The storm began at the morning's end, about an hour after the dentist had managed to throw up and rid himself of his grogginess. The lashing volleys of cold raindrops forced them to seek shelter. They stopped at an inn among the hills, where a man and a woman were whitewashing the walls and a lanky girl was halfheartedly scrubbing the floors. By the window, with a mug of warm milk cupped in his palms, Joseph observed how the coachman, soaked to the skin, took care to tether the horses in a spacious shed and to hang oat-filled nosebags from their necks. Inside, the innkeeper wielded his paintbrush with great rapidity, sweating heavily (he kept taking off his tattered hat and wiping his bald pate with a rag), the woman grunted and strained, standing on her tiptoes (hindered by her dumpy body), the girl moved back and forth on her knees, her blouse riding up from the waistband of her skirt (revealing a mole-covered patch of white skin on her back). The whitewash and lye could not drive away the smell of brandy, cider, and smoke in the room. A bitter smell, which rasped against the emptiness in his stomach. An old woman brought lunch: duck soup with peas for him, and the bones and gristle from a chicken leg for Siegfried. The cat did not even touch them.
When the earth had aired a little in the wind and the afternoon sun, the coach set out once more. A light trot that straightaway became a gallop conveyed the doctor into the heart of that rare (blessed? accursed? he had no way of guessing) journey, a convoluted and risky journey, fragmented and odd, which he urged himself to believe would not prove to be an irreparable mistake. The longest journey he had ever taken, and the only important one, so important that he sometimes likened it to a journey to the next world, for after all he was heading to a place of verdure or, at least, a place of golden wheat, endless wheat, as a spice merchant had told him. He was following the trail of the captain of dragoons like a belated shadow, copying his steps and movements at an interval of seven weeks, taking precisely the same route, abiding by his advice, and spending his money. After the epistle in the middle of April, to which he had replied hastily and gratefully with his assent, Herr Strauss had a month later received, from the hand of a lean functionary, another envelope, this time accompanied by a little packet wrapped in waxed paper. Using a paper knife with a silver handle, he had opened both, careful not to break the seals, one familiar, that of the house of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, the other unfamiliar, likely the insignia of the new monarch. His former patient, Karl Eitel Friedrich Zephyrinus Ludwig, now elevated to the throne of a land of five million souls, had sent him a pouch of pipe tobacco in which he had hidden so many groschen, guilders, and florins that Joseph had grown faint at the sight, along with a map of the continent on which he had traced out a route in red ink and marked with brown crosses a number of key points. In the letter, he laid out meticulously what Joseph would have to undertake on that exhausting journey, especially since war with Austria was about to break out, and he, a Prussian physician, would have to cross hostile territory, to pass through enemy border posts and checkpoints, to endure suspicion and prying questions. He was asked to conceal his identity, which meant not only procuring false papers, a matter explained in detail, but also one rather laughable duty, namely, getting rid of any petty items that might betray him. Joseph Strauss had obeyed sullenly, even grudgingly, and on one of the days when he was making ready his luggage, he had removed, using a pair of nail scissors, the monograms stitched in his underwear, scraped the letter S off his doctor's bag with a razor, concealed a diploma and other documents in the lining of a fur overcoat, and, examining each of his books in turn, torn out the flyleaves that bore his signature.
