The Real Life of Sebastian Knight Page 11

  He sighed deeply and shook his head.

  'No,' he said.

  'Do you mean to say you don't keep books?' I asked trying to speak quietly.

  'Oh, I keep them all right,' he said. 'My business requires great order in these matters. Oh, yes, I have got the names all right….'

  He wandered away to the back of the room and produced a large black volume.

  'Here,' he said. 'First week of July 1935…. Professor Ott with wife, Colonel Samain….'

  'Look here,' I said, 'I'm not interested in July 1935. What I want….' He shut his book and carried it away.

  'I only wanted to show you,' he said with his back turned to me – 'to show you [a lock clicked] that I keep my books in good order.'

  He came back to his desk and folded a letter that was lying on the blotting-pad.

  'Summer 1929,' I pleaded. 'Why don't you want to show me the pages I want?'

  'Well,' he said, 'the thing is not done. Firstly, because I don't want a person who is a complete stranger to me to bother people who were and will be my clients. Secondly, because I cannot understand why you should be so eager to find a woman whom you do not want to name. And thirdly – I do not want to get into any kind of trouble. I have enough troubles as it is. In the hotel round the corner a Swiss couple committed suicide in 1929,' he added rather irrelevantly.

  'Is that your last word?' I asked.

  He nodded and looked at his watch. I turned on my heel and slammed the door after me – at least, I tried to slam it – it was one of those confounded pneumatic doors which resist.

  Slowly, I went back to the station. The park. Perhaps Sebastian recalled that particular stone bench under that cedar tree at the time he was dying. The outline of that mountain yonder may have been the paraph of a certain unforgettable evening. The whole place seemed to me a huge refuse heap where I knew a dark jewel had been lost. My failure was absurd, horrible, excruciating. The leaden sluggishness of dream-endeavour. Hopeless gropings among dissolving things. Why was the past so rebellious?

  'And what shall I do now?' The stream of the biography on which I longed so to start, was, at one of its last bends, enshrouded in pale mist; like the valley I was contemplating. Could I leave it thus and write the book all the same? A book with a blind spot. An unfinished picture – uncoloured limbs of the martyr with the arrows in his side.

  I had the feeling that I was lost, that I had nowhere to go. I had pondered long enough the means to find Sebastian's last love to know that there was practically no other way of finding her name. Her name! I felt I should recognize it at once if I got at those greasy black folios. Ought I to give it , up and turn to the collection of a few other minor details concerning Sebastian which I still needed and which I knew where to obtain?

  It was in this bewildered state of mind that I got into the slow local train which was to take me back to Strasbourg. Then I would go on to Switzerland perhaps…. But no, I could not get over the tingling pain of my failure; though I tried hard enough to bury myself in an English paper I had with me: I was in training, so to speak, reading only English in view of the work I was about to begin…. But could one begin something so incomplete in one's mind?

  I was alone in my compartment (as one usually is in a f second-class carriage on that sort of train), but then, at the next station, a little man with bushy eyebrows got in, greeted me continentally, in thick guttural French, and sat down opposite. The train ran on, right into the sunset. All of a sudden, I noticed that the passenger opposite was beaming at me.

  'Marrvellous weather,' he said and took off his bowler hat disclosing a pink bald head. 'You are English?' he asked nodding and smiling.

  'Well, yes, for the moment,' I answered.

  'I see, saw, you read English djornal,' he said pointing with his finger – then hurriedly taking off his fawn glove and pointing again (perhaps he had been told that it was rude to point with a gloved index). I murmured something and looked away: I do not like chatting in a train, and at the moment I was particularly disinclined to do so. He followed my gaze. The low sun had set aflame the numerous windows of a large building which turned slowly, demonstrating one huge chimney, then another, as the train clattered by.

  'Dat,' said the little man, 'is "Flambaum and Roth", great fabric, factory. Paper.'

  There was a little pause. Then he scratched his big shiny nose and leaned towards me.

  'I have been,' he said, 'London, Manchester, Sheffield, Newcastle.' He looked at the thumb which had been left uncounted.

  'Yes,' he said. 'De toy-business. Before de war. And .I was playing a little football,' he added, perhaps because he noticed that I glanced at a rough field with two goals dejectedly standing at the ends – one of the two had lost its crossbar.

