“You speak English?” asked Schmitz.
“No, Allemagne,” said the thoroughbred Parisian.
This gave Kobler quite a jolt, whereas Schmitz was left feeling strangely unsure of himself.
“So there is indeed providence!” thought Kobler triumphantly. Schmitz became very small and hideous.
“Although I was born in Cologne,” said Allemagne, “I often live abroad. Last summer I was in Biarritz and last winter in St. Moritz.”
“An Egyptian par excellence!” thought Kobler, and Schmitz pulled himself together again.
“Cologne is a glorious city!” he shouted. “An ancient city!”
“Oh, but we’ve also got beautiful, new quarters!” the Egyptian defended her hometown.
This touched Schmitz in a most agreeable manner. He took the view that stupid women possessed an acrobatic sensuality, and after all, what he loved most about women was their physical sensuality, especially as he had once had a soul mate. You see, that was a rather unhappy love affair that had started very metaphysically, but ended in forgery on the part of the woman. He took it easy on her up until the last moment, but he stopped taking it easy on her when she asked him for a lavish allowance. And when she was denied probation, he said: “I’m just a child of the night!”
It is of course only understandable that he now painstakingly avoided all such trauma, by no means out of convenience, but rather as a result of a heightened sensibility and a sexual neurasthenia. He only wanted to get them in the sack and would often catch himself regretting that women were human beings too, and even had so-called souls. But despite this, he could only get them in the sack by means of his mind, either directly or by first translating his mind into money. He simply had no sex appeal. In other words, he only got them in the sack with his mind, and such a thing is of course downright tragic.
And so now he was trying to impress this Rhineland woman with his intellect. He listed to her the names of twenty good friends, these being nothing but prominent people, one more prominent than the next. She was already starting to make a very meek face—
“And now it’s high time,” thought Kobler, and he interrupted Schmitz violently. “Ever been to Marseille?” he asked rashly, causing her to look at him aghast. But after taking a closer look at him, she did not find him altogether unpleasant.
“No.” She smiled, and this really encouraged Kobler.
“But my dear lady, you absolutely must go there!” he said excitedly.
“I bet it’s pretty terrific there,” said the dear lady.
“But, that’s nothing! My dear lady, I saw films in a house of ill repute there that ought to be prohibited!”
“Please, do tell!” the dear lady said quickly, and then gazed at him silently, giving Schmitz and his prominent acquaintances the cold shoulder.
And so Kobler recounted how first he and Schmitz were taken up to a spacious room on the fourth floor where a white screen stood outstretched. There were approximately ten chairs, nothing else. They were left there all by their lonesome and reassured that the operator would show up any second and then the show would begin immediately. But a good while passed and there was still no living soul to be seen, which gave them the heebie-jeebies because, after all, how can you ever really know whether you’re going to be, say, killed or made the victim of a lust murder or something like that—
Here Schmitz cut him off forcefully. He found it utterly disagreeable that this Rhineland lady should prefer Kobler’s boorish films to his prominent little friends. He had been staring venomously at Kobler’s ultramodern socks for a while now and his social conscience burst forth violently. He stressed every word as he explained to her that nothing unjust could ever take place in any of the world’s official brothels. The official operators of these brothels, he said, would never expose themselves to the danger of breaking the law, because they didn’t have to. After all, they exploited these prostitutes in such a criminally shameless manner that even within the framework of the law they could still yield an enormous profit. And then he turned to Kobler and asked him irritably whether or not he could recall having seen the door on the second floor that happened to have been standing wide open, behind which you could see the prisonlike simplicity of the prostitutes’ common refectory. Or whether he had also already forgotten that awful stench of medicine on the third floor, which defied even the overwhelming fragrances, because the room where the doctor had been conducting his examinations was right there.
But now the dearest lady would not let him continue because “that was awfully disillusioning,” she protested.
Thereupon Kobler immediately said, “So finally the operator arrived and then it finally started.”
