Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (25 page)

Like a prisoner about to undergo a difficult interrogation, I stood in
the summer room kept cool by shadows. Dominating the room with its
ebony black stood a piano, which awakened the memory of the last
music evening I had spend here not very long ago. Agatha had accompanied her friend Aline in a Schubert song. I saw her slender fingers glide
over the keys and almost thought I heard Aline's voice. "Flowers and
wreaths for you. Sylvia...." Later, while the rest of the company was
still in the salon, I had sat outdoors in the garden, alone, a little dazed,
even enchanted, by the warm night air, the music, and probably also the
champagne, which was seldom missing from one of Loiberger's parties.
Perhaps I even dozed off; and as if in a dream Agatha walked past me
with a man. I sat in the dark, so at first they didn't notice me at all. But
suddenly Agatha discovered me, and as she passed by me she slipped her
hand through my hair, as if in jest, ruffled it, and was gone again. I didn't
think any more about it. For she often behaved in this way. Rather uninhibited, but always with wonderful grace just as, for example, she seldom called most of their friends by their name or title, but by a nickname
that did not always fit the person's personality or manner but often expressed quite the opposite or nothing at all. Me, for example-and it
made a certain sense, since at that time I looked even younger than my
twenty-three years-she called "the child." I remained sitting quietly on
my bench in the dark and waited for them both to pass me again-which
happened sooner than I actually expected. And then Agatha nodded to
me even though she was hardly in a position to recognize my features
clearly. She often did that: nod a few times quickly in succession. I had
often seen her greet others in this way when, wrapped in a blue bathrobe,
she leaned on the balustrades at the town swimming pool, as she often
did. She did the same on walks when she met an acquaintance, but she
also greeted flowers the same way before she picked them, and a mountain cottage before she entered it. It seemed to be an innate characteristic,
more than just a habit, for her thus to have a personal connection with every person and every thing she encountered, no matter how fleetingly.
I became clearly aware of this characteristic of hers only now as I
awaited her return in the shady, summer salon, my fingers playing aimlessly with the fringes of the Indian shawl that served as a piano cover.

Suddenly I heard female voices, footsteps on the cobblestones,
coming ever closer, then a woman's laugh, then footsteps on the stairsand my heart stood still.

"Who's here?" called Agatha, in an almost frightened voice. But
when she recognized me, she immediately added cheerfully, "The child!"
and gave me her hand. I bowed lower than I usually did, and kissed her
hand. She immediately turned to Aline, who was standing a little behind
her, and said, "You might as well both stay for lunch." And, turning to
me, "For I'm all alone. Eduard's been on a mountain tour since yesterday." And with a not quite cheerful laugh, she added, "If you believe
that!"

Meanwhile I had also kissed Aline's hand, and as I now looked up
again, I saw her eyes look at me with a kind of consent I didn't want.
There the two of them stood, the dark-haired Aline dressed all in gleaming yellow, the blonde Agatha in a soft light blue, and despite the contrast
between them, they looked like sisters. Both wore the broad-brimmed
Florentine hats that were fashionable at the time. Agatha took hers off
and placed it on the piano.

"No, dearest," said Aline, "unfortunately I can't stay. I'm expected
at home for lunch."

Agatha tried to persuade her a little longer, but she wasn't very convincing. And as she was speaking to her, she gave me such a questioning,
such a promising-yes, such a seductive look that I almost became dizzy.
And suddenly I knew that it was by no means the first look of that kind
she had directed toward me. Aline took her leave. "Goodbye, madam," I
said, and was conscious that these were the first words I had spoken, and
so I heard them echo in the room with exaggerated brightness and force.
Agatha accompanied her friend across the veranda and down the stairs
into the garden.

Why didn't I speak when Aline was still here? I thought. Wouldn't
it have been a thousand times easier? In the next moment Agatha already stood in front of me again. "Madam," I began, "I have awful news to
bring you." No, I didn't say these words. Anyone capable of reading
thoughts would have clearly heard me say these words, but no sound
came from my lips. Agatha stood in front of me, her light-blue dress
shining through the deep shadows of the room, but she wasn't smilingyes, it seemed to me as though I had never seen her face so serious. Now
that she was alone with me I felt clearly that anything that smacked of superficiality, of coquetry, yes, of anything purely sociable, should be banished.

"I'm so happy that you're here," she said.

