Hobohemians

154Going up to Viktor in the café he grasped an averted stiff hand: “Good-bye.” In the other room he sat at a bare table, ordered a Pernod. Noisily, two men sat on either side of him. Willy made room. Volubly they, noticing the Pernod, introduced themselves. Argentinian in a dark sombrero, small Czech or something from central Europe, leather coat. What is he? Museum something. The conversation, the drinks, multiplied. They had no money, terrible thirst. Waiters reproved their noise; menaced expulsion; refused at the bar. “I know a place we can go to,” said the Argentinian. “Let’s buy some bottles and go to the Baroness.”—“He has a wonderful rich woman in elegant hotel. Let’s go there. She will be out now. We can sneak up and drink in peace.”

155Stopping at a small wineshop Willy paid for three bottles. Argentinian hiccuped: “Put one under our coats. One for you. Me. I will get the key. You must walk properly, pull your hat right, good visitors. It is a fine hotel—I was only once there. I think it is number 33. We will try.”

156Into the palm coloured hotel lobby in solemn satisfied dignity, single file they tripped. Into the office fumbling the Argentinian hand selected a key. Once up the narrow first dark flight—“Look out for the lift, mustn’t see us”—consulted anxiously the number. “I think her rooms are 33. We will soon find out.” Up to the third floor, luckily no chambermaids. The Argentinian on hands and knees crawling to a dark doorway listened. In the rear of him Czech and Willy embraced with handkerchief smothered mouths. Listening, standing up, striking a match. 33. He unlocked the door, peeped in, no one there. All inside, you lock the door, look in the bedroom, baroness is out. Put on the gramophone.

157Argentinian opened a door on to a cupboard, took out some eggs. “This is her room. I remember now. Look, there is the kettle. She won’t be back before six, we must go before then. She might not understand.”

158“Go to your room then,” proposed Willy.

159“We haven’t got any. We’re turned out,” said the Czech.

160“Of course,” said Willy, “how silly. You can have mine.”

161Argentinian made a meal, baroness’ bread, butter, fruit. The gramophone’s a bit loud. Muffle it a bit. For God’s sake find a corkscrew. Don’t smash the bottle, there is a franc on it. Argentinian tango.

162They drank. Argentinian to screeching records commenced tango. Czech solemnly Hungarian measure. Willy silently drank. Corner of triangle missing, he became it. “This is my country’s jig, highland fling, I’m a Scotsman.” Three angles solemnly cavorting, frenzied Scottish hypotenuse, Czech on his knees stamping.