But Schmitz would not admit defeat. He caustically remarked that it only took so long because this operator was, you see, paralyzed—that is, just from the waist down—and so had to be carried up the stairs by two men—
“Ughh!” yelled the dearest lady.
“Pardon me!” Schmitz apologized formally, and left the compartment in a rage.
“These Germans—just where does an impoverished nation get the money to travel around for the fun of it?” he asked himself in a desperate rage. He was pacing up and down the corridor. “Do I really deserve to be so contrite right now?” he pondered contritely. “Yes, I do deserve it. What’s the cause of the most intense rage? Preventing a living creature from performing sexual intercourse—now that’s primal rage!”
And so he continued to pace up and down until suddenly he surprised himself by coming to a halt and gazing furtively into the compartment where his thoroughbred Parisian was listening to the content of several pornographic films, which, of course, all amounted to the same theme, regardless of whether they had a historic, a criminal, or a timeless setting.
“She’s already his,” he thought. “She really is hanging on his every word. But what can I do about that? After all, he’s twenty years younger than me. I can’t just stay out here all night; I’ll have to take a seat again. The two of them together aren’t as old as me alone. They’ve still got a lot ahead of them that I’ve already got behind me. Youth will have its fling.”
And as he observed through the glass door these two people who liked each other, they gradually appeared more and more distant to him, as if they were living a hundred years later. And with this increased distance, his primal rage also gradually transformed itself into an ominous apprehension of the eternal laws, this being of course a consequence, if nothing else, of his theoretical understanding of the entire historical movement.
“Those two young people in there basically consist of nothing but single cells,” he thought, “of cells that have basically already managed to form a superbly organized cell state in which the individual cells have ceased to exist. And basically that’s what is in store for our human states. Just look at the evolution of those other state-building organisms, the termites. Strictly speaking, they’re around a hundred million years older than us. We’re basically only just born when we—” he was thinking when, suddenly, he had to yawn violently. “Now it’s high time that I return to my seat!” he continued.
And so it was in a mood of paternal understanding that he reentered the compartment. He had barely sat down when he heard the female cell-state say the following: “Yes, I’m also going to Barcelona! No, well, that is indeed interesting! Yes, I still have no idea where to stay there! No, Paris is the most beautiful. And what I like about it in particular is the fact that you can dress up there, something we really can’t do in Duisburg anymore because the workers are so full of hatred. If you walk across the street looking elegant they’ll give you fanatical looks.”
“You’re certainly right about that,” said Kobler.
“Who? The workers?” asked Schmitz.
“No, the dearest lady,” said Kobler.
“Am I hearing this right?” thought Schmitz.
“Yes, the Jews are making the workers really nasty,” the female cell-state’s voice
sounded once again. “No, I can’t stand the Jews. I find them too nauseatingly carnal—they’ve got their hands in everything! Yes, it’s quite a shame that we don’t have an army anymore, especially for these adolescent workers and that rabble! No, I flat out reject these leftist parties because they keep betraying the fatherland. Yes, I was still a child when they shot and killed Erzberger! No, and I was even happy about it back then! Yes!”
“I’m also very much against all the politics of promoting understanding,” answered Kobler. And now Schmitz could no longer hold back.
“What?” he cut him off, and looked at him piercingly.
“Yes,” smiled Kobler.
“No!” roared Schmitz, and left the compartment indignantly.
But this time Kobler ran after him.
“You’ve got to understand me,” he said.
“I don’t understand you!” roared Schmitz, shaking horribly. “How could you? Oh, that’s an outrage! Oh, that’s a beastly shame! How could you say such drivel after we’ve been talking about nothing but Pan-Europe for the past three days?”
“In principle you’re of course quite right,” Kobler reassured him. “But I’ve just got to talk like that—she’s my rich Egyptian woman! Her father sits on several supervisory boards and is a big industrialist—I’ve already prised that out! Her name is Rigmor Erichsen and she lives in Duisburg. Egypt is of course merely a symbol! And by the way, what the hell do women have to do with your Pan-Europe anyway!?”
