The Black Obelisk

by Erich Maria Remarque

  "Let's drink it up!"

  Bambuss tosses down another kümmel. It's the first time we've seen him like this. He has shunned alcohol like the pest, especially schnaps. His poetry thrived on coffee and elderberry wine.

  "What do you make of that?" I ask Hungermann.

  "It was the blows on the head with the washbasin."

  "It was nothing at all," Otto howls. He has downed another double kümmel and pinches the Iron Horse on the bottom as she goes by.

  The Horse stops as though struck by lightning. Then she turns around slowly and examines Otto as though he were some rare insect. We stretch out our arms to protect him from the expected blow. For ladies in high boots a pinch of this sort is an obscene insult. Otto gets up wavering, smiles absently out of nearsighted eyes, walks around the Horse, and unexpectedly lands a hearty blow on the black underwear.

  Silence falls. Everyone expects murder. But Otto seats himself again unconcernedly, lays his head on his arms, and goes to sleep instantly. "Never kill a sleeping man," Hungermann beseeches the Horse. "The eleventh commandment!"

  The Iron Horse opens her mighty mouth in a silent grin. All her gold plumbing glitters. Then she strokes Otto's thin, soft hair. "Children and brothers," she says, "to be so young and so silly again!"

  We leave. Eduard drives Hungermann and Bambuss back to the city. The poplars rustle. The bulldogs bark. The Iron Horse stands in the second-story window and waves at us with her Cossack cap. Behind the cat house stands a pale moon. Mathias Grund, the poet of the "Book of Death," clambers out of a ditch. He thought he could cross it like Christ crossing the Sea of Gennesaret. It was a mistake. Willy is walking beside me. "What a life!" he says dreamily. "And to think you actually make money in your sleep! Tomorrow the dollar will be even higher and my shares will be climbing up after it like agile little monkeys!"

  "Don't spoil the evening for me. Where's your car? Is it having puppies like your shares?"

  "Renée has it. It looks well in front of the Red Mill. She takes her colleagues driving between performances—they burst with envy."

  "Are you going to marry her?"

  "We're engaged," Willy explains, "if you know what that means."

  "I can imagine."

  "It's funny!" Willy says. "Nowadays she often reminds me very much of Lieutenant Helle, that damned slave driver who made life so miserable for us in preparation for a hero's death. Exactly the same, in the dark. It's a scary and refined sort of pleasure to have Helle on the back of his neck defiling him. I'd never have guessed I would get fun out of something like that, you can believe me!"

  "I believe you."

  We walk through the dark, gloomy gardens. The scent of unrecognized flowers is born to us. "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank," someone says, rising like a ghost from the ground.

  It is Hungermann. He is as wet as Mathias Grund. "What's going on?" I ask. "It hasn't been raining here."

  "Eduard put us out. We sang too loud for him—the respectable hotelkeeper! Then, when I tried to refresh Otto, we both fell into the brook."

  "You too? Where is Otto? Looking for Mathias Grund?"

  "He's fishing."

  "What?"

  "Damn it!" says Hungermann. "I just hope he hasn't fallen in. He can't swim."

  "Nonsense. The brook is only a yard deep."

  "Otto could drown in a puddle. He loves his native land."

  We find Bambuss clinging to a bridge over the brook and preaching to the fishes.

  "Are you ill, Saint Francis?" Hungermann asks.

  "Yes indeed," Bambuss replies, giggling as though that were madly funny. Then his teeth begin to chatter. "Cold," he stammers. "I'm no open-air man."

  Willy gets a bottle of kummel out of his pocket. "Who's rescuing you again? Uncle Willy, the provider. Rescuing you from inflammation of the lungs and cold death."

  "Too bad Eduard isn't here," Hungermann says. "Then you could rescue him, too, and found a society with Valentin Busch. Eduard's Rescuers. That would kill him."

  "Spare us your bad jokes," says Valentin, who has been standing behind him. "Capital should be sacred to you, or are you a communist? I will divide mine with no one. Eduard belongs to me."

  We all have a drink. The kummel sparkles in the moonlight like a yellow diamond. "Are you going somewhere else?" I ask Willy.

  'To Bodo Ledderhose's singing club. Come along. All three of you can dry out there."

  "Splendid," Hungermann says.

  It occurs to no one that it would be simpler to go home. Not even to the poet of death. Tonight liquids seem to have an irresistible attraction.

  We walk on beside the brook. The moon shimmers on its surface. You can drink it—who was it who said that once and where and when?

  15.

  "What a surprise," I say, "and so early on a Sunday morning!"

  I had imagined I heard a burglar groping around in the dawn twilight; but on coming downstairs, at five in the morning, I've found Riesenfeld, of the Oden-wald Granite Works. "You must have made a mistake," I say. "This is the Lord's day. Not even the Stock Exchange works today. Still less we simple deniers of God. Where's the fire? Or do you need money for the Red Mill?"

  Riesenfeld shakes his head. "This is just a friendly visit Had a day to spare between Löhne and Hanover. Just arrived. Why go to a hotel at this hour? I can get coffee just as well here. How is the charming lady across the street? Does she get up early?"

