THE
RETIREE
His desires slowed as he grew older, and as they slowed
there arose eddies and swirlings, back-currents, stagnancies, appetites that
were previously unknown. These appetites were not as strong as the appetites of
his younger self. However, Hauptman chose not to fight them, as his younger
self might have done. He no longer had a particular view of his own nature.
Recently,
two important things had happened: he had retired, and his wife had left him.
He thought, ‘I spent a lifetime at the bank, and I supported my wife. Now I am
free.’
He
adopted the clothes of a man without responsibilities: a pale jacket, loose
cotton trousers, and shoes of thin light-coloured leather. He felt that he was
pleasantly vanishing, that he watched but was unseen. In this mood Hauptman
wondered about the folk he passed in the street, about shopkeepers and their
hidden lives, and about his neighbours – an angry businessman who rushed up the
stairs, the newlyweds in the next apartment, and a lame old woman on the floor
above who clumped about at night. He hid his interest. He believed that no one
knew of it.
He also
observed himself, because his nature was changing. He would wait to discover
where the changes led.
Some of
this waiting took place in cafés. It was a small town, and Hauptman sat and
watched its people and thought for the first time that perhaps they might be
entirely understood, all their connections of trade and friendship and passion.
At the bank he had studied their business affairs, but now he watched the
townsfolk pausing for coffee or greeting their friends, and he desired a fuller
knowledge. In this pursuit, Hauptman found a helper.
Karle
was a large man. His back was straight and his chest and belly strained against
the buttons of his double-breasted coat, which was rather tight and no longer
suited the spring warmth. He might have been a retired general, except for the
large cheap ring on his little finger and a scarf of green silk which he
encouraged to puff up under his chin. His hair was brown and full, combed
straight back from a perfect hairline, with oily curls at the back that stained
his collar.
He was
a failed businessman, known to Hauptman from his years at the bank. How often
Hauptman had conducted him to the manager’s desk, where Karle laughed and
complained, seeking to delay a repayment or describing a ‘wonderful
opportunity’ that deserved a further loan. But it seemed that Karle too had
retired, or perhaps was discouraged, so that Hauptman saw another side to the
man: he saw that Karle was a true citizen of the town. He gossiped with
concierges; he bowed to housekeepers and cleaners; he leaned on the counters of
the smaller shops, listening to shopkeepers while customers came and went; he
greeted laundrymaids, their arms weighted with baskets, who paused in the
street to discuss their clients; he idled with gamblers and travelling
salesmen, and took coffee with a policeman who patrolled the merchants’
district. If an old woman was sweeping her steps, he would loiter to talk, his
hat off in the old-fashioned way, clasped in both hands at his waist while she
complained of her ailments and of the late nights kept by her tenants, while
Karle tut-tutted and shook his head and remembered it all.
Hauptman
thought, ‘He is a success in this trade at least,’ meaning that Karle exchanged
gossip for gossip and was never without assets. For this reason Hauptman
admired him, but also saw him like a servant, who brought him the secrets of
the town.
The two
men did not arrange their meetings, but it was understood that Hauptman might
be encountered at lunchtime in certain cafés. No more than two or three such
places were possible, so that Karle was pleased but never surprised to find him
in one of the small squares of the town, blinking in the feeble spring sun, at
his elbow a tiny coffee and a glass of water. The crumbs of a pastry would be
visible on his clothes, for Hauptman had discovered gluttony and indulged this
like his other new desires.
‘Cognac,’
Karle would call, snapping his fingers good-humouredly at the waiter. He was
reluctant to sit down. He greeted Hauptman with a bow, his large face creased
with good cheer, but would stay on his feet, turning slowly to the other
diners, genial, as if expecting a friend’s greeting or perhaps the general
acclamation of the crowd, though Hauptman had never seen anyone return his
gaze.
At last
Karle would sit, disappointed perhaps that his audience would again be small.
But he soon recovered, because Hauptman was so attentive. Blinking like a cat
in the sun, Hauptman smiled and murmured while Karle leaned forward with a
whispered confidence or threw himself back in his chair, laughing at his own
stories and turning to neighbouring tables as if to share the joke which they
hadn’t heard.
