As soon as Hans walked in, the innkeeper leapt with unaccustomed agility from behind the reception desk. It’s Thursday already! he said with a look of consternation. Clasping his belly as though he were lifting up a sack of potatoes, he added: A couple of policemen went up to your room this morning. (What? Hans said, alarmed. And you didn’t stop them?) Listen, they had bayonets! I tried my best, but they insisted on searching your belongings (damn! Hans cried, raising his hands to his head), but I managed to ask Lisa to hide your trunk in number five, which is empty. No, there’s no need to thank me, sir. You’ve always paid. And a guest is a guest.
Hans pelted up the stairs. On one of the landings he bumped into Thomas, who crouched like a cat, slipped between his legs, tugged at his breeches and took off down the stairs.
He walked into his room and glanced about. The chairs were upturned, the mattress half on the floor, his valise open and his clothes strewn everywhere, the bathtub had been moved, the papers on his desk rifled through, the logs pulled from the fire. He searched everything carefully, and discovered the policemen had taken nothing of any importance except for some money he had hidden in a sock inside his suitcase. The only real casualty was the watercolour, which he picked up off the floor, its mirror smashed to pieces. He went out into the corridor, made sure no one was there and slipped into the adjoining room—he was relieved to find his trunk under the bed behind some brooms and wash bowls Lisa had placed there as camouflage.
Later on, after a long bath, some lunch and a nap, Hans went out to hail a coach and make his way to the cave. Franz, who had spent the whole day skulking around the bed, greeted him with the enthusiasm of a sentry who sees the relief guard arrive. Hans found the organ grinder in a rather frail state. He had a temperature and his eyes looked sunken. My eyes hurt, the old man said, kof, and I feel dizzy, kof, like my ears are being pulled and I’m floating. Have you been on your own long? asked Hans. I’m not on my own, the organ grinder said, Franz looks after me, kof, and Lamberg’s been here, kof, he brought me some food. And do you feel any better? asked Hans. Come over here, the old man replied, kof, sit beside me for a while.
On Thursday afternoon Hans received a note on papyrus-brown paper. The message was succinct and the writing a little stiff for Sophie’s hand. This, he reflected, meant she had written it against her will, or at least that she had forced herself to write what it said—that it was best if he didn’t come to the salon the following day.
Before she signed off, however, Hans read the word love. And below her signature, a postscript:
PS I think I understand why there was no sequel to Lucinde.
Hans crumpled up the note and dressed to go out. He put on his beret, paused, took it off, put it on again, paused once more then finally flung it at the fireplace, cursing.
Bertold’s scar spread incongruously, as though his lip were producing two separate smiles—a polite one and a scornful one. I’m sorry, she’s not at home, Bertold announced, Fräulein Sophie is taking tea at the Wilderhaus residence, do you wish to leave a message? I wish to pay my respects to Herr Gottlieb, Hans replied almost without thinking.
Herr Gottlieb and Hans scrutinised one another. The one attempting to deduce the true reason for this surprise visit, the other to discover whether news of his arrest and the incident with Rudi had been made known. Neither managed to come to any definite conclusion, although both men were aware of a change—the normally hospitable Herr Gottlieb was offhand and irritable, while Hans appeared ill at ease, less elegant than usual. And those cuts on your cheek, Herr Hans? Herr Gottlieb asked, without giving away the faintest glimpse of a clue behind his whiskers. Cats, said Hans, my inn is full of cats. Yes, said Herr Gottlieb, cats are unpredictable creatures. Rather like men, said Hans. You are right there, sir, Herr Gottlieb nodded solemnly, you are certainly right there.
At no point was Hans requested to leave, yet he was offered no tea either. Hans began to take his leave, and Herr Gottlieb asked him to wait for a moment, went to his study and handed him a folded card embossed with sumptuous arabesques. We were obliged to personalise the invitations, said Herr Gottlieb, chewing his pipe, because of the number of guests. Hans read the names of the betrothed couple and felt a pang. As he walked through the corridor towards the hall, he noticed the jug Sophie used as a flower vase—it contained violets.
