Little Man, What Now? (40 page)

‘Fantasy fabrics?’ queried Pinneberg uneasily. ‘That’s on the second floor.’

The man laughed: a sharply accented Ha-ha-ha. He laughed with his whole face and whole body, stopped, and went back all of a sudden to being expressive and sonorous.

‘Oh, not that,’ said the gentleman. ‘I was asking you whether
you could live a fantasy. Could you, for example, imagine yourself as a goldfinch, perched singing on top of this rail of trousers?’

‘With difficulty,’ said Pinneberg, giving a feeble smile, and thinking: where on earth do I know this nutcase from? It’s all a put-on.

‘With difficulty,’ said the gentleman. ‘That’s bad. Well, I don’t suppose you have much to do with birds in this department.’ And he laughed again, his sharp Ha-ha-ha.

And Pinneberg smiled too, although he was getting nervous. Salesmen weren’t supposed to be made fun of, he would have to find a gentle but effective way of getting rid of this drunk. Mr Jänecke was still there, behind an array of coats.

‘Can I serve you?’ asked Pinneberg.

‘Serve!’ declaimed the other contemptuously. ‘Serve! No one is anyone’s servant! Now, to another matter. Imagine that a young man comes in here, from Ackerstrasse let’s say, with a heap of cash like that, and wants to get himself fitted out from head to toe with new clothes: can you imagine what that young man would choose?’

‘I can imagine it very well,’ said Pinneberg. ‘That sort of thing happens here sometimes.’

‘There you are,’ said the gentlemen. ‘You shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel. Fantasy is one of your lines! What sort of material would that young man from Ackerstrasse choose?’

‘As bright and showy as possible,’ declared Pinneberg with conviction. ‘Large checks. Very wide trousers. Jacket as close-fitting as possible. The best thing would be to show you …’

‘Splendid,’ said the other approvingly. ‘Splendid. And now show me. This young man from Ackerstrasse really does have a lot of money and does need a whole new outfit.’

‘With pleasure …’ said Pinneberg.

‘One moment,’ said the other, raising his hand. ‘To give you the picture. Look, this is the man who comes in …’

The gentleman changed utterly. His face became a picture of impudence and vice, but with a mixture of cowardice and fear in there too. Shoulders hunched, neck drawn in, he seemed to be expecting a policeman with a rubber truncheon round every corner.

‘Then, once he has the good suit on …’

His face changed in a flash. Yes, it was still impudent and shameless, but like a flower turning to the light, it responded to the brilliance of the rising sun. He too could be smartly dressed, he could afford it, so what the heck!

‘You are,’ cried Pinneberg breathlessly, ‘you are Mr Schlüter! I’ve seen you in a film. Fancy me not realizing at once!’

The actor was highly gratified. ‘Oh yes? Which film did you see me in?’

‘What was it called? D’you know, it’s the one where you were a bank clerk, and your wife thought you were embezzling money for her, but really it was the management trainee who was giving it to you, who was your friend …’

‘I know the plot,’ said the actor. ‘So you liked it? Which bit of mine did you like the best?’

‘Oh, there were so many … But you know I think the best bit was where you came back to the table after you’d been in the washroom …’

The actor nodded.

‘While you were away the trainee had told her you hadn’t stolen the money and they laughed in your face. And suddenly you went all small. You shrank. It was horrifying.’

‘So that was the best bit, but why?’ pursued the actor insatiably.

‘Because … please don’t laugh … I felt it was so like us. You know things aren’t going at all well for ordinary people like us, and it seems to me sometimes as though everyone and everything is making a monkey of us. Life in general, you see what I mean, and one feels so small …’

‘The voice of the people,’ declared the thespian. ‘But I’m extremely honoured, Mr … what is your name?’

‘Pinneberg.’

‘The voice of the people, Pinneberg. Well, now let’s get back to business and find that outfit. It was all rubbish at the theatrical outfitters. Now we’ll see …’

And they did see. They waded through all kinds of clothes for half an hour, an hour, until there were mountains lying about. Pinneberg had never been so happy to be a salesman.

‘Good man,’ muttered the actor from time to time. He was a patient tryer-on. He could try fifteen pairs of trousers, and still be looking forward to the sixteenth.

‘A good man this Pinneberg,’ he muttered.

They finally did finish however, having examined and tried on everything that the young man from Ackerstrasse might possibly think of wearing. Pinneberg was in seventh heaven. He had hopes that Mr Schlüter might perhaps take more than the one good suit, perhaps he might also take the red-brown coat with the mauve check. He asked breathlessly: ‘Well, what shall I put on the bill?’

