You know a gramophone like this is a sort of family history. Once people used to write verses in albums, nowadays they give one another gramophone records.
If I want to recall some particular occasion, I have only to put on the records of that time, and there it all is again."
I looked down on the pile of discs lying on the floor.
"Measured by that, you must have a stack of memories, Erna."
She stood up and brushed back her red hair. "Yes," said she, thrusting the heap aside with her foot. "But I'd sooner have one good one."
I unpacked the things I had bought for supper and arranged everything as well as I could.
No help was to be expected for me from the kitchen. I stood in too badly with Frida for that.
The least she would have done would be to break something.
But it wasn't so bad, and soon I hardly knew my old room again in its new splendour.
The armchairs, the lamp, the covered table—I felt a restless expectancy gathering in me.
I set off, though I had still more than an hour to wait.
Outside the wind was blowing in long gusts round the corners of the streets.
The lamps were already alight.
The darkness between the houses was blue as the sea, and the International floated in it like a warship about to cast off.
With one leap I was aboard.
"Hopla, Robert," said Rosa.
"What are you doing here, then?" Tasked. "Not going, on tour?"
"It's too early yet."
Alois slithered up.
"Single?" he asked.
"Triple," said I.
"Going it heavy," observed Rosa,
"Need something stiff," said I tipping down the rum.
"Won't you play something?" asked Rosa.
I shook my head.
"Don't feel like it to-day.
Too windy, Rosa.
How's the kid?"
She smiled with all her gold teeth.
"Well—touch wood!
I'll see her again to-morrow.
Have done pretty well this week; the old buck is feeling the spring again.
I'm taking her a new coat.
Red wool."
"Red wool! All the rage," said I. Rosa beamed.
"You are a cavalier, Bob."
"Let's hope you're right there," said I.
"Come, have one with me.
Anisette, isn't it?"
She nodded.
Alois brought it and we touched glasses.
"Tell me, Rosa, what do you really think about love?" I asked. "You ought to know something about it."
She burst into peals of laughter. "Well, of all the things—" said she then. "Love.
Ach, my Arthur—whenever I think of the scamp my knees still turn to water.
I'll tell you something, Bob, seriously— Human life is too long for love.
Too long, that's all.
My Arthur told me that when he cleared off.
And it's right.
Love is wonderful.
But for one it is always too long.