Frenetic applause from the other side of the street. I open my eyes. For a moment there is no perspective. Everything is flat and far and near and round at the same time and has no name. Then it whirls back into place and stands still and is once more what it has always been called. When did this happen to me before? It did oncel I am perfectly sure of it, but I can't remember when.
Lisa waves a bottle of crème de cacao out of the window. At that moment the bell on the door rings. We hastily wave to Lisa and close the window. Before Georg can disappear, the office door opens and Liebermann, the gravedigger at the municipal cemetery, comes in. With a single glance he takes in the alcohol stove, the mulled wine, and Georg's pajamas. "Birthday?" he croaks.
"Grippe," Georg replies.
"Congratulations!"
"Why congratulations?"
"Grippe brings business. I've noticed it out there. Considerable increase in deaths."
"Herr Liebermann," I say to the hearty octogenarian. "We're not talking about business. Herr Kroll has a serious, cosmic attack of grippe, against which we are taking measures. Will you have a glass of the medicine?"
"I'm a schnaps drinker. Wine justs sobers me."
"We have schnaps too."
I pour him a tumblerful. He takes a good swallow, opens his knapsack and gets out four trout wrapped in big, green leaves. They smell of the river and rain and fish. "A gift," Liebermann says.
The trout lie on the table, their eyes dull. Their gray-green skin is covered with red flecks. We stare at them. Softly and suddenly death has stolen into the room again where a moment ago immortality held sway—softly and silently, with the creatures' reproach toward that murderer and omnivore, man, who talks of peace and love, cuts the throats of lambs and let fish gasp out their lives in order to have strength to go on talking about peace and love—not excepting Boden-diek, the man of God and fancier of red meat.
"A fine supper," Liebermann says. "Especially for you, Herr Kroll. A light diet for the sick."
I carry the dead fish into the kitchen and give them to Frau Kroll, who appraises them with the eye of an expert. "With fresh butter, boiled potatoes, and salad," she announces.
I glance around. The kitchen is gleaming, pots and pans reflect the light, a kettle is hissing, and there is a good smell. Kitchens are always a comfort. The reproach disappears from the eyes of the trout. Instead of dead creatures they have suddenly become food, which can be prepared in various ways. It almost seems as though they had been hatched for that purpose. What traitors we are, I think, to our nobler feelings!
Liebermann has brought us a few addresses. The grippe is indeed taking its toll. People are dying because they have little resistance left. They were weakened to begin with by the food shortage during the war. I decide suddenly to look for another profession. I am tired of death. Georg has fetched his dressing gown. He sits there like a sweating Buddha. The dressing gown is of a poisonous green. At home Georg loves loud colors. Suddenly I know what it was that our former conversation reminded me of. It was something Isabelle said a while ago. I do not remember it exactly, but it had to do with the deceptiveness of thighs. But in our case was it really deception? Or were we for an instant one centimeter closer to God?
The Poets' Den in the Hotel Walhalla is a small paneled room. A bust of Goethe stands on a bookshelf, and photographs and etchings of German classical and romantic writers, together with a few moderns, hang on the walls. This spot is the meeting place of the Poets' Club and of the intellectual elite of the city. There is a gathering every week. Even the editor of the daily paper appears occasionally and is openly flattered and secretly hated depending on whether he has accepted or rejected some contribution. He pays no attention. Like a kindly uncle he drifts through the tobacco smoke, slandered, attacked, and venerated; on only one point is everyone in agreement about him: that he knows nothing about modern literature. According to him, after Theodor Storm, Eduard Morike, and Gottfried Keller the great wasteland begins.
A couple of provincial judges and pensioned officials, interested in literature, attend too; so do Arthur Bauer and some of his colleagues; the poets of the city come, of course, a few painters and musicians, and occasionally a guest from outside. At the moment, Arthur Bauer is being courted by that lickspittle Mathias Grand, who hopes that Arthur will print his seven-part "Book of Death." Eduard Knobloch, founder of the club, appears. He throws a quick look around the room and brightens. Some of his critics and enemies are not there. To my amazement he sits down beside me. I had not expected that after the episode with the chicken. "How goes it?" he asked quite humanly and not in his dining-room voice.
"Brilliantly," I say because I know that will irritate him.
"I am planning a new sonnet sequence," he announces without further explanation. "I hope you have no objection."
"Why should I? I hope they rhyme."
I have the edge on Eduard because I have had two sonnets printed in the paper whereas he has only had two didactic poems. "It's a cycle," he says, to my astonishment slightly embarrassed. "The thing is this: I'd like to call it 'Gerda.'"
"Call it whatever—" I interrupt myself. "Gerda, did you say? Why Gerda? Gerda Schneider?"
"Nonsense! Simply Gerda."
I regard the fat giant suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Eduard gives a false laugh. "Nothing. Only poetic license. The sonnets have something to do with the circus. Distantly, of course. As you know, it's stimulating to the imagination if you can find—even theoretically—a concrete point of departure."
