At a quarter to two this Christmas Eve, my Uncle Theo turned up here again. The watchman was already dressed in his overcoat, standing by the glass doors with a bunch of keys in his hand. The banks, the grocers, the bookshops, the hairdressers were shut tight. The street outside looked dead, for those who weren’t down with Asian flu were just getting over it. Uncle Theo slipped in past the porter. He wore his best winter pelisse with the seal collar and his seal hat. He looked smaller than ever, because of the greatcoat and because of a huge brown paper parcel he was carrying. He made as if to come straight over, but I frowned and looked down. The cashier was on sick leave, too, and I was doing double duty. I knew the parcel was our Christmas goose. Uncle Theo buys one every year. Now, that he chooses well; it is not an imported Polish bird but a local goose, a fine one. I stood there counting money, twenty-five, thirty, fifty, and I heard Uncle Theo saying, “She is my niece.” In my position I cannot murmur, “Oh, shut up,” but I imagined him bound and trussed, like the goose, and with adhesive tape across his mouth. He was speaking to a man standing before him in the queue, a tall fellow wearing one of those square fur caps with earflaps. The cap had certainly come from Russia. I guessed at once that the man was a show-off. Uncle Theo was telling him his history, of course, and probably mine as well — that I spoke four, or even seven, languages and that the tourist office could not manage without me. What a waste of time, and how foolish of Uncle Theo! Even from behind the counter I could see the show-off’s wedding ring. None of the staff was happy. We were almost the only people still working in the whole city. It was one of the days when you can smell the central heating, like an aluminum saucepan burning. I looked sharply at Hausen, my assistant. He has devised a way of reading a newspaper in a desk drawer, folded in quarters. He can even turn the pages, with movements so economical only I can see them. You would never guess that he was reading — he seems to be looking for pencils. “Take some of these people over, will you?” I called out. Hausen didn’t respond, and the line didn’t move. Uncle Theo’s voice was now clear: “I also happened to be in Calcutta when the end of the world was expected. That was February fifth, 1962. The Calcutta stock exchange closed down. People left their homes and slept in tents. Imagine — the stock exchange affected. Everyone waiting. Eminent persons, learned professors.” Uncle Theo shook his head.
“You were there on business, I suppose,” said the man in the square cap. He had to stand in profile so they could go on talking. It made an untidy sort of queue. Uncle Theo looked ridiculous. The pelisse swamps him.
“No, no. I was retired long ago,” he said. “Forcibly retired. My factories were bombed. I made a little porcelain — pretty stuff. But my vocation was elsewhere.” Having let that sink in, he put on his quotations voice and said, “ ‘And now, like many another wreck, I am throwing myself into the arms of literature.’ I found much to inspire me in India. The holy men. The end of the world on February fifth, 1962. The moon. The moon in India has no phases. It is full all the year round.”
In a job like mine it would be best not to have relatives at all. Nothing of Uncle Theo’s is quite the truth or entirely a lie. The remark about the moon was a mistake, caused by his lack of schooling. For “factories” he meant “one workroom,” and for “porcelain” he meant “hand-painted ashtrays.” It is true about the literature, though. Two of his poems have been set to music and sung by our choral society. “In Autumn, in Summer, in Autumn, in Summer,” with the voices fading on the last word, is not without effect. The other, which begins, “O peace, O peace, O lasting peace, we all demand a lasting peace,” is less successful. It sounds preachy, even when sung in a lively way.
“Will someone please take over these people,” I said, this time loud enough so that Hausen couldn’t pretend not to hear. The whole queue shuffled obediently to the left — all but the last two. These were Uncle Theo and his new friend, of course. The friend made for me and put a traveler’s check down on the counter. I looked at it. It had been signed “F. T. Gellner” and countersigned “F. Thomas Gellner.” Haste, carelessness, perhaps. But the T on the top line was a printer’s capital, while the second was written in script. I pushed the check back with one finger: “Sorry, it’s not the same signature.”
He pretended not to see what I meant, then said, “Oh, that. I can cross out the ‘Thomas’ and put the initial on, can’t I?”
“Not on a traveler’s. Next person, please,” I said, even though the next was Uncle Theo, who had no business here.
“I’ll write a personal check,” said the man, getting a pen out first.
“This is not a bank,” I said. “We cash traveler’s checks as a favor to clients.”
“But the banks are closed.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is Christmas Eve. It isn’t only the ‘Thomas,’ but also your capitals. The two signatures are absolutely not the same.”
“Is that all?” he cried out, so happily (thinking it was settled) that even deaf Hausen looked over. “I write one way sometimes, then another. Let me show you — my driver’s license, my passport …” He started tumbling papers out of an inside pocket. “I should be more careful,” he said to me, trying to play at being friends.
“It is not my business to examine your driver’s license,” I said. “The two signatures are not the same.”
He looked round the office and said, “Isn’t there anyone else I can see?”
“It is Christmas Eve,” I said, “and I am in charge. The manager is at home with Asian flu. Would you like his number?”
Uncle Theo stuck his head out sideways, like a little boiled egg with a hat on it, and said, “I can vouch for the gentleman.” He must have forgotten who and where he was. “I can sign anything you like,” he said. “My name is important locally.”
“There is nothing to sign and I do not need your name.” Important locally? Where is his name? On the war memorial? Have they called a street after him? His name is not even on a civil registry — he never married, even though there has been a shortage of husbands since Bismarck.
The man took no more notice of Uncle Theo; he had finally understood that the honorary assistant head of the choral society was of no use to anyone. To be rid of the incident, I said, “Sign another traveler’s in my presenee.”
“That was my last one.”
Uncle Theo repeated, “I can vouch for the gentleman. I have seen the gentleman buying in shops — spending,” said my uncle, making a circle of his thumb and forefinger for emphasis under the brown paper parcel, as if we were poor villagers for whom the very sight of money was a promise of honor.
“Ask your hotel to cash a check,” I said. “I’m sorry but I cannot deal with you any longer. It is Christmas Eve.”
“I’m not in a hotel. I mean that I am staying here with friends.” Of course, I had seen the “friends.” She was waiting outside, trying to seem casual, wearing one of those reddish fur coats. Snow fell on her hair.
“Ask your friends to lend you something.”
“You could save me that embarrassment,” he said, trying for friendliness again.
“It is not my business to save you embarrassment,” I said, glancing at his wedding ring.
Even when he had got as far as the door, and the watchman was preparing to lock it behind him, he kept looking back at me. I made a point of being taken up by Uncle Theo, who now stood woebegone and scuffling his feet, shifting his burden from arm to arm.