The Eternal Philistine

by Odon Von Horvath

  “Down there is Marseille,” Schmitz explained the situation.

  Thereupon they took a ride in the transporter bridge’s iron spider, namely once there and once back. Thereupon they went into one of the popular restaurants in the old harbor, namely the restaurant The Comet.

  There were all sorts of things to eat there, and everything was cheaper than in Germany or Austria. Consequently, the two gentlemen nearly overindulged. The all-you-can-eat appetizers particularly appealed to them, and the soft white bread too. This time they went a little easier on the wine, but Schmitz got rather talkative again all the same. He reminded Kobler of that fitting German proverb about living like God in France, and then he asked him whether it had ever occurred to him that in numerous establishments, often even truly luxurious cafés, there weren’t any toilets, this being like some sort of Southern French specialty. Thereupon he enumerated to Kobler the culinary specialties of Marseille and ordered himself a sort of fish soup.

  “Well, that’s one peculiar dish,” said Kobler warily, and sniffed it. “I’d say there are a lot of exotic ingredients in there.”

  “Do you remember the colonial monument on the Corniche?” inquired Schmitz with his mouth full. “That was that monumental monument for Frenchmen who died fighting against the French colonial peoples. And of course, lots of stuff here comes from the colonies, but it’s like that everywhere! Even our famous Viennese black coffee is grown by the blacks. If we didn’t have any colonial goods, we wouldn’t, my dear sir, be able to satisfy even our most primitive needs. And believe me, that’d be the case too if somebody didn’t so shamelessly exploit those poor negroes. And then of course all the colonial goods would be prohibitively expensive because plantation owners would also want to earn a thousand times more money. Just believe me, my esteemed colleague, we whites are the biggest beasts!”

  He suddenly had to cough violently after tossing down his throat a morsel that was too large. Once he was finished coughing, he resumed:

  “If we white beasts were honorable people, we would have to build our civilization upon people without any needs, people whose needs could be satisfied without negro products, forest people as it were. Then we’d have states hardly capable of satisfying a need. But then what would be left of our occidental culture?”

  “I’m not sure,” answered Kobler, shooting a bored glance at his watch. “When are we going to the brothel district?” he asked anxiously.

  “It’s not worth it just yet—it’s still way too light out,” said Schmitz. “In the meantime we could take a look at a few old churches. Garçon, bring me another banana!”

  CHAPTER 18

  RIGHT BEHIND MARSEILLE’S BEAUTIFUL TOWN hall begins the famous brothel district: dismal and filthy, a true labyrinth that seems to go on forever.

  The farther one strays from the city hall, the more unofficial the prostitution gets and the more brutishly it deports itself. The streets keep getting narrower, the tall houses more dilapidated, and even the air seems to be decaying.

  The God and the Bayadère, it suddenly occurred to Schmitz, he being a literary man and all. “Do you see that bayadère over there?” he asked Kobler. “That fat yellow thing that’s washing its black feet—oh, how unsavory! My goodness, now she’s about to give herself a pedicure! And that thing calls itself God’s likeness!”

  “It’s enough to make you sick,” said Kobler.

  “Watch out!” yelled Schmitz. He saw another likeness approaching Kobler. This likeness had a crusty rash all around its mouth and insisted on giving Kobler a kiss. While Kobler was putting up a desperate struggle, a third likeness snatched Schmitz’s hat off his head, acting very coy. A group of Senegalese sailors couldn’t help but laugh at that.

  “No matter how you look at it, that’s one interesting mixture of peoples,” stated Schmitz, who after lengthy negotiations had reclaimed his hat for the price of five cigarettes. “Did you get a look at that Japanese whore too?”

  “I even saw the Chinese one!” answered Kobler. “You certainly can see all sorts of stuff here. I just don’t get the men who mess around with it all.”

  “Sex drive—nothing more,” said Schmitz, “and sailors are said to have quite exceptional ones.”