"Stop talking nonsense," I say. "What does this mean, you cheat?"
"Cheat?" Eduard replies with feigned indignation. "It would be fairer to call you that! Didn't you act as though the lady were a singer like Willy's disgusting friend?"
"Never. You just thought so."
"Anyway," Eduard announces, "the thing tormented me. I investigated and found out that you had lied. She's not a singer at all."
"Did I ever say she was?" Didn't I tell you she was with the circus?"
"You did. But you used the truth to make me disbelieve you. And then you imitated the other lady."
"How did you find out all this?"
"I met Mademoiselle Schneider accidentally on the street and asked her. One's allowed to do that, I presume?"
"Supposing she tricked you?"
Suddenly Eduard has a smile of disgusting self-assurance on his baby face; he makes no reply. "Listen to me," I say, alarmed and therefore very calm. "This lady is not to be won with sonnets."
Eduard does not react to this. He continues to show the superiority of a poet who in addition to his poems owns a first-class restaurant. And I have seen that in this matter Gerda is vulnerable. "You scoundrel," I exclaim in rage. "All this won't do you any good. The lady is leaving in a couple, of days."
"She is not leaving," Eduard replies, showing his teeth for the first time since I have known him. "Her contract was renewed today."
I stare at him. This clod knows more than I. "So you met her today?"
Eduard begins to stammer slightly. "Accidentally today— that was it! Just today."
The lie is written plain on his fat cheeks. "So you instantly had the inspiration for the dedication?" I say. "Is that how you repay our months of faithful patronage? With the jab of a kitchen knife in the genitals, you dishwasher?"
"You can take your damned patronage and—"
"You've sent her the sonnets already, haven't you, you impudent peacock?" I interrupt him. "Oh stop it, lies won't help you! She'll show them to me anyway, you maker of dirty beds!"
"What do you mean?"
"Your sonnets, you matricide! Didn't I teach you how to write them? Nice thanks! Couldn't you at least have had the decency to send her villanelles or odes? But no, my own weapons—well, Gerda will show me the stuff so I can translate it to her!"
"Why, that would be—" Eduard stutters, his self-confidence shaken for the first time.
"It would be
nothing," I reply. "Women do such things. As I know. But since I value you as a restaurant keeper, I will reveal something more; Gerda has a giant of a brother who keeps watch over the family honor. He has already crippled two of her admirers. And he is especially fond of beating up people with flat feet. That means you."
"Nonsense," Eduard says. Nevertheless, I see he has grown thoughtful. No matter how improbable an assertion is, if it is made with enough assurance it has an effect. That's something I learned from Watzek's political idol....
The poet Hans Hungermann comes up to the sofa where we are sitting. He is the author of the unpublished volume of poetry "Wotan's Death" and the dramas "Saul," "Baldur," and "Mohammed." "How fairs art, my friends?" he asks. "Have you read the ordure that Otto Bambuss printed yesterday in the Tecklendorfer Kreisblatt? Buttermilk and phlegm! To think that Bauer publishes that slimy bastard!"
Otto Bambuss is the most successful poet in the city. We all envy him. He writes sentimental verses about picturesque nooks, country villages, street corners in the evening, and his own melancholy soul. He has had two thin volumes published by Arthur Bauer—one, indeed, is in a second printing. Hungermann, the stalwart writer of runes, hates him, but tries to exploit his connections. Mathias Grand despises him. I, on the other hand, am Otto's intimate. He longs to visit a bordello sometime but does not dare. He thinks it would impart a mighty, full-blooded élan to his somewhat anemic verse. As soon as he sees me he comes up. I've heard that you know a circus lady! The circus, what a subject! Do you really know one?"
"No, Otto. Eduard has been boasting. The only one I know sold tickets to the circus three years ago."
"Tickets—nevertheless, she was there! She must still have some of the atmosphere. The smell of carnivores, the ring. Couldn't you introduce me to her sometime?"
Gerda really has a future in literature! I look at Bambuss. He is a tall, stringy fellow, pale, chinless, with an insignificant face adorned with spectacles. "She was in the flea circus," I say.
"Too bad!" He takes a step backward in disillusionment. Then he murmurs, "I must do something. I know what I lack —blood."
"Otto," I reply. "Couldn't it be someone unconnected with the circus? Some simple bed rabbit?"
He shakes his narrow head. "That's not so easy, Ludwig. I know all about love. Spiritual love, I mean. I need no more of that; I possess it. What I need is passion, wild, brutal passion. Ravening, purple forgetfulness. Delirium!"
He is practically gnashing his tiny teeth. He is a teacher in a small village near the city, and of course he can't find delirium there. Everyone there is interested in getting married or in marrying Otto to some honest girl with a good dowry and the ability to cook. But Otto doesn't want that He believes that a poet must experience life. "The difficulty is that I can't bring the two together," he explains darkly. "Heavenly and earthly love. For me love immediately becomes soft, full of devotion, sacrifice, and kindness. The sex drive grows soft and domesticated. Every Saturday night, you understand, so you can get a good sleep Sunday. But what I need is pure sex, nothing else, something you can get your teeth into. Too bad. I heard that you knew a trapeze artist."
