madame Winawer out for a walk?’ – ‘Yes, my evening constitutional. The bridle path. It goes so beautifully through the meadows, but in the daytime the light is almost blinding.’ – ‘Yes, the meadows here are magnificent, aren’t they. Especially in the moonlight from my window.’ –
‘Good evening, Fräulein Else.’ – ‘How do you do, madame Winawer.’ – ‘Back from tennis, Fräulein Else?’ – ‘What a keen observation, Herr von Dorsday.’ – ‘Be nice, Else.’ – What happened to ‘Fräulein Else’? – ‘When a girl looks as fetching as you do with a racket, one can’t be sure whether she carries it for sport or for fashion.’ – Ass. It’s beneath me to dignify that remark. ‘We played all afternoon. But sadly it was only the three of us. Paul, Frau Mohr and I.’ – ‘I used to be a fiend for tennis.’ – ‘But not anymore?’ – ‘Now I’m too old.’ – ‘Oh, old, at the Marienlyst there was a fifty-five-year-old Swede who played every evening from six till eight. I heard he even played in a tournament the year before.’ – ‘Well, I’m not fifty-five yet, thank God; and alas, nor am I a Swede.’ – Why ‘alas’? Perhaps that was an attempt at humour. Best to smile and leave. ‘Goodbye, madame Winawer. Adieu, Herr von Dorsday.’ Look how low he’s bowing—and the expression on his face! Cow eyes. Did I hurt him with the fifty-five-year-old Swede? More’s the pity. Frau Winawer looks like an unhappy woman. She must be close to fifty. Those bags under her eyes; looks as if she’s been crying. Oh, how awful to be so old. Herr von Dorsday is consoling her. Going over to her side. He is still fairly good-looking, with his grey-speckled goatee. But a pleasant man he is not. He is pure affectation. However much you pay your tailor, it isn’t enough, Herr von Dorsday. Dorsday! I’m sure that wasn’t the name your parents gave you. – Here comes Cissy’s sweet little girl and her nanny. – ‘Good evening, Fritzi. Bon soir, Mademoiselle. Vous allez bien?’ – ‘Merci, Mademoiselle, oui. Et vous?’ ‘Goodness Fritzi, is that alpenstock yours? It’s beautiful. You could climb all the way to the top of the Cimone with it.’ – ‘Oh no, I’m not allowed to go up so high.’ – ‘Boo! Next year you’ll be big enough and they’ll let you. Cheerio, Fritzi. A bientôt, Mademoiselle.’ – ‘Bon soir, Mademoiselle.’
Pretty girl. How on earth did she end up a nanny? And working for Cissy at that. A bitter fate. But – oh, God – it could happen to me too. No. I would find something better. Better? – The evening’s simply delicious. ‘The air here is like champagne,’ – that’s what Doctor Waldberg said yesterday. The day before he said it too. – Why is everyone in the hall with the weather so perfect? I can’t begin to understand. Or maybe they’re all waiting for their own express letters? Porter’s seen me; if there were an express letter for me, he’d have brought it over immediately. So no letter. Thank God. I’ll have a lie-down before supper. Why does Cissy call it ‘souper’? A stupid affectation. Cissy and Paul are a perfect match. – Ugh, if only the letter were here already. Now it’ll arrive in the middle of ‘souper’. And if it doesn’t arrive at all, I shan’t sleep a wink. The night before I slept miserably, too. I suppose I rarely sleep well these days. And with my leg always cramping up. Third of September is today. So most likely on the sixteenth. I’ll take a Veronal. Oh no, I shan’t become dependent. No no, dear Fred, you mustn’t worry your little head about me. When we talk in my thoughts I’m always very familiar to him. – One ought to try everything once, even hashish. I believe Lieutenant Brandel has brought some more hashish back with him from China. Do you drink hashish? Or smoke it? They say it sends you into splendid visions. Brandel invited me to drink – or smoke – some with him. A boor. But handsome.