  He winked; his small moustache bristled.

  'Once, you know,' he said and was convulsed with silent laughter, 'once, you know, I fling, flung de ball from "out" direct into goal.'

  'Oh,' I said wearily, 'and did you score?'

  'De wind scored. Dat was a robinsonnada!'

  'A what?'

  'A robinsonnada – a marrvellous trick. Yes…. Are you voyaging farr?' he inquired in a coaxing super-polite voice.

  'Well,' I said, 'this train does not go farther than Strasbourg, does it?'

  'No; I mean, meant in generahl. You are a traveller?'

  I said yes.

  'In what?' he asked, cocking his head.

  'Oh, in the past I suppose,' I replied.

  He nodded as if he had understood. Then, leaning again towards me, he touched me on the knee and said: 'Now I sell ledder – you know – ledder balls, for odders to play. Old! No force! Also hound-muzzles and lings like dat.'

  Again he tapped my knee lightly, 'But earlier,' he said, 'last year, four last years, I was in de police – no, no, not once, not quite…. Plain-clotheses. Understand me?'

  I looked at him with sudden interest.

  'Let me see,' I said, 'this gives me an idea….'

  'Yes,' he said, 'if you want help, good ledder, cigaretteйtui, straps, advice, boxing-gloves….'

  'Fifth and perhaps first,' I said.

  He took his bowler which lay on the seat near him, put it on carefully (his Adam's apple rolling up and down), and then, with a shiny smile, briskly took it off to me.

  'My name is Silbermann,' he said, and stretched out his hand. I shook it and named myself too.

  'But dat is not English,' he cried slapping his knee. 'Dat is Russian! Gavrit parussky? I know also some odder words… Wait! Yes! Cookolkah – de little doll.'

  He was silent for a minute. I rolled in my head the idea he had given me. Should I try to consult a private detective' agency? Would this little man be of any use himself?

  'Rebah!' he cried. 'Der's anodder. Fish, so? and…. Yes. Braht, millee braht – dear brodder.'

  'I was thinking,' I said, 'that perhaps, if I told you of the bad fix I am in….'

  'But dat is all,' he said with a sigh. 'I speak [again the fingers were counted] Lithuanian, German, English, French [and again the thumb remained]. Forgotten Russian. Once! Quite!'

  'Could you perhaps….' I began.

  'Anyfing,' he said. 'Ledder-belts, purses, notice-books, suggestions.'

  'Suggestions,' I said. 'You see, I am trying to trace a person… a Russian lady whom I never have met, and whose name I do not know. All I know is that she lived for a certain stretch of time at a certain hotel at Blauberg.'

  'Ah, good place,' said Mr Silbermann, 'very good' – and he screwed down the ends of his lips in grave approbation. 'Good water, walks, caseeno. What you want me to do?'

  'Well,' I said, 'I should first like to know what can be done in such cases.'

  'Better leave her alone,' said Mr Silbermann, promptly.

  Then he thrust his head forward and his bushy eyebrows moved.

  'Forget her,' he said. 'Fling her out of your head. It is dangerous and ewsyless.' He flicked something off my trouser knee, nodded and sat back again.


  'Never mind that,' I said. 'The question is how, not why.'

  'Every how has its why,' said Mr Silbermann. 'You find, found her build, her I picture, and now want to find herself yourself? Dat is not love. Ppah! Surface!'

  'Oh, no,' I cried, 'it is not like that. I haven't the vaguest idea what she is like. But, you see, my dead brother loved her, and I want to hear her talk about him. It's really quite simple.'

  'Sad!' said Mr Silbermann and shook his head.

  'I want to write a book about him,' I continued, 'and every detail of his life interests me.'

  'What was he ill?' Mr Silbermann asked huskily.

  'Heart,' I replied.

  'Harrt – dat's bad. Too many warnings, too many… general… general….'

  'Dress rehearsals of death. That's right.'

  'Yes. And how old?'

  'Thirty-six. He wrote books, under his mother's name. Knight. Sebastian Knight.'

  'Write it here,' said Mr Silbermann handing me an extraordinarily nice new notebook enclosing a delightful silver pencil, With a trk-trk-trk sound, he neatly removed the page, put it into his pocket and handed me the book again.

