Amélie recoiled.

  “Oh God, oh God, Modlizki! What has she ever done to you? Why, Modlizki?”

  “The fuss you people make gets on my nerves,” said Modlizki. “There he goes raving on about his Louvre, his travels. What concern is it of mine? I’m his servant, and I do what he asks of me.”

  “Why does that get on your nerves, Modlizki?”

  “Because he doesn’t understand that it’s none of my concern. Because he demands that I join in the fuss. What concern is it of mine?”

  “I don’t understand all that, Modlizki,” said Amélie.

  Modlizki gave no reply. Possibly he did not understand it himself.

  Colbert prepared every last detail of the journey in Modlizki’s presence. These preparations lasted for weeks. Excerpts were taken from the guides, the necessary phrases were alphabetized and indexed; finally a new trunk of large dimensions was smuggled up to the attic one evening and several valises and suitcases were gotten ready. Then the quantity of clothing, the number and type of garments was discussed and decided upon. They were put in the suitcases. And at last the day of departure was set. It was to be a Wednesday. For a number of reasons this day struck Colbert as most propitious for the start of a journey. Saturday, Sunday and Monday were out of the question, for experience showed that on these days more people traveled than usual. Thursday was the town’s market-day and thus it, too, was an unfavorable day for traveling. One could perfectly well avoid beginning a journey on Friday without being superstitious, because one can hold a prejudice without believing in it. This left the choice between Tuesday and Wednesday, and it fell on Wednesday for a compelling reason. On Wednesday Frau Colbert was very busy all day. Every Wednesday a woman came early in the morning to clean the house and wash the floors. Herr Colbert had reason to hope that on a Wednesday his wife would have no time to concern herself much with him and put a stop to the journey. And if he informed her of his departure with Modlizki at lunch on Wednesday, it could be assumed that she would have less time and inclination to pursue the matter than on ordinary days. Perhaps her husband’s departure would not even sink in until Thursday.

  Several days before that Wednesday Herr Colbert said to Modlizki: “We shall travel second class, Modlizki! And for a number of reasons. Firstly, it is less taxing and we will arrive in better spirits, and secondly, it is agreeable to travel in the company of those who belong to the educated classes, perhaps meeting persons of learning and refinement, the acquaintance with whom is both pleasant and profitable. One often hears of such things happening on journeys. At first I thought of having you travel third class, but I do not wish to be parted from you, Modlizki.”

  “It seems to me,” replied Modlizki, “that your initial thought was more proper, Herr Colbert. I do not belong in the second class, where men and women of the better stations travel. Who am I without you, Herr Colbert, if you think about it! Ought I to be accustomed to such things when I am alone one day?”

  “Alone?” asked Colbert.

  “Now, Herr Colbert, I know you will not neglect me in your will. But you cannot rob Fräulein Amélie. You are a rich man; you travel for pleasure. You will travel second class. But I am not traveling to see the things you wish to see. I am traveling as your servant and companion.”

  “Oh, mon cher, what kind of talk is that, Modlizki? You will travel as I do, Modlizki. You will see what I see, all the wonders of Paris, your heart will beat faster as mine does, je suis ton père, Modlizki, am I not like a father to you?”

  Modlizki bowed.

  “Yet it seems to me, Herr Colbert,” he said with deliberation, “that a man of my station does not travel. Travel is a pleasure for the rich man. A man of my station travels from necessity, or like me, in service. He should remain where he was born, for that is where he belongs, it seems to me.”

  “You must see everything as I do, Modlizki.”

  “I do not know how it befits me to see everything, Herr Colbert. I am of lowly birth. You know that my father ...”

  “Why are you bringing that up? Comme c’est horrible, Modlizki!”

  “Perhaps it needs to be brought up,” Modlizki persisted. “My mother was blind. You know how she was blinded. You know that my father hit her on the head so hard she lost her sight. She is in a home for the blind. I have no relations with her. My father did not do it without cause. He found her with Herr Kudernak, who claimed to have paid her handsomely for it. Herr Kudernak was much laughed at, for my mother was neither beautiful nor clean. Herr Kudernak lives here, enjoying his pension. He would make a good companion.”