  “I don’t get these sailors,” interrupted Kobler sullenly, before beginning to curse and complain impatiently about the apparent lack of nice whores in Marseille—“just horrible, abominable ones.” He had envisioned this harbor city as being quite different.

  “Just calm down,” Schmitz consoled him. “I’ll take you to an upscale, very official whorehouse. I got the address from a head waiter at the Bristol in Vienna. The women are sure to be well cared for. And supposedly you can see all sorts of stuff there, even if you don’t mess around with it. You shouldn’t do something like that in a harbor city anyways, if only because of the increased risk of infection. Everybody’s diseased around here.”

  “I’ve never caught anything,” said Kobler, which was a lie.

  “I’ve never caught anything either,” said Schmitz, which was also a lie. Then he grew melancholy once again. “When all’s said and done, this whole prostitution business is really sad stuff, but you just can’t get rid of it.” He smiled wistfully.

  “I feel the same way,” concurred Kobler. “I know an attorney whose highest ideal was to look at obscene pictures with the woman he loved, only his own wife refused to do it, claiming that such photographs would make her grow weary of life. So, where was the attorney to turn to? Streetwalkers’ district. And where there’s a demand, there’s pretty much also a supply. Those are just basic instincts!”

  “Unbelievable, the creatures there are in this world!” thought Schmitz, and grew philosophical yet again. “I too regard prostitution from a higher point of view,” he explained. “I’ve just been thinking that, since we humans have been around, we’ve actually only repressed three instincts, namely incest, cannibalism, and bloodlust. And as the recent World War has once again demonstrated to us, we haven’t even fully repressed these either. Those are problems, my dear sir! For instance, just take a look at me! In my youth I sympathized with The Communist Manifesto. Without exception, everybody’s got to get through Marx at some point in time. Marx claims, for instance, that prostitution will disappear through the abolition of the bourgeois conditions of production. I just don’t believe it. I think that you can only reform it. And that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “How?”

  “Nobody has really got that figured out yet. The only thing we know for sure is that Marxism isn’t the solution. After all, right now we’re experiencing the full scope of communism and its desire to destroy our entire European civilization!”

  He jerked to a halt.

  “Well, looks like we’ve found it,” he said. “That over there is our whorehouse!”

  The head waiter at the Bristol really had not been exaggerating when he gave Schmitz his word of honor about Chez Madelaine being respectable and honest, run in an exemplary fashion in every respect. “For once he wasn’t lying,” thought Schmitz. “I’ll write him a postcard today.”

  The doorwoman, a friendly elderly woman, led the two gentlemen into the reception room, offered them seats and then asked them to wait just a few moments. The reception salon had been kept in the Louis XVI style, but it was by no means garish—more plain than anything. On the walls hung engravings à la Watteau and Fragonard, in which Schmitz immediately took a purely mechanical interest.

  “Think it’s going to be really expensive?” Kobler asked warily. But Schmitz could not allay his fears because the madam had just walked into the salon.

  The madam was an elderly lady with wonderfully white hair and expressive eyes, a noble figure. She had something regal about her and a natural charm. But there was also a hint of harshness around her mouth, this being necessary if she wanted to uphold the good reputation of her brothel.

  “This is going to cost a lot,” thought Kobler worriedly as the madam tactfully addressed S
chmitz, he being the elder of the two. She immediately greeted him in English, but Schmitz immediately cut her off, explaining that he wasn’t an American, nor was his friend, but rather quite the opposite. The madam seemed very pleased about this. She apologized repeatedly, smiled exceedingly courteously and was no longer reserved—more cocky than anything.

  “Did you notice the change in tone?” whispered Schmitz to Kobler while they followed the madam into the bar. “Did you notice how hated Americans are in France? Nobody wants to become an American colony here either!”

  “I don’t give a crap about that right now,” Kobler interrupted him anxiously. “Right now the only thing I’m worried about is that all of this is going to cost a pretty penny!”

