Come into third before the bends and accelerate round."
The engine bellowed.
The air beat against my face.
I crouched behind the windscreen.
And suddenly I merged into the thunder of the engine, car and body became one, one single tension, one high vibration; I felt the wheels under my feet, I felt the earth, the road, the speed—with a jolt something slipped into place, the night howled and blew; it drove everything else out of me; my lips pressed together, my hands became vises and I was now simply driving and racing, unconscious and at the same time utterly alert.
At one bend the car skidded, behind.
I steered against it, once, twice, and accelerated.
For an instant everything was loose like a balloon, then the car took on again.
"Good," said Koster.
"It was wet leaves," I replied and was conscious of the warmth and relief that pours over the skin after every danger.
Koster nodded.
"That's the devil of forest turns in autumn.
Have a cigarette?"
"Yes," said I.
We pulled up and smoked.
"You can turn round now," said Koster then.
I drove back to the city and got out.
"It was good that we went, Otto.
I'm over it now."
"I'll show you another curve technique next time," said he. "Throwing round with the brake.
But you can only do it when the roads are drier."
"Right, Otto.
Sleep well."
"Sleep well, Bob."
Karl swept off.
I went into the house.
I was exhausted, but quite calm and no longer depressed.
Chapter XXIII
At the beginning of November we sold the Citroen.
The money sufficed to carry on the workshop for a while, but week by week our position went from bad to worse.
People put up their cars for the winter to save petrol and tax, and repairs became ever less frequent.
We helped ourselves out with the taxi but the takings were too slender for three, so that I was quite glad when the proprietor of the International offered to take me on again as pianist every night from December on.
He had done pretty well lately; a cattlemen's club had taken one of the back rooms at the International for their weekly meeting, then the horsedealers' club followed suit, and finally the Mutual Benefit Cremation Society.
In this way I was able to leave the taxi to Lenz and Koster, and it suited me quite well anyway, for without it I should often have been at a loss to get through the evenings.
Pat wrote to me regularly.
I waited eagerly for her letters, but I could not picture to myself how she lived; and sometimes, in the dark, dirty December weeks when it did not get really light even at midday, I could fancy that she had long ago slipped from me and all was over.
It seemed to me an endless time since she had gone away, and I could not think that she would ever come back.
Then came nights filled with desperate, wild longing, when there was no help but to go and sit with the pros'titutes and cattlemen and drink till morning.
The proprietor had obtained permission to keep the International open on Christmas Eve.
There was to be a grand carnival for the bachelors of the various clubs.
The president of the cattlemen's club, Stefan Grigoleit, presented two suckling-pigs and a number of trotters.
He had been two years a widower and had a soft heart, so he wanted to spend Christmas in company.
The proprietor erected a twelve-foot silver fir tree beside the bar; Rosa, who was an authority in all homely matters, undertook the decoration of the tree.
Marian and Kiki, the pansy, who as a result of his defect had considerable feeling for the beautiful, helped her.
The three started their work at noon. They used up a vast quantity of coloured balls, candles and tinsel, but there was no denying at the finish that the tree did look magnificent.
As a special compliment to Grigoleit, a number of pink little marzipan pigs were hung on it.
I had lain down on the bed in the afternoon to sleep for a few hours.
When I waked it was dark. I had to think a moment—whether it was night or morning.
I had been dreaming, but had forgotten what it was about.
But I was still far away, and imagined I heard a black door slam behind me.