The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [59]
“We have time,” he said. “After the baby comes in June, we'll get the papers and marry.”
Hella stood away from him. “I'm not worried about that But you shouldn't treat your family so, you should at least read their letters.”
He had flared up at her and said, “Look, don't keep trying to make me do things I don't want to do.”
And she had kissed him and said, “Be careful tonight,” and he knew she would wait up for him though he had told her not to.
He could hear Wolfs voice say, “Here we are,” and see the white face before him. There was a high stoop and they were standing in a pool of light formed by a naked bulb fastened into the face of the house. Its yellow light weakly stained the fabric of night. Mosca climbed the steps warily, holding fast to the iron rail.
“This guy is a long shot,” Wolf said as he rang the bell. “But I want you to know him. He's a jeweler, and if you want something for your girl, hell be a right guy.”
A window above their heads, above the naked lit bulb, was thrown open. Wolf tilted his head back and said, “Ah, Herr Furstenberg, good evening.”
“Please, just one moment, Herr Wolfgang.” TTie voice was mellow with sadness and age, and a despair that came natural to it
When the door opened a small bald-headed man, dark and with enormous black eyes, waited to greet them, and when Wolf introduced Mosca the German clicked his heels and bowed. “Please come up,” he said, and they climbed the stairs and went through a door to a large living-room with many pieces of furniture which included two large sofas, three or four stuffed chairs, and a grand piano. There was a large table in the center of the room and several smaller ones against the walls. On one of the sofas two young girls not more than sixteen were sitting, not dose to each other but with a space between them. Herr Furstenberg sat in this space.
“Please,” he said, motioning to the empty chairs nearest him. Wolf and Mosca sat down.
“I wanted you to meet the man I have spoken about,” Wolf said. “He is a very good friend of mine and I know you will treat him well if he should ever need your help.”
Herr Furstenberg, his arms around both girls” waists, bowed his bald head courteously and said with equal formality and graveness, “There can be no question of that.” Then turning his great, black hollow eyes directly to Mosca he said, “Please come to me any time if I can help you.”
Mosca nodded and sank back into the comfortable chair, feeling his legs quiver with fatigue. Idly, hazily through the fog of his tired mind, he noticed that the two young girls were fresh looking, without make-up, and wore heavy woolen stockings that rose tp their kneecaps. They sat soberly beside Herr Furstenberg in daughterly fashion, and one had pigtails braided down each side of her shoulder, long golden ropes which piled into her rough, woolen-skirted lap and coiled into Herr Furstenberg's waiting hand.
“In that other matter,” the German said, turning to Wolf again, “I am truly sorry, but I cannot help you. None of my friends have heard of such a thing, this theft of a million dollars of scrip. It is a fantastic story.” He smiled kindly at them both.
“No,” Wolf said firmly, “the story is true.” He rose, extended his hand. “I'm sorry I disturbed you at so late an hour. If some information should come, please let me know.”
“Of course,” Herr Furstenberg said. He rose, bowed to Mosca, and shook his hand, saying to him, “Please come to me any time.” The two girls rose from the sofa and Herr Furstenberg put his arms around their waists as a fond father might, and the three of them walked Mosca and Wolf to the staircase. One of the girls, mot the one with long hair, ran down the steps and showed them out. TTiey could hear the door being bolted behind them. Then the naked bulb above the stoop went out