‘Excuse me, Fräulein, a letter for you.’ – The porter! After all! – Turn around, cooly. It could just as easily be a letter from Karoline, or Bertha, or Fred, or Miss Jackson. ‘Thank you.’ From Mama. Express. Then why didn’t he say so? ‘Oh, an express letter!’ I’ll take it up to my room and read it where it’s quiet. – The marchesa. In the half-light she looks so young. But she must be forty-five at least. Dead soon, then. I hope so. Smiling so pleasantly at me, as usual. Let her by, acknowledge her with a small nod, – it is hardly a great honour, a smile from a marchesa. – ‘Buona sera.’ – She’s telling me buona sera now. Well I suppose that requires a bow. Was that too low? She really is so very old. The way she carries herself when she walks: splendid bearing. Is she divorced? I have an attractive walk too. But: I know that it is. That’s the difference, yes. – An Italian could spell trouble for me. A shame the dark handsome man with the Roman nose isn’t here anymore. ‘He looks like a rogue.’ Paul’s words. Ah God, I’ve nothing against rogues; quite the opposite. – Here I am. Room seventy-seven. Lucky number. Handsome room. Well-appointed. Swiss pine. My maidenly bed over there. – Now there really is an alpenglow. But if Paul were here I would tell him he’s wrong and there isn’t. Really Paul is quite shy. A doctor, a women’s doctor! That likely has something do with it. The day before in the forest, we were so far out in front of the others, he could have taken liberties – far more than he did. But then it wouldn’t have ended well for him. I’m yet to meet someone who has truly taken liberties with me. The most: at the Wörthersee, three years ago, in the pool. Liberties? No, he was simply crass. A brute. But handsome. Apollo from Belvedere. I didn’t entirely understand back then. Well back then I was only . . . sixteen. My heavenly meadow! My—! If only I could take it back to Vienna with me. Gentle mist. Autumn, so soon? Well, yes, we’re in the mountains. Third of September.
Now, Fräulein Else, when are you going to sit down and read this letter? It need not have anything to do with Papa. Mightn’t it have anything to do with my brother either? Perhaps he’s got himself engaged to his flame? Some choirgirl or gloveress. Ah, no, I think he’s too sensible for that. I suppose I don’t really know him very well. For a little while, when I was sixteen and he twenty-one, we were very close. Always talking to me about some Lotty. Then one day he stopped, quite suddenly. Lotty must’ve done something to him. Because ever since then he doesn’t talk to me at all. – It’s open now, the letter; I didn’t even realise I’d opened it. Sit on the windowsill and read the thing. Take care I don’t fall out the window. Tragedy has struck the hotel Fratazza. Fräulein Else T., nineteen, a famous beauty, the daughter of a prominent lawyer . . . Naturally it would say I’d flung myself out of the window after some unhappy romance or because I was ‘in a delicate way’. Romance, ah no.
‘My dear child,’ – I just want to see how it ends. – ‘And once more let me say, please don’t be upset with us, darling child. We send you all our’ – then they haven’t killed themselves! Christ. No: if they had, Rudi would’ve sent news. – ‘Dearest child, you can well imagine how sorry I am to disturb your pleasant holiday in the mountains’ – my life is nothing but holidays, worse luck – ‘with disagreeable news, but after much deliberation I believe, truly, that I have no other recourse. The long and the short of it’ – such a turgid style Mama writes in – ‘is that Papa’s matter has become acute. I am at a loss as to what to say to him, and what action to take.’ – All this preamble. What’s she sidling up to? – ‘The sum concerned is far from princely, all things considered: thirty thousand gulden,’ – not princely? – ‘which he must produce within three days, otherwise all is lost.’ Christ, what does she mean by that? – ‘Can you imagine, dearest child, that Baron Höning’ – who, the prosecutor? – ‘visited Papa earlier today. You know how highly the Baron thinks of Papa; the man positively adores him. A year and a half ago, when Papa was in similar jeopardy, he spoke personally with Papa’s main creditor and an arrangement was reached at the eleventh hour. But this time there will be no magic fix if the money cannot be produced. Beyond the fact that the affair will ruin us, the scandal will be unprecedented. Just imagine: a lawyer, a famous lawyer, who . . . No, I cannot bring myself to write anymore. It is all I can do not to burst into tears. You will know, dear child, because you are clever, that over the years we have – alas! – found ourselves in similar positions at times, and that in such times the family has always come to our rescue. The last time it was over a debt of one hundred and twenty thousand gulden. But after that matter they made Papa sign an affidavit that he would not in the future approach any of our relatives, and Uncle Bernhard in particular.’ – Yes, yes, where is this going? What on earth am I supposed to do about any of this? – ‘The next best person who came to our minds was Uncle Victor, but he is away on a tour of Scotland, or the North Cape’ – he would be, the man’s stinking rich – ‘and is unreachable, at least for the moment. Of Papa’s colleagues, Doctor Sch., whom Papa often used to represent’ – dear God, so it’s come to that – ‘is out of the question, since his recent remarriage’ – then what, what, for God’s sake, do they want from me? – ‘but then your letter arrived, darling child, in which you mention among other people Dorsday, and that he is also staying at the Fratazza, whereupon the idea came to us in an instant. You may recall how Dorsday often used to visit us?’ – Often enough, yes. – ‘If we have seen somewhat less of him recently, it is not on account of any souring of relations; he’s said to be tangled up in une affaire du Coeur (though between ourselves, the object of his affection is really nothing special).’ – Why “between ourselves?” – ‘Papa still sees him at whist on Thursdays at the Rezidenzklub, and last winter he saved him a packet of money in a suit against another art dealer. And I see no reason not to tell you this also: he has come to Papa’s rescue once already.’ – I guessed as much. – ‘It was a trifle, that time, truly: eight thousand gulden,’ – well finally we’re getting to it – ‘and for Dorsday thirty thousand would be nothing extraordinary either. This is when it occurred to me: perhaps you might show your love for us by broaching Papa’s matter with Doorsday.’ – What? – ‘The man has always been very fond of you’ – that passed me by. Stroked my cheek once, when I was twelve or thirteen. Said to me: ‘My, how you’ve you grown.’ – ‘And because, thank God, Papa hasn’t approached him since the eight thousand gulden matter, he won’t refuse him this kindness. He’s said to have made eighty thousand only the other day, from a Rubens he sold in America. Obviously you are not to mention this to him.’ – Do you take me for a fool, Mama? – ‘But otherwise you may be perfectly candid. You might also tell him, if the opportunity presents itself, that Papa has Baron Höning in his corner. And tell him too that thirty thousand gulden will brace us against the worst of the storm—and not only that. God willing, it will help us to save ourselves for good.’ – Do you really believe that, Mama? – ‘I say so because the prospects of the Erbesheimer case are very sunny indeed: Papa stands to earn at least a hundred thousand gulden, although of course he cannot request his fee from the Erbesheimers just yet. So, I beseech you, darling child, speak with Dorsday. I promise you it will be short, sweet and simple. Papa could just as easily send him a telegraph, indeed this was something we both considered, but it becomes quite a different proposition altogether, child, when one speaks with a person directly in these matters. By noon on the sixteenth the money must be there; on this Doktor F.’ – Who is Doktor F.? Oh yes, Fiala. – ‘is categorical. Naturally, some personal animosity has come into play. But because this matter involves money from a trust’ – No, Papa! You didn’t! What on earth have you done? – ‘this is to be expected. If the money is not in F.’s hands by midday on the fifteenth, an arrest warrant will be issued; this is the longest that Baron Höning can restrain him. Dorsday must telegraph the sum to Doctor F. via his bank. And then we will be saved. Failing this, God knows what will happen to us. Believe me, dear child, in all of this your task is by far the simplest. Papa was very reluctant to see you involved. He had been pursuing other avenues, but they have all proved fruitless, and he returned yesterday in a state of despair.’ – Is Papa capable of despair? – ‘It is less the money, I think, and more that the people he met with treated him despicably. One of them was once Papa’s closest friend. You may know the man to whom I refer.’ – I couldn’t even guess. Papa has had so many closest friends over the years. Warnsdorf, perhaps? – ‘Papa came home at one, and it is now four in the morning. He has finally fallen asleep, thank heavens.’ – Better for him if he never woke up. – ‘I will be taking this letter to the post office personally in the early morning, and I will send it express so that you receive it on the morning of the third.’ – Why has Mama got herself involved? She’s never had the brains for this sort of business. – ‘So I implore you: speak to Dorsday immediately, then send news of his decision forthwith. God willing, Aunt Emma won’t catch wind. It is sad that one cannot turn to one’s own sister in these matters, but you would have as much luck pleading with a stone. My dear, darling child, you cannot know how much it pains me that you should be involved in such unseemly business in the flower of your youth, but believe me, Papa is only the smallest part to blame.’ – Then whose fault is it, Mama? – ‘For now, we pray to God that the outcome of the Erbesheimer trial will draw a line beneath all the hard times in our lives. It is simply a question of surviving the next few weeks. It would be a cruel joke if catastrophe were to befall us now, and over thirty thousand gulden!’ – She can’t seriously believe that Papa would . . . But would the alternative be any worse? – ‘I must end this letter, dear child. I hope that whatever happens you will’ – whatever happens? – ‘be able to see out your holiday in San Martino, at the very least until the nineteenth or the twentieth. Do not come home on our account. Please send my regards to your aunt. Go on being nice to her. And once more let me say, please don’t be upset with us, my darling child. We send you all our’ – yes, I know that part.
