The Post Office Girl by Stefan Zweig Read Free Book Online Page B

about her station or they fail to notice her at all; in any case they stride past her and up to the reception clerk without a glance back. Christine remains behind uncertainly, holding the straw suitcase, which she suddenly detests. She thinks she might give the others a few more paces’ head start to keep them from looking too closely at her. But she waits too long. As she steps onto the running board of the car, nobody from the hotel springs forward to meet her: the obsequious gentleman in the frock coat has gone in with the Romanians, the bellhops are busy towing the luggage, and the porters are thunderously moving heavy chests about on the roof of the car. No one pays any attention to her. Evidently, she thinks, mortified—evidently, undoubtedly, they take her for the help, at best those gentlemen ’s serving girl, because the porters are maneuvering baggagepast her with complete indifference, ignoring her as though she were one of their own. Finally she can’t bear it any longer and with the last of her strength manages to get through the door of the hotel and go up to the desk clerk.
    But who dares to approach a desk clerk in the high season, this luxury-liner captain standing at the command behind his desk, steadfastly holding his course amid a storm of problems. A dozen guests wait shoulder to shoulder before him as he writes notes with his right hand and fires off bellhops like arrows with every look and nod while at the same time giving out information left and right, his ear to the telephone receiver, a universal man-machine with nerve fibers forever taut. Even those authorized to come near him have to wait, so what can an inhibited and uninitiated newcomer expect? This lord of chaos seems so unapproachable that Christine retreats timidly into an alcove to wait until the whirlwind has died down. But the straw suitcase is getting heavier in her hand. She looks in vain for a bench to set it down on. But as she glances around, she thinks she notices (imagination, probably, or nerves) two people in lobby club chairs looking at her ironically, whispering and laughing. Her fingers are getting so weak that in another moment she’ll have to let go. But at this critical point an artificially blond, artificially youthful, very elegant lady steps up smartly and sharply scrutinizes her profile before venturing, “Is it you, Christine?” And hearing Christine’s automatic “Yes” (more whispered than spoken), her aunt envelops her with airy kisses on both cheeks and the mild scent of face powder. But Christine, grateful that at last something warm and kindred has appeared, throws herself into this purely ceremonial embrace with such passion that her aunt, interpreting this clutching as family feeling, is quite moved. Gently she pats Christine’s heaving shoulders. “Oh, I’m awfully glad you came too, both Anthony and I, we’re so glad.” And then, taking her by the hand: “Come on, you’ll certainly want to freshen up a little, your Austrian trains are supposed tobe so dreadfully uncomfortable. Why don’t you go fix yourself up. Don’t be too long, though—the bell rang for lunch just now, and Anthony doesn’t like to wait, that’s a weakness of his. Everything’s ready for you, the desk clerk will give you your room right away. But be quick, won’t you? Nothing fancy—it’s come as you are for lunch.”
    Her aunt motions, a liveried lad swiftly takes the suitcase and umbrella and runs for the key. The elevator shoots soundlessly two stories up. The boy opens a door in the middle of the corridor, flourishes his cap, and steps aside. This must be her room. Christine goes in. But on the threshold she stops short, as though she were in the wrong place. Because with all the will in the world, the postal official from Klein-Reifling, accustomed to shabby surroundings, can’t just flick a switch and really believe that this room is for her, this extravagantly scaled, exquisitely bright, colorfully