  'You like it, no?' he said with an anxious smile. 'Permit me a little present.'

  'Really,' I said, 'that's very kind….'

  'Nofing, nofing,' he said, waving his hand. 'Now, what you want?'

  'I want,' I replied, 'to get a complete list of all the people who have stayed in the Hotel Beaumont during June 1929. I also want some particulars of who they are, the women at least. I want their 'addresses. I want to be sure that under a foreign name a Russian woman is not hidden. Then I shall choose the most probable one or ones and….'

  'And try to reach dem,' said Mr Silbermann nodding. 'Well! Very well! I had, have all the hotel-gentlemans here [he showed his palm], and it will be simple. Your address, please.'

  He produced another notebook, this time a very worn one, with some of the bescribbled pages falling off like autumn-leaves. I added that I should not move from Strasbourg until he called.

  'Friday,' he said. 'Six, punctly.'

  Then the extraordinary little man sank back in his seat, folded his arms, and closed his eyes, as if clinched business had somehow put a full stop to our conversation. A fly inspected his bald brow, but he did not move. He dozed until Strasbourg. There we parted.

  'Look here,' I said as we shook hands. 'You must tell me your fee… I mean, I'm ready to pay you whatever you think suitable…. And perhaps you would like something in advance….'

  'You will send me your book,' he said lifting a stumpy finger. 'And pay for possible depences,' he added under his breath. 'Cerrtainly!'

  14

  So this was the way I got a list of some forty-two names among which Sebastian's (S. Knight, 36 Oak Park Gardens, London, SW) seemed strangely lovely and lost. I was rather struck (pleasantly) by the fact that all the addresses were there too, affixed to the names: Silbermann hurriedly explained that people often die in Blauberg. Out of forty-one unknown persons as many as thirty-seven 'did not come to question' as the little man put it. True, three of these (unmarried women) bore Russian names, but two of them were German and one Alsatian: they had often stayed at the hotel. There was also a somewhat baffling girl, Vera Rasine; Silbermann however knew for certain that she was French; that, in fact, she was a dancer and the mistress of a Strasbourg banker. There was also an aged Polish couple whom we let pass without a qualm. All the rest of this 'out-of-the-question' group, that is thirty-one persons, consisted of twenty adult males; of these only eight were married or at least had brought their wives (Emma, Hildegard, Pauline, and so on), all of whom Silbermann swore were elderly, respectable, and eminently non-Russian.

  Thus we were left with four names:

  Mademoiselle Lydia Bohemsky with an address in Paris. She had spent nine days in the hotel at the beginning of Sebastian's stay and the manager did not remember anything about her.

  Madame de Rechnoy. She had left the hotel for Paris on the eve of Sebastian's departure for the same city. The manager remembered that she was a smart young woman and very generous with her tips. The 'de' denoted, I knew, a certain type of Russian who likes to accent gentility, though really me use of me French particule before a Russian name is not only absurd but illegal. She might have been an adventuress: she might have been me wife of a snob.

  Helene Grinstein. The name was Jewish but in spite of me 'stein' it was not German-Jewish. That 'i' in 'grin' displacing the natural 'u' pointed to its having grown in Russia. She had arrived but a week before Sebastian left and had stayed three days longer. The manager said she was a pretty woman. She had been to his hotel once before and lived in Berlin.

  Helene von Graun. That was a real German name. But me manager was positive mat several times during her stay she had sung songs in Russian. She had a splendid contralto, he said, and was ravishing. She had remained a month in all, leaving for Paris five days before Sebastian.

  I meticulously noted all these particulars and the four addresses. Any of these four might prove to be the one I wanted. I warmly thanked Mr Silbermann as he sat mere before me with his hat on his joined knees. He sighed and looked down at me toes of his small black boots adorned by old mouse-grey spats.

  'I have made dis,' he said, 'because you are to me sympathetic. But [he looked at me with mild appeal in his bright brown eyes] but please, I fink it is ewsyless. You can't see de odder side of de moon. Please donnt search de woman. What is past is past. She donnt remember your brodder.'

  'I shall jolly well remind her,' I said grimly.

