"A good few of us work/' he went on; "some read whole libraries. But the majority turn into schoolchildren again, they play truant from their rest-cure as they used to from the gym lesson, and fly, giggling in alarm, into pantries and cupboards if a doctor happens along.
Secret smoking, drinking on the quiet, forbidden midnight parties, gossip, silly practical jokes—just to escape the emptiness.
And the truth.
A pretense; a frivolous, and perhaps even heroic, ignoring of death.
After all what else is left for them?"
Yes, thought I, after all what else is left for all of us?
"Should we have a try?" asked Antonio, propping his ski poles in the snow.
"Yes."
He showed me how to fasten the skis and how to keep my balance.
It wasn't difficult.
I fell fairly often, but gradually I got accustomed and could do it a bit.
After an hour we stopped.
"Enough," remarked Antonio. "As it is, you'll know tonight where your muscles are."
I loosed the skis and felt the blood streaming through my veins.
"It was good to come out, Antonio," said I.
He nodded.
"We might do it every morning.
It takes your mind off things." "Should we have a drink somewhere?" I asked.
"We could.
A Dubonnet at Forster's."
We drank the Dubonnet and went back to the sanatorium.
At the office the secretary told me the postman had 'been asking for me; he had left a message I should go to the post office, there was some money for me there.
I looked at my watch.
There was still time, and I went back.
At the post office they paid over to me two thousand marks.
There was a letter from Koster as well.
I was not to worry; there was more if I wanted.
I had only to write.
I stared at the notes.
Wherever did he get it?
And so quickly. I knew our resources.
And suddenly it dawned on me.
I saw Bollwies again, the racing manufacturer of ready-to-wear dresses, that evening at "The Bar" when he lost his bet, tapping covetously around Karl and saying:
"I'm a buyer for the car any time."
Yes, damn it, Koster had sold Karl.
Hence the money so promptly.
Karl, of whom he had said he would sooner lose a hand than the car—Karl was gone.
He was now in the fat hands of the dressmaker, and Otto, whose ear knew him miles off, would now be hearing him howling through the streets like an outcast dog.
I pocketed Koster's letter and the little packet with the morphia phials.
At a loss what to do I still stood at the guichet.
I should have liked to send the money back, but it couldn't be done; we needed it.
I smoothed out the notes and put them away. Then I went.
Damn—from now on I would have to make a wide detour round every motor car.
Cars are friends, but Karl had been more than that to us.
He had been a comrade.
Karl, the Road Spook.
We belonged together.
Karl and Koster, Karl and Lenz, Karl and Pat . . .
Angry and helpless I stamped the snow from my feet.
Karl was gone. And Pat?