Laughter in the Dark Page 4

  "Who writes?"

  "Good God! You never get what one's saying. That man from America. That fellow Rex."

  "What Rex?" asked Elisabeth unconcernedly.

  5

  THEIR meeting that night was a tempestuous one. Albinus had stayed at home all day because he was in a panic that she might ring up again. When she emerged from the "Argus" he greeted her incontinently with: "Look here, child, I forbid you to ring me up. It won't do. If I did not give you my name, I had my reasons for it."

  "Oh, that's all right. I'm through with you," said Margot blandly, and walked away.

  He stood there and stared after her helplessly.

  What an ass he was! He ought to have held his tongue; then she'd have fancied she had made a mistake, after all. Albinus overtook her and walked along by her side.

  "Forgive me," he said. "Don't be cross with me, Margot. I can't live without you. Look here, I've thought it all over. Drop your job. I'm rich. You shall have your own room, your own flat, anything you like ..."

  "You're a liar, a coward and a fool," said Margot (summing him up rather neatly). "And you're married--that's why you hide that ring in your mackintosh pocket. Oh, of course, you're married; else you wouldn't have been so rude on the 'phone."

  "And if I am?" he asked. "Won't you meet me any more?"

  "What does it matter to me? Deceive her; it'll do her good."

  "Margot, stop," groaned Albinus.

  "Leave me alone."

  "Margot, listen to me. It is true, I have a family, but please, please, stop jeering about it ... Oh, don't go away," he cried, catching her, missing her, clutching at her shabby little handbag.

  "Go to hell!" she shouted, and banged the door in his face.

  6

  "I'D LIKE my fortune told," said Margot to her landlady, and the latter took out from behind the empty beer bottles a decrepit pack of cards most of which had lost their corners so that they looked almost circular. A rich man with dark hair, troubles, a feast, a long journey ...

  "I must find out how he lives," thought Margot, her elbows resting on the table. "Perhaps after all he is not really wealthy, and it's not worth my while to bother about him. Or shall I risk it?"

  The next morning at exactly the same time she rang him up again. Elisabeth was in her bath. Albinus spoke almost in a whisper with his eye on the door. Although sick with fear, he was madly happy to be forgiven.

  "My darling," he murmured, "my darling."

  "Say, what time will wifey be away from home?" she asked laughing.

  "I'm afraid I don't know," he answered with a cold shiver. "Why?"

  "I'd like to drop in for a moment."

  He was silent. Somewhere a door opened.

  "I can't go on talking," murmured Albinus.

  "If I come to you I might kiss you."

  "Today, I don't know. No," he stammered, "I don't think it's feasible. If I suddenly ring off don't be surprised. I shall see you tonight, and then we'll ..." He hung up and sat for some time motionless, listening to the pounding of his heart. "I suppose I am a coward," he thought. "She's sure to dawdle in the bathroom for another half hour."

  "One small request," he said to Margot when they met. "Let's take a taxi."

  "An open one," said Margot.

  "No, that's too dangerous. I promise you I'll behave," he added as he gazed lovingly at her childishly upturned face which looked very white in the blaze of the street lamp.

  "Listen," he began when they were seated in the cab. "First I am not angry with you, of course, for ringing me up, but I beg you, I implore you, not to do it again, my darling, my precious." ("That's better," thought Margot.)

  "And secondly, tell me how you found out my name?"

  She lied, quite needlessly, telling him that a woman she knew had seen them in the street together and knew him too.

  "Who was it?" asked Albinus with horror.

  "Oh, just a working woman. I think one of her sisters was once cook or housemaid in your family."

  Albinus racked his memory despairingly.

  "Anyway, I told her she was wrong. I'm a smart little girl."

  The darkness inside the taxi slid and swayed as quarters and halves and whole squares of ashen light passed from window to window across it. Margot was sitting so near that he felt the blissful animal warmth of her body. "I shall die or go off my head if I can't have her," thought Albinus.

  "And thirdly," he said aloud, "find yourself lodgings, say two or three rooms and a kitchen--that is, upon condition that you let me visit you occasionally."