He parted with the gray mare and the sorrel at Magdeburg railway station. He paid the coachman his fee, allowed a porter to take care of his luggage, and with the wicker basket on his arm went at dusk into a nearby tavern where a greenish lamp swayed above the door. Although he ordered trout in cream, so that they could enjoy dinner together, the tomcat again refused to eat. It was the eleventh time he had done so since their departure. Curled up in a ring, his fur tousled and his forepaws pressed to his eyes, Siegfried seemed very ill. The dentist blinked, lit his pipe, blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, and sipped a blackcurrant liqueur. Then they spent their first night and morning on the train, amid the rumbling of the wheels, the puffing and the whistling of the locomotive, the vernal southern landscapes, the imperturbable amiability of the conductor, and the chattering of a lowly bank agent, who was visiting his sister at a sanatorium in Graubünden. It was not until Zurich, in the attic room of a cheap hotel, that Joseph took his friend in his arms—he stroked him on the crown of his head and under his chin, he clutched him to his breast and spoke to him volubly, he explained to him things that the tomcat surely did not want to hear, for example, why they had not elected to take the railway from the outset but had instead crawled along for a hundred miles in the coach, why they had not headed directly southeast but instead set off southwest, ending up in Switzerland, why a false passport had been necessary, because the drums of two armies were rumbling, the flags of battle were waving, and the troops were on the march, why the landlady of the boarding house in Berlin, his friends, and the girls from the Eleven Titties brothel had had to think he was moving to Stuttgart and not setting out on the trail of an adventurer prince, why a king is a king whatever the state of his teeth, what it means to count out and hold gold coins in your palm, why clocks chime the world over, and, finally, how people grow old. Here, at the words about time and ageing, Siegfried gave a start, pricked up his black ear (the white one remained limp), and lifted the tip of his tail. His master's voice had softened, his caresses had slowed, and the air in the room was growing warmer. Herr Strauss, who in the middle of the previous winter, in January on the eighth day of the month, had turned thirty, was saying all kinds of things, he was not telling a story, he was no longer chirring away meaninglessly, he was merely saying that he wanted to get out of a rut, that there was a whole host of titties in the world, in any case many more than eleven, that everything was numbingly monotonous, that beer and schnapps were good, but wine is not to be sniffed at, that every town is full to bursting with stripy, spotted, black and white, gray, yellow, plump or lean, squint-eyed, and lame cats, cats of every shape and size, that a fire that robs you of a mother and a sister goes on roasting your heart forever, it dries you and smokes you like pastrami, that there comes an hour, all of a sudden, when nothing binds you to anyone anymore, that beyond an empire, three mountain ranges, and boundless plains it is possible to be born again, that to be dentist to a king is not the same as draining the pus from the mouth of a captain of dragoons, that a wife means children, that a new country is a new place, and a new place is a new opportunity, that games of whist can be played anywhere at all, that the present looks like a lump of shit and that the future might, with the mercy of God, look better, that a wife means a mother, that a young tomcat has seed enough to fill the earth with kittens, that beyond an empire, three mountain ranges, and a boundless plain there might not be heaven, but nor can it be hell, that geese saved Rome, that the land where they are headed is called Romania and that there will likely be plenty of goose liver there to fry with slices of apple, black pepper, and onion, that a wife is a sister, that no road is without return, and that a wife means a woman, not just any woman, but one who comes out of an angel's or a devil's egg. And so on and so forth. These were the things that Joseph Strauss said in the garret of a hotel in Zurich, while the room grew blazing hot, and at last he begged the tomcat's forgiveness and fell silent. Siegfried, after sprawling for a while on the chest of that lean, chestnut-haired man, his muzzle resting between the clavicles of that pale, warm-hearted man, looking straight into the eyes of that hazel-eyed, large-eyed man, suddenly leapt toward the window and caught a huge fly on the wing. He swallowed it, then mewled sharply, as though hunger had just pierced his belly.
They feasted forthwith on goose liver prepared in the oven, with slices of roulade covered in sweet paprika, ginger, and acacia flowers, and later they asked
for cognac and cold milk: one preferred slow sips, so that he could roll the liquor around the inside of his cheeks and under his tongue; the other favored rapid slurps that sent the cool drink gliding down his throat. Thus they made their peace until peace itself, as a state of affairs, seemed derisory and boring, and then they strolled down tranquil streets, they climbed countless steps and arrived once more in the suffocating garret, convinced that idleness is a supreme virtue, they tasted the sweetness of sleep, one in a bed not quite soft, the other on the carpet in the rays of the sun, and one let out a sigh and the other a mewl when a knock was heard at the door. To Joseph's amazement, into the chamber stepped the same lean functionary who sixteen days earlier, in Berlin, had handed him the envelope with two seals and the little waxed-paper packet. It was only now that they became formally acquainted, as they perspired together, and the eyes of the dentist felt heavy as lead, his attire unseemly. The visitor was called Wolf Dieter Trumpp, and he was the private secretary of Princess Maria, the youngest member of the Hohenzollern family. He seemed not to notice that the doctor was fastening the buttons of his shirt, putting on his waistcoat, and smoothing the creases from his trousers. That gentleman gave a light cough, as though this might have assisted in some way, placed the dentist's new passport on the table, professed his surprise at the hotel's habit of keeping tomcats in the rooms (to guard the guests against mice, he supposed), and explained that the document was in good order, with all the official headings, stamps, and signatures, issued by the governor of the Canton of Saint Gallen himself, Herr Äpli, and not fabricated by some forger. Offering his opinion that a little rain would not go amiss, would reinvigorate the vegetation, the guest also uttered a name, Joseph Kranich, which the dentist would have to assume for the rest of the journey, this choice of name being the fruit of the governor's inspiration or whimsy, as he had reckoned that an ostrich and a crane, eine Strauss und eine Kranich, were somewhat akin. With his hands clasped behind his back, the secretary added that he had made a reservation on the train that left Bavaria on Friday, after nightfall. Finally, Herr Trumpp removed from his pocket a little box covered in maroon velvet, wiped it with his fingertips, and placed it next to the passport. The little lead soldier within, in a victorious attitude of attack, must have once belonged to the young king. It was from his youngest sister, Maria, who had found it hidden under a sheaf of military treatises on his desk in Sigmaringen Castle.