Hans left Stag Street and queued for a coach opposite the market square. While he was waiting he saw Herr Zeit walk past, belly atremble.
The innkeeper was scurrying along with difficulty—he was late fetching Thomas from Bible class. The sacristan greeted him from the steps. His son was cavorting in the doorway. As Herr Zeit began climbing the stair, the sacristan disappeared inside the gloomy sanctuary. Almost at once, Father Pigherzog reappeared in his place.
Good afternoon, may God be with you, said the priest, how is your wife? Good afternoon, Father, said Herr Zeit, in perfect health, thank you. I am glad, my son, I am glad, Father Pigherzog beamed, a healthy family is a blessing indeed. And now that you are here, I would like you to tell me about that guest of yours. Who? Him? Very well, replied the innkeeper, but there isn’t much to tell. He goes to bed late and gets up at noon. He spends hours in his room reading. He’s very quiet. Don’t you know he is an unbeliever? said the priest. I don’t know much, Father, Herr Zeit shrugged, and I’m getting old. All I know are thalers and groats, if you follow me? Because I can hold them in my hand. I don’t know whether Herr Hans is a heretic. If you say so, Father, then who am I to doubt your word? But no one can deny he pays on time.
The organ grinder had not sat up all day. His forehead was bathed in sweat. He had no appetite. When Hans arrived he perked up a little. Seeing his master move, Franz ran over to lick his beard. Violets, you say?—kof, the old man asked. A huge bunch, Hans confirmed. In that case, said the organ grinder, resting his head again, you needn’t worry about her, kof, violets are the choice of a heart at peace with itself, do you know what I dreamt last night? It was a bit strange, kof, there was a crowd of men with no hands. And what were they doing? Hans asked, wiping the old man’s brow. That’s the strange part, he replied, they were waving at me!
The figure in the black-brimmed hat takes his long overcoat off the stand. He holds it up by the lapels for a moment, like a hunter examining his kill. He feels a vague unease, a sense of foreboding in his guts. He replaces the coat on the stand. As is his custom before going out, he stretches, flexing his arms and legs. Slow. Quick. Slow. Quick. He feels an erection stirring in his trousers. He takes off his hat. He looks around the darkened room for a cotton handkerchief. He has difficulty locating it—without his spectacles, which get in the way when he wears the mask, his vision is increasingly blurred. He discovers the handkerchief in amongst the manuscripts of his latest poems. He unbuttons his breeches. He slips his hand inside his undergarments. He pulls out his member. He masturbates mechanically, his mind elsewhere. This is simply something he must do in order to remain calm and collected while he is waiting. It also avoids him wetting his sheets the next morning, which he finds deeply distasteful. He spills his seed into the centre of the handkerchief. He folds it meticulously. He dabs the tip of his member with the clean part. He buttons up his breeches. He drops the handkerchief into the laundry basket. He washes his hands using plenty of soap. He takes the opportunity to clip his fingernails. He refreshes his face with cold water to stimulate his reflexes. He perceives with disgust the faint aroma of bear fat emanating from his scalp. He applies scent to his bald pate. He gobbles up three tomato halves open on a plate. The invigorating effect of the tomatoes is considerable. He swills his mouth out. He washes his hands again. He goes back over to the coat stand. He ties his scarf. He puts on his hat again. He pulls on his coat. He checks the content of his pockets—the knife, the mask, the rope, the gloves. He exhales. He thinks of Fichte. He rubs his eyes. And he leaves the house paying no attention to the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. As the door closes, a curly white wig rocks ge
ntly on one of the arms of the coat stand.
Herein! the Chief Superintendent clacked, opening the dispatch box and taking out an urgent communication a mounted policeman had just brought him.
Following a calculated pause of a few moments, as though their intention were to make the Chief Superintendent anxious, Lieutenants Gluck and Gluck entered his office. They walked slowly, thrilled to know that all eyes were upon them. They were escorted by two officers more heavily armed than usual. Between the two lieutenants and the two policemen, hands cuffed behind his back, pale and indifferent, was Professor Mietter.