  “Modlizki,” said Colbert, “Modlizki!”

  “I only meant to say,” and Modlizki bowed, “that it would better befit me to travel third class. But if you wish otherwise, Herr Colbert, I will do my best to overcome the restraint that is proper to me.”

  “All that will change,” said Colbert, suddenly cheerful again. “Nous verrons! As soon as you have seen these wonders! Raphael’s Madonnas, the Venus de Milo, the Palace of Versailles and that splendid city. Mon ami, how such a journey enriches one!”

  The day Colbert and Modlizki were to depart drew near. Colbert hardly ever left the attic now. He sat by the suitcases Modlizki had packed. He was in a state of perpetual emotion and hugged and kissed Modlizki several times. Modlizki submitted with modest resistance. Colbert searched all the bags for his notes and lists, which he continually thought he had forgotten. Modlizki sewed the money into a little bag that Herr Colbert planned to wear around his neck. Colbert spoke incessantly of Paris. Sometimes it struck Modlizki as rather incoherent. On the last evening before their departure Colbert wept long and uncontrollably. Modlizki did not try to comfort him.

  No attempt will be made to explain the things that will now be related. They happened unexpectedly, and probably they cannot be explained or justified at all. It will simply be told how one thing happened after another at lunch on this critical Wednesday.

  Herr Colbert appeared punctually. Modlizki was still setting the table. Herr Colbert took his seat and gave Modlizki a faint nod. Modlizki saw that his master’s face was without color, as if all the blood had fled it. Frau Colbert did not notice, and it seemed to escape Amèlie as well. The spoon trembled so hard in Herr Colbert’s hand that he put it down without tasting the soup.

  From time to time Herr Colbert turned and looked at Modlizki. Modlizki gazed at him impassively.

  After the soup Herr Colbert sat up straight. He turned to his wife. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Ecoutez, mon bijou, vous êtes ravissante aujourdhui,” he said, “listen, my dear.”

  It looked as if he were about to put his hand on Milena’s. But he stopped halfway.

  “Listen, I have an announcement to make to you ... I am leaving on a journey today ...” He spoke louder, as if to screw up his courage with the sound of his voice. “To Paris, ma bonne.”

  Frau Colbert put down her spoon and looked at her husband in silence.

  Herr Colbert shifted uneasily on his chair.

  “To Paris,” he said, “all the arrangements have been made, ma chère ... Here ... here ...” he searched his pockets. “Here are the tickets. Modlizki is coming with me. Aren’t you, Modlizki ... Say something, Modlizki!”

  Modlizki looked from one to the other. At last his gaze lingered on Herr Colbert, whose brow was bathed in sweat. Modlizki smiled.

  “Permit me to remark that I fail to understand your excitement, Herr Colbert. Your Louvre can’t be that important, Herr Colbert, certainly not to me.”

  Colbert stared at him wide-eyed. He did not seem to understand him.

  “And while I’m at it, Herr Colbert, permit me to tell you one more thing. Namely, that I have decided not to come.”

  It can hardly be supposed that Modlizki had reached this decision before that very moment. He had never mentioned anything of the kind to Amélie.

  Colbert slumped back in his chair.

  “Modlizki,” he said tonelessly, “Modlizki.”

  There was a profound silence.

  Inexplicable things must have passed through Modlizki’s mind at that moment. Amélie could not recall ever in her life having seen a face as horribly distorted and convulsed as Modlizki’s then. A taut sinew twitched faintly in his right cheek. His eyes fixed on Herr Colbert maliciously.

  The only possible conclusion is that Modlizki was considering at that moment how to wound Colbert most deeply. No one will be able to find a reason for it. For a moment his eyes lingered maliciously on Amélie. She lowered her eyes. Perhaps he thought of getting up and grabbing Amélie’s breasts in front of her parents. Suddenly Modlizki’s features relaxed, and he broke the profound silence by conducting himself out loud in a way which, in this household, was known at the very most in Herr and Frau Colbert’s bedroom. Then Modlizki rose and left the room and the house without a parting word.

  Amélie had turned red. A stern look from her mother bade her withdraw.

