“It’s a somewhat frigid profession—,” said the dowdy old postal worker to the very young novice and showed her how to handle the “L.u.C. Hardtmuth” rubber rolling system. “No, romantic it’s not in the post office, thank God. We’re far removed from the wafting woods—.”
And everyone laughed or smiled at least, rather moved.
“When you think,” said the very young novice, “that back in the old days they used to have to lick all the registered mail coupons themselves! Was there ever enough saliva?!”
The entire office laughed. Yes, indeed, that’s progress for you!
“So,” thought the novice, “a frosty profession?! They’re all so kind to me. As if I were a convalescent. Nobody wants to hurt my feelings. But am I made of sugar?! They’re all so delicate with me, as if to say: ‘You too must bear the yoke!’ I feel like I’m putting one over on them all. And that other life out there, all boredom and flirtation!? No, thank you, at least now I know what I’m here for. An orderly regulated life! No more unhealthy dreams. Romantic, was it ever romantic at my aunt’s house?! Of course there was my gallant uncle making come-on’s. No, thank you, I’ll take the serious life over that any day.”
Hours and hours and hours on end, she wrote out receipts, as if at a gallop, glued yellow stripes, rubber-stamped, tum tum tum tum-pum! Banker’s Association: To-in Trieste, to-in Constantinople, to-in Belgrade, to-in, to-in, to-in, tum tum tum tum-pum! At 5 P.M. she received a letter from the gallant uncle. She turned all red in the face and tore it right up. The gall of him!
She galloped onwards over the receipts, hop hop hop höööhwoh!: “Dear girl, if you do it like this, it’s much easier.” “Thank you kindly.”
Many receipt recipients attempted to touch her fingertips. Some even skimmed, as if to stroke, her soft white hand. Only the bank clerks maintained a stony stiffness. Snobs!
Finally she got tired, slowed down to an easy trot, started to pen out her signature in calligraphy.
At 7 P.M., right before closing, a gentleman in a wide coat handed her a letter to be posted registered mail.
“Oh—,” said the very young novice, “you’ve put on much too much postage. West Africa is still a part of the World Wide Postal Union.”
She got all giddy over this splendid term “World Wide Postal Union.” As if just saying it made her in a certain sense a member of this far-flung family.
“No matter,” replied the gentleman, “all the more likely that the letter actually reaches its destination.”
“Impractical—,” thought the novice.
“What is the lady’s name?!” she inquired, as she wished to fill out the receipt.
“Miss Wāh-Badûh.”
“In two words?!”
“Naturally.”
“A Negress, I suppose.”
“Indeed, Miss.”
“And in West Africa, Christiansborg?!”
“Yes.”
She gave him the receipt with her calligraphic signature.
The gentleman glanced at her, glanced down at her soft white hands and left. In her heart she felt: “A frosty profession?! Not on your life. Like a ride into the land of romance—.”
But the dowdy old postal worker observed: “Why do you have to go and tell such a goddamn nut that he put too much postage on?! If the state can’t profit off of that sort?! What else are they good for?!”