I didn't reply, because I couldn't find the right words. All sorts of
dim experiences in the past few days suddenly lit up in my soul. It occurred to me how she had recently hung on my arm on that last excursion
and had walked down the forest trail with me. Then I remembered once
again how she had run her slender fingers through my hair that night in
the garden, and her name for me resounded tenderly in my mind:
"Child." I hadn't understood any of that-I hadn't dared to understand it.
Remember how young I was! It was the first time that a beautiful young
woman, a woman that I took to be a loving and beloved wife, seemed to
be offering me the gift of her heart. How could I have expected that? And
when she now expressed her pleasure over my coming so unabashedly, it
could mean nothing but that she considered me impatient and lovesick
enough to consciously use the absence of her husband for this unexpected and bold visit.

"Lunch is served, madam."

A slight movement by Agatha. I turned around. We stepped into the
adjoining room. It was Agatha's boudoir. The window stood open, white
curtains separated us from the outdoors, and the garden shone through
them with blurred colors.

We sat across from one another, Agatha and I. The servant, now
dressed in a dark blue shiny jacket with gold buttons came in and out and
served us. Everything was extremely elegantly prepared. It was a simple
meal, and there was nothing but champagne to drink. Our lunch conversation was completely innocuous and had to be so, but it was at the same
time completely unforced, not only on her side but also on mine. Yet while we talked about everyday matters and the little events in country
life, about past and future outings, about the coming regatta on Sunday,
about Loiberger's probable participation and chances-although I never
forgot for a moment that Eduard was dead, and that I had come only to
inform his wife of it-I perceived my presence, this tete-a-tete with
Agatha, the gentle fluttering of the curtain, the silent appearance and disappearance of the servant, not at all as dreamlike but rather as another,
lesser kind of reality. It was from this other reality that the shrill whistle
of the small steamer pierced toward us, in this reality that the lake was
lying in the midday sun; into this reality Aline had gone, and there also
lay the man whom I had seen felled this morning at the edge of the forest.
More real than any of that was what floated back and forth between
Agatha and me-not what she said but the tone of her voice, her look,
her desire-our longing.

The meal was finished. The servant didn't come back. We were
alone.

Agatha got up from the table, walked over to me, took my head in
both her hands, and kissed me on the lips. It was not a passionate kiss,
but rather a gentle one. More tenderness than passion was in it; it was sisterly and yet intoxicating, ceremonious and passionate at the same time.

And later, wrapped in her arms, I slipped into a thousand dreams.

We lay outstretched on a grassy slope. It's the same slope as the one
where she had recently lain at Eduard's side. I am amazed that she's so
calm, without the slightest fear that anything terrible has happened-I
don't know anything, and also don't think about anything, but I know
that we have to get away, as far as possible. Then we are sitting in a train
compartment; the window is open, the curtains, not fastened down, are
fluttering back and forth; disjointed pictures of rapidly changing landscapes race by-forests, meadows, fences, rocks, churches, and solitary
trees, all incomprehensibly fast and without any connection to each
other, quickly enough so that no one can come after us, not even the people traveling in the same train; it's impossible to understand, but it's so.
Suddenly I hear her name called from outdoors; I know it's a telegraph
messenger looking for her. In me is only the fear that she'll hear it. But
the sound of her name grows ever softer and finally fades entirely, and the train races on. We are traveling, yes, we are traveling-we are continuously traveling. Now we are in a casino room-it's probably Monte
Carlo. How can I doubt it? Of course it's Monte Carlo. Agatha is sitting
at the gaming table among others; she is beautiful, she is calm, she plays,
she loses, she wins; and I look all around to see if there's anyone who
recognizes her and who could perhaps tell her that her husband is dead.
But there are only strangers-brown and yellow faces. There is even an
Indian sitting at the gaming table with a huge red feathered headdress.
Aline stands in the doorway. What, has she come after us? To tell her
about it? Away, away! I touch Agatha's shoulder, and she turns toward
me with a look full of love. And again the train races off with us. Someone is looking in through the open window-how is that possible? Evidently he is clinging to the windowsill from outside. He has a piece of
paper in his hand: the telegram, of course! I push the man, he rolls off, I
don't know where-I can't see him. What luck that Agatha hasn't noticed anything! Of course not. She has a large English magazine in her
hand ... and she is leafing through it, looking at the pictures. How
strange, there's a picture of the gambling room which shows me with her
among the gamblers. How quickly news travels! If her husband sees this
picture-what will happen to us'? Will he kill me as he killed the captain?

