Marie (Part II)

She showed up, actually, much sooner than I had expected. When I left her at the university, I went to take care of a few small things and soon, foregoing even my training, I made my way home, because I had promised to send three illustrations to purchasers as soon as possible.

The work went decidedly slow. Eventually I felt this sleepiness, like I didn’t know what, and in the room into which the full blazing sun still shone I knocked out on the daybed immediately. It was already dark when I was awoken by a horrible thunderstorm.

It got me clean on my feet because the tropical downpour had been flooding my room through the four-pane door to my terrace, not to mention already the drawing board that stood almost on the terrace itself. A portion of the illustration was stuck to the wet table top, the rest of them flew throughout the room.

Because of the terrible electric disturbance, the radio, as always set to my station for American soldiers, did not make any sounds reminiscent of music, but rather as if something were on the frying pan. First off, I closed the doors and wiped the table and floor. Then I made a strong tea and like a born-again I sat back down to work.

When the thunderstorm was finally clearing off, I opened the four-fold doors and continued to draw. After nearly a whole two hours everything was ready. I placed the illustrations on the shelf, lit my penultimate Camel and, delighting in the smoke, I surveyed them, living up my just completed artistic success.

I knew well that I should send them off as fast as I could, but it was almost eleven, for which in any case I always waited impatiently, and from my radio, as every night, came the sound of Charlie Barnet and his SKYLINER as a signal of the hour long retrospective of the best big band music.

The first for this review went Artie Shaw and his ANY OLD TIME, sang by Billie Holiday. Then Bunny Berigan and I CAN’T GET STARTED. This piece, and especially this version of it, I always considered one of the greatest jazz accomplishments.

I knew that I had to schlep to the post office as fast as I could to send the promised illustrations, but the music was so wonderful that leaving was beyond my power.

When Berigan was about half way done, and I was just putting on more tea, I heard the sudden sound of a stopping automobile and a moment later the slam of closing doors.

I knew that if at this hour some car was pulling up here, then with ninety nine percent certainty it was in relation to me. I was not mistaken because soon someone was ringing my doorbell. Angrily I went downstairs.

At the door stood Marika, in one hand holding a bag I already knew thanks to Bławat, and in the other the postcard from the library.

“You said you lived by yourself, could you let me overnight here?” I took her bag and we went up the very narrow, tight and claustrophobic staircase.

Bunny Berigan was just finishing playing his best world hit.

“If you could do something else for me, then go downstairs and dispose of the taxi.”

When in a moment I returned, Marika was standing to the side, leaning on the open doors to the terrace, and Tommy Dorsey was good into playing one of his tunes, MARIE, and when one of Tommy Dorsey’s many vocalists, none other than Jack Leonard, with his famed back up ensemble, began to sing:

Marie, the dawn is breaking

Marie, you’ll soon be waking

To find our hearts are aching

And tears will fall as you recall

I yelled out: “Listen to this!”

“But I don’t know almost any English,” she responded.

“They’re all singing about you, silly, your name is Marie…”

The moon in all its splendor

Your kiss so very tender

The words, “Will you surrender

To me, Marie, Marie?”

When I finished my tea, I said I had to go to the post office to send off the illustrations, which I packed in front of her into a pre-addressed envelope.

Before I left I gave her a fat flannel blanket, clean sheets and a pillow. I asked her if she had something to sleep in, I guessed she did. I showed her the guest sofa bed and told her she could make her bed there.

At the end I presented my severely as if devastated by some volcano, Pompeian bathroom, I warned her that if she turned on the gas Junkers for warm water, then she had to at the same time also turn on the built into the wall, large, factory-like thing.

Not really a fan, not really a ventilator, it was only thanks to it could you evade death by electrocution, which in itself would be relatively quick and painless. Unfortunately the deceased, in this case, the girl, would look very, I mean, very, let’s say, unphotogenic.

Not to mention the troubles that would meet me after your death, you’ll have an expired, ten times larger livid tongue, expired, twenty times bigger eyes and to this also you’ll shit all over yourself.

To the question whether she was hungry and whether to bring her something to eat, she said, not especially.

I was to return in less than an hour.