The Sword and the Net полностью

He wandered about—and went on wandering. He ate good food in an unpretentious little café near the main railway station, and went into a museum, and loafed around a pretty, obviously imaginary little park, and had a strange, throat-burning drink in a bar which was crowded with men who unmistakably followed the sea.

It was nearing four in the afternoon before he began to grow worried. In all his miles of meandering he had neither seen nor heard any hint of anything which might be the something for which he was so anxiously waiting. And yet he was sure that he had been ordered here, and for a definite purpose—and therefore if he had missed the something, it must be his own fault. Had he made some fantastic, some puerile mistake which would disgrace him? Should he, for instance, have just waited where he was when he had stepped off the bus? Surely not—since, in the absence of any other orders, it was his duty to be Nils Jorgensen—and this loafing and wandering and gaping must be proper to Nils! Should he, perhaps, as the pencil was the only ‘sign’ which he had, have been at pains to show it casually in every place he visited? Surely not, since the others must know him and therefore take the initial step.

Well, then, what was the matter? Why didn’t something happen? . . . He decided, for the want of more striking idea, that it might be as well if he stepped sufficiently out of his conception of Nils’ character as to visit parts of the town which he had hitherto avoided; parts which it seemed to him would frighten Nils by their luxury and sophistication.

This decision brought him, at some time before five, to the terraced restaurant of the Carolus; the restaurant which, although it is roofed and part of the main hotel building, seems nevertheless to be, very delightfully, part garden and part pavement. It was easy enough to act the part of Nils as he entered: his clothes, and the covert smiles which they aroused in neat men and soignée women, were sufficient insult to his personal, bodily pride to make the necessary, inner feeling of being Nils—awkward, embarrassed, out-of-place—very easy to attain. He stumbled to a corner table upon the lowest terrace. Scarlet-faced, he ordered aquavit from the card which the waiter tendered him and, when it came, discovered it to be the same burning drink that he had had in the place which was full of sailors. Only this was better stuff—much better. He felt less worried when he’d taken half of it. It was like the vodka he’d had in Paris, only pleasanter. He finished it and ordered another. He felt much better; there was no denying it. He knew his own capacity, though, and was in no danger, even with strange liquors, of allowing his mind to become even clouded. But he suddenly realized, halfway through the second drink, that he had been overanxious. There was nothing, in the absence of orders, which they could have expected him to do that he had not done. He must simply wait. He pressed his hand to his coat, over the breast-pocket, and felt the outline of the pencil again.

He had a puddle of liquor left in his glass, and was thinking of finishing it and leaving this place when he saw the little priest come in and sit at a table across the aisle. He watched, with inward amusement, someone even clumsier and less at home in his surroundings than any Nils Jorgensen. The priest was small and plump and untidy, and he dropped things and overturned a glass of water and fumbled with the menu and grew embarrassed beneath the cold scrutiny of the waiter and eventually ordered soup.

Otto shifted his gaze for a moment—and saw the girl two tables down from the priest. Perhaps girl was the wrong word, though, because it implied, for Otto at least, a certain immaturity; a naiveté—even perhaps a quality of innocence. Gertrud, now, was a girl, as had been her prototype in Paris. . . .

Otto bit his lip, frowning. He forgot to be Nils for a moment; then recalled himself with a start. He looked at the young woman again. She was dressed very simply and in exquisite taste. She was charming; much too charming to be alone. Though she was unlike as might be in feature and colouring, she somehow managed to remind him of his Parisian singer. He looked again, remembering to be loutishly bashful. She was reading a magazine as she sipped at a cocktail. She looked up as if she felt Otto’s eyes. She was blonde, with eyes of deep, dark blue, and her mouth was full-lipped and large and generous. Her dark, simple coat, with its high collar of rich fur, was thrown open, and beneath the grey silk of her dress she curved deliriously.

Their gazes met and mingled for a second which seemed an hour to Otto, starved since Paris of any real society of the other sex.