A Sad Affair by Wolfgang Koeppen Page A

right with what he was wearing gave his appearance the element of posturing one might associate with a backstreet pimp. Only his face wasn't rosy enough. It's Russian, thought Friedrich, so incredibly Russian. It expresses the melancholy of those lugubrious tunes that are played by balalaika ensembles of ex-officers. Fedor shook hands with them both—kind, friendly, and unreserved. He gave off a slight whiff of alcohol, which suited his appearance to a tee. "What have you been up to?" he asked. "I've been running around all over the place." He was stateless, and was looking for a nationality that would supply him with a passport. Magnus, who by marrying Anja had made her a citizen of his country [which was probably the reason they had gotten married in the first place], had promised Fedor he'd adopt him. But now the authorities were making difficulties. It did not appear that Magnus had sufficient influence to get around them. Or maybe he wasn't serious about the adoption in the first place. That was Fedor's suspicion. He said: 'There's something fishy going on." He was in a grim mood. "Come on, let's go down, it's cold. Did you and Friedrich have something to eat?" he asked Sibylle.
    In the anteroom, the wardrobe women put on their starched white aprons. The beady-eyed cashier was already in place by the curtain that led into the auditorium. Her long fingers riffled the canary yellow tickets. She too seemed not to have stirred overnight. The notion that the whole world wanted nothing but to push past her into the theater poisoned her sleep and her time off. Fedor and Sibylle greeted her in passing. When they tried to take Friedrich through with them, however, she snapped shut. Fedor got agitated: "Friedrich isn't going to have to pay, is he?!"
    "Either that, or he'll have to get a chit from Magnus."
    So Magnus was her god, he was the one who counted, he was the one she obeyed. Friedrich hesitated; it was a disagreeable scene; he was perfectly willing to buy a ticket, but he thought it would demean him in front of the others. He said: "I'm just accompanying my friends to the changing room."
    "Yes, but from there it's an easy matter to slip into the auditorium without paying."
    "You seem pretty taken with the show!" Friedrich saw a way of ironizing the dispute: "I take my hat off to you." Coins chinked, there was a giving, a taking, and a changing.
    Fedor said: "You're a fool, Magnus would have given you a chit."
    Yes, of course, it was feeble of him, in spite of the pretense, but Friedrich didn't want to be seen to be scrounging a favor off Magnus. In the auditorium, which was now fully occupied, the ranks of chairs were straight as soldiers on parade. "It looks pretty good," Friedrich said almost aloud. It was strange, the moment he ran into Fedor he felt like a bourgeois, a believer in cleanly swept floors, and order and decency and sobriety and moderation in all things. And this was Friedrich, who led a solitary existence cut off from any ties, and even as a child had favored all forms of gypsyishness.
    They crossed the narrow stage, past wood blocks, nails, ropes, and pieces of cardboard, greeted a young fellow in blue overalls who was called Jupiter, probably because he tended the lights, and barged open the door to a room that smelled of laundry soap, combed-out hair, perfume, greasepaint, alcohol, dust, and rags. The changing room of the troupe. It was quite a large room, with curtained-off sections for men and women. The middle, the greater part of the room, was neutral. In any case, the curtains were still drawn, and Friedrich had to wonder whether they were ever made to do their supposed duty. In the middle of the room, facing the door, leaning over the window seat—a blacked-out rectangle that looked not unlike a photographers studio background—stood the tall albino man, with eyes of runny aquarelle blue, that Friedrich had noticed the night before, resting his hands on the shoulders of Anja, who was standing in