“Quite a bit, Herr Kobler! Just think for a second about the war and the mother’s role in it. Tell me, have you ever given any thought to the woman question?”
“I’m not interested in the woman question, just the woman!” said Kobler impatiently, and then he became very serious. “And by the way, Herr Schmitz,” he went on, “I shall now ask you to kindly leave me in peace while I work my way up the social ladder. I’ve already got a plan worked out. I’m going to debauch that lady in Barcelona, then I’ll accompany her back to Duisburg, where I’ll debauch her again, and then I’ll marry into daddy’s company. And Pan-Europe doesn’t give a crap whether or not that lady in there is for or against her!”
“That’s the same damn excuse everybody makes!” said Schmitz, and then walked off.
CHAPTER 20
THEY WERE ALREADY DRIVING THROUGH Montpellier. Schmitz was still standing out in the corridor while Kobler and Rigmor continued their discussion of the Marseille films, all the while getting to know each other on a human level.
“And so that’s what poor Alois died for!” thought Schmitz dejectedly. “What harm would it do if somebody went and shot this Kobler and his Rigmor? No harm at all, it’d probably do us all a favor!”
“Poor Alois!” He sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you, poor dead Alois, that in the wake of the Great Russian Revolution pacifism has once again become a problem? I mean that Bolshevism is forcing us, we who call ourselves the intellectual class, to submit our position on pacifism to a rigorous revision. That is, if there had never been a Lenin, pacifism really would no longer be a problem for us intellectuals, but it’s become a problem again because of this idea of revolutionary war.
—My goodness, I’m really wavering! There really are some pretty difficult problems in this maleficent world! I sympathize—and yes, I’ve got to keep returning to myself personally—with Pan-Europe even though of course I know that the Soviets are right that every day our bourgeoisie keeps distorting the Pan-European idea again, like pretty much every idea. And I also know that what we’ve got here is just a sham culture, but I still enjoy Botticelli! If only the Soviets weren’t so puritanical—! My goodness, sometimes I’m really reactionary out of pure pessimism! Being skeptical is pretty much self-torture, but if skepticism were someday outlawed, what else would be left for me to do in this world?”
CHAPTER 21
BUT SCHMITZ HAD ONCE AGAIN RECONCILED with the two young people before they arrived in Spain, partly because he kept getting sleepier and sleepier out in the corridor and partly because he was quite fond of acting saintly. And so now he could plop back down on his nice soft seat and slumber, though sadly only up to the Spanish border.
Its name was Port Bou, and here you had to transfer trains several times, and in the middle of the night at that. Nowadays Kobler can only hazily recall the remarkably dressed gendarmes and the few polite solicitors from the Exposición de Barcelona 1929 who thrust complimentary brochures and catalogs into his hands, pointing out that, quite frankly, the listed prices were bogus.
Schmitz, on the other hand, can still remember quite clearly how the Spanish connecting train only had first- and third-class seats. In contrast to Kobler, who had to pay a surcharge because Rigmor was of course riding first class, Schmitz stayed alone in third class in protest against this government-run rip-off, all the while harboring impolite thoughts about the Spanish Hapsburgs.
They all checked into a hotel together in Barcelona. It was nearly a skyscraper. This very fragile-looking thing, which was located in the vicinity of the World’s Fair, was an object of real-estate speculation. It probably only had to remain standing until the end of the World’s Fair. It was situated in Calle Cortes, a wide street with an Argentinian flair.
An interpreter greeted them in the hotel’s reception. He was from Prague and had once been an agent for an oil company. Two porters also bowed down before them.
“The señorita has two traveling trunks, three suitcases, and four valises,” the interpreter told the two porters in Spanish. “The older caballero is definitely an editor, and the younger caballero is either the son of rich parents or a nebbish. He’s either going to pay for everything or nothing.”
