“Well, well,” I laughed. “So you’re going to get a divorce. I didn’t know I’d given you grounds for divorce yet. But that can probably be rectified—and what else have you in mind?”
But she had had enough.
“You’ll see,” she said, and sat down again at her desk and her papers.
“I can wait,” I answered.
I took the brandy bottle and laid it with my uneaten sandwiches in the brief-case.
“Get this quite clear: by law everything belongs to me. You had nothing when we married. House, furniture, business: all mine!”
I laughed as I saw her furious gesture of protest.
“Yes, you enquire from a lawyer first, then you’ll think again about a divorce, and now,” I said, and took my hat from the hook, “I’ll leave my firm on loan to you. Be very industrious, dear Magda, and cancel plenty of nice contracts, and … why, what’s the matter? Are you trying to give me grounds for divorce?”
My sarcasm had made her frantic with rage. She had snatched up the nearest thing to hand, a blotter, and thrown it at me. I only just managed to dodge it. She looked at me, trembling, white as a sheet. I thought it best not to provoke her any more, I put the blotter back in its place, and left the office.
11
I was firmly decided not to return too soon. Let her play about there for a bit on her own; I couldn’t do a thing right, anyway. The whole business had bored me for some time past: now I had a more interesting task on hand, better suited to my present mood—my fight with Magda! Let her match herself against me, and she would find out how much the cleverer I was, and how much more I knew about the law!
I was on my way again, my brief-case under my arm, through a lovely though rather hot day at the end of spring. The Queen of Alcohol—I had neglected her for far too long—she certainly wasn’t dull. Apart from that, it was time I got my shoes back. Nobody was going to say that in my drunkenness I had scattered my clothes over half Europe. Nobody, not even Magda. It was quite clear what this capable lady intended, to whom I had been married up till now. Divorce, all very well, but divorces aren’t arranged so quickly as that; certain preparations have to be made, e.g., an examination by the doctor. Magda had been on good terms with Dr Mansfeld for years. He had always treated her whenever she was ill. I knew him less, I never had much the matter with me. She would probably talk him over to her way of thinking and then I should probably be put under restraint in a home for inebriates. That’s what my fine Magda would like: her husband shut up in a home, preferably third-class of course, while she gets her hands on his property and runs the firm. But there were other doctors, more clever and capable than good old Dr Mansfeld who was only an ordinary G.P., after alclass="underline" right away within the next few days I would go to one or more of them and get certificates attesting to my perfect health. With such a target before my eyes it should be easy not to drink for a day or two before my visit to the doctor. She would soon find out whom she had to deal with, would Magda; despite fifteen years of married life, she didn’t know her husband at all! Anyway, before I’d give up my property to her, I’d sooner burn the house down over her head, that was certain.
So my thoughts ran, on my way to the village inn, and the filling-in of all the details shortened the journey for me in the most agreeable fashion. For instance, I could dwell on the idea of being shut up in some institution cell, disciplined with cold water and fed on bad food, while Magda ate veal cutlets and asparagus in our pretty dining-room. Tears of self-pity nearly came into my eyes at the thought of my hard lot and Magda’s injustice. In between times, I fed my sandwiches to the village ducks and geese, for as usual lately, I wasn’t in the least hungry, and every so often I dived behind a hedge and took a drink. I never quite lost the feeling of shame that I, Erwin Sommer, was hiding behind a hedge, pouring schnaps into myself like the lowest tramp. I could never take it for granted, I never became quite so blunted. But it just had to be, it couldn’t be otherwise.
I had finished the bottle shortly before reaching my goal. I threw the bottle into the ditch and began my last five minutes’ walk. It was striking noon from the village steeple; before me, behind me, and all around, the villagers were coming from the fields, with hoes and spades over their shoulders. Some of them greeted me, some gave me keen sidelong looks, and others nudged each other, pulled faces and laughed as they passed me by. It may only have been the usual critical village attitude to townsfolk, but I had the suspicion that it might be noticeable I had been drinking, perhaps, or that something about my clothing was disarranged. I was already acquainted with the fact that the worst thing about alcohol was the feeling of uncertainty it gave, as if something was not quite right. You can look in the mirror as often as you like, look your clothes over, try every button, but when you have had something to drink, you are never sure that you have not overlooked something, something quite obvious that has been neglected despite the closest attention. One has similar experiences in dreams, one moves quite happily in the most exclusive society, and suddenly discovers that one has forgotten to put one’s trousers on. Well then, I found it irksome to be so stared at, and besides, it occurred to me that this busy noonday hour would not be the right time for me to go looking for my pretty one. I turned aside into a field path and threw myself down on the grass under a shady bush. At once I fell asleep, into that pitch-black sleep that alcohol induces, in which one is, so to speak, extinguished, one dies a modified death. There are no more dreams, no notion of light and life—off into nothingness!
When I woke up, the sun was already low. I must have been asleep for four, perhaps five hours. As usual nowadays, my sleep had not refreshed me, I woke up old and tired, a shaky feeling in my limbs. My bones were stiff when I stood up; and I found walking very difficult. But I knew by now that all this would be better as soon as I had had my first few drinks, and I hurried to reach the inn.
I had chosen a good time: the bar-room was empty again, there was nobody behind the bar either. Stiffly, I let myself fall into a wicker chair and called for some service. First a woman’s head appeared in the crack of the door; it wasn’t my pale pretty one however, but an unkempt red-nosed elderly character, and then a fat woman looked in, calling “Coming, coming!” and opened the door by the stairway which I had climbed that night, led blindly by the hand.
“Elinor, Elinor, come down!” cried the landlady. She once again assured me that I would be served, and disappeared into the kitchen. So her name was Elinor. I hadn’t been so far out with Elsabe. But Elinor was very good, rather better really. Elinor suited her, Elinor la reine d’alcool. Very nice too!
And then I heard her coming down the stairs, not at all gazelle-footed by the way; the door banged open, and in she came. She must have been asleep, her hair was not so neat and carefully pinned as usual, and her light dress was rather rumpled and untidy. She stood for a moment and looked across to me. She did not recognise me at once, she was looking into the sun. Then she cried quite cheerfully: “Oh, it’s only old pop who likes schnaps so much!”, and ran upstairs again. I didn’t really mind this novel and rather painful greeting. I was only pleased at such an unaffected reception. I had been a bit doubtful how she would receive me after my departure over the shed roof that night. But now everything was all right, and I waited patiently for five minutes until she appeared again, spick-and-span. She came straight over to my table, gave me her hand like an old friend, and said amiably, “I thought you were never coming back! What have you been doing all this time? Are you bankrupt now?”