I observe Bambuss with new interest. Heavenly and earthly love—he too! The sickness seems to be more widespread than I thought. Otto drinks a glass of Waldmeister lemonade and looks at me out of his pale eyes. Very likely he expects me to give up Gerda at once so that his heart may grow genitals. "When are we ever going to a bordello?" he asks sadly. "You did promise me, you know."
"Soon. But that's no purple sink of iniquity, Otto."
"I only have two weeks more of vacation. Then I'll have to go back to the village and it's all over."
"We'll do it before that. Hungermann would like to go too. He needs it for his new drama 'Casanova.' We could make a joint expedition."
"For God's sake, I mustn't be seen! Think of my profession!"
"For that very reason! An expedition is harmless. The crib has a couple of public rooms on the lower floor. Anyone can go there."
"Of course we'll go," Hungermann says behind me. "All of us together. We'll make an expedition of discovery. Purely scientific. Eduard wants to go along too."
I turn toward Eduard with the intention of pouring a sauce of sarcasm over that superior sonnet cook—but it's no longer necessary. Eduard suddenly looks as though he had seen a snake. A slim fellow has just tapped him on the shoulder. "Eduard, old comrade!" he says cordially. "How goes it? Rejoicing that you're still alive, eh?"
Eduard stares at him. "Nowadays?" he says in a strangling voice.
He has blanched. His chubby cheeks suddenly sag, his shoulders droop, his lips, his hair, even his belly hang down. In the twinkling of an eye he has become a fat weeping willow.
The man who has caused all this is called Valentin Busch. Together with Georg and me he makes the third pest in Eduard's existence, and more than that—he is pest, cholera, and paratyphus all in one. "You look blooming, my boy," Valentin declares cheerfully.
Eduard laughs hollowly. "Appearances are deceptive. I'm consumed by cares, taxes, rents, and thieves—"
He is lying. Rents and taxes mean nothing in the inflation; you pay them after a year, that amounts to not paying at all.
The sums have long since lost all value. And the only thief Eduard knows is himself.
"At least there's something to eat on your bones," Valentin replies, smiling pitilessly. "That's what the worms in Flanders thought when they scurried out to get you."
Eduard squirms. "What's it to be, Valentin?" he asks. "A beer? Beer is the best thing in this heat."
"I don't think it's too warm. But the best is just good enough to celebrate the fact that you're alive, you're right there. Give me a bottle of Johannisberger Langenberg, from the Mumm estate, Eduard."
"That's sold out."
"It is not sold out. I have Just inquired from your wine waiter. You have more than a hundred bottles left. What luck that it's my favorite!"
I laugh. "What are you laughing at?" Eduard screams in rage. "You're a fine one to laugh! Bloodsucker! You're all bloodsuckers! You bleed me white! You, your bon vivant of a tombstone dealer friend, and you, Valentin! You bleed me white! A trio of parasites!"
Valentin winks at me and goes on solemnly, "So that's your thanks, Eduard! And that's the way you keep your word! If I had but known at that time—"
He rolls back his sleeve and stares at a long, jagged scar. In 1917 he saved Eduard's life. Eduard, the K.P. noncom, had been transferred at that time and sent to the front. On one of his first days there a shot caught him in the calf of the leg while he was on patrol in no man's land. Shortly after, he was hit again and was losing blood fast. Valentin found him, tied him up, and dragged him back to the trenches. In doing so he got a shell fragment in his arm. But he saved Eduard's life, who otherwise would certainly have bled to death. Eduard, overflowing with gratitude, offered Valentin as reward the right to eat and drink whatever he liked in the Walhalla as long as he lived. Valentin, with his uninjured left hand, shook with Eduard in agreement. Georg Kroll and I were witnesses.
That all seemed harmless enough in 1917. Werdenbrück was far away, the war was near, and who knew whether Valentin and Eduard would ever return to the Walhalla? They did return; Valentin after being wounded twice more, Eduard round, fat, and reinstated as mess boss. At first Eduard was really grateful, and when Valentin came to visit him he occasionally even went so far as to serve flat German champagne. But the years began to wear on him. The trouble was, Valentin established in himself Werdenbrück. Formerly he had lived in another city; now he moved into a little room near the Walhalla and appeared punctually at Eduard's for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The latter soon bitterly regretted his ill-considered promise. Valentin was a hearty eater, especially now that he had no more cares. Perhaps Eduard would have been able to console himself to some extent for the food; but Valentin drank too, and gradually he developed a connoisseurship in wine. Formerly he had drunk beer; now he drank
only the finest vintages and thereby contributed to Eduard's desperation far more than we did with our miserable coupons.
The Black Obelisk Page 19
