I Confess (22 page)

Wilma shook her head and continued to let her head lie face down on the table. Yolanda gave me a look. "Cognac," she said.

I wasn't sure that this was the right medicine for a young girl in Wilma's situation, but I walked over to the small table on which the bottle stood and poured a glass. As I was doing so, I happened to look out onto the street The young man was still standing there, beside the lantern, looking up at our window. He wasn't smoking any more but had rammed his hands into his coat pockets. I could feel my armpits sweating, and drank the cognac myself.

Then I filled the glass again and brought it to Yolanda, "So," she said, raising Wilma's head gently, at the same time looking at me for a moment, then in the direction of the window. I nodded. She stroked Wilma's tear-stained face and said quietly, "There now. Drink this down."

Wilma did so obediently and swallowed the wrong way. "Ooh, it's sharp," she said, coughing. Suddenly I found her unbearably childish and felt sure she was putting on an act

"Miss Wilma," I said. "You have had enough time to get over your embarrassment. I really must ask you to tell me at last what you want from me."

For a moment my own voice startled me. It sounded harsh, almost brutal, and I hadn't meant to be brutal. Wilma's reaction was surprising. She evidently wasn't used to cognac. Her eyes gUttered and she looked at me almost challengingly as she threw back her head and said, "I was going to ask you for money," which was followed by a pretty impressive pause.

"For how much?" I asked.

"For four thousand three hundred and fifty schillings," she repUed precisely.

"I thought you wanted to go to the theatre with us— that is, with my husband," said Yolanda.

"That too," said this strange girl. "First I wanted to go to the theatre with him and then I wanted to ask him for money." '

"But how did you decide on us, of all people?"

"Because I wrote . . ." she began, and stopped. "Please could I have another cognac?"

"Of course, my child," said Yolanda.

I gave her the bottle.

Wilma drank down the glass Yolanda filled for her in one gulp, then exhaled loudly through clenched teeth. She looked very funny and I found myself smiling broadly. I had bigger and better worries, but I couldn't help myself—I liked the girl.

"What did you write?"

"I wrote out the checks for you, Mr. Frank." Her light eyes were looking at me with undisguised honesty. "Already on Saturday. The checks Mr. Lauterbach gave you. A hundred and twenty thousand schillings. All Saturday I could think of nothing else. That evening I told Felix about it, then we talked about it all Sunday. Should I try it, shouldn't I try it? On Tuesday I decided I'd let it depend on what you looked like."

I smiled. "Yes. I remember.'*

"I was terribly ashamed of myself," she said.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Yolanda,

"I looked at your husband...." Wilma began.

"Miss Wilma looked at me...." We began and stopped simultaneously.

"Yes?" said Yolanda. She wasn't smiling any more.

"Miss Wilma looked me over rather thoroughly when I went to see her boss."

"I see," said Yolanda and walked over to the window. "And did my husband pass the test?" She was looking out into the street. I watched her. She turned around and nodded as I had done. So the man was still standing there.

"Yes," said Wilma, and looked at me; suddenly her face was glowing. This time / felt myself redden.

"So why didn't you come right away?"

"I couldn't," she said, "because I liked you too much."

"And if you had liked me less, you would have come right away?"

"Of course," she said. "In your case I really didn't want to come at all after I knew what you looked like. And I told Felix so. I just can't, I told him. I could with anyone else, but not with hhn. And I didn't do it; I didn't come."

"Until this evening," said Yolanda and walked away from the window.

"Yes," Wilma nodded sadly. "Not until this evenmg. I kept hoping for a miracle, that we'd get the money from somewhere. But tonight is the last night, and the money never came. If we don't pay tomorrow, they'll close the theatre on us. Four days before the opening night. You understand? Four nights before we open with Felix's fixst play."

"Who will close the theatre?"

"The manager."

"Of what theatre?" I asked.

'^We have a small theatre—Felix and I and a few others, a show case, really, in the basement of the Cafe

Schubert. Studio 52 it's called. I don't suppose you've ever heard of it."

"Oh yes I have," I said and Yolanda gave me a look.

"But you've never been there."