  For a long time Colbert sat motionless, staring in front of him absently. Then he slowly shook his head.

  “That is the wind of insurrection,” he said tonelessly.

  He fainted. Frau Colbert had to take him to bed with Amélie’s help.

  Colbert died soon after. It seems he was unable to recover from this disappointment. He had an overly sensitive nature.

  This happened in the year 1911. But one could say that Colbert began his journey, on which through Modlizki’s fault he was never to embark, the year before.

  The inscription on his gravestone was already mentioned.

  The Wine-traveler

  I do not wish to dwell upon the impressions of my youth. Suffice it to say that I was born thirty-six years ago as the son of a traveling salesman. Early on I acquired the skills which would one day enable me to take over my father’s business. Though he had struggled all his life to make ends meet, he had a great legacy to leave me: his knowledge of the clientele. He knew all potential customers in his district – and there were potential customers in the smallest towns – not only by name, he knew their relatives, family background and character traits. That is no easy matter in a trade as far-flung as the wine trade. One must call upon the innkeepers in the small towns, grocers and hoteliers in the cities. It’s a colorful lot the wine-traveler meets on his job, more colorful than the clientele of, say, the traveler in cloth. Innkeepers are scoundrels, people say, and the truth of it is that the innkeeper has a more checkered métier than any other merchant.

  If I felt called to write a novel plumbing the depths of the human heart, I would make my hero an innkeeper. The owner, say, of a small hotel. It would lie on a narrow side street, among music halls and little shops. The secrets of such a house, the people who pass in and out, lovers and black marketeers, the to and fro of grim or laughing figures, the leaven of the people and the cream of high society – and in their midst the innkeeper, outwardly the petty bourgeois, but his heart filled with the secrets of a clientele which tempts him to demand more of life than is his lot.

  Ultimately there is no difference between a hotelier in the capital and an innkeeper in the provinces. The stage is smaller, the drama played out by fewer actors, but the passions are just as hot and consuming. I would venture that the innkeeper in the provinces has one thrill which gives him the advantage over the hotelier in the capital: the stranger from the capital who connects him to the wide world, whose luggage he scrutinizes with the same sensual curiosity as his clothes and his linens in the closet. It is hard to fool an innkeeper. If the con men’s guild had a test for mastery, no doubt the task would be to coax a penny from an innkeeper.

  I say this because the profession has played a special role in my life, as we shall see, and to convey how difficult the wine-traveler’s business is, quite apart from the fact of dealing in wine. Wine is called merchandise, just as silk and paper are called merchandise, though paper and silk of a certain grade and color can be produced ad infinitum, and one piece of the same type and grade of paper will always look exactly the same as another. Knowing paper and silk is a matter of practice. A wine-traveler is born, not made. Knowing wine is a mysterious gift. It hinges not only on the refinement of the taste buds. That is an obvious requirement. I do not hesitate to call this gift a gift of the heart. It cannot be trained, learned or analyzed. Is it presumptuous of me to compare it with artistic inspiration, which, too, cannot be learned, but is simply there, a gift of the gods? It is not creative like the poet’s gift. But isn’t there also uncreative artistry, the art of enjoyment, of response, isn’t it – the ability to be intoxicated by music, say, the ecstasy of the listener – like the gift of the creative artist, granted to few, and as stirring as the gift of the creator? And isn’t something of the creative force inherent in the appraisal of enjoyment, in the discrimination which crowns the pleasure, finishes it, springing clear and pristine from the turbulence of emotion like that Greek goddess who, I hear, leaped fully-armed from her father’s skull? To take in everything – smell, taste, body – with straining senses, with lips, palate and tongue to feel the drops like heavy velvet or crisp silk, pierced by a thousand memories struggling to take form, seized by an intoxication of all the senses that brings forth knowledge: that is a gift granted to few. I inherited it from my father and possess it to such a degree that I can recognize a wine I drank one drop of ten years ago, and name its origin, its vintage.