  “How much can it cost? We simply go into the bar, simply order ourselves two whisky and sodas, and simply leave it at that!”

  So they entered the bar.

  In the bar there was almost nothing but uniformed men, soldiers and sailors amusing themselves in a more or less vulgar manner with the half-naked girls. In one corner sat two patrons from India and in another three sports students from North America. The latter had crimson heads, but were putting on puritanical airs. There were also two gentlemen in whom the girls took no interest: one of them was a confirmed bachelor and the other had just come to give the madam some tips for the racetrack.

  It was a lively operation. The pianist was very talented, playing partly sentimentally, partly unsentimentally. He looked like he sat on a governing council. The waiter looked like Adolf Menjou; he was very distinguished. The whole place was overwhelmingly fragranced, which of course was only necessary.

  The whores were roused a bit when the madam stepped into the salon, because despite their relaxed bearing, an iron discipline reigned inside them. They immediately formed a regular semicircle around Schmitz and Kobler, stuck out their tongues, and, according to individual disposition, swayed either faster or slower. This was supposed to appear sensual and lewd.

  “Alors!” said the madam, but Schmitz explained to her that for the time being they were fine with just a drink, and, who knows, maybe it would stay at just that.

  “Très bien!” said the madam, whereupon the semicircle dissolved. The madam refused, however, to let up so easily, and inquired as to whether the two gentlemen might not perhaps desire a lady for discussion purposes. She also had, as she said, very intelligent ladies here with whom one could discuss problematic topics. Altogether her ladies could speak fourteen languages. There was also a German lady among them whom she would be glad to direct to their table. This of course would cost absolutely nothing—provided, that is, that it remained just a discussion.

  The madam left to fetch the German lady who had just gone missing. Just then a negress walked across the bar. She was wearing a bright-red turban and had a completely different gait from her white colleagues, which afforded Schmitz another opportunity to comment on the common note of all European women and to express, moreover, his regret that the typical notion of Europeanness had hitherto only been framed superficially. “Or could you shoot at these people here just because they aren’t German?”

  Kobler answered in the negative.

  And then Schmitz went on to say that among these people there were not just French women but Romanian, Danish, English, and Hungarian women as well. Then he asked triumphantly: “So, then, what do you think about this set-up now?”

  “I must say, we Germans are still way behind in this area,” said Kobler.

  The German lady walked up to their table. “Are the gentlemen from Germany?” she asked in German, and bent over Schmitz. “I’m also a German, ja. So who wants to go first?”

  “There must be some mistake,” said Schmitz defensively. “We thought that you just wanted to drink to our health—nothing else!”

  “However the gentlemen want to have me,” said the German lady, and sat down courteously, for she could also be mannerly.

  It soon emerged that her name was Irmgard and she was from Silesia. She had also lived in the capital of the Reich. You see, she had wanted to become a saleswoman there, but instead she became a factory worker, this being her destiny. The machines really got on her nerves because she was just a country girl. On Easter of 1929 she met a certain fellow by the name of Karl Zeschke. He and his machines were once again her destiny. It was not long before she lost her marbles: overnight she started drawing and painting, and nothing but hermaphrodites.

  The madam was right: you really could have an amusing discussion with Irmgard. After a little while she had to take her leave because one of the uniformed gentlemen had asked for her. Visibly moved, Schmitz smiled: “You know, Irmgard, you’re all right! I’m a writer, you see, and if you could just work a typewriter you’d be the right gal for me.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE TWO GENTLEMEN LEFT MARSEILLE THAT same night and rode directly to Barcelona without making any stops, passing right by Tarascon, Sete, and the Spanish border Port Bou.

  They were passing through Arles.

  “Van Gogh painted here,” related Schmitz.

  “Who was that?” asked Kobler.

