Hobohemians

39Undressed sideways, crabbily hiding unsuccessfully, unnecessarily, dirty underlinen. Lotte kicking in bed. Strange she hadn’t a room, had such white shining candlelight under clothing. I have a room and look at my socks. ‘Come into bed.’—‘No I can’t.’—‘Come into bed. Why don’t you want to love me?’ She thought I was callow. Then I told her: Ali my friend, the Persian, he said to me, ‘How can you be such a fool? don’t you go with that girl, she’s got something the matter with her, she’s got no eyelashes, haven’t you noticed?’—Herrgott [Good Lord], however did I, could I fetch myself to break that to her. Bit of a coward giving away Ali, served him right, there was nothing the matter with her. The way she turned her face, began to cry, cried, seemed like a child. Then I as cowardly shook Ali and fear to the devil, consolation as I gathered her into my pitiful arms that I was for it, but no matter, dear little Lotte. It was quite all right anyway.—

40Willy looking up saw Heinke come in through the swing door. He was conscious that Lotte was indifferently seated on his left, alone. That was one consolation.

* * *

41Heinke’s green shirt and tie splashed their colour through the swing door.

42—Viktor not there yet, only the Englishman and Lotte. Thought they had quarrelled. Simple naive fellow, nothing perverse, this Englishman. Wouldn’t think he was English though, not one of those lanky fellows with the seesaw voices and cold eyes. Seems never to have had a woman. Why Lotte wouldn’t show him my drawings. The little cow blushed and hasn’t spoken to me since. Why shouldn’t he see? Got no time for people with minds as pure as that. Besides, she’ll be showing him something, I know.

43Think she’s got something wonderful, thinks she’ll marry into one of those leather-trunk families of rich English. Just because he does not know enough to not treat her like a lady. It’s only ignorance. Viktor sees through that. It all comes out of Viktor if he’s winning at chess, cursing confidentially. When I let him win the other day, he chuckled: ‘Young Lotte’s got her audience at last, she’s got our little Englishman, he listens open-eyed to her penny-dreadful tales of reformatory life. I suppose he believes she is a tragic adventuress. You should see the airs she gives herself, never been taken so seriously before. I’ve kicked the little bitch out. She tires me. Haven’t got the strength to deal with little animals like her, born to roll on their backs when a stranger enters the café. Only thing the little devil can understand. She’s not such a fool, though. Always leaves something behind when I turn her out. She’ll be round in a couple of days, saying: I’ve come to fetch my other vest. I have to pose to-day. Let me change here, then I’ll take everything away.—So she starts undressing very slowly and I always say: You can stay and make tea. So she stops fooling about with her clothes and stays till I kick her out again.’ No wonder she thinks young Willy is an English lord. Never had anyone but village toughs and café Jews. I’d prefer any Jew to a cold-blooded Englishman, damned sight more generous. But Willy can’t be English. His mother must have been something else. Irish.