So I’m to pump Herr Dorsday for money . . . Ridiculous. How on earth did the idea enter Mama’s head? Why hasn’t Papa simply come here on the train? – It would’ve been just as quick as an express letter. Although if he did, it might have looked as if he were trying to abscond . . . – Awful, just awful! Even thirty thousand gulden won’t dig us out of our mess. The same story, always! For seven years! No: longer than that. Who’d think it to look at me? No one would suspect, even Papa wouldn’t. But everyone knows anyway. I cannot explain how we’ve kept our heads above water. You can become used to anything, I suppose! And somehow we manage to live quite comfortably despite it all. Mama is a true artist. That New Year’s supper last year, with fourteen guests – incomprehensible how she managed that. And now the letter is in my hand. The letter is completely ridiculous. I’m to talk to Dorsday? How humiliating. – But why should I find it embarrassing? I’ve done nothing wrong. – What if I talked to Aunt Emma? Absurd. She wouldn’t have nearly enough money. And her husband’s a stingy bore. Oh God, why do I have no money? Why haven’t I made any? Why haven’t I learned anything useful? Oh, but I’ve been a good student! Who can say that I haven’t learned anything? I play the piano, I can speak French, English, even a little Italian, I’ve attended art history lectures —haha! And even if I’d learned something useful, what good would that have done me? I would never have saved thirty thousand gulden.
*
The air is like champagne. In an hour is supper, is ‘souper’. I cannot bear that Cissy. She doesn’t care a damn for her little girl. What shall I wear? Blue or black? Black might be more appropriate for tonight. Too décolleté? A ‘toilette de circonstance’, they call it in the French novels. I must look irresistible when I talk to Dorsday. It will be after supper, very casual. His eyes will be boring holes in my chest. Disgusting man. I hate him. I hate everyone. Must it really be Dorsday? Is it really only the Dorsdays of the world who have thirty thousand gulden to spare? What if I talked to Paul? If he said to aunt Emma that he has gambling debts, – then she would no doubt find some money from somewhere. So dark already. Night. Dead of night. I wish I were dead. – That’s not true. What if I went downstairs right now, and spoke to Dorsday before supper? Ah, how terrible! – Paul, if you find me thirty thousand gulden, you may do with me what you will. I’m sure that happened in a novel I read. The noble daughter sells herself to save her beloved father, and gets a little pleasure for herself in the bargain. Disgusting! No, Paul, even thirty thousand gulden wouldn’t be enough to let me let you. I wouldn’t let anyone. How about for a million? – For a palace? For a necklace of pearls? When I marry, I think I shall live more simply. Would it be so bad? Fanny sold herself. She told me she detests her husband. So, Papa, would you be proud if tonight I put myself up for sale? If it would keep you out of a prison cell? This feeling! I must be coming down with a fever, there’s no question. Or is it my period? No: fever. Likely from the air. Like champagne. – What advice would Fred give me, if he were here. I don’t need advice. There’s no advice to give. I am to seek an audience with Herr Dorsday d’Eperies, and I am to tap him for money, I, the winsome grump, the aristocrat, the marchesa, the beggaress, the daughter of a pair of swindlers. How have I been reduced to this? How did it come to this? No one climbs better than I do, no one has my pluck, my vim, – I’m a sporting girl. I should have been born in England, or a countess. The clothes in the cupboard! Has the green coat been paid for? I think only the first instalment. I’ll wear the black one. They were all staring at me yesterday. Even the short pale man with the gold pince-nez. Beautiful I’m not, not truly, but I do look interesting. I should have had a career on the stage. Bertha has had three lovers already, and none of them seem to hold it against her . . . In Düsseldorf there was the director. And the married man who took her to Hamburg. They stayed at the Atlantic, in an apartment with a bathroom. I almost think she takes some sort of pride in it. What fools they all are. I will take hundreds of lovers, thousands, why not? No, the neckline isn’t décolleté enough; if I were to get married, the