  "Albert, have you already forgotten what I suggested this morning?"

  "But it's so risky," groaned Albinus. "You see ... Tomorrow, for instance, I'll be alone from about four to six, but one never knows what may happen ..." and he pictured to himself how his wife might come back for something she had forgotten.

  "But I've told you I'd kiss you," said Margot softly, "and then, you know, there's not a thing in the world that can't be explained away somehow."

  So next day, when Elisabeth and Irma had gone out for tea, he sent Frieda the maid (it was cook's day out, luckily) on a good long errand with a couple of books to deliver miles away.

  Now he was alone. His watch had stopped some minutes ago, but the clock in the dining room was exact and then, too, by craning out of the window he could see the church clock. A quarter past four. It was a bright windy day in mid-April. On the sunlit wall of the opposite house the fast shadow of smoke ran sideways from the shadow of a chimney. The asphalt was drying patchily after a recent shower, the damp still showing in the form of grotesque black skeletons as if painted across the width of the road.

  Half past four. She might come at any minute.

  Whenever he thought of Margot's slim girlish figure, her silky skin, the touch of her funny, ill-kept little hands, he felt a rush of desire which was almost painful. Now, the vision of the promised kiss filled him with such ecstasy that it seemed hardly possible it could be still further intensified. And yet beyond it, down a vista of mirrors, there was still to be reached the dim white form of her body, that very form which art students had sketched so conscientiously and so badly. But of those dull hours in the studio Albinus suspected nothing, although, by a queer trick of fate, he had unwittingly seen her nude form already: the family doctor, old Lampert, had shown him some charcoal drawings which his son had made two years ago and among them was a girl with bobbed hair, her feet curled under her on the rug where she sat, leaning on her stiff arm, her shoulder touching her cheek. "No, I think I prefer the hunchback," he had remarked, turning back to another sheet on which a bearded cripple was depicted. "Yes, it is a great pity he has given up Art," he had added, closing the portfolio.

  Ten minutes to five. She was already twenty minutes late. "I'll wait until five and then go out," he murmured.

  Suddenly he saw her. She was crossing the street without coat or hat, as though she lived round the corner.

  "Still time to run down and tell her it's getting too late now," but instead of doing so Albinus tiptoed breathlessly into the hall, and when he heard the childish stamping of her footsteps coming up the stairs he noiselessly opened the door.

  Margot in her short red frock with bare arms smiled into the mirror and then twirled round on her heel, as she smoothed the back of her head.

  "You do live in style," she said, her beaming eyes roaming over the hall with its large rich pictures, its porcelain vase in the corner and that cream-colored cretonne instead of wallpaper. "This way?" she asked and pushed open a door. "Oh!" she said.

  He laid one trembling hand round her waist and with her he looked up at the crystal chandelier as though he himself were a stranger. But he saw it all through a swimming haze. She crossed her feet and rocked gently as she stood there, her eyes roaming.

  "You are rich," she said as they entered the next room. "Heavens, what rugs!"

  She was so overcome by the sideboard in the dining room that Albinus was able to finger her rib
s stealthily and, above them, a hot soft muscle.

  "Let's go on," she said eagerly.

  In a passing mirror he saw a pale grave gentleman walking beside a schoolgirl in her Sunday dress. Cautiously, he stroked her smooth arm and the glass grew dim.

  "Come on," said Margot.

  He wanted to get her back into the study. Then, if his wife came back earlier than he expected, it would be simple: a young artist in want of help.

  "And what's in there?" she asked.

  "That's the nursery. You've seen everything now."

  "Let me go," she said, moving her shoulders.

  He drew a deep breath.

  "It's the nursery, my darling. Only the nursery--there's nothing to see."

  But she went inside and suddenly he felt a strange impulse to shout at her: "Please, don't touch anything." But she was already holding a purple plush elephant. He snatched it away and shoved it into a corner. Margot laughed.

  "Your little girl is in clover here," she said. Then she opened the next door.

  "That's enough, Margot," Albinus pleaded, "we are getting too far from the hall, we shan't hear the front door. It's dreadfully dangerous."