  “He was a great painter,” answered Schmitz, and then locked himself sorrowfully in the lavatory. “Hopefully now I’ll finally be able to make,” he muttered to himself. But he would soon discover that his hopes were in vain. “Jeez, what a blithering idiot!” he expressed furiously. “He’s never even heard of my beloved Van Gogh! All right, let’s give it another shot!”

  Locked and loaded, but he couldn’t manage to get anything out.

  “Van Gogh, too, was misunderstood,” he said with resignation. “Pretty soon one man won’t understand the next. It’s really kind of lonely when every man is for himself.”

  He sat like this for a while, staring pensively at the toilet paper. Then, suddenly, he opened up the window to help himself to concentrate on something else. The cool night air did him good. The reeds next to the railway embankment stood head-high and rustled in a romantically eerie way as the express train roared past.

  “People sure got it nice here!” thought Schmitz desperately. “They’ve really got magnificent nights here! Somebody ought to compose a poem about the fall night in Southern France, only I’m not a lyricist. If I were only twenty years younger, then sure, but I’m a little too sensible for all that now.”

  In Tarascon, the hometown of Tartarin and a sort of French Upper Bavaria, they had to wait for the Paris Express train because there were a lot of passengers on it who had to switch, some of whom were heading to Spain, some only to Nîmes. The Paris Express soon arrived and shortly thereafter a lady arrived at their compartment door. She was about to ask whether there was still a seat available for her when Schmitz cut her off, immediately exclaiming that all the seats were available! He promptly yanked her suitcase out of her hand, expertly stowed it in the luggage rack, and then relinquished his corner seat to her in a most solicitous manner.

  It may be superfluous to point out that this lady was very good looking, which means she was young, slim, yet still pleasantly curvaceous. And she had a pair of legs that seemed to be preoccupied with just that, and a strangely veiled expression, as if this were exactly what she was doing right now, and indeed, with great pleasure and still not quite enough. All the while she was emanating her scent with a certain modesty, which only made it all the more cunning: back and forth, up and down, and soon enough the entire compartment smelled of her, despite the two gentlemen. That is, she had that certain something about her that people commonly referred to as sex appeal.

  After thanking Schmitz with a friendly—though nevertheless reserved—nod, the lady sat down in his former corner seat, and in such a voluptuous way that you would think she had something going on with that seat. Naturally this got Schmitz rather excited. Kobler was likewise spellbound. “Egypt!” flashed through his mind as he realized that everything this woman was wearing must be very expensive. And “I’ve always believed in providence!” flashed through his m
ind again. “And if this Schmitz doesn’t stop ogling like that, he’ll have me to reckon with—”

  He faltered here in the midst of his calculations and turned pale. Now for the third time a thought flashed through his mind, this being pure contrition: “I can’t speak French, which means I can’t talk to her, and without talking things like this just don’t work,” was the thought that babbled inside him.

  Seething with rage, he looked over at the happy Schmitz. He was poised for victory and would not let her out of his sight.

  “Now he’s going to schmooze with her awhile, and I’ll just sit there like a deaf and dumb monkey! You’ll never see your Pan-Europe as long as there are so many languages in this world, you bastard!” And so he fixed a fierce gaze on his Pan-European rival.

  But the Egyptian woman did not seem to want to have anything to do with Schmitz; she did not respond to him in the slightest. His stereotypical smile even suddenly started to make her feel awkward. She jumped up and went to the toilet.

  “A thoroughbred Parisian woman!” Schmitz whispered hastily to him, acting rather excited. “I can recognize that by the way she moves!”

  “Oh, go ahead and kiss my ass!” thought Kobler angrily.

  “I’m going to address her as soon as she gets back from the toilet!” Schmitz went on, hurriedly combing his hair. “Sadly you won’t be able to speak to her,” he added gloatingly.

  Kobler thought the same thing again.

  As soon as the thoroughbred Parisian woman had returned to her seat opposite Schmitz, he mustered all of his charm and addressed her, and in perfect French, too. She listened with a smile and then explained softly that she could only speak broken French at most.