Free Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque

should it be harder for her now?”
    “Because now she’s alone. Up to now the man was there even though he was dead. He was above the earth. Now he’s below it—gone, not here any more. This”—Morosow pointed at the Madonna—“is not thanks. It is a cry for help.”
    “I slept with her. Without knowing what had happened. I want to forget that.”
    “Nonsense! It is the least important thing in the world as long as there is no love in it. I knew a woman who said it was easier to sleep with a man than to call him by his first name.” Morosow leaned forward. His large bald head reflected the light. “I will tell you something, Ravic—we ought to be friendly to people if we can and as long as we possibly can because we’re still going to commit a few so-called crimes in our lives. At least I will. And probably you too.”
    “Yes.”
    Morosow put his arm around the pot containing the meager palm. It trembled slightly. “We all feed on one another. Such occasional little sparks of kindliness—that’s something one shouldn’t allow to be taken away. It strengthens one for a difficult life.”
    “All right, I’ll go to see her tomorrow.”
    “Fine,” Morosow said. “That’s what I meant. And now stop talking so much. Who has white?”

5

    THE PATRON RECOGNIZED Ravic immediately. “The lady is in her room,” he said.
    “Can you call her and say that I am downstairs?”
    “Her room has no telephone yet. I am sure you may go up.”
    “What is the number?”
    “Twenty-seven.”
    “I don’t remember her name. What is it?”
    The patron showed no surprise. “Madou. Joan Madou,” he added. “I don’t think it is her real name. Probably a stage name.”
    “Why stage name?”
    “She registered as an actress. It sounds like it, doesn’t it?”
    “I don’t know. I knew an actor who called himself Gustave Schmidt. In reality his name was Alexander Maria Count of Zambona. Gustave Schmidt was his stage name. Didn’t sound like one, did it?”
    The patron would not concede defeat. “Nowadays so many things happen,” he declared philosophically.
    “So much doesn’t actually happen. When you study history you’ll find that we are living in a relatively calm era.”
    “Thanks, it’s enough for me.”
    “For me too. But one has to find consolation wherever one can. Number twenty-seven, you said?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Ravic knocked. No one answered. He knocked once more and heard an indistinct voice. When he opened the door he saw the woman. She was sitting on the bed, which stood against the partition wall. She was dressed and wore the blue tailored suit in which Ravic had first seen her. She would have looked less forlorn had she been lying somewhere, negligently attired in a dressing gown. But this way, dressed for no one and nothing, out of mere habit which now had no meaning, there was something about her that touched Ravic’s heart. He was familiar with it—he had seen hundreds of people sitting this way—refugees driven helplessly into foreign countries. A little island of uncertain existence—that was how they sat, not knowing where to go—and only habit kept them alive.
    He closed the door behind him. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said and at once felt how meaningless the words were. What was there that could still disturb this woman? There was nothing that could disturb her.
    He put his hat on a chair. “Were you able to settle everything?” he asked.
    “Yes. There wasn’t much.”
    “No trouble?”
    “No.”
    Ravic sat down in the only armchair in the room. The springs squeaked and he could feel that one was broken.
    “Did you intend to go out?” he asked.
    “Yes. Sometime later. Nowhere in particular—just to go. What else can one do?”
    “Nothing. That’s right, for a few days. Don’t you know anyone in Paris?”
    “No.”
    “No one?”
    The woman raised her head with a tired movement. “No one—except you, the patron, the waiter, and the chambermaid.”