dress would have to plunge. – I’m so glad you’re here, Herr von Dorsday, I’ve just received a letter from Vienna . . . I will keep the letter close. Should I ring for the chambermaid? No, I’ll do it myself. The black dress I can put on by myself. If I were rich, I would travel everywhere with a handmaid. I must turn on a light. It’s cold. Draw the curtain? – No point. Hardly as if there are men on the mountain at this hour. No one leering through telescopes trained on my window. Worse luck. – I’ve just received a letter, Herr von Dorsday. – It might be better to do it after supper. Spirits will be lighter. Even Dorsday’s. – And it would allow for a glass of wine beforehand. Though if the thing were done before supper, the food would taste better. Pudding à la merveille, fromage et fruits divers. And if Herr von Dorsday says no? – Or if he propositions me? Ah no, no one’s propositioned me before. Well, there was Lieutenant Brandel, but that was fairly harmless. – I’ve lost even more weight. That works in my favour. The night is looking in. Like a great ghost. Hundreds of ghosts. From my meadow the ghosts rise up. How far is Vienna? How long have I been away? How alone I am! I have no girlfriends, I have no male-friends either. Where are they? Whom will I marry? Who marries a swindler’s daughter? I have a letter, Herr von Dorsday [ . . . ]
Why am I locking the door? Nothing gets stolen here. Does Cissy leave her door open at night? Or does she only unlock it when he knocks? Is it safe, then? Of course it is. And then they lie in bed together. How vile. My bedroom will be mine, and neither my husband nor my thousands of lovers will ever be permitted to enter. – Not a soul on the staircase but me, all the way down. Always empty around this time. My footsteps are making an echo. I’ve been here three weeks. On 12 August I left Gmunden. Gmunden was a bore. Where did Papa find the money to send Mama and me there? And Rudi was away for four weeks too – travelling. God knows where. He barely wrote to us. This existence I shall never understand. I suppose Mama doesn’t have jewellery anymore. – Why did Fred only stay in Gmunden two days? A lover? Now that I simply cannot imagine. It’s been eight days since he last wrote. He writes pretty letters. – Who’s that sitting at the small table? No, it’s not Dorsday. Thank heavens. I’m not up to talking to him now. After dinner. – Why is the porter looking at me like that? Did he read Mama’s express letter after all? I think I’m going mad. I must tip him generously the next chance I have. – Smell of food’s drawn the blonde from her room. How can someone be so fat! – I’ll go for a little stroll outside. Or shall I go to the music room? Who’s that playing? . . . A sonata! Ugh, how could anyone think to play Beethoven here! I’ve neglected the piano. In Vienna I shall take it up again. And start life over. We all have to. It can’t keep on like this. First I’ll sit Papa down and talk to him seriously. If there’s still time for that. There will be, there will be. Why’ve I never done it before? At home the slightest hint of serious talk is snuffed out by a joke, we’re none of us brave enough to call spades spades. We’re all scared of each other; we’re each of us alone. Mama is alone because she hasn’t the brains to know who the people around her really are. She doesn’t know a thing about me, about Rudi, about Papa. She doesn’t realise, and Rudi doesn’t realise either. He’s a pleasant boy and he has charm, yes, but at twenty-one it seemed he would amount to more. Going to Holland will do him good. But where will I go? I’d like to be able to leave and do whatever I want. If Papa goes to America, I shall accompany him. I’m so confused already . . . The porter will think I’m mad, the way I’m sitting on the armrest, staring into space. I’ll light a cigarette. Where is my box of cigarettes? Upstairs. Yes, but where? The Veronal I keep by the sink. But where did I leave the box? Here come Cissy and Paul. Yes, they must have come back for ‘souper’, otherwise they would still have been playing in the dark. – They don’t see me. What’s he saying? What’s she laughing for? Ugh, she’s positively braying. Wouldn’t it be funny to send each of their spouses an anonymous letter. Is that something I’d be capable of? Never. Who knows? Now they see me. Nod to them. She’s annoyed that I look so pretty. How awkward she looks.
