Arch of Triumph by Erich Maria Remarque

Author:Erich Maria Remarque [Remarque, Erich Maria]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780091137502
Publisher: Hutchinson Educ.
Published: 1945-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Morosow sat in the Palm Room of the International. He was drinking a bottle of Vouvray. “Hello, Boris old fellow,” Ravic said. “I seem to have returned at the right moment. Is that Vouvray?”

“Still the same. Thirty-four this time. Slightly sweeter and stronger. Good that you’re back again. It was three months, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Longer than usual.”

Morosow rang an old-fashioned table bell. It pealed like a sacristan’s bell in a village church. The Catacombs had only electric lights, no electric bells. It didn’t pay; the refugees rarely dared to ring. “What’s your name now?” Morosow asked.

“Still Ravic. I didn’t mention this name at the police station. I called myself Wozzek, Neumann, and Guenther. A caprice. I didn’t want to give up Ravic. I like it as a name.”

“They didn’t find out that you were living here, did they?”

“Of course not.”

“Obviously. Otherwise there would have been a raid. So you can stay here again. Your room is vacant.”

“Does the old lady know what happened?”

“No. Nobody. I told them you went to Rouen. Your things are at my place.”

The girl came in with a tray. “Clarisse, bring a glass for Mr. Ravic,” Morosow said.

“Ah, Mr. Ravic!” The girl showed her yellow teeth. “Back again? You stayed away more than six months, monsieur.”

“Three months, Clarisse.”

“Impossible. I thought it was six months.”

The girl shuffled off. Immediately afterwards the slovenly waiter of the Catacombs came with a wine glass in his hand. He had no tray; he had been in this place for a long time and could afford to be informal. His face indicated what would follow and Morosow anticipated it. “All right, Jean. Tell me how long Mr. Ravic has been away. Do you know exactly?”

“But Mr. Morosow! Naturally I know to the very day! It’s exactly—” He paused for effect, smiled, and said: “Exactly four and a half weeks!”

“Correct,” Ravic said before Morosow could answer.

“Correct,” Morosow replied too.

“Naturally. I’m never mistaken.” Jean disappeared.

“I didn’t want to disappoint him, Boris.”

“Neither did I. I only wanted to demonstrate to you the feebleness of time once it becomes the past. That’s comforting, frightening, or a matter of indifference. I lost sight of First Lieutenant Bielski of the Neobrashensk Guard Regiment in 1917 in Moscow. We were friends. He went north across Finland. I made my way across Manchuria and Japan. When we met again here eight years later, I thought I had seen him last in 1919 in Harbin; he thought it had been in 1921 in Helsinki. A difference of two years—and a few thousand miles.” Morosow took the bottle and filled the glasses. “You see, at least they recognized you again. That in itself gives one some feeling of being home, doesn’t it?”

Ravic drank. The wine was cool and light. “In the meantime I’ve been close to the border,” he said. “Very close, below Basel. One side of the road belonged to Switzerland, the other was German. I stood on the Swiss side and ate cherries. I could spit the pits into Germany.”

“Did that give you a feeling of being at home?”

“No.

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