  But she shook him off like a naughty child and slipped through the passage into the bedroom. There she seated herself in front of the mirror (mirrors were having plenty of work that day), turned a silver-backed brush in her hand, sniffed at a silver-stoppered bottle.

  "Oh, don't!" cried Albinus.

  She swerved by him neatly, ran to the double bed, and seated herself on the edge. She pulled up her stocking like a child, made the garter snap, and showed him the tip of her tongue.

  "... and then I'll kill myself," thought Albinus, suddenly losing his head.

  He lurched toward her, his arms open, but she bounded past him with a chirrup of glee and bolted out of the room. He made a belated dash after her. Margot slammed the door and, panting and laughing, turned the key from outside. (Oh, how the poor fat woman had banged and thumped and yelled!)

  "Margot, open at once," said Albinus softly.

  He heard her footsteps dancing away.

  "Open," he repeated in a louder voice.

  Silence.

  "The little vixen," he thought, "what an absurd situation!"

  He was frightened. He was hot. He was not used to bouncing about rooms. He was in an agony of thwarted desire. Had she really gone? No, someone was walking about the flat. He tried some keys he had in his pocket; then, losing his temper, shook the door violently.

  "Open at once. Do you hear?"

  The footsteps drew near. It was not Margot.

  "Hullo. What's the matter?" asked an unexpected voice--Paul's! "Are you locked in? Shall I let you out?"

  The door opened. Paul looked alarmed. "What has happened, old man?" he repeated and gaped at the hairbrush lying on the floor.

  "Oh, a ridiculous thing ... Tell you in a moment ... Let's have a glass of something."

  "You gave me the devil of a shock," said Paul. "I could not think what on earth had happened. Lucky I came along. Elisabeth told me she'd be home about six. Lucky I was rather early. Who locked you in? Not your maid gone mad, I hope?"

  Albinus stood with his back to him and busied himself with the brandy.

  "Didn't you meet anybody on the stairs?" he asked, trying to speak distinctly.

  "I took the lift," said Paul.

  "Saved," thought Albinus, his spirits reviving considerably. (But how dangerously foolish to have forgotten that Paul, too, had a key to the flat!)

  "Would you believe it," he said, as he sipped the brandy, "a burglar broke in. Don't tell Elisabeth, of course. Thought there was no one at home, I expect. Suddenly I heard the front door behaving oddly. I came out of my study to see what it was clicking--and there was a man slipping into the bedroom. I followed him and tried to grab him, but he sort of doubled back and locked me in. It's a great pity he escaped. I thought you might have met him."

  "You're joking," said Paul aghast.

  "No, not at all. I was in my study and heard the front door clicking. So I went to see what it was and ..."

  "But he may have stolen something, let's look. And we must inform the police."

  "Oh, he hadn't time," said Albinus, "it all happened in a second; I scared him away."

  "What did he look like?"

  "Oh, just a man with a cap. A largish man. Very strong-looking."

  "He could have hurt you! What a very unpleasant experience. Come on, we must have a look round."

  They went through the rooms. Examined locks. Everything was in order. It was only at the end of their investigations, as they were walking through the library, that suddenly a pang of horror shot through Albinus: there, in a corner between the shelves, just behind a revolving bookstand, the edge of a bright red frock was showing. By some miracle Paul did not see it, although he was nosing about conscientiously. There was a collection of miniatures in the next room and he pored over the inclined glass.

  "That's enough, Paul," said Albinus huskily. "There is no point in going on. It's quite clear he hasn't taken anything."

  "How shaken you look," exclaimed Paul, as they returned to the study. "My poor chap! Look here, you must have your lock changed, or always keep the door bolted. And what about the police? Would you like me to--"

  "Ssh," hissed Albinus.