The actor raised his eyebrows. ‘The bill? I was only trying the stuff on. I’m not buying it. What did you think? Don’t make such a face. I have given you a bit of work, haven’t I. I’ll send you tickets for the next première. Do you have a fiancée? I’ll send you two tickets.’

Pinneberg said hurriedly in a low voice: ‘Mr Schlüter, please do buy the things. You’ve got such a lot of money. You earn so much. Please buy them! If you go away now and haven’t bought anything, they’ll blame me and I’ll be sacked.’

‘You’re a funny one,’ said the actor. ‘Why should I buy the things? For your sake? Nobody does me any favours.’

‘Mr Schlüter!’ said Pinneberg, his voice growing louder. ‘I saw the way you acted that poor little man in the film. You know how things are for people like us. I’ve got a wife and child too, you see.
The child is really small, and he’s still so happy. If I’m sacked …!’

‘Good lord, man,’ said Mr Schlüter. ‘That’s your business. I can’t buy suits I’ve no use for just to keep your child happy.’

‘Mr Schlüter!’ begged Pinneberg. ‘Please do it for my sake. I’ve been with you an hour. At least buy the one suit. It’s pure Cheviot, very pleasant to wear and I’m sure you’d be satisfied with it.

‘Will you kindly stop it,’ said Mr Schlüter. ‘This pantomime is getting boring.’

‘Mr Schlüter,’ begged Pinneberg, laying his hand on the departing actor’s arm, ‘The firm gives us a quota, we have to sell a certain amount or we’re sacked. I’m five hundred marks down. Please, please, buy something. You know how we feel. You acted it!’

The actor took the salesman’s hand from his arm. He said very loudly: ‘Listen, young man, just keep your hands off me. What you’re saying has damn all to do with me.’

Suddenly Mr Jänecke appeared. Of course he would.

‘May I help you? I’m the manager of this department.’

‘I’m Franz Schlüter, the actor …’

Mr Jänecke bowed.

‘Strange salesmen you’ve got here. They manhandle you into buying. This man claims you force them to do it. That’s extortion. It deserves a letter to the newspapers.’

‘The man’s a bad salesman,’ said Mr Jänecke. ‘He’s been warned several times already. I’m very sorry that you just happened to get him. We’ll dismiss him this time. He’s useless.’

‘My dear sir, that’s quite unnecessary. I’m not suggesting that. Though he did grab my arm …’

‘He did? Mr Pinneberg, go at once to the Personnel Office and get your papers. And as for that nonsense about a quota, it’s all lies. Only two hours ago I told this man that if he didn’t manage it, well, he didn’t manage it, it wasn’t as bad as all that. He’s just incompetent. A thousand apologies, Mr Schlüter.’

Pinneberg followed the two men with his eyes.

He stood and watched them go.

It was all over, all, all over.

EPILOGUE
LIFE GOES ON

SHOULD YOU STEAL WOOD? LAMMCHEN MAKES BIG MONEY AND GIVES HER SONNY SOMETHING TO DO

It wasn’t all over: life went on. It was November, and fourteen months had gone by since Pinneberg had ceased work at Mandels. A dark, cold, wet November, which was all right if the roof was sound. The roof of the summer-house was sound, thanks to Pinneberg who had tarred it four weeks ago. Now he was awake, the hands of the alarm-clock showed a quarter to five. Pinneberg listened to the November rain pouring and drumming on the summer-house roof. ‘It’s water-tight,’ he thought. ‘I did a good job there. Perfectly water-tight. At least the rain can’t get at us.’

He was just about to turn over comfortably and go back to sleep when he realized he had been woken by a sound: the garden gate had squeaked. Krymna would be knocking in a moment.

Pinneberg shook Lammchen gently by the arm as she lay beside him in the narrow iron bed, trying to wake her gently. But she started: ‘What’s the matter?’

Waking up was no longer the cheerful moment that it used to be for Lammchen; if she was wakened at an unusual hour it was always bad news. Pinneberg heard her breathe quickly: ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Quiet!’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘You’ll wake the Shrimp. It’s not five yet.’

‘What is it then?’ Lammchen asked again, rather impatiently.

‘Krymna is coming,’ whispered Pinneberg. ‘Don’t you think I should go with him?’

‘No, no, no,’ said Lammchen passionately. ‘Listen. We agreed. We are not going to start stealing. I won’t have it.’

‘But …’ Pinneberg objected.

There was a knock outside. ‘Pinneberg!’ called a voice. ‘Are you coming with us, Pinneberg?’