Today’s
subject was a schoolmate of the son of his tailor, who had seduced a Jewish girl,
the daughter of a rich bookseller, well-known in the next town. ‘Very
well-known,’ Karle repeated with relish. And of course this made the matter all
the more entertaining, the thought of this rich Jew humiliated: ‘One
anticipates his anger, his shame!’ said Karle happily, leaning forward, his
thick fingers holding for a moment the cuff of Hauptman’s sleeve, Hauptman
smelling his meaty breath. Then Karle leaned back, glowing with pleasure,
turning again to the nearby tables.
At
these moments, Hauptman suspected that others in the café knew Karle, and
perhaps had been his grateful audience until they decided that, well, enough
was enough. For the moment, though, Hauptman was content: he was learning the
secrets of the town.
And sometimes
– most rare and therefore most precious – these secrets would be linked, so
that Karle might say, ‘Yes, and this was the gentleman whose daughter I
mentioned with regard to the paperweight taken from Herr Wolfowitz’s parlour.’
What joy at that moment! How Hauptman held his breath and blinked more slowly
and was moved as if by profound music, seeing these events secretly connected,
like a tunnel under the town, arch after groyne after arch, coming in this way
to a consumation.
But
what was this? It seemed that Karle had taken up the menu. He didn’t open it.
It was merely in his hand as he looked contentedly around the square. Then he
laid the menu down and Hauptman was irritated. Every day Karle would lay the
menu down again, his hand flat upon it, while he shared another anecdote or
admired the pretty townhouses with their windowboxes of spring flowers. Then
once more he would take it up, and this time open it, holding it one-handed,
somewhat to the side, glancing at it while he talked of other things. It was
understood that Hauptman would pay.
When at
last the menu was read and the waiter questioned, Karle would place his order
with many shrugs, as if he were not a hungry man who had eaten only a bread
roll since his last lunch with Hauptman.
Hauptman
didn’t eat, his appetite spoiled by the sweetmeats whose powdered sugar stained
his coat. Karle would not take such risks with his clothes, instead lifting the
hem of the tablecloth and tucking it under his chin, hunching forward as he
ate, his broad shoulders over the plate. It was startling, a little disgusting,
but Karle declared that he had learned this fashion in the salons of Vienna,
where he had spent several happy months during his fiftieth year, and where a
certain bohemian freedom was tolerated, even admired.
‘This
small town,’ he said, looking around discontented, his mouth full, no one
meeting his eye. ‘Provincial is the word, sir. No doubt you agree.’ And he
would look sulky, perhaps feeling that his audience had betrayed him. Hauptman
smiled, but really he did not like this business with the tablecloth, so that
perhaps there were limits to his tolerance, and perhaps Karle was a vulgar man
and in his own way dangerous.
For the
moment, though, Hauptman would indulge himself. He had spent so many long
afternoons at the bank! And hadn’t he been happiest there when he learned the
affairs of others? He had not sought the highest office, preferring to watch
and not decide, so that his present role was a continuation of his career, to
see the town laid out, its secrets revealed, albeit through this rather vulgar
man, whose face was now red from feeding, who scraped his plate with the edge
of his knife, and slipped a bread roll into his pocket, and said, ‘Herr
Hauptman! Do you recall the magistrate’s son? The magistrate who is the fishing
companion of my friend the policeman? Whose neighbour was burgled by the
gypsies?’
Hauptman
prepared himself. His chest grew tight with anticipation. It seemed that
another of those great linkages might be completed, another tunnel under the
town that showed how one gallery led to another, the townsfolk revealed, and
what they wished to hide laid bare. ‘Herr Hauptman, that young man is mightily
disturbed. His new wife has found that their disgusting old neighbour is
watching them. In their most intimate moments. The wretch has placed a mirror –
can you imagine? – on the balcony of his apartment. He thinks it will not be
noticed, but he is mad, the thing is obvious. Naturally the boy has informed
his father. There will be a scandal. Yes, a fine scandal!’
Here
Karle stopped in surprise. ‘But Herr Hauptman, are you leaving? Are you not
well? Here, you have forgotten your hat. My dear sir, this is very strange. And
must I pay? Herr Hauptman, this is unfair. If I may ask you, who will pay?’
////ENDS