  "Aha!" I say. "So it was lust that drove you here! Congratulations on your youthfulness. But you're out of luck. Sundays her husband is at home. An athlete and knifethrower."

  "I'm the world's champion at knife throwing," Riesenfeld replies, undisturbed. "Especially when I've had some country bacon and schnaps with my coffee."

  "Come on upstairs. My room's untidy, but I can make coffee for you there. If you like, you can play the piano while the water's boiling."

  Riesenfeld dismisses the idea. "I'll stay here. This combination of midsummer, early morning, and tombstones pleases me. Makes me hungry and full of zest for life. Besides, the schnaps is here."

  "I have much better schnaps upstairs."

  "This is good enough for me."

  "All right, Herr Riesenfeld, just as you like!"

  "Why are you shouting so?" Riesenfeld asks. "I haven't grown deaf since you saw me."

  "It's the joy of seeing you, Herr Riesenfeld," I reply even louder, laughing noisily.

  I can't very well explain that I am trying to waken Georg by my shouting and alert him to what has happened. To the best of my knowledge, the butcher, Watzek, went off last evening to a meeting of the National Socialists, and Lisa has profited by the occasion to come over and, for once, spend the whole night in her lover's arms. Without knowing it, Riesenfeld sits as guardian at the chamber door. The only way out for Lisa is through the window.

  "All right then, I'll bring the coffee down," I say, running up the stairs. I take the Critque of Pure Reason, wrap a string around it, let it down through my window, and swing it back and forth in front of Georg's window. Meanwhile, with a colored crayon I write a warning on a sheet of paper: "Riesenfeld in the office," make a hole in the paper and let it flutter down the string and come to rest on the volume of Kant. Kant knocks a couple of times, then I see Georg's bald head. He makes a sign to me. We carry on a short pantomime in which I make it clear to him in sign language that I can't get rid of Riesenfeld. It's impossible to throw him out: he is much too important for our daily bread.

  I pull the Critique of Pure Reason up again and lower my bottle of schnaps. A beautifully molded arm seizes it before Georg can reach it and pulls it inside. Who knows when Riesenfeld will leave? Meanwhile, the lovers will be faced by the sharp pangs of morning hunger after a wakeful night. I lower my bread and butter and a piece of liverwurst.

  The string comes back with a lipstick smear on the end. I hear a sighing sound as the cork is drawn from the bottle. Romeo and Juliet had been rescued for the time being.... I am serving Riesenf
eld his coffee when I see Heinrich Kroll coming across the courtyard. That national businessman, in addition to his other repulsive qualities, is an early riser. He calls that opening his breast to God's great outdoors. By God, of course, he understands not a kindly legendary figure with a long beard, but a Prussian field marshal.

  He gives Riesenfeld a hearty handshake. Riesenfeld is not overjoyed. "I wouldn't in the world keep you from anything," he declares. "I'm just drinking my coffee here, and then I'll doze a bit until it's time for business."

  "Nothing could take me away from such a valued guest and one we see so seldom!" Heinrich turns to me. "Haven't we any fresh rolls for Herr Riesenfeld?"

  "We'll have to ask the widow of the baker Niebuhr or your mother," I reply. "Apparently no baking goes on in the republic on Sundays. Reprehensible slackness! It was different in imperial Germany."

  Heinrich shoots me an evil glance. "Where is Georg?" he asks abruptly.

  "I am not your brother's keeper, Herr Kroll!" I reply Biblically and loudly to let Georg know about this new danger.

  "No, but you're an employee of my firm! I must insist that you speak respectfully."

  "This is Sunday. Sundays I am not an employee. I came down at this hour of my own free will and out of love for my profession and a friendly regard for the manager of the Odenwald Granite Works. Unshaven, as perhaps you have noticed, Herr Kroll."

  "There you see," Heinrich says bitterly to Riesenfeld. "That's why we lost the war. Because of the slackness of the intellectuals and because of the Jews."

  "And the bicyclists," Riesenfeld replies.

  "What do you mean the bicyclists?" Heinrich asks in amazement.

  "What do you mean the Jews?" Riesenfeld asks in return.

  Heinrich is puzzled. "Oh, I see," he says presently, displeased. "A joke. I'll wake up Georg."

  "I wouldn't do that, Herr Kroll," I remark loudly.

  "Kindly spare me your advice!"

  Heinrich approaches the door. I do nothing to stop him. If Georg has not locked it, it must be because he is dead.

  "Let him sleep," Riesenfeld says. "I have no desire for serious conversation at this hour."

  Heinrich stops. "Why don't you take Herr Riesenfeld for a walk to see God's great outdoors?" I ask. "When you get back, the household will be up, eggs and bacon will be sputtering on the stove, rolls will have been baked especially for you, a vase of freshly picked gladioli will be here to relieve the dark paraphernalia of death, and Georg will be shaved and smelling of cologne."

  "God forbid," Riesenfeld mutters. "I'll stay here and sleep."

  I shrug my shoulders in perplexity. There's nothing I can do to get him out of the room. "All right," I say. "In the meantime, then, I'll go and praise God."

