Dirty Snow by Georges Simenon Page B

girl begging for something, “Is it all right if I do this?”
    She shifted in her seat a little, pushed Frank’s arm out of the way, took off her hat, and buried her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
    She almost purred, there was such an innocent satisfaction in her first little sigh.
    â€œYou’re not uncomfortable? I’m not bothering you?”
    He said nothing. Maybe she kept her eyes closed the whole time while he, this time, watched the film.
    He hadn’t touched her that afternoon. The idea of kissing her troubled him. She had suddenly pressed her lips against his, just once, a little before they reached their building. Then, just as she was leaving, when they were a step apart, she said very quickly, “Thank you, Frank.”
    It was too late. Everything had in a way already begun. On Saturday the military police had come to search the apartment of the violinist and his mother. Frank had just stepped out when they arrived. When he came home, he could sense even from outside that there was something wrong with the building, though exactly what he couldn’t tell. At the entrance a plainclothesman was talking to the concierge, who was trying to act natural.
    When Frank reached the first landing—he had gone out to telephone Kromer—he found several men in uniform, three or four of them, who were keeping the housewives from going up to their apartments while preventing the other tenants from leaving.
    Everyone was silent. It was deathly quiet. Other uniforms could be seen in the hall. The violinist’s door was open—had they brought him back to be present at the search? There were noises of furniture being smashed and, at times, an old woman’s pleading voice, beyond tears.
    Frank had calmly taken out his green card, which he hadn’t used yet, and everyone saw it, everyone knew what it meant. The soldiers stood back to let him pass. The silence behind him had grown even more oppressive.
    He had done it on purpose. And the day before, he had brought Minna a dressing gown. He hadn’t bought it in a shop; it was a long time since the shops had had any quilted satin dressing gowns. In any case, he couldn’t be bothered to actually go into a shop.
    His pockets had been stuffed with the money—he didn’t know what to do with it all—that he had received as his share for the watches, enough large bills to feed an ordinary family, even two or three families, for years. At Timo’s, as often happened, someone had been unpacking merchandise in one corner, and Frank had bought the dressing gown.
    He half-believed he was buying it for Sissy. Not exactly, of course, since everything had been decided down to the smallest detail already. It was something he couldn’t explain. He would give it to Minna, that was understood, but it wouldn’t stop him from thinking about Sissy. Lotte would be furious. She would insist it looked like they were apologizing to Minna for her accident with that brute Otto.
    It was the first time he had ever bought anything for a woman, something personal, and, crazy or not, the fact remained that he had Sissy partially in mind.
    There was all that. Then there had been the replacement for Saturday—she had arrived already and was ill-tempered. What else had happened?
    Nothing … Always this touch of a cold lingering, not getting any worse, this persistent headache, a vague discomfort in every part of his body that couldn’t actually be called illness. The sky white as a sheet, whiter and purer than the snow, which looked as though it had hardened and on which there fell only a little icy dust.
    Sunday morning he had tried to read. Then he had gone over to the window and stood looking out through the frosted panes at the empty street for so long, remaining so motionless, that Lotte, more and more uneasy about him, had grumbled, “You’d better take your bath while there’s still hot water. Bertha is