Read Online I Was Jack Mortimer (Pushkin Collection) by Alexander Lernet-Holenia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander Lernet-Holenia
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few letters and two telegrams.
“Would Sir require anything else,” Sponer heard the manager ask.
Sponer shook his head. If there was anything else he wanted he’d ring, he muttered; and the manager, the man who brought the luggage, and the two boys bowed and disappeared.
He was left standing in the middle of the room, in Mortimer’s room, in Mortimer’s clothes, in Mortimer’s life.And in his hand he held Mortimer’s letters. He planned to spend a night in the dead man’s life and be gone the next morning, no matter where, disappear, become himself again, Sponer, the taxi driver who had delivered Mortimer alive and well at the Bristol, and whom no one could accuse if he was later asked, “Where is he? Where’s Jack Mortimer?” Hadn’t he arrived at the Bristol with his luggage, spent a night, and left the following day?—Where to?—None of my business! How should I know? Go and ask someone else! He left my cab and went into the hotel; how should I know what he did after that?
For one night only he would live Mortimer’s life, and the next morning he’d return to his own. Because otherwise people might turn up who knew Mortimer, or who had business to discuss that only Mortimer could handle, or a question to put to him to which only Mortimer knew the answer.
But he, Sponer, wouldn’t be there any more. The dead man’s life into which he had stepped would be over in a few hours.
But that’s not how things turned out. It was no longer a question of hours. One doesn’t step into anyone’s life, not even a dead man’s, without having to live it to the end.
He, Sponer, was now Jack Mortimer, the living. And that’s how he would have to stay, right up to Mortimer’s death.
5
H E KEPT STARING at the floor, and only after the people had left, did he dare raise his eyes, fixing them on the closed door and listening for every sound. He waited until the door to the corridor had fallen shut, for only then did he imagine he’d be safe till morning. Then, suddenly, he heard a noise which told him they were still on the other side of the door; he even heard the manager issuing an instruction and one of the bellboys answering him. The manager said something further, and this time it was the porter who answered; then a couple of voices spoke simultaneously. All of a sudden, however, they stopped as if by command, or rather, continued in a whisper; he heard it clearly even though he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But the whispering continued.
While he was listening, his heart went on beating faster and faster, and in the end he couldn’t stand it any more. He rushed noiselessly to the door and pressed his ear against it, but he still couldn’t understand anything. Finally his nerves snapped and he threw the door open.
He saw the manager, the bellboys and the porter standingin the hallway, looking at a picture in a gilt frame, which took up a large part of the wall.
It was an old oil painting depicting a battle scene.
A suite of furniture—a silk-covered sofa and two armchairs, which had stood under the painting—had been pushed aside.
As Sponer flung the door open, he saw them stare back in terror. The manager immediately began to apologize. “It wasn’t hanging straight,” he said, motioning towards the picture. At the same time, at a nod from him, the suite was pushed back where it belonged, and they quickly left the room, bowing.
After the door had closed, Sponer wiped his brow with his sleeve. Then he suddenly threw the letters that he was still holding in his hand onto the sofa, ran to the door, opened it, tore the key out of the lock, double locked the door from inside, turned round, and was about to take a deep breath and say to himself, “Now I’m safe till the morning…”
Instead, from the moment he locked the door, he had the overwhelming feeling that he was in a trap and that everywhere people were lying in wait and eavesdropping on him.
His nerves, which had held
“Would Sir require anything else,” Sponer heard the manager ask.
Sponer shook his head. If there was anything else he wanted he’d ring, he muttered; and the manager, the man who brought the luggage, and the two boys bowed and disappeared.
He was left standing in the middle of the room, in Mortimer’s room, in Mortimer’s clothes, in Mortimer’s life.And in his hand he held Mortimer’s letters. He planned to spend a night in the dead man’s life and be gone the next morning, no matter where, disappear, become himself again, Sponer, the taxi driver who had delivered Mortimer alive and well at the Bristol, and whom no one could accuse if he was later asked, “Where is he? Where’s Jack Mortimer?” Hadn’t he arrived at the Bristol with his luggage, spent a night, and left the following day?—Where to?—None of my business! How should I know? Go and ask someone else! He left my cab and went into the hotel; how should I know what he did after that?
For one night only he would live Mortimer’s life, and the next morning he’d return to his own. Because otherwise people might turn up who knew Mortimer, or who had business to discuss that only Mortimer could handle, or a question to put to him to which only Mortimer knew the answer.
But he, Sponer, wouldn’t be there any more. The dead man’s life into which he had stepped would be over in a few hours.
But that’s not how things turned out. It was no longer a question of hours. One doesn’t step into anyone’s life, not even a dead man’s, without having to live it to the end.
He, Sponer, was now Jack Mortimer, the living. And that’s how he would have to stay, right up to Mortimer’s death.
5
H E KEPT STARING at the floor, and only after the people had left, did he dare raise his eyes, fixing them on the closed door and listening for every sound. He waited until the door to the corridor had fallen shut, for only then did he imagine he’d be safe till morning. Then, suddenly, he heard a noise which told him they were still on the other side of the door; he even heard the manager issuing an instruction and one of the bellboys answering him. The manager said something further, and this time it was the porter who answered; then a couple of voices spoke simultaneously. All of a sudden, however, they stopped as if by command, or rather, continued in a whisper; he heard it clearly even though he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But the whispering continued.
While he was listening, his heart went on beating faster and faster, and in the end he couldn’t stand it any more. He rushed noiselessly to the door and pressed his ear against it, but he still couldn’t understand anything. Finally his nerves snapped and he threw the door open.
He saw the manager, the bellboys and the porter standingin the hallway, looking at a picture in a gilt frame, which took up a large part of the wall.
It was an old oil painting depicting a battle scene.
A suite of furniture—a silk-covered sofa and two armchairs, which had stood under the painting—had been pushed aside.
As Sponer flung the door open, he saw them stare back in terror. The manager immediately began to apologize. “It wasn’t hanging straight,” he said, motioning towards the picture. At the same time, at a nod from him, the suite was pushed back where it belonged, and they quickly left the room, bowing.
After the door had closed, Sponer wiped his brow with his sleeve. Then he suddenly threw the letters that he was still holding in his hand onto the sofa, ran to the door, opened it, tore the key out of the lock, double locked the door from inside, turned round, and was about to take a deep breath and say to himself, “Now I’m safe till the morning…”
Instead, from the moment he locked the door, he had the overwhelming feeling that he was in a trap and that everywhere people were lying in wait and eavesdropping on him.
His nerves, which had held
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