“—in the Wilhelminian style,” stated Schmitz.
“And boring oil paintings,” said Kobler.
“Now can we finally go to the Missionary Palace, please!” protested Rigmor.
The Missionary Palace was very interesting. That is, it was an original Vatican exhibition. Here you had to pay an additional entrance fee. And to top it off, at every turn you were subtly importuned for alms, as is pretty much the custom among all representatives of the afterlife. You also got to see something for your money, though, namely what the missionaries had despoiled from and shuffled out of the poor primitives, ad maiorem bourgeois method of production gloriam.
After this sacred spectacle, they took a bus up to the restaurant Miramare, which had a stunning view of the city and sea from atop the Mont Juich. This was a very elegant establishment; Rigmor seemed to feel right at home. Schmitz, on the other hand, looked embarrassed when four waiters at once tried shoving a chair under his butt. And Kobler grew very pale when he caught sight of the prices on the menu.
“In the catalog,” said Rigmor, “it says that according to legend, this is supposed to be the place where Satan led the Lord when he was trying to tempt him with all the glories of the world.” But Kobler did not respond to her and instead thought something rather impolite. Schmitz, surmising what that was, said, “Order whatever you like!”
Apart from them, another twelve elegant guests were allowing themselves to be fleeced in this heavenly establishment, it being just too lovely. The mountains of the Castle of the Holy Grail sent over their greetings from the horizon. And then down below to the left, the Columbus Monument was waving up to them from out of the hustle and bustle of the city. And if you really felt like it, you could also watch how strenuously the people were working in the harbor. And when seen from up here, all of these thousands and thousands of working people looked incredibly tiny, as if one were the dear Lord himself.
At twilight, Rigmor simply had to ride the roller coaster, at all costs. And so the three of them headed toward the amusement park, strolling first through a laughing park that, thanks to the mild climate, horticulturists had used their craft to bring forth. It got dark quickly. Gazing through the well-nigh exotic shrubs, the three of them watched from a distance the glorious trick fountains in front of the National Palace. Now these were indeed advances of the modern era. Outside the front gates of the World’s Fair stood the folks who could not afford to pay the admission fee, and so had to watch these advances from afar. Only the police kept dispersing them because they were obstructing traffic.
CHAPTER 23
WHAT IS THE MOST SPANISH THING IN SPAIN? THE bullfights, of course. In Spanish, corrida de toros. Rigmor in particular could hardly wait.
The bullring had enormous dimensions. It seemed even larger when you consider that Barcelona alone has three such gigantic arenas. Even so, everything was already sold out. There must have been around twenty thousand people there, and now Schmitz was only able to get hold of tickets for three seats in the shade through a scalper.
Spaniards are a noble nation: they love to strut about with measured step, wearing national sashes around their waists and comfortable white shoes. The Spaniards are so proud that even their toilets say “knights” instead of “gentlemen.” Almost everyone seems to be his own Don Quixote or Sancho Panza.
Schmitz caught sight of the bullfight butchery right next to the main portal where the bull carcasses from yesterday were being sold as cutlets. A large police presence assured peace and order.
A large band was playing music inside the arena. The somber entrance of the gentleman bullfighters began punctually.
“You’re going to experience something splendidly historical there,” Kobler remembered the words of the Renaissance man of Verona. And it was indeed a gorgeous sight. The gentleman bullfighters stepped up to the dignitaries’ box and saluted the committee in a strictly ceremonious manner.
And then the bull came: a small, black Andalusian bull. He was furious by now because there was already a knife sticking out of his back, this being part of the program. There were only three gentlemen left standing in the arena, unarmed and with red coats. Suddenly blinded by the sun, the bull halted for a moment and then he spotted the red coats and charged after them. But the gentlemen graciously sidestepped the crude beast. Loud applause. Rigmor and Kobler also applauded. The bull harkened. It seemed like it was only now that he realized something wicked was in store for him. Slowly he turned back toward his dark enclosure, only to be repulsed yet again.
And now a gentleman rode into the arena. His horse had to be led in by two other gentlemen because it was a blind, skinny old jade whose hair was gray from bondage. The gentleman on the jade had a long lance. The bull was being goaded into attacking the trembling jade with all sorts of contrivances. Finally the gentleman was close enough to drive the lance into the bull’s back with all his might, and in an especially sensitive spot at that. Of course now the bull ran down the jade and of course the gentlemen ran away. Even the desperate, blind jade tried to flee, but the bull gored it in the stomach and, in so doing, appeared to gain considerable favor with the now ecstatic audience. Finally he let up on the jade, whereupon several gentlemen shoveled sand into the dying animal’s abdominal cavity so that its blood would not dirty the arena.
Now three other gentlemen entered the arena. They all had a short lance in each hand that was adorned on top with colorful ribbons and lower down with barbs. The gentlemen thrust them into the bull’s neck, two at a time. This must have been atrociously painful for the bull because, despite its encumbered state, he would shoot up into the air with all four limbs each time and then squirm and writhe about, but he could not shake off the lances because of their masterfully designed barbs. Its grotesque movements elicited true bursts of laughter.
