Read Online The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Roth
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husband, and leave. He gazed helplessly at the lemonade; there was no finishing it. Frau Slama refilled his glass. She brought cigarettes. He was not allowed to smoke. She lit a cigarette for herself and drew on it indolently, with flaring nostrils, and jiggled her foot. Suddenly, without a word, she took the cap from his knees and put it on the table. Then she thrust her cigarette into his mouth. Her hand was redolent with smoke and cologne; the bright sleeve of her dressing gown with its pattern of summery flowers shimmered before his eyes. He politely puffed the cigarette, its tip wet from her mouth, and gazed at the lemonade. Frau Slama reinserted the cigarette between her teeth and placed herself behind Carl Joseph. He was afraid to turn around. All at once, both her shimmering sleeves were around his neck, and her face bore down on his hair. He did not stir. But his heart pounded; a huge tempest burst inside him, convulsively held back by his petrified body and the solid buttons of the uniform.
“Come on!” whispered Frau Slama. She sat on his lap, kissed him hurriedly, and eyed him roguishly. A tuft of blond hair accidentally dropped into her forehead; she peered upward, trying to puff it away with puckered lips. He began feeling her weight on his legs; at the same time new energy gushed through him, tensing the muscles in his thighs and arms. He embraced the woman and felt the soft coolness of her breasts through the tough cloth of the uniform. A soft chuckle erupted from her throat, a bit like a sob and a bit like a warble. Tears formed in hereyes. Then she leaned back and with delicate precision began undoing button after button on his tunic. She placed a cool, tender hand on his chest, kissed his mouth with prolonged and systematic relish, and suddenly rose as if startled by some noise. He promptly leaped up, she smiled and slowly drew him along, stepping backward, with both hands outstretched and her head thrown back, a radiance in her face, moving toward the door, which she opened by kicking behind her. They glided into the bedroom.
As if helplessly fettered, he watched her through half-shut eyelids while she undressed him, slow, thorough, and motherly. Somewhat dismayed, he noticed his full-dress uniform falling slackly to the floor, piece by piece; he heard the thudding of his shoes and instantly felt Frau Slama’s hand on his foot. From below, a new billow of warmth and coolness swept up to his chest. He let himself go slack. He received the woman like a huge soft wave of bliss, fire, and water.
He woke up. Frau Slama stood before him, handing him his clothing piece by piece; he began to dress hastily. She hurried into the parlor, brought him his gloves and cap. She straightened his tunic. He felt her constant glances on his face but avoided looking at her. He banged his heels together, shook the woman’s hand while gazing stubbornly at her right shoulder, and went off.
A bell-tower clock struck seven. The sun was nearing the hills, which were now as blue as the sky and barely distinguishable from clouds. Sweet fragrance flowed from the trees along the way. The evening wind combed the small grasses of the sloping meadows on both sides of the road; he could see the grasses quivering and billowing under the wind’s broad, quiet, invisible hand. In distant marshes, the frogs began to croak. At an open window of a bright yellow cottage on the edge of town, a young woman stared at the empty road. Although Carl Joseph had never seen her before, he greeted her, stiff and reverential. She nodded back, rather surprised and grateful. It was as if he had said goodbye to Frau Slama only now. The strange, familiar woman stood at the window like a border guard between love and life. After greeting her, he felt restored to the world. He quickened his pace. At the stroke of seven-forty-five he washome, announcing his return to his father, pale, terse, and resolute, as is appropriate for men.
The sergeant had patrol
“Come on!” whispered Frau Slama. She sat on his lap, kissed him hurriedly, and eyed him roguishly. A tuft of blond hair accidentally dropped into her forehead; she peered upward, trying to puff it away with puckered lips. He began feeling her weight on his legs; at the same time new energy gushed through him, tensing the muscles in his thighs and arms. He embraced the woman and felt the soft coolness of her breasts through the tough cloth of the uniform. A soft chuckle erupted from her throat, a bit like a sob and a bit like a warble. Tears formed in hereyes. Then she leaned back and with delicate precision began undoing button after button on his tunic. She placed a cool, tender hand on his chest, kissed his mouth with prolonged and systematic relish, and suddenly rose as if startled by some noise. He promptly leaped up, she smiled and slowly drew him along, stepping backward, with both hands outstretched and her head thrown back, a radiance in her face, moving toward the door, which she opened by kicking behind her. They glided into the bedroom.
As if helplessly fettered, he watched her through half-shut eyelids while she undressed him, slow, thorough, and motherly. Somewhat dismayed, he noticed his full-dress uniform falling slackly to the floor, piece by piece; he heard the thudding of his shoes and instantly felt Frau Slama’s hand on his foot. From below, a new billow of warmth and coolness swept up to his chest. He let himself go slack. He received the woman like a huge soft wave of bliss, fire, and water.
He woke up. Frau Slama stood before him, handing him his clothing piece by piece; he began to dress hastily. She hurried into the parlor, brought him his gloves and cap. She straightened his tunic. He felt her constant glances on his face but avoided looking at her. He banged his heels together, shook the woman’s hand while gazing stubbornly at her right shoulder, and went off.
A bell-tower clock struck seven. The sun was nearing the hills, which were now as blue as the sky and barely distinguishable from clouds. Sweet fragrance flowed from the trees along the way. The evening wind combed the small grasses of the sloping meadows on both sides of the road; he could see the grasses quivering and billowing under the wind’s broad, quiet, invisible hand. In distant marshes, the frogs began to croak. At an open window of a bright yellow cottage on the edge of town, a young woman stared at the empty road. Although Carl Joseph had never seen her before, he greeted her, stiff and reverential. She nodded back, rather surprised and grateful. It was as if he had said goodbye to Frau Slama only now. The strange, familiar woman stood at the window like a border guard between love and life. After greeting her, he felt restored to the world. He quickened his pace. At the stroke of seven-forty-five he washome, announcing his return to his father, pale, terse, and resolute, as is appropriate for men.
The sergeant had patrol
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