  I was not meant at first to make use of these abilities. My father did not want me to take up his profession, which had yielded him only a meager, hard-earned income. He wanted me to apprentice myself at a trading company that had wide-ranging connections to all the countries in the world and was owned by a distant relative of my mother. The plan foundered on my opposition. I wanted to be a wine-traveler. I easily defeated my father, a kind-hearted man who loved his only child tenderly, by asking whether he would make his son go into the trading company if he were a virtuoso on the violin.

  “No,” my father said. “Isn’t wine like an old violin,” I asked, “and isn’t it my gift to play this violin like a virtuoso?”

  This might lead one to believe that from youth I have been a man of modest ambitions. That I wished to follow my inclinations, finding in them a modest happiness rather than search the wide world for the frenetic activity that is no happiness at all. That I wanted to be nothing but what my father was. Let me say at once that this was not the case. What I write here of the world’s frenetic activity, I did not know at the time. I came by this knowledge the hard way. Fate has been a stern teacher to me, sterner perhaps than to many whose lives follow their prescribed paths quietly and without upheaval. Do you suppose that I was not tantalized and tempted by the thought of earning money like my childless uncle, whose fortune I doubtless would have inherited? Money, luxury, the power to pay for women and give them presents, to go through life as a man of distinction – at the time, that must have been my heart’s most ardent desire. If I rejected the offer which promised all this for the future, it was because I thought it should all fall into my lap in an easier, more gratifying way, effortlessly, not hard won through honest, respectable work in my uncle’s office under his strict supervision. Not only did I believe, I was absolutely convinced there must exist bold, venturesome ways to come into money without the slightest effort. Despite my youth, there was no faith in my heart that honesty, thrift and hard work would always be rewarded. I believed the opposite.

  I had no clear notion of how to make good on my dreams. I sensed only that one must be at the ready, free of prejudices, uninhibited, to seize the opportunity when it arose. I thought up all sorts of situations from which I emerged with huge profits. There is one I remember in particular. I will give myself the benefit of the doubt and suppose that it is especially dear to me because I triumphed less by deception than through my art.

  On one of my trips, I thought, I come to a town. It is an insignificant little town, far from the beaten path. A town of whose existence I am unaware until the day I arrive. Some escapade has brought me here. I take a room at the inn, dress, as I generally do, slowly and meticulously, perhaps more slowly than usual to keep the innkeeper in suspense. I know the innkeeper is lying in wait to sound me out. He is as curious as only an innkeeper can be. I go downstairs. I sit at a table. The innkeeper comes to start a conversation with me. I am short of words. Then the wine is brought. The bottle is old and dusty, without a label. I pour a glass full. Bordeaux. Even before I drink I am seized by that seductive unrest, a tremor of the senses as must seize artists when they are suddenly, unexpectedly overcome by the vision of a work. A moment later I crush the first drop between tongue and palate. A voluptuous warmth courses through my blood. I close my eyes. I have before me the most exquisite wine I ever drank. The crowning glory of all wines. A hundred years old for certain, a hundred years sealed in the bottle, a hundred years removed from all the influences of the earth, left to itself, grown ripe, ripe as a tropical fruit, of gentle heft, supple sweetness, fit to flow down the throats of the most discriminating connoisseurs. A second only, and I know everything. I open my eyes. I look at the innkeeper. He has no inkling of my discovery.

  To this day I distinctly recall the taste of this wine, although I never drank it. Its bouquet tickles the nerves of my nose as if I were holding the glass before me now. I know I will never really breathe this fragrance, never feel on my tongue the taste that memory conjures up. Memory? Memory? Memory of something I never really experienced? You will laugh at that. But for me it is no different than a real experience. I find no special feature to distinguish this experience from others. If this is not true, then I was never really a wine-traveler, I only dreamed it, and I no longer know whether I really killed a man or whether it was a dream.

  I believe one should not seek to discover what was real in the past and what was not. The thought is strange and disquieting. It is a comfort when the heart makes no distinctions.

  I set up the swindle cleverly. I did not mention the wine to the innkeeper that day. When I paid I saw that the innkeeper valued the wine worth thousands at a few pennies. The next day, no sooner, I talked the unsuspecting innkeeper into selling me his entire supply, one hundred and ten bottles, and was a wealthy man.

 

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