  Riesenfeld yawns. "I had no idea people paid so much attention to religion here. You toss God's name around like a pebble."

  "That's our misfortune! We have all become too intimate with Him. Formerly God was the familiar of emperors, generals, and politicians. At that time we were not supposed to so much as mention His name. But I'm not going to pray. Just to play the organ. Come with me!"

  Riesenfeld declines. Now there is nothing more I can do. Georg must help himself. All I can do is leave—then perhaps the others will go too. I'm not worried about Heinrich; Riesenfeld will know how to get rid of him.

  The city is fresh with dew. I still have more than two hours before mass. Slowly I walk through the streets. It is an unfamiliar experience. The breeze is mild and as soft as though the dollar had fallen two hundred and fifty thousand marks yesterday instead of rising that much. For a time I stare at the peaceful river, then into the show window of Bock and Sons, producers of mustard which they package in miniature casks.

  A slap on the shoulder wakes me up. Behind me stands a tall thin man with watery eyes. It is the town pest, Herbert Scherz. I look at him with distaste. "Shall I say good morning or good evening?" I ask. "Is this before or after your night's rest?"

  Herbert belches noisily. A stinging exhalation almost brings tears to my eyes. "All right, so it's before your rest," I say. "Aren't you ashamed? What was the occasion? Gaiety, solemnity, irony, or just desperation?"

  "A founders' day," Herbert says. "Yes, a founders' day celebration," he repeats complacently. "My induction into a club. I had to entertain the executive committee." He looks at me for a while and then bursts out triumphantly: "The Veteran Riflemen's Association! You understand?"

  I understand. Herbert Scherz is a collector of clubs. Other people collect postage stamps or war mementos—Herbert collects clubs. He is already a member of more than a dozen —not because he needs so much entertainment but because he is passionately interested in death and in elegant funerals. It is his ambition to have, some day, the most stylish funeral in the city. Since he cannot leave enough money for that, and no one else would pay for it, he has hit on the idea of joining every possible club. He knows that when a member dies the club provides a ribboned wreath, and that's his first goal. Besides, a delegation always follows the hearse with the club's flag, and he counts on that likewise, He has figured that with his present memberships he is already sure of two cars full of wreaths, and that's not by any means all. He is just sixty and his plenty of time to join more clubs. Of course he is a member of Bobo Ledderhose's singing club, without ever having sung a note. He is an interested inactive member of it, just as he is of the Springerheil Chess Club, the All-Nine Bowling Club, and the Aquatic and Terrestrial Pterophyllum Scalare Club. I introduced him to the Aquatic Club because I thought he would give us an advance order for his tombstone in return. He did not So now he has managed to get into a riflemen's club. "Were you ever a soldier?" I ask.

  "What need? I am a member, that's enough. A capital stroke, eh? When Schwarzkopf hears about it he'll die of rage."

  Schwarzkopf is Herbert's rival. Two years ago he found out about Herbert's hobby and, as a joke, declared that he would make it a contest. Scherz took the joke so seriously that Schwarzkopf was delighted and actually joined a few clubs just to see Herbert's reaction. Presently, however, he was caught in his own net, and now he, too, has become a collector—not so openly as Scherz, but secretly and roundabout—a kind of underhanded opponent, who gives Scherz a great deal of concern.

  "It takes a lot to disturb Schwarzkopf," I say to annoy Herbert.

  "This will do it! This time it's not just the wreath and the club flag—my fellow members will be in uniform—"

  "Uniforms are forbidden," I say mildly. "We lost the war, Herr Scherz, have you overlooked that fact? You should have joined the police club; they're still allowed uniforms."

  I see Scherz making a mental note of the police idea, and I shall not be surprised if in a couple of months he appears as an inactive member of the Trusty Handcuff. At the moment he deals firmly with my skepticism. "Before I die uniforms will long since have been allowed again! Otherwise what would become of our national dignity? People can't keep us slaves forever!"

  I look at the swollen face with its burst veins. Strange how people's ideas about slavery differ! The closest I ever came to slavery was as a recruit in uniform. "Besides," I say, "when a civilian dies they won't appear in dress uniform with helmets, sabers, and high boots. That's only for those on active service."

  "For me too! It was specifically promised me last night! By the president himself!"

  "Promised! What are promises when people have been drinking?"

  Herbert appears not to have heard me. "Not only that," he whispers in demoniac triumph. "In addition there will be the most important thing of all: the salvo over my grave!"

  I laugh in his dissipated face. "A salvo? With what? Soda-water bottles? Firearms are forbidden in our beloved fatherland! The Treaty of Versailles, Herr Scherz. Your salvo is wishful thinking. Forget it!"

  But Herbert is not to be dismayed. He shakes his head slyly. "You have no idea! We've had a secret army for a long time! A black Reichswehr." He giggles. "I'll get my salvo all right! In a coup
le of years we'll have everything back again anyway. Universal military training and an army. How else are we to live?"

  The wind brings the sharp smell of mustard around the corner, and suddenly the river below us throws a silver reflection across the street. The sun has risen. Scherz sneezes. "Schwarzkopf is finally beaten," he says complacently. "The president has promised me he will never be admitted to the club."