Loud applause—
Suddenly there was a gentleman standing by himself in the arena. It was the head bullfighter, the matador. He was carrying a bright red cloth that concealed the sword with which he would deal the death blow to his bull. So at long last he was death himself. This death was very conscious of his movements, for he was one of the audience’s favorites. He approached his victim with confidence, only the animal would not attack him. It was already rather weakened from the heavy blood loss and all the torment.
Now it saw death approaching; now it was afraid. The matador stopped right in front of him, but the animal turned away and slowly staggered back toward its enclosure. But the audience howled and ridiculed it for not wanting to fight with death. With an elegant gesture the matador uncovered his sword; the twenty thousand fell silent in expectation. And amid this tense silence suddenly came the sound of somebody weeping. It was the poor, sad bull. But unrelenting death neared him and thrashed him with a scarf across his tearstained eyes. Here the animal pulled itself together once more and ran into the sword. Blood gushed out of its mouth. It staggered around and then collapsed with a dreadfully reproachful look in its eyes.
Here the audience fell into frenzy; a hundred straw hats flew out to death. Schmitz was outraged.
“That’s pure lust murder!” he said, full of indignation. “These Spaniards are getting off on the death throes of a noble, useful animal! High time that I wrote my article against vivisection! It serves us right for having had a World War—we’re nothing but beasts! Oh, it’s just repulsive—the League of Nations should intervene!”
But the bullfight had quite a different effect on Kobler.
“Toreros are highly esteemed men with lucrative professions,” he thought. “Sure it’s one big mess, but even the king receives them and all the ladies chase after them!”
And for Rigmor the bullfight had yet another effect. She was anxious that something would befall one of the bullfighters. She could hardly look over in that direction, as if she, too, were a poor animal being chased. As a consequence of which, she kept looking over at Kobler with increased frequency. And this got her thinking about quite different things
.
“Do you wish that I were a torero?” he asked.
“No,” she yelled anxiously, and then cracked a gracious smile and snuggled up to him even more. Something indecent had just crossed her mind.
CHAPTER 24
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Schmitz was already sitting down for his morning coffee. During breakfast, he wrote one article against vivisection and another in favor of Pan-Europe. While he was writing he looked like he was thinking about something quite different, his experience being just so vast.
He was still not quite finished with the second article when Kobler wished him good morning.
“Right now I’m advancing the notion of understanding among nations,” said Schmitz as a greeting. “I’ll be done in just a second!”
“Please don’t let me hold you up,” said Kobler while taking a seat. Then he suddenly said in passing: “If it were only a matter of reason, then sure, people could easily come to an understanding, but quite a few emotional aspects also play a role in the matter, and a decisive one at that!”
Schmitz gazed at him in surprise.
“Where’d he come up with that?” he thought. “Apparently I’ve underestimated him.” And then he added aloud: “But of course! We rationalists are already all in favor of rapprochement. But now agitation is being introduced into the great mass of sentimentalists, those being the people who are capable neither of analyzing nor of comprehending the historical process, because they basically can’t think. But of course you’re right, my dear sir, when you say it all comes down to them!”
“Nevertheless …” answered Kobler.
“Why neverthless?” asked Schmitz with the utmost interest.
“When I think about Poland or the Polish Corridor in particular,” said Kobler dismally, “I just can’t summon up any peaceful feelings—my heart refuses to do it. Even though, on an intellectual level, I’ve got absolutely nothing against Pan-Europe. All right, then, now let’s talk about something more interesting!”
And he informed Schmitz that he had spent the previous night with Rigmor.
“I’ll now accept your unsolicited congratulations!” he said, looking quite mischievous. “I just basically had the right tactic. She’s really feisty!”
“Yes, I could hear that all the way from where I was,” Schmitz dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “But above me there were some people who were apparently even feistier, because a load of mortar from the ceiling fell onto my face. The interpreter just told me that it was a certain Herr von Stingl and an Italian countess. But as you know, the flesh isn’t the only thing that counts. Tell me, did she truly fall in love with you? I mean, with all her soul?”
“I’m quite confident!” said Kobler triumphantly.
“Herr Alfons Kobler,” said Schmitz, laying a somber emphasis on every syllable, “believe me, despite what psychoanalysis says, women are indeed still sphinxes!” And then he quickly added, “But now you must excuse me. I’ve got to take care of something for the review section quickly.” He wrote:
“The little Rigmor is chasing after me: A humorous anecdote by our special correspondent R. Schmitz (Barcelona). Epigraph: And do not greet me beneath the linden trees!”
CHAPTER 25
THE SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT WAS IN THE PROCESS of writing “—it was only for curiosity’s sake that I followed my hot-blooded partner, for I am a literary man with all my heart and soul—” when the interpreter hastened into the restaurant. He asked Kobler to please come to the green room immediately. The señorita would be waiting for him there.
“Why there and not here?” asked Kobler. He was rather surprised.
“How should I know that?” said the interpreter. “All I can say is that the señorita is very nervous.”