"Unfortunately not."

Wilma nodded sadly. "We can't draw a crowd," she said. "That's how we got into debt."

"What debt?"

"We haven't paid the rent for ten months."

"Aha," I said.

"And now, just when we're ready to put on Felix's play, the manager says he'll close us down if we don't pay up. We have until tomorrow evening," she added. "And of course we can't make it." After which there was a short pause.- Yolanda looked at me. This time I looked away.

"Just a minute," said Yolanda. "There's something I don't understand. I thought you were Mr. Lauterbach's secretary."

"lam."

"But..."

"But that's only my secondary job. Professionally I'm an actress. But with that I can't earn enough. I get paid next to nothing at the studio. I have a few radio engagements and now and then, if I'm lucky, a small part in a play. There are a lot of us in the same position. Most of us have a job on the side."

"And you can manage that?" I asked, astonished. "I mean, you have the time?"

"It doesn't work out too well," she said. "I've had difficulties with Mr. Lauterbach. I wouldn't be surprised if he let me go any day."

I nodded.

"That's why I didn't dare to ask him for the money."

I nodded again.

"Because he's furious about all this theatre business anyway."

I nodded for a third time and noticed that Yolanda was nodding too.

"Can't your parents help?"

"They're not at all well off either. My father is a librarian. He doesn't earn very much." She got up and came over to me. "Mr. Frank, please don't think that we want you to give us the money. All we want is a loan. A short term loan. Felix said to teU you we want to pay interest."

"Hm," I said, looking very serious. Yolanda turned away.

"Five percent," WUma said softly.

'Whatr

"Or more," she said quickly. "Felix and the others said I could go as high as ten percent. That's what the loan sharks charge."

My Ups parted but I found I couldn't utter a word. Yolanda found her handkerchief and drowned her laughter by blowing her nose. I could see her shoulders shaking.

"Miss Wilma," I finally managed to say, "you are offering me ten percent interest on a loan of four thousand three hundred and fifty schillings?"

"Yes," she said. "Felix feels there should be something in it for you, otherwise you wouldn't do it."

I cleared my throat. "Felix is quite right. For how long do you want the loan?"

"For six or eight weeks." She sounded a little more hopeful. Her Kps were parted and her eyes were shining as she looked at me.

"For six or eight weeks," I repeated slowly, turning my back on her, and began to pace up and down. Every now and then I mumbled something to myself. Then I stopped and looked at her sternly. "And what sort of security can you give?"

"The box office receipts," she said quickly.

"You call that security?"

She blushed. "Herr Frank," she said, "Felix's play is wonderful. We're going to have a full house every night."

"Have you ever had a full house?"

"No, but. .."

"And how many seats can your full house hold?"

"Forty-nine," she said softly. "But we can put in at least twenty extra seats. Besides, the Vienna administration has promised us a subsidy. And . . ."

"Yes, yes," I said, feeling like Santa Claus. I had to stop myself from rubbing my hands with satisfaction! "That's all well and good, but it's hardly what I would call security. I'm a business man. Miss Wilma, and unfortunately I lack an artistic viewpoint. All I can deal with are figures and guarantees."

To my astonishment, I felt positively gay! The shadows of the past month were gone. It was a miracle! This young girl who had come to borrow money from me was capable of making me happy! This strange girl with the light eyes and her hair brushed back in a bun. I saw her beauty, her youth, her innocence. . ..

"How about references?" I asked and could feel my blood warming me, my heart beating fast as I was filled with a deep, inner well-being. "Do you have any references?"

She shook her head dejectedly. She had no idea how close she was to the fulfillment of her request. "No, Mr. Frank, we don't have anybody. We're all alone. Fifteen of us, counting the lighting technician and the lavatory girl, and I really don't think anybody would sign a guarantee for us. I mean nobody with money. We just don't know anybody with money. We could guarantee for each other, but that wouldn't be any good to you."

"No," I said, "that wouldn't be any good to me."