  'As you desire,' he muttered squaring his shoulders and buttoning up his coat. He got up. 'Good djorney,' he said without his usual smile.

  'Oh, wait a bit, Mr Silbermann, we've got to settle something. What do I owe you?'

  'Yes, dat is correct,' he said seating himself again. 'Moment.' He unscrewed his fountain-pen, jotted down a few figures, looked at them tapping his teeth with me holder: 'Yes, sixty-eight francs.'

  'Well, that's not much,' I said, 'won't you perhaps…'

  'Wait,' he cried, 'dat is false. I have forgotten… do you guard dat notice-book dat I give, gave you?'

  'Why, yes,' I said, 'in fact, I've begun using it. You see… I thought…'

  'Den it is not sixty-eight,' he said, rapidly revising his addition, 'It is… It is only eighteen, because de book costs fifty. Eighteen francs in all, Travelling depences…'

  'But,' I said, rather flabbergasted at his arithmetic….

  'No, dat's now right,' said Mr Silbermann,

  I found a twenty franc coin though I would have gladly given him a hundred times as much, if he had only let me.

  'So,' he said, 'I owe you now…. Yes, dat's right. Eighteen and two make twenty,' He knitted his brows. 'Yes, twenty. Dat's yours,' He put my coin on the table and was gone.

  I wonder how I shall send him this work when it is finished: the funny little man has not given me his address, my head was too full of other things to think of asking him for it, But if he ever does come across The Real Life of Sebastian Knight I should like him to know how grateful I am for his help. And for the notebook. It is well filled by now, and I shall have a new set of pages clipped in when these are completed.

  After Mr Silbermann had gone I studied at length the four addresses he had so magically obtained for me, and I decided to begin with the Berlin one. If that proved a disappointment I should be able to grapple with a trio of possibilities in Paris without undertaking another long journey, a journey all the more enervating because then I should know for sure I was playing my very last card. If on the contrary, my first try was lucky, then…. But no matter…. Fate amply rewarded me for my decision.

  Large wet snowflakes were drifting aslant the Passauer Strasse in West-Berlin as I approached an ugly old house, its face half-hidden in a mask of scaffolding, I tapped on the glass of the porter's lodge, a muslin curtain was roughly drawn aside, a small window was knocked open and a blowsy old
woman gruffly informed me that Frau Helene Grinstein did live in the house. I felt a queer little shiver of elation and went up the stairs. 'Grinstein', said a brass plate on the door.

  A silent boy in a black tie with a pale swollen face let me in and without so much as asking my name, turned and walked down the passage. There was a crowd of coats on the rack in the tiny hall. A bunch of snow-wet chrysanthemums lay on the table between two solemn top hats. As no one seemed to come, I knocked at one of the doors, then pushed it open and then shut it again. I had caught a glimpse of a dark-haired little girl, lying fast asleep on a divan, under a mole-skin coat. I stood for a minute in the middle of the hall. I wiped my face which was still wet from snow. I blew my nose. Then I ventured down the passage. A door was ajar and I caught the sound of low voices, speaking in Russian. There were many people in the two large rooms joined by a kind of arch. One or two faces turned towards me vaguely as I strolled in, but otherwise my entry did not arouse the slightest interest. There were glasses with half-finished tea on the table, and a plateful of crumbs. One man in a comer was reading a newspaper. A woman in a grey shawl was sitting at the table with her cheek propped on her hand and a tear-drop on her wrist. Two or three other persons were sitting quite still on the divan. A little girl rather like the one I had seen sleeping was stroking an old dog curled up on a chair. Somebody began to laugh or gasp or something in the adjacent room, where there were more people sitting or wandering about. The boy who had met me in the hall passed carrying a glass of water and I asked him in Russian whether I might speak to Mrs Helene Grinstein.

  'Aunt Elena,' he said to the back of a dark slim woman who was bending over an old man hunched up in an armchair. She came up to me and invited me to walk into a small parlour on the other side of the passage. She was very young and graceful with a small powdered face and long soft eyes which appeared to be pulled up towards the temples. She wore a black jumper and her hands were as delicate as her neck.

  'Kahk eto oojahsno… isn't it dreadful?' she whispered.