  Voices drew near and Elisabeth came in, followed by Irma, her nurse and one of her little friends--a fat child who, in spite of her shy stolid expression, could be most boisterous. Albinus felt as if it were all a nightmare. Margot's presence in the house was monstrous, unbearable ... The maid returned--with the books--she had not found the address, and no wonder! The nightmare grew wilder. He suggested going to the theater that night, but Elisabeth said she was tired. At supper he was so busy straining his ears for any suspicious rustle that he did not notice what he was eating (cold beef, in fact, with pickles). Paul kept on looking round, giving out little coughs, or humming--if only, thought Albinus, the meddlesome fool would remain in his place and not potter about. But there was another dreadful possibility: the children might start romping through all the rooms; and he dared not go and lock the door of the library; that might lead to unimaginable complications. Thank God, Irma's little friend soon left, and Irma was popped to bed. But the tension remained. He felt as if they all--Elisabeth, Paul, the maid and himself--were sprawling over the whole place instead of keeping huddled together, as they should, in order to give Margot a chance of slipping out; if, indeed, she had that intention.

  At length, at about eleven o'clock, Paul left. As usual, Frieda chained and bolted the door. Now Margot could not get out!

  "I'm awfully sleepy," said Albinus to his wife and yawned nervously, and then could not stop yawning. They went to bed. In the house all was silent. Elisabeth was just about to turn out the light.

  "You get to sleep," he said. "I think I'll go and read a bit."

  She smiled drowsily, heedless of his inconsistency. "Don't wake me up when you come," she murmured.

  Everything was too quiet to be natural. It seemed as if the silence was rising, rising--would suddenly brim over and break into laughter. He had slipped out of bed, and in his nightsuit and felt slippers was walking noiselessly down the passage. Strange: all dread had gone. The nightmare had melted into the keen, sweet sensation of absolute freedom, peculiar to sinful dreams.

  Albinus undid the neck of his pyjamas as he crept along. He was trembling all over. "In a moment--in a moment she will be mine," he thought. Softly he opened the door of the library and turned on the softly shaded light.

  "Margot, you mad little thing," he whispered feverishly.

  But it was only a scarlet silk cushion which he himself had brought there a few days ago, to crouch on while consulting Nonnenmacher's History of Art--ten volumes, folio.

  7

  MARGOT informed her landlady that she would soon be leaving. It was all going splendidly. In his flat she had realized the soundness of her admirer's wea
lth. Also, to judge by the photograph on his bed table, his wife was not at all as she had imagined her--a large stately woman with a grim expression and a grip of iron; on the contrary, she seemed a quiet, vague sort of creature who could be got out of the way without much trouble.

  And she quite liked Albinus: he was a well-groomed gentleman smelling of talcum powder and good tobacco. Of course, she could not hope for a repetition of the ecstasy of her first love affair. And she would not let herself think of Miller, of his chalk-white hollow cheeks, unkempt black hair and long skilful hands.

  Albinus could soothe her and allay her fever--like those cool plantain leaves which it is so comforting to apply to an inflamed spot. Then there was something else. He was not only well-to-do, but also belonged to a world which afforded easy access to the stage and the films. Often, behind her locked door, she would make all sorts of wonderful faces for the benefit of her dressing-chest mirror or recoil before the barrel of an imaginary revolver. And it seemed to her that she simpered and sneered as well as any screen actress.

  After a thorough and painstaking search she found quite a pretty suite of rooms in a very good neighborhood. Albinus was so upset after her visit that she felt sorry for him and made no further difficulty about taking the fat wad of notes which he crammed into her bag during their evening walk. Moreover, she let him kiss her in the shelter of a porch. The fire of this kiss was still around him like a colored glory when he returned home. He could not lay it aside in the hall as he did his black felt hat, and when he came into the bedroom he thought that his wife must see that halo.

  But it never even occurred to Elisabeth, placid, thirty-five-year-old Elisabeth, that her husband might deceive her. She knew that he had had little adventures before his marriage, and she remembered that she herself, as a small girl, had been secretly in love with an old actor who used to visit her father and enliven dinner with beautiful imitations of farmyard sounds. She had heard and read that husbands and wives constantly deceived one another; indeed, adultery was the core of gossip, romantic poetry, funny stories and famous operas. But she was quite simply and steadfastly convinced that her own marriage was a very special, precious and pure tie that could never be broken.