Pinneberg jumped up, and stood for a moment hesitating.

‘Shall I?’ he asked, and listened.

But Lammchen did not reply.

‘Pinneberg! Come on, lazy bones!’ called the man outside.

Pinneberg felt his way in darkness out onto the porch, he could see the dark silhouette of the other man through the glass panes.

‘Well, at last! Are you coming or not?’

‘I …’ called Pinneberg through the door, ‘I would like …’

‘So it’s no.’

‘Please understand, Krymna, I’d like to, but my wife … You know women …’

‘So it’s no,’ bellowed Krymna outside. ‘Don’t come, then. We’ll go alone.’

Pinneberg watched him go. He could vaguely discern Krymna’s squat figure silhouetted against the sky. Then the garden gate squeaked again and Krymna was swallowed up by the night.

Pinneberg sighed again. He was very cold. It couldn’t be doing him any good to stand here in his shirt. But he just stood there, staring. Inside the Shrimp called: ‘Dad-Dad! Mum-Mum!’ He felt his way back quietly into the room. ‘Go to sleep, Shrimp,’ he said. ‘Sleep a little bit longer.’ The Shrimp sighed deeply and his father heard him settling himself in bed. ‘Dolly,’ he whispered softly. ‘Dolly …’

Pinneberg searched around in the darkness for the little rubber doll. The Shrimp had to hold it when he was going to sleep. He found it. ‘Here’s Dolly, Shrimp. Hold Dolly tight. Now go to sleep, my Shrimp.’ The child made a happy sound, he was contented now, and would be asleep in a moment.

Pinneberg got back into bed himself. He was so cold that he tried not to touch Lammchen so as not to give her a fright.

Then he lay there, unable to get back to sleep, which was
barely worth it anyway. He thought about a thousand things. Whether Krymna was very angry with him for not joining the ‘wood-gathering’ and whether Krymna could do him much harm in the settlement. Then, where would they get the money for briquettes now they didn’t have any wood? Then, that he would have to go into Berlin today to draw the dole. Then, that he would have to go to Puttbreese and pay him his six marks. He didn’t need the money, he would only drink it; it was enough to drive you mad what people would spend money on when other people needed it so badly. Then Pinneberg reflected that Heilbutt also had to have his ten marks today, and then the dole would be all gone. Where they were to get food and heating for the next week heaven only knew; only heaven probably didn’t know either.

And so it had been going on week after week. Month after month. That was what was so discouraging, that it went on so endlessly. Hadn’t he once believed that it was all over? The worst thing was that it went on. And on, and on, with no end in sight.

Gradually Pinneberg grew warm and sleepy. There’d be no harm in grabbing a little more sleep. Sleep was always worth it. And then the alarm rang: it was seven o’clock. Pinneberg was awake on the instant, and the Shrimp shouted enthusiastically: ‘Tick-tock! Tick-tock! Tick-tock!’ over and over until the clock was turned off. Lammchen continued to sleep.

Pinneberg lit the little petrol lamp with the blue glass shade. Now the day was off on its course, there would be a lot of things to do in the next half hour. He ran to and fro, got into his trousers, the Shrimp demanded his ‘Ca-ca’. Daddy brought him the ‘Ca-ca’, his best toy, a cigarette tin full of old playing cards. The little cylindrical stove and the fire were soon alight. He went out to the pump in the garden for water, washed, made the coffee, cut and spread the bed—Lammchen continued to sleep.

Did he think about that film he’d seen so long ago? There had been a woman asleep in bed, she was rosy, the man ran about and
did things—but, oh, Lammchen wasn’t rosy, Lammchen had to work all day and she was pale and tired; Lammchen balanced the books. It wasn’t like the film.

Pinneberg dressed the little boy and said, turning to the bed, ‘Time to get up now, Lammchen.’

‘Yes,’ she said obediently, and began dressing. ‘What did Krymna say?’

‘Nothing. But he was very annoyed.’

‘Let him be annoyed. We’re not starting on that sort of thing.’

‘But you know,’ said Pinneberg cautiously. ‘Nothing can happen. Six to eight men always go together to get the wood. No forester would dare go up to them.’

‘That’s neither here nor there,’ declared Lammchen. ‘That’s not the sort of thing we do and we’re not going to do it.’

‘But where are we going to get the money for the coal?’

‘I’m going to the Kramers all day today to darn socks. That’s three marks. And I may be going to the Rechlins tomorrow to repair their linen. Three more marks. And I’ve already got three days booked next week. I’m getting going nicely here.’

The room seemed to get brighter as she spoke. It was like a breath of fresh air.