Professor Mietter listened for half-an-hour to the two lieutenants’ detailed report and the charges being brought against him. He responded to the Chief Superintendent’s questions in monosyllables, scarcely batting an eyelid. His lips seemed to tremble as if he were on the point of laughing. He followed what his captors were saying as though in a trance. He heard the young lieutenant say that at the prisoner’s dwelling (it took the professor a few moments to realise they were talking about him, and their vulgar bureaucratic jargon amused him—the prisoner) they had proceeded to confiscate, among other incriminating items (Items! the professor scoffed. How absurd!), a collection of Venetian masks and a set of Prussian steel knives. He heard the older lieutenant (who, as the professor noticed, spoke somewhat more correctly, adhering to everyday speech and avoiding the excesses of bureaucratic rhetoric) give a fairly precise account of his modus operandi (although the officer hadn’t used the phrase modus operandi, and it was unlikely that Latin was one of his aptitudes). He heard the young lieutenant enumerate (or rather justify in a roundabout way) the difficulties that had slowed down the elimination of the remaining suspects, the prisoner’s continual ruses and attempts to throw them off the scent (the professor flashed his eyes ironically—some of the ruses mentioned had never occurred to him). And he heard him explain that, after a close comparison of the different attacks, they had noticed none had taken place on a Friday, except on one occasion in August. And it was this fact that had finally led them to the prisoner, whose habits they had already begun studying, including his attendance at the Gottlieb salon, which only stopped during the summer holidays (yes, but wouldn’t it have been even more suspicious if I’d missed the odd Friday at the salon in order to commit an assault? Mietter protested in silence). He heard the older lieutenant assert that one reason why they had doubted the professor’s guilt was the masked man’s agility over the short distances, an agility that appeared in principle to point to a younger man (I shall take this conundrum as a compliment, the professor laughed sneeringly to himself). He heard the young lieutenant remark on how the excellent physical condition of the aforementioned (The aforementioned! God help us!) had indeed surprised them, and how they had finally found out about his exercise regime and healthy eating habits. He heard the older lieutenant add that, as the investigation made headway, one small detail had proved decisive—the smell of grease, bear fat to be exact, which at least two of his victims had claimed to detect beneath their attacker’s strong cologne. Up until that moment, the lieutenant went on, there had been various suspects. When we confirmed the use of bear grease, which is a remedy for baldness, we knew we were looking for a man who was unhappy about his baldness. (What a stupid tautology, the professor reasoned, what bald man is happy with his baldness?) And this man, Chief Superintendent, sir, never goes out without his wig. And so you could say, his vanity gave him away.
On hearing these last words, G L Mietter, Doctor of Philology, Honorary Member of the Berlin Society of the German Language and the Berlin Academy of Science, Emeritus Professor of the University of Berlin, tireless collaborator on the Gottingen Almanac of the Muses and chief literary critic on the Thunderer, did what no one, not even he, would have thought—he began sobbing uncontrollably.
Gentlemen, we’ve done an excellent job, declared the Chief Superintendent.
Congratulations, sir, said Gluck the younger, ironically.
The following day at noon, the other members of the Gottlieb salon were sent brief notes informing them the Friday meetings were suspended until further notice.
As he gobbled down a late breakfast at the Café Europa, Hans read with sleep-filled eyes a fervent article on the first page of the Thunderer that ended:
… of this shady individual whose Lutheran tendencies had on more than one occasion sown the seeds of suspicion among the local authorities, not least because of his suspected association with Anabaptist sects. Even his writings seemed to have fallen off in comparison to his earlier work, and while his previous merits remain unquestioned, the quality of his contributions—as our observant readers will have noticed—had become noticeably inferior. Given the deplorable circumstances, we now feel at liberty to reveal that for this and other reasons, our newspaper had long been considering relieving the professor of his Sunday column with the—as we see it—worthy intention of allowing fresh young voices to be heard, which is what our public deserves, and what our newspaper has always prided itself on providing. Yesterday’s appalling turn of events has merely brought forward this imminent change fortuitously—wisdom would decree, there are times when the fate of scoundrels appears to be carved in stone. As newspapermen and as fathers, we welcome wholeheartedly this unexpected arrest. It is precisely what we have been demanding both actively and passively from this very tribune. By the same token we now have a duty to ask ourselves—is this case absolutely and unquestionably closed? Was the wretched culprit really acting alone? Is he, without a shadow of a doubt, the sole perpetrator of each of these attacks? Or could this be an official version designed to allay the population’s fears? For such fears are indeed legitimate, and only when they have been properly laid to rest will we feel safe in our own homes. And moreover we are convinced that at this very moment our readers are mulling over similar concerns. We will provide a more in-depth analysis of the matter in tomorrow’s edition.
