dryness increased unbearably. His eyes burned, the skin tightened like parchment over his temples. For an inconceivable time the ball hummed around; he felt as if everybody were looking at him.
They all look at me. I have staked on zero. Everything we possess I have staked on zero—and that means Death. And tomorrow is the marriage.
The ball went on spinning; he could not hold his breath any longer. He breathed deeply—the tension relaxed.
“Twenty-six!” called the croupier. “Black, odd, passe.” Pagel ejected the air through his nose, almost relieved. He had been right—the gaming room had kept his money. The Valuta Vamp had not disturbed him for nothing. She was saying in a loud whisper: “Those poor fish, they want to play butthey ought to play with marbles.” The vulture-like croupier shot him a sharp, triumphant glance.
For a moment, Wolfgang stood still, waiting. The feeling of relief from agonizing tension passed. If I had just one more chip, he thought. Well, it’s all the same. The day will come.
The ball whirled round once more. Slowly he went out, past the mournful sergeant major, down the dark stairs. He stood for a long time in the entrance hall until a tout opened the door.
VIII
What could he tell his good little Peter? Almost nothing. It could be compressed into one sentence. At first I won, then I had bad luck. So there was nothing special to report; of late it had been like that frequently. Of course, she could hardly gather anything from that. She thought, perhaps, it was somewhat similar to losing at cards or drawing a blank in a lottery. Nothing of the ups and downs, good fortune and despair, could be made comprehensible to her; she could be informed of the result only—an empty pocket. And that was all. But she understood much more than he thought. Too often she had seen his face when he came home of a night, still heated with excitement. And his exhausted face while he slept. And the evil changes in it when he was dreaming of gambling. (Didn’t he really know that most nights he dreamed of it, he who wanted to persuade both her and himself that he was not a gambler?) And his thin, remote face when he had not listened to her, absent-mindedly asking: “What did you say?” and still not hearing—that face which expressed so clearly what he was thinking that it seemed one could touch it, as if it had become something tangible. And his face when he combed his hair in the mirror and suddenly saw what sort of a face he had.
No, she knew enough. He did not need to say anything, nor to torment himself with explanations and apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, Wolf,” she said quickly. “Money never meant anything to us.”
He looked at her, grateful that she could have spared him this explanation. “Of course,” he said, “I shall make up for it. Perhaps this evening.”
“But,” she replied, for the first time insistent, “we have to go at half-past twelve to the Registry Office.”
“And I,” he said quickly, “have to take your clothes to Uncle. Can’t the registrar marry you as someone seriously ill in bed?”
“You may have to pay for invalids as well,” she laughed. “Surely you know that not even death is free.”
“But perhaps invalids can pay afterward,” he said, half smiling, half reflectively. “And then if he doesn’t get his money, well, a marriage is a marriage.”
For a while both remained silent. The vitiated air in the room, ever hotter with the climbing of the sun, felt unpleasantly dry to the skin. The noise of the tin-stamper seemed louder. They heard the tearful voice of Frau Thumann gossiping with a neighbor in front of their door. The over-crowded human hive of the house buzzed, shouted, sang, chattered, screamed and sobbed with multifarious voices.
“You know, you needn’t marry me,” said the girl with sudden resolution. And after a pause: “No human being has done so much for me as you.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. The
They all look at me. I have staked on zero. Everything we possess I have staked on zero—and that means Death. And tomorrow is the marriage.
The ball went on spinning; he could not hold his breath any longer. He breathed deeply—the tension relaxed.
“Twenty-six!” called the croupier. “Black, odd, passe.” Pagel ejected the air through his nose, almost relieved. He had been right—the gaming room had kept his money. The Valuta Vamp had not disturbed him for nothing. She was saying in a loud whisper: “Those poor fish, they want to play butthey ought to play with marbles.” The vulture-like croupier shot him a sharp, triumphant glance.
For a moment, Wolfgang stood still, waiting. The feeling of relief from agonizing tension passed. If I had just one more chip, he thought. Well, it’s all the same. The day will come.
The ball whirled round once more. Slowly he went out, past the mournful sergeant major, down the dark stairs. He stood for a long time in the entrance hall until a tout opened the door.
VIII
What could he tell his good little Peter? Almost nothing. It could be compressed into one sentence. At first I won, then I had bad luck. So there was nothing special to report; of late it had been like that frequently. Of course, she could hardly gather anything from that. She thought, perhaps, it was somewhat similar to losing at cards or drawing a blank in a lottery. Nothing of the ups and downs, good fortune and despair, could be made comprehensible to her; she could be informed of the result only—an empty pocket. And that was all. But she understood much more than he thought. Too often she had seen his face when he came home of a night, still heated with excitement. And his exhausted face while he slept. And the evil changes in it when he was dreaming of gambling. (Didn’t he really know that most nights he dreamed of it, he who wanted to persuade both her and himself that he was not a gambler?) And his thin, remote face when he had not listened to her, absent-mindedly asking: “What did you say?” and still not hearing—that face which expressed so clearly what he was thinking that it seemed one could touch it, as if it had become something tangible. And his face when he combed his hair in the mirror and suddenly saw what sort of a face he had.
No, she knew enough. He did not need to say anything, nor to torment himself with explanations and apologies.
“It doesn’t matter, Wolf,” she said quickly. “Money never meant anything to us.”
He looked at her, grateful that she could have spared him this explanation. “Of course,” he said, “I shall make up for it. Perhaps this evening.”
“But,” she replied, for the first time insistent, “we have to go at half-past twelve to the Registry Office.”
“And I,” he said quickly, “have to take your clothes to Uncle. Can’t the registrar marry you as someone seriously ill in bed?”
“You may have to pay for invalids as well,” she laughed. “Surely you know that not even death is free.”
“But perhaps invalids can pay afterward,” he said, half smiling, half reflectively. “And then if he doesn’t get his money, well, a marriage is a marriage.”
For a while both remained silent. The vitiated air in the room, ever hotter with the climbing of the sun, felt unpleasantly dry to the skin. The noise of the tin-stamper seemed louder. They heard the tearful voice of Frau Thumann gossiping with a neighbor in front of their door. The over-crowded human hive of the house buzzed, shouted, sang, chattered, screamed and sobbed with multifarious voices.
“You know, you needn’t marry me,” said the girl with sudden resolution. And after a pause: “No human being has done so much for me as you.”
He looked away, a little embarrassed. The
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