Read Online The Collected Stories of Heinrich Boll by Heinrich Böll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Heinrich Böll
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mustache, a color photo showing the fellow framed in a lifebelt bearing the word
“Patrie.”
The fellow had cold eyes, a brutal chin, and a distinctly patriotic mouth. I didn’t care for him. On either side hung a few pictures of flowers and lovers exchanging saccharine kisses. It was all exactly the same as a year ago. Possibly the furniture was a bit shabbier, but could it have got any shabbier? The bar stool I was perched on had one leg glued—I clearly recalled its being broken during a fight between Friedrich and Hans, a fight about an ugly girl called Lisette and this leg still showed the depressing trickle of glue, like a runny nose, that someone had forgotten to rub off with sandpaper.
“Cherry brandy,” said Renée, a bottle in one hand and an enamel basin full of potatoes and peelings pinned to her side with her right arm.
“Any good?” I asked.
She smacked her lips. “The best there is, love, a real good one.”
“Pour us a couple then, will you?”
She stood the bottle on the counter, let the basin slide onto a little stool behind the bar, and took two glasses from the shelf. Then she filled the shallow glasses with the red liquid.
“Prost, Renée,” I said.
“Prost, my lad!”
“Now then—what’s new?”
“Nothing,” she sighed, deftly peeling her potatoes again. “A few more skedaddled without paying, some glasses got smashed. That nice Jacqueline’s having another baby and doesn’t know whose it is. The rain’s been raining and the sun’s been shining, I’m an old woman now and I’m clearing out.”
“Clearing out, Renée?”
“Yes,” she said without emotion. “Believe me, there’s no fun in it any more. The boys have less and less money and get more and more cocky, drinks go down in quality and up in price. Prost, my lad!”
“Prost, Renée!”
We drank down the fiery red stuff, it was first-rate all right, and I immediately refilled our glasses.
“Prost!”
“Prost!”
“There,” she said finally, throwing the last peeled potato into a saucepan of water, “that’ll do for today. I’ll just go and wash my hands so you don’t have the smell of potatoes hanging around you. Potatoes smell horrible—don’t you agree that potato peelings smell horrible?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re a good lad.”
She vanished once more into the kitchen.
The cherry brandy was indeed excellent. A sweet fire of cherries flowed into me, and I forgot the lousy war.
“You like me better this way, eh?”
She was standing in the doorway, properly dressed now and wearing a cream-colored blouse, and you could smell that she had washed her hands with good soap.
“Prost!” I said.
“Prost!”
“So you’re really clearing out—but you’re not serious?”
“I am,” she said, “I’m dead serious.”
“Prost,” I said, and started to fill the glasses.
“No,” she said, “if you don’t mind I’ll have a lemonade, it’s a bit early for me.”
“All right, but go on.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ve had it.” She looked at me, and in her eyes, those bleary, swollen eyes, there was a terrible fear. “D’you hear, my lad? I’ve had it. It’s driving me crazy, this silence. Just listen.” She gripped my arm so tightly that I was startled and really did listen. And it was uncanny: there wasn’t a sound, and yet it wasn’t silent either, there was an indescribable something in the air, a kind of bubbling: the sound of silence.
“D’you hear?” she asked, a note of triumph in her voice. “It sounds like a dunghill.”
“A dunghill?” I said. “Prost!”
“That’s right,” she replied, swallowing some lemonade. “It’s exactly like a dunghill, that sound. I’m from the country, you know, from a little place up north near Dieppe, and lying in bed in the evening I used to hear that sound quite distinctly: it was silent, and yet not silent, and later I found out what it was: it’s the dunghill, that queer snapping and bubbling and
“Patrie.”
The fellow had cold eyes, a brutal chin, and a distinctly patriotic mouth. I didn’t care for him. On either side hung a few pictures of flowers and lovers exchanging saccharine kisses. It was all exactly the same as a year ago. Possibly the furniture was a bit shabbier, but could it have got any shabbier? The bar stool I was perched on had one leg glued—I clearly recalled its being broken during a fight between Friedrich and Hans, a fight about an ugly girl called Lisette and this leg still showed the depressing trickle of glue, like a runny nose, that someone had forgotten to rub off with sandpaper.
“Cherry brandy,” said Renée, a bottle in one hand and an enamel basin full of potatoes and peelings pinned to her side with her right arm.
“Any good?” I asked.
She smacked her lips. “The best there is, love, a real good one.”
“Pour us a couple then, will you?”
She stood the bottle on the counter, let the basin slide onto a little stool behind the bar, and took two glasses from the shelf. Then she filled the shallow glasses with the red liquid.
“Prost, Renée,” I said.
“Prost, my lad!”
“Now then—what’s new?”
“Nothing,” she sighed, deftly peeling her potatoes again. “A few more skedaddled without paying, some glasses got smashed. That nice Jacqueline’s having another baby and doesn’t know whose it is. The rain’s been raining and the sun’s been shining, I’m an old woman now and I’m clearing out.”
“Clearing out, Renée?”
“Yes,” she said without emotion. “Believe me, there’s no fun in it any more. The boys have less and less money and get more and more cocky, drinks go down in quality and up in price. Prost, my lad!”
“Prost, Renée!”
We drank down the fiery red stuff, it was first-rate all right, and I immediately refilled our glasses.
“Prost!”
“Prost!”
“There,” she said finally, throwing the last peeled potato into a saucepan of water, “that’ll do for today. I’ll just go and wash my hands so you don’t have the smell of potatoes hanging around you. Potatoes smell horrible—don’t you agree that potato peelings smell horrible?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’re a good lad.”
She vanished once more into the kitchen.
The cherry brandy was indeed excellent. A sweet fire of cherries flowed into me, and I forgot the lousy war.
“You like me better this way, eh?”
She was standing in the doorway, properly dressed now and wearing a cream-colored blouse, and you could smell that she had washed her hands with good soap.
“Prost!” I said.
“Prost!”
“So you’re really clearing out—but you’re not serious?”
“I am,” she said, “I’m dead serious.”
“Prost,” I said, and started to fill the glasses.
“No,” she said, “if you don’t mind I’ll have a lemonade, it’s a bit early for me.”
“All right, but go on.”
“Well,” she said, “I’ve had it.” She looked at me, and in her eyes, those bleary, swollen eyes, there was a terrible fear. “D’you hear, my lad? I’ve had it. It’s driving me crazy, this silence. Just listen.” She gripped my arm so tightly that I was startled and really did listen. And it was uncanny: there wasn’t a sound, and yet it wasn’t silent either, there was an indescribable something in the air, a kind of bubbling: the sound of silence.
“D’you hear?” she asked, a note of triumph in her voice. “It sounds like a dunghill.”
“A dunghill?” I said. “Prost!”
“That’s right,” she replied, swallowing some lemonade. “It’s exactly like a dunghill, that sound. I’m from the country, you know, from a little place up north near Dieppe, and lying in bed in the evening I used to hear that sound quite distinctly: it was silent, and yet not silent, and later I found out what it was: it’s the dunghill, that queer snapping and bubbling and
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