November was growing cold, the organ grinder was burning up. Towards the middle of the month, Doctor Müller admitted that his patient was deteriorating—his bronchioles were closing up, his fevers were worse, and in the past few days he had suffered momentary losses of consciousness. Occasionally he would come round, utter three or four intelligible words, and close his eyes before plunging into a fitful sleep. Doctor Müller continued prescribing him with purges, balms, infusions, cataplasms and enemas. Yet he did so with less conviction (or at least so Hans thought), as one might read out a list of minerals. Faith is as powerful as any remedy, my friend, the doctor had assured him on his last visit. Do you believe that, doctor? Hans had said, removing the bedpan from between the old man’s wizened legs. Absolutely, Müller had replied, science comes from the spirit. Be patient and have faith, your friend may still get better. And what if he goes on getting worse? Hans had asked. Doctor Müller had smiled, shrugged and folded his stethoscope.
The organ grinder’s eyelids wriggled like a pair of caterpillars. They creased, puffed up, their crusty edges opening to reveal two eyeballs floating in liquid. For a moment his eyes turned in circles and were lost between blinks, until gradually he was able to focus. Franz gave his brow a cooling lick. Behind, at the back, far away, Hans greeted him with a wave of his hand. Hans stooped, crossed the pool of light and shadow separating them, and spoke into his ear. The doctor is coming, he whispered. What a shame, the old man gasped, I was thinking of going shopping. Then he remained silent, supine.
Hans watched him, not daring to touch him, breathing with him, following the air going in and out of his lungs, watching him give and receive light, suspended between each breath. He knelt down next to the old man, held him gently by the shoulders and said: Don’t go.
The organ grinder opened his eyelids once more and replied slowly, without coughing: My dear Hans, I’m not going anywhere, on the contrary, I shall soon be everywhere. Look at the countryside. Look at the leaves on the birch trees.
At which, he was wracked by a prolonged yet strangely
calm coughing fit.
Hans gave him a handkerchief and turned to look at the leaves. From inside the cave he could see only one birch tree, almost leafless. He gazed intently at its branches, at the dark fluttering leaves.
Hans, the old man called out. What? he replied. I’m going to ask you a favour, the old man said. I’m listening, Hans nodded. Kof, please speak to me using the familiar form of you, said the old man. All right, Hans grinned, carry on, I’m listening. That was all, thanks, the old man said. What? That was all, the old man repeated, kof, I just wanted you to address me informally. Hush, don’t talk, whispered Hans, don’t talk so much, be patient, you’re going to get better. Yes, breathed the old man, just like that birch tree.
The wind outside whistled along the river. The branches in the pinewood were rattling. The air inside the organ grinder’s lungs also crackled, it climbed up his trunk, sprouting branches. The pine trees pierced the mist. His chest scaled the branches.
Having overcome his sense of shame, or perhaps because he wanted to be as close to the old man as possible, Hans became curious. How does it feel? he whispered in his ear. The organ grinder seemed to like the question. You feel it, he said, smell it, touch it. And above all, kof, you hear it. You make your way in little by little, it’s like swapping something with someone. But everything happens slowly, kof, ever so slowly, you start to recognise it, you see? It comes towards you, and you can hear it, as if dying were a, kof, I don’t know, a sombre chord, it has high notes and low notes, you can hear them quite clearly, some rise, others fall, kof, they rise and fall, can’t you hear them? Can’t you hear them? Can’t you? …
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