Before leaving, annoyed at the stubbornness of the prisoner (who, deep down, was beginning to lose his nerve), the bailiff said: The law, you talk to me about justice? Let me remind you how justice works. Fritz Reuter spent two years in prison for waving a black, red and yellow flag. Arnold Ruge was sentenced to fifteen years on suspicion of belonging to subversive organisations. Several of your comrades took their own lives in prison. Others ask to do hard labour just so they can drink water or see the sun. In the Harz region mutilation is legal. It isn’t the only place. And for your information, in this principality, the death penalty can be carried out with an axe. Peasants who steal are beheaded. People pay eight groats to watch. They’re right. Some things are educational. Have I made myself understood? There’s justice for you. Real justice, you son of a bitch. Have a good night.
The next morning, when he went to wake him, the jailer found Hans with his eyes wide open. A viscous light poured through the bars, like oily gravy. A very young sergeant took him to the Chief Superintendent, who hadn’t changed his clothes, or was wearing similar ones. Have you calmed down, foreigner? the Chief Superintendent greeted him. Have you had time to think things over? Are you ready to sign? Nervous, battling with the fears that assailed him, Hans refused once more to sign the statement. The Chief Superintendent ordered him to be locked up again. Back in his cell, Hans sobbed in silence. Moments later, the jailer opened the bars and he was a free man.
Hans left the police station bewildered. Álvaro was waiting for him on the corner of Spur Street. About time! he said. I was getting anxious. How did you persuade them to let me go? asked Hans. Simple, replied Álvaro, I paid your bail. Oh, said Hans, surprised, I had bail? It wasn’t very much, said Álvaro, didn’t they tell you? Three guesses! Hans sighed. Never mind, what did they say? I came here first thing, explained Álvaro, and they told me I had to wait because you were signing a statement.
They made their way dolefully down Potter’s Lane, zigzagging towards Café Europa. Well, Álvaro said, patting him on the back, how do you feel? Fresh as a rose, hombre! declared Hans. They only wanted to frighten me. And did they succeed? Álvaro grinned. They did rather, replied Hans.
After his second coffee, Hans’s sleepiness gave way to the keen alertness that overcomes anyone who hasn’t slept all night. He told his friend about the beating on King’s Parade, the Chief Superintendent’s interrogation, his detention in the cell, what the bailiff had said. Does it hurt? Álvaro asked, pointing to his puffy cheek and red nose. Hans was about to reply when he caught sight of one of the billiard players on the tables at the back — over the sound of colliding balls, Rudi was smiling disdainfully at him. Look who’s here, Hans whispered, glancing away and realising he did so with fear. Herr Imbecile, growled Álvaro, I’m going to tell him I’ll be waiting for him at eight o’clock on the bridge, I’ll give him honour! Don’t play the hero, said Hans, have a herbal tea instead. Álvaro insisted: I’m going to challenge him, I tell you, and you … Let go of my arm! Let go! Hans managed to calm his friend down. It wasn’t very difficult — the last thing Álvaro needed was a feud with the Wilderhaus family. When they stood up to go, the waiter informed them Herr Wilderhaus had paid their bill.
As soon as Hans walked in, the innkeeper leapt with unaccustomed agility from behind the reception desk. It’s Thursday already! he said with a look of consternation. Clasping his belly as though he were lifting up a sack of potatoes, he added: A couple of policemen went up to your room this morning. (What? Hans said, alarmed. And you didn’t stop them?) Listen, they had bayonets! I tried my best, but they insisted on searching your belongings (damn! Hans cried, raising his hands to his head), but I managed to ask Lisa to hide your trunk in number five, which is empty. No, there’s no need to thank me, sir. You’ve always paid. And a guest is a guest.
Hans pelted up the stairs. On one of the landings he bumped into Thomas, who crouched like a cat, slipped between his legs, tugged at his breeches and took off down the stairs.
He walked into his room and glanced about. The chairs were upturned, the mattress half on the floor, his valise open and his clothes strewn everywhere, the bathtub had been moved, the papers on his desk rifled through, the logs pulled from the fire. He searched everything carefully, and discovered the policemen had taken nothing of any importance except for some money he had hidden in a sock inside his suitcase. The only real casualty was the watercolour, which he picked up off the floor, its mirror smashed to pieces. He went out into the corridor, made sure no one was there and slipped into the adjoining room — he was relieved to find his trunk under the bed behind some brooms and wash bowls Lisa had placed there as camouflage.
Later on, after a long bath, some lunch and a nap, Hans went out to hail a coach and make his way to the cave. Franz, who had spent the whole day skulking around the bed, greeted him with the enthusiasm of a sentry who sees the relief guard arrive. Hans found the organ grinder in a rather frail state. He had a temperature and his eyes looked sunken. My eyes hurt, the old man said, kof, and I feel dizzy, kof, like my ears are being pulled and I’m floating. Have you been on your own long? asked Hans. I’m not on my own, the organ grinder said, Franz looks after me, kof, and Lamberg’s been here, kof, he brought me some food. And do you feel any better? asked Hans. Come over here, the old man replied, kof, sit beside me for a while.
On Thursday afternoon Hans received a note on papyrus-brown paper. The message was succinct and the writing a little stiff for Sophie’s hand. This, he reflected, meant she had written it against her will, or at least that she had forced herself to write what it said — that it was best if he didn’t come to the salon the following day.
Before she signed off, however, Hans read the word love. And below her signature, a postscript:
PS I think I understand why there was no sequel to Lucinde.
Hans crumpled up the note and dressed to go out. He put on his beret, paused, took it off, put it on again, paused once more then finally flung it at the fireplace, cursing.
Bertold’s scar spread incongruously, as though his lip were producing two separate smiles — a polite one and a scornful one. I’m sorry, she’s not at home, Bertold announced, Fräulein Sophie is taking tea at the Wilderhaus residence, do you wish to leave a message? I wish to pay my respects to Herr Gottlieb, Hans replied almost without thinking.
Herr Gottlieb and Hans scrutinised one another. The one attempting to deduce the true reason for this surprise visit, the other to discover whether news of his arrest and the incident with Rudi had been made known. Neither managed to come to any definite conclusion, although both men were aware of a change — the normally hospitable Herr Gottlieb was offhand and irritable, while Hans appeared ill at ease, less elegant than usual. And those cuts on your cheek, Herr Hans? Herr Gottlieb asked, without giving away the faintest glimpse of a clue behind his whiskers. Cats, said Hans, my inn is full of cats. Yes, said Herr Gottlieb, cats are unpredictable creatures. Rather like men, said Hans. You are right there, sir, Herr Gottlieb nodded solemnly, you are certainly right there.
At no point was Hans requested to leave, yet he was offered no tea either. Hans began to take his leave, and Herr Gottlieb asked him to wait for a moment, went to his study and handed him a folded card embossed with sumptuous arabesques. We were obliged to personalise the invitations, said Herr Gottlieb, chewing his pipe, because of the number of guests. Hans read the names of the betrothed couple and felt a pang. As he walked through the corridor towards the hall, he noticed the jug Sophie used as a flower vase — it contained violets.