All of a sudden I am back in the villa, in the room, on the sofa,
where I really am. It's reality and at the same time still a dream. I dream
that I'm awake, I dream that my eyes are open and are staring wide at the
fluttering curtains. And I hear footsteps, slow footsteps, the footsteps of
six or twelve men. I know they are now bringing the stretcher with the
body and I flee. I'm on the terrace outdoors. I have to go down the stairs.
Where are the men, where is the stretcher? I don't see it. I only know that
it's coming toward me and that it's impossible for me to avoid it. Suddenly I'm standing alone in the garden, but it's not a real garden, it's like
a garden from a toy box, exactly like the garden I was once given for my
birthday many years ago. I hadn't known until now that one could go
walking in it. It even has little birds sitting in the trees. I hadn't noticed
them then. And now they're all flying away, to punish me for having noticed them. And by the garden door there stands the servant, who bows
very deeply. Because Loiberger himself is just now entering. He has no idea that he's dead, and moreover he is wearing a white raincoat. I have
to accompany him into the house so that no one else can tell him that he
is dead; he wouldn't survive it, I think-and laugh at the same time. And
already the two of us are sitting down to dinner, and the servant is waiting on us. I'm surprised that Eduard is taking something to eat on his
plate-he doesn't need it anymore. Agatha sits across from him; I'm not
there anymore at all. But I'm sitting on the window ledge, and any
minute the curtains will close over my forehead. I so very much want to
see how they're looking at each other. Suddenly I hear his voice-oh
God, if only I could see-and I hear him say very clearly. "So you're
having breakfast with the man who shot me." It doesn't amaze me that
he's saying that, because I really did it. I only find it strange that he
should make such a stupid remark. He surely knows that it's customary
to have breakfast together after a duel.

Again, footsteps in the garden-the stretcher-how strange, first
the dead person and then the stretcher-what a snob he is!-and funereal
music. A military band? Of course, because he shot a cavalry captain.
And applause? Naturally-he won the regatta. I quickly jump out of the
window and run, as fast as I can, down to the lake. Why are so few people there-and no boats at all? Only a very small rowboat, and in this
rowboat are Agatha and me. Agatha rows. She suddenly knows how. She
had said just recently that she can't row. But now she has even won the
regatta. Suddenly I feel a hand on my throat, Eduard's hand. The oars
slip away from Agatha. Our rowboat is just drifting. She crosses her
arms. She is curious to see if Eduard will succeed in throwing me into the
water. We try to push each other underwater. Agatha is no longer curious
at all. She is drifting away on the boat. It's a motorboat after all, I think. I
sink deeper and deeper into the water. Why, why, I ask myself, and I
want to say to Loiberger: It's not worth the effort for us to kill each other
over such a woman. But I don't say it. He might believe that I'm scared.
And I surface again. The sky is infinitely larger than I have ever seen it.
And again I sink down into the water, this time even deeper than before.
I wouldn't have to, I'm alone after all, the whole lake belongs to me. And
the sky too. And again I surface from the waves and from death and from
dream. Yes, the deeper I sink down, the more forcefully I am catapulted to the surface, and suddenly I'm awake-completely awake, more awake
than I've ever been. But Agatha was sleeping, at least she was lying there
with her eyelids shut. The curtains were blowing more strongly now in
the summer wind that always blew from the lake at this hour in the afternoon. It couldn't be late yet. By the position of the sun it was no later
than four o'clock-the hour when Muelling had wanted to meet me at
the hotel. Was this still a dream? Was all of it perhaps a dream? Even the
duel? And Loiberger's death? Was it maybe morning and was I sleeping-in my room at the hotel? But this was, so to speak, my last attempt
to flee. I couldn't doubt that I was awake and that Agatha was lying here
sleeping and knew nothing. Now the only choice I had left was to get up
and flee immediately, this very second-or to speak without hesitating a
second longer, to wake Agatha up and to tell her. The news could arrive
here any minute. Hadn't I heard footsteps in the garden already? Wasn't
it almost a miracle that we hadn't been disturbed up to now? And in any
case, even if no one in this house or here in town knew anything yet,
wasn't it incomprehensibly stupid to stay any longer in this room, which
was accessible to everyone, now that the hour of the customary afternoon
rest had passed? I myself had gotten up hurriedly-and now, just as I was
getting ready to tap Agatha on the shoulder, she blinked as if my glance
had awakened her, rubbed her hand over her forehead and her hair, and
looked like a small girl rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She looked at
me for all the world as if I were a vanishing dream image. But then she
heard my voice, for I had involuntarily whispered her name, and her face
darkened; she sprang up, fixed her dress, smoothed the pillows, and
hastily put them in order. Then she turned quickly to me and said only,
"Go!" But I stayed there as if rooted to the spot, completely incapable of
telling her what I had to tell her, yes, incapable of saying anything at all.
What a coward I was! Kill myself-there was nothing else for me to do.
But I couldn't even take a step. I could only utter her name louder, more
pleadingly than before. She grasped my hand tenderly and said, "I love
you very much. I didn't know how much I love you. You don't have to
believe it. But why should I say it if it weren't true? I just wanted you to
know it before you leave."