‘Why, hello, Else, are you already dressed for supper?’ – Why is it ‘supper’ now and not ‘souper’. She has no backbone to speak of. – ‘As you can see, Frau Cissy.’ – ‘You look stunning, Else, I’m almost tempted to woo you.’ – ‘Spare yourself the trouble, Paul: give me one of your cigarettes.’ – ‘With pleasure.’ – ‘Thank you. How did your single play out?’ – ‘Frau Cissy beat me. Straight sets.’ – ‘Because he was distracted. By the way Else, did you know that the crown prince of Greece is coming to stay tomorrow?’ – What on earth do I care about the crown prince of Greece? ‘Oh, really?’ Oh God, – Dorsday with Frau Winawer! Greeting us. Moving on. I return the greeting, over-courteously. Goodness, that was out of character of me. Oh, what a specimen I am. – ‘Did your cigarette not light, Else?’ – ‘Light it again. Thank you.’ – ‘Your scarf is very pretty Else. Black always suits you marvellously. I suppose I’d better get dressed too.’ – I’d rather they didn’t leave, Dorsday scares me. – ‘And at seven I have an appointment with a hairdresser; she’s famous. She has a winter salon in Milan. So I’d better be off. Adieu, Else, adieu, Paul.’ – ‘Adieu, Frau Cissy.’ – She’s gone. At least Paul’s staying. ‘May I sit with you, Else, or would that disturb your daydreaming?’ ‘Why my daydreams? Maybe it’s my reality you’re disturbing.’ That didn’t make sense. I’d like him gone away. I need to speak to Dorsday. There he is, standing with the inconsolable Frau Winawer, fidgeting, bored. He wants to come over. – ‘Is there a reality where you don’t want to be disturbed?’ – What did he say? He can go to hell. Why am I smiling so coquettishly at him? I don’t mean to do it at all. Now Dorsday is looking my way. Where am I? Where am I? ‘What’s the matter with you today, Else?’ – ‘What should the matter be?’ – ‘You’re being mysterious, demonic, beguiling.’ – ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Paul.’ ‘A man could go downright mad looking at you.’ – What’s got into him? He has some nerve. He’s handsome. The smoke from my cigarette is dancing in his hair. But I can’t right now. ‘You’re looking through me. Why, Else?’ – I won’t say. I mustn’t desire him. Make my most obnoxious face. No conversation. – ‘You and your thoughts are clearly somewhere else.’ – ‘You might be right.’ He’s air to me. Has Dorsday noticed that I’m waiting for him? I’m not looking at him, but I can tell he’s looking at me. – ‘Then adieu, Else.’ – Thank heavens. Kisses my hand. He never does that. ‘Adieu, Paul.’ Where did I learn this sultry voice? There he goes, the conman. To resume his game with Cissy, no doubt. Enjoy yourselves. Pull the scarf around my shoulders and get up and go out the hotel. It’ll be getting cold by now. Shame I lost my – ah, no, I hung it in the porter’s lodge this morning. I can feel Dorsday’s eyes on my neck, through the scarf. Frau Winawer is retiring to her room. How do I know? Telepathy. ‘Good evening, Herr porter.’ – ‘Would the Fräulein like her coat?’ – ‘Yes, please.’ – ‘There’s already a chill this evening. It always arrives suddenly here.’ – ‘Thank you.’ Should I really stand out in front of the hotel? Where would I go next? In any case, the door’s opening. A couple entering in single file. The man with the gold pince-nez. The tall blonde in the green cardigan. Everyone is looking at me. This little Genovese girl: she’s pretty. No, she’s from Lausanne. It’s not so cold after all.