"Felix thought," she began again, but stopped, thoroughly discouraged. She didn't know what else to say; she ji had tried everything. i

For a moment there was silence in the room, then Yo- i^ landa walked over to the window and opened it. If I ever t loved her, it was at that moment. "Felix!" she cried out ji into the dark. f

The young man standing beside the lantern looked up. "Yes?"

"Come on up and have a cognac with us," Yolanda called down to him.

8

That evening a performance was given in Vienna just for Yolanda and me. It took place in the basement of the Cafe Schubert in a hall that was five times ten meters, on a stage that was five times two. On the walls there were plaques made of wire, colored paper and sequins, very modem and quite comical. Along three of the four walls ran a line of lettering. The walls were dark grey and the letters had been cut out of white paper. One after the other they spelled out the names of theatrical greats: Tairoff, Piscator, Jessner. Reinhardt, Stanislawski. There were no rows of seats, only small tables and chairs. Before the performance a waiter came and asked what we would like. We ordered a bottle of wine. We sat in approximately the middle of the room on two hard wooden chairs that had been painted white and gold. All the tables around us were empty, their chairs tipped up against them. Yolanda drank most of the wine, I drank only one glass. I looked at the ridiculous miniature stage, at what was to pass as scenery and at the half dozen young people acting-out their parts on it. And they could act. There wasn't one among them who didn't have talent. Moreover, the play was good. The scene was Vienna today, the characters people who were afraid. The play cried out against fear. Felix Reinert was the author, age twenty-two. His mop of dark hair stood away from his

long, bony, weathered head and hung down over the premature wrinkles in his forehead. The play he had written, which I saw that night, was titled The Dead Have No Tears,

"How did you hit upon that title?" I had asked him after he had accepted Yolanda's invitation to come up and have a cognac with us. He spoke very fast. I found it difficult to understand him; also he had a shght stammer. It was as if his thoughts came to him faster than his words, as if the former were always one jump ahead of him.

"From mythology," he said.

Wilma was sitting beside him on our recently acquired baroque sofa and was watching him with undisguised admiration. For her he was a great man. "I'm sure you know the story," he went on. "The Uving must suffer much, the dead less. But that doesn't mean we should consider death desirable! On the contrary. Life is stiU the better thing. Because as long as one is alive, one can defend oneself, one can act. One can weep over-disaster and injustice."

"And the dead can't cry anymore?" asked Yolanda.

"No. The dead can't act, can't defend themselves and they can't cry anymore. They know everything, they are everywhere, they remain young—but they can't cry any more. Not even if they have once been happy. The dead have no tears."

"So your play eulogizes tears and life?"

"Yes."

And this it did. I sat in the cold cellar auditorium. We hadn't taken off our coats, but still I was freezing, and I could feel compassion overwhelm me as I faced these young people who were making propaganda for hope and tears, who had no money, a dubious future and no past yet who were willing to express loud and clear that the worst of Ufe was still better than the most beautiful death and that there was only one sin in our tune: to give up hope.

I accepted the experience gratefully. For two hours I

forgot that I had to die and that the police of an entire continent were looking for me, that I had had to desert my wife and had proved incapable of ridding myself of my mistress, that actually my life was senseless and worthless.

I watched Wilma. She had a small part and T thought she was wonderful. She had the delicacy of Audrey Hepburn and the robust energy of Shelley Winters. She believed what she had to say; it came from the heart. Here—of this I was convinced—if I had learned anything in Hollywood were the makings of a great actress.

Vienna. What a strange city it was, with talent pouring forth out of every comer, seeping out of the ground unceasingly, to manifest itself in attics and cellars; a city four times divided, the heart of a land four times divided, that was far too small for all the talent it contained and had produced so extravagantly for centuries.

The play was in three acts. During the last act T saw Yolanda push her glass away, lean back and look in her purse. There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away with her handkerchief, carefully, so as not to smear her mascara. When the lights went on again, both of us applauded and smiled at the actors who were bowing ceremoniously. They even drew the curtain up and down. Then I went "backstage" and walked up to Wilma. "There you are," I said and gave her an envelope with the money. She screamed with joy and threw her arms around me only to let go right away and look at Yolanda, horrified. "Please, please forgive me, gnddige Frau"