“And here comes the sphinx,” thought Schmitz. Though suddenly he felt sorry for Kobler, despite the prophesized sphinx.
Rigmor was pacing up and down the green room. She was indeed very nervous. Her skirt had an interesting, irregular crease to it. When she caught sight of Kobler, she ran up to him and planted a kiss on his forehead.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” thought Kobler, and felt rather uneasy. “How are you?” he asked her mechanically.
“Tell me if you can forgive me?” she asked, looking rather hurt.
“Nothing could be wrong with her, could it?” he thought mistrustfully, and then asked her, “Darling, what is it that I should forgive you for?”
But then she started crying. She did it out of sheer nervousness.
“I can forgive you for everything,” he consoled her, “you’re already worth that much to me!”
She wiped her tears and blew her nose with such a tiny tissue that Kobler’s thoughts could not help but dwell on it. Then she dragged him down to her and became rather monotonous as she confessed that just a half an hour ago something unexpected had happened, this unexpected thing being a telegram from Avignon. The telegram’s sender was a gentleman, a certain Alfred Kaufmann from Milwaukee. He was a painter and an American millionaire. Only this millionaire could not paint artistically enough on account of his repressions, for which reason he had traveled to Zurich to have his libido cured. And he had planned to have his libido cured for at least four weeks, but evidently he had straightened things out with his libido much sooner than expected. And so instead of arriving in Barcelona in fourteen days’ time, he was now expected as early as this morning. Any moment now he could turn up in the hotel and that would be just horribly, horrifically embarrassing for her because after all, he was her official fiancé. He was a likable fellow, but she would’ve preferred to be with a German all the same.
Then she started crying again a little bit. She had, she said, really been looking forward to spending the next fourteen love-filled days with him (Kobler) but she simply had to marry Mister Kaufmann, if only because of her daddy, who was in urgent need of American capital despite the size of his company. Germany was only a poor country and her father was suffering terribly from the Social Security payments in particular.
Kobler was taken aback. He was watching himself lose his battle, and a decisive one it was at that. Despite his superior tactics and brilliant strategy, the USA was coming from across the ocean to strike him, to strike a crushing blow to him with its brute superiority. “That’s no great feat!” Kobler was thinking furiously when, just then, the USA arrived in the green room in the flesh.
It was a gentleman with even broader shoulders. Kobler, who was on the verge of giving Rigmor a crude answer, could only manage an acerbic smile.
“Hello, Rigmor!” the gentleman called out, and then hugged her in his ridiculous American way. “The professor says I’m all better and can start painting artistically right away. Today we’re going to Seville and then afterward to Athens! Who’s this mister?”
Rigmor introduced him. “A childhood friend from Germany,” she lied.
The American gazed at Kobler companionably. “Are you also a painter?” he asked.
“I’ve got nothing to do with art,” objected Kobler. A profound contempt could be heard in his voice.
“What’s Germany up to?” asked the American.
“We’re not doing well at all,” answered Kobler sullenly, but the American would not let up.
“What do you think of Germany?” he asked. “What do you think of art? What do you think of love? What do you think of God?”
Kobler said that he could not think of anything at all today because he had, you see, a terrible headache. As he shut the door behind him, he heard Rigmor say: “He’s a likeable fellow!”
CHAPTER 26
THAT SAME DAY KOBLER RETURNED HOME, AND without making any stops either. He just did not want to see anything else.
“I’ve almost spent my entire six hundred marks, and on what? A bunch of crap!” he lamented. “And so now I’ll get back and what’ll be awaiting me? Nothing but worries!” He was really quite depressed.
Schmitz, who had paternally accompanied
him to the train, attempted to console him: “You just can’t compete with America!” he expressed sullenly.
And then he quickly explained to him that if he were in his (Kobler’s) shoes, he wouldn’t actually be complaining because after all, he (Kobler) hadn’t simply spent his honestly earned money on a bunch of crap, but rather bought himself a meaningful experience with it. And he would probably only later realize just how deep an experience that actually was, an experience that would be ideally suited to completely change a person. That is, he had just received the striking proof of America’s brutal supremacy, sensing its ominous hegemony in his own body.
“And now,” he continued with a wink, “perhaps your feeling will also change now that you’ve got, as you explained to me earlier this morning, nothing on an intellectual level against Pan-Europe. Great events often come from little causes, and even the greatest ideas—”
—And thus Schmitz competed for Kobler’s soul. And then he confided to him that he personally could never be interested in an American woman. He also wanted to tell him some things about the League of Nations, but the train pulled out.
“You’re riding through Geneva, right?” he called out to him. “All right, give my regards to Mont Blanc for me!”
Kobler drove through Geneva, but he could not pass on the regards to Mont Blanc because it was nighttime.
He also had the misfortune of riding all the way to the German border without meeting a single passenger who spoke German, which meant that he could not take his mind off things and had to be alone. And forced solitude combined with the never-ending trip caused the figure of Rigmor to turn into something peculiar. She assumed political forms, this bride whose daddy’s firm he couldn’t marry into because daddy desperately needed North American capital in order to vegetate.
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