Hereupon the two porters started arguing about whether they should pinch eight or ten pesetas from Caballero Schmitz. They agreed upon ten because, after all, he did not even actually have a room, but rather a closet without windows, cabinet, or chair, just an iron bed and an iron vanity.
By contrast, Kobler’s room was an apartment par excellence. He even had two windows from which you could see the rear of the World’s Fair. But Kobler hardly even looked in that direction because he was focused entirely on himself. He was changing all of his clothes and having a wash and shave.
“She’s already mine!” he thought while brushing his teeth. “Where and when I debauch her—now it’s only a matter of the right opportunity.”
He was very confident. He had already worked out a hard-and-fast plan back in Montpellier. He had weighed every possibility and was determined not to shrink from any sentimental obstacles. It really was an almost anatomically precise plan for the prostration of Egypt.
“What did this Schmitz say in Milano again?” crossed his mind while he combed his hair. “ ‘You people of the younger generation haven’t got any soul,’ is what he said. Baloney! Soul, what does that even mean?”
He buttoned up his pants.
“All you’ve got to do is be honest!” he went on. “Honest with yourself. Okay, sure, I know I’m not exactly classy, but it’s only because I’m honest. I don’t dress myself up for my sake. I can handle seeing things just the way they are!”
CHAPTER 22
ONCE RIGMOR WAS FINALLY NEATLY GROOMED, they went over to the World’s Fair. It really was quite impressive.
Rigmor read aloud from her catalog:
“Under the auspices of His Majesty the King of Spain, and with the collaboration of the Royal Spanish administration, the city of Barcelona is hereby organizing a grand world exhibition at a cost of one hundred million gold marks.”
“A hundred million!” thought Schmitz. “Well, it’s definitely not worth that!”
Rigmor continued reading:
“Barcelona is Spain’s most important and largest trade and manufacturing city. The number of inhabitants amounts to one million, thus making it the largest city in the Mediterranean.”
“The whole thing is a political demonstration,” Schmitz cut her off, “so that we can all see how Spain i
s awaking from its lethargy.”
Rigmor continued reading:
“With this magnificent enterprise, Barcelona hopes to show the world the revival of the city and country. After the World War there was doubtlessly only one country that could have organized such a lavishly constructed exhibition as the one the city of Barcelona felt compelled to host, driven by the desire to adopt the multifaceted and abiding advances of the modern era.”
“Voilà!” said Schmitz.
At first they entered the Automobile Palace, where there were only automobiles. Standing in front of a convertible with a jump seat, Kobler suddenly thought of Herr Portschinger from Rosenheim.
“And that’s exactly how it is with all politics,” he thought, “one country—Germany, France, Spain, England, or whatever—sells another one a convertible. They all buy and sell their convertibles from each other. Now sure, if all this went down totally fair and square, it would be the ideal Pan-Europe. But right now the other nations are just cheating us Germans, just like I cheated Portschinger. Pan-Europe can’t be achieved like this. That’s not the spirit of Locarno!”
In the Palace of the Royal Spanish War Ministry, Kobler continued his thoughts: “If only Germany, too, still had an army with such canons, tanks, and submarine fleets, then we’d definitely be able to reclaim our former supremacy, and then we Germans would easily be able to sell our old convertibles to the whole world à la Portschinger! That would definitely be the best thing to do, only doing it without weapons is a sadly utopian idea. This Schmitz is probably right about his Pan-European idea after all!”
And then they entered the Airplane Palace, where there were only airplanes. Then the Silk Palace, where there was only silk, which really upset Rigmor. And then the Italian Palace, where there was really only Mussolini. Thereafter the Romanian, Swedish, and then the Meridian Palace behind the stadium, where there were all sorts of things. And then they entered the enormous Spanish National Palace, where there was actually nothing, just an empty hall for twenty thousand people—
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