A Perfect Waiter (9 page)

Monsieur Flamin was extremely satisfied with Jakob's work, as was only to be expected. Jakob did more than his duties prescribed. He was attentive, skillful and quick. He did the donkey-work for other members of staff and was capable of making decisions himself if need be. Monsieur Flamin and Herr Direktor Wagner admired his initiative, his respect for authority, his quick-wittedness, and, last but not least, his unwavering composure. He seemed to have no personal quality that did
not
merit admiration, and even his less admirable qualities might have been toler
ated—and certainly would have been by Erneste—had they come to light. Erneste's admiration for his beloved friend did not diminish; on the contrary, it grew with every passing day. There was nothing he wouldn't have forgiven the love of his life, but there was nothing to forgive, not yet. Erneste could detect no flaws in Jakob, only virtues.

Jakob had long ceased to be dependent on Erneste's advice when he was finally, at the beginning of September, permitted to wait table in the dining room as well. The nights had become distinctly cooler, so dinner was no longer served on the terrace. The guests now dined indoors, where they could continue to dress lightly for a while. There was still a touch of summer in the air, even after nightfall, when the menfolk went out onto the terrace after dinner, or more rarely between courses, to chat and smoke in peace.

Jakob left the terrace, which had become his kingdom, and conquered a new one. He and Erneste were universally popular, especially with female guests and more particularly with unaccompanied widows. It was pleasantest of all to be served by both of them at once. What elegant, handsome young men they were—so much better-looking than all the men of their acquaintance—and what good manners and nice skin they had! If the ladies hadn't aspired to more ambitious careers for their own children, and if they hadn't realized that not even waiters stay young forever, they might almost have felt inclined to want them as sons-in-law.

Before long, Jakob was past teaching anything anymore. He had mastered all the tricks of the trade. His smattering of French was cute, his English charming, his deportment impeccable. He had quickly become a perfect waiter, one who could unhesitatingly have been employed in the finest establishments, so the tips he received were lavish. Their munificence was far from inappropriate, given that money cannot be more profitably invested than in one's personal comfort, and not only on vacation.

Jakob was not only a perfect waiter but a perfect lover. Erneste's chagrin at not being the only person to enjoy his favors was still to come. In September of 1935 he had Jakob's affection all to himself.

There were two times of day for Erneste: working hours and the few hours he and Jakob spent unobserved in their little room, a domain to which no one but they had access. It was dark in there, but light enough for them. Chambermaids had no business entering their room, which had running water, so they kept it clean themselves. They were issued fresh towels and bed linen once a month.

During working hours Erneste thought of that other time, the time after work, of nighttime and his other, separate life. And when he passed Jakob at work he thought he discerned in his eyes the same expectancy that made his own heart beat faster, the same yearning for the night to come, the same longing for a second, brief—far too brief—time of day, for the physical contact possible only in the seclusion of their little room, where both of them shared the same desire. Anyone watching
them closely must have noticed that the looks they exchanged were more than just friendly. They couldn't make physical contact during work, but whenever they chanced to pass one another in a doorway or stand side by side in front of the cutlery drawer, they contrived to brush hands or elbows, even hips or thighs. This, too, was seen only by those who chose to see it, in other words, by those who habitually detect something equivocal—or thoroughly unequivocal, depending on their point of view—in everything and everyone. The other waiters treated them with friendly indifference. The others were content with their own, limited horizon, and off duty that seldom encompassed their immediate surroundings, which were unimportant compared to what awaited them back home: girlfriends or wives and families in places no one else had ever seen.

The one time—their hours of work—seemed never-ending, whereas the other time—nighttime—passed in a flash. The nights, which seldom began before midnight, were a princely recompense for all those working hours, but they were short. Erneste still found it hard to believe in his ownership of that other body. As he surrendered his body to Jakob, so Jakob's was his to possess. Neither of them made any attempt to play coy or hold back. They would eventually fall asleep after all their talk and exertions, Erneste slumped against Jakob's shoulder and Jakob with his head on one side.

If the days were too long, the nights were too short. The nights seemed to run away with them, escaping their
love and leaving behind a dull ache which sometimes became so intense that Erneste started to weep. The two of them had to get up at six, often after no more than three hours' sleep, because there were always a few guests who wanted their breakfast served at seven.

At night they found it easy to forget their work and their subordinate status. Then, for the first time, they were free: two runaway slaves in an expanse of green meadow very like the Alpine pasture conjured up by the painter of a picture hanging in the breakfast room, a meadow backed by snow-capped peaks.

They rose at six and washed in a hurry, suppressed their mounting desire or failed to suppress it, washed again, put on their waiters' outfits, knotted their bow ties, and combed each other's hair because that was quicker than doing it in the mirror. Each was at pains to see that the other looked spruce. Before parting they kissed, with the result that their lips were temporarily redder than those of their colleagues, who would already be waiting for them with impassive faces. They often turned up a few minutes late, their hair still slick with the saliva they'd used to tame each other's rebellious locks. They were happy beyond a doubt. Fate was favoring them. The situation couldn't last forever, but it lasted a little while longer.

Sometimes, when Jakob passed Erneste in the lobby or dining room or out on the terrace, or when he lay down
beside him at night, Erneste had to fight back the tears. Sometimes he failed to do so, but Jakob couldn't see this in the darkness. There was no electric light in their room. If they needed light they lit a candle. The moon shone on the front of the building, not into their cramped little attic at the rear, which just had room for two beds, a wardrobe and two chairs. The chairs were used merely as clotheshorses, hardly ever for sitting on.

Erneste may already have sensed that his happiness wouldn't last forever, but that wasn't the only reason for his tears. He wept simply because he was happy, and he was happy because he loved Jakob—because of Jakob's nearness and the touch of Jakob's hand on his lips, his chest, his belly, his thighs. He slept and awoke in a state of bliss; no other word would do. They were tired, the work was strenuous and the days were long. They seemed particularly long at the height of the season in 1935. July of that year was an exceptionally busy time. Numerous guests—refugees—had arrived from Germany. Quiet, inoffensive, apprehensive people who sometimes got drunk, they lingered in Giessbach, unable to decide when to leave and where to go.

When the moment finally came—when Erneste was lying beside Jakob in bed after midnight—he would fall asleep exhausted in his arms, and Jakob would be asleep already.

It was a long time since Erneste had wept. He occasionally shed silent tears at the movies, but they were just a reflex response to an unreal sorrow of absolutely no
significance, neither oppressive nor cathartic. His eyes were dry by the time the lights went up. He had also wept back then, when his tears stemmed less from fear of the future than from the happiness he currently felt. But that was long ago. Those thirty years had passed like a day.

Why hadn't he thought of it before? When it finally occurred to him, the burden that had weighed him down for days and weeks on end fell from his shoulders like a grain of sand, making room for other thoughts—lucid, liberating thoughts. One idea, one new and really quite simple idea, had been enough to present everything in a new light. So that was the answer, a sudden flash of inspiration, but one that must be put into effect without delay. It was as if he'd finally come of age.

With that, Jakob receded until the distance between them became bearable. His image didn't entirely disappear, but it lost definition and no longer stood in his way. Erneste was alone now. He had only to do what had to be done in the correct order, and everything else would follow. He had only to sit down at the kitchen table, put a sheet of paper in front of him, take a ballpoint, and write that he had now decided not to call Klinger, not to look him up or cadge money from him. He, Erneste, was leading his own life, and there was no room in that life for Jakob or Klinger—neither for you, Jakob, nor for the man who touched, seduced and stole you from me. You went
away with him, so go after him, go after him yourself, preserve your devotion to him, don't depend on me, be his servant, don't rely on my help, be his property. You left me forever; now I'm leaving you forever. The thing I couldn't until today believe would happen has happened: you're out of my life at last for good and all, and it's a relief.

The sentences he meant to write took shape in his mind, but they took shape so fast, and there was so many of them, that he was soon incapable of registering them all. They grew longer, and the longer they grew the less he understood them himself, and what was unintelligible to him would certainly be unintelligible to Jakob. And then it was as if they were trying to erase one another. The faster they occurred to him, the more this process of mutual erasure continued. One sentence gobbled up the next, yet they multiplied instead of becoming fewer. In lieu of a few well-organized sentences, whole concatenations of sentences took shape, and he knew he would never manage to memorize the best and most hurtful of them. That was why he had to write them down as soon as possible, but for that he needed some paper and a pen. As soon as he had a ballpoint in his hand at home, the right words—the ones that had slipped his memory—would come back to him. But he wasn't at home, not yet, because first he had something else in mind: a form of diversion and release—one of those escapades in which he had indulged for many years and at fairly regular intervals. Midnight came as the words continued to wing their way through his
head and out again, like arrows, and just as midnight came he made his way past the statue beside the entrance to the park, the one he'd passed so many times before, a barebreasted mother weeping over her dying child, and heard the familiar sounds he'd so often heard before: stealthy footsteps, a stifled groan, the rasp of a match as it flared up and went out, momentarily illuminating the features of some unknown man. A few whispered words were exchanged, a door opened to reveal white tiles and shadowy figures moving around in front of them. Then it softly closed again. The door of the toilet, used only by his own kind from early evening onward, was a universal center of interest. Insofar as they were still looking because they hadn't yet found anything, all eyes were focused on that door. The light threw figures into relief, but not faces. When the door opened, a strip of light slanted across the gravel path. The door closed and swallowed the light, opened and spit it out again a hundred times a night.

The air was filled with subdued sounds. The toilet's telltale light, which never went out, illuminated the park's activities for the benefit even of those who took no part in them—for those who watched those peculiar goings-on with the arrogance of wholesome distaste, or with the official curiosity displayed by the police when they raided the toilet at irregular intervals. They invariably arrested a few frightened, middle-aged men—married men with children, more often than not—and released them a few hours later.