The crossing of the Bodensee was not exactly a joy. The glare out on the lake, the excitement of boarding, the sailors going about their tasks, and the aroma of the tea drunk in the port of Rorschach—all these dissolved under the rocking of that vast expanse of azure also christened the Schwäbisches Meer. The pitching of the boat provoked in the doctor a more wretched nausea than had the beer and champagne, causing him to lean over the side thrice and splatter the water with undigested morsels of his breakfast and a yellowish, bitter juice, such as the foaming streaks of the waves scattered over the lake that also had a third name, Konstanz, perhaps did not deserve. His grogginess had abated by the time they reached Lindau, where he managed, trembling, to gulp down ten drops of quinine mixed with brown sugar, and it definitively dispersed in the mail coach that raced northward, once he had rubbed his temples and the backs of his hands with swabs soaked in vinegar. He spent a night in Memmingen and another in Augsburg, and in Munich he discovered a town as carefree as early summer could make it. He permitted himself a light lunch and hours of delectation, he looked at the ladies out for a stroll, the governesses and the boisterous children, at a group of Dominican nuns, a perspiring bakery woman, and a lass with a bundle of dirty laundry, he indulged his appetite with cherry tarts, he paused in the shade (where his pipe slowly went out) next to a maid perched on a ladder washing the window of a chemist's shop, with her skirt hitched up and a bruise on her left thigh, he leafed through the papers (his pipe now lit), he found time to pause for beer and gaped at some circus folk who were breathing fire, playing tambourines and trumpets, dancing and juggling with colored balls. But in a small square, the thread of pleasure snapped when a top-hatted little dog who was whining in time to music abandoned its performance and, deaf to its trainer, rushed at Siegfried. Two girls screamed, a lady tripped on the train of her dress and almost fell onto the cobbles, a seminary student and a shop boy jumped into a coal cart, an old woman pressed herself against a wall, and the dog, small and dolled up as it was, yapped loudly, bared its gums, growled and snapped at the air. Perched on a fence, the tomcat bristled his tail, spat, and then twisted round and sprayed the dog with piddle.
In the second-class railway carriage where a seat had been reserved for one Joseph Kranich, the doctor spent a very long time deciphering the rhythms and tones of the breathing around him, the cough of the man by the door, the lip-smacking of a country priest, the light snore of a woman in mourning, the fidgeting of a businessman with ginger sideburns, and the unintelligible snatches of speech from a freckled little girl. At Salzburg, as they passed through Austrian customs, he heard his heartbeat, which, oddly, was louder than the ticking of his watch, whose lid was engraved inside with the names of his mother and sister, Gertrude and Irma. The hands showed ten to four in the morning, a cold, damp hour. The wind slipped through the steam of the locomotive, chased away the railway smells, and filled Joseph's nostrils with the scent of lilac. Inside the waiting room, bodies were emerging haltingly from sleep, conversations were being conducted in an undertone, the air was crackling like the guttering candles and dispersing droplets of perspiration, and an officer was bustling ceaselessly, checking the passports one more time, putting stern questions to the travelers, giving orders to the customs guards, soldiers, and his own adjutants. When his turn with the officer came, Herr Kranich was midway through chewing a slice of smoked fish he had found in a handkerchief, left over from the tomcat's last meal. The lieutenant wrinkled his nose, cursorily read the documents, and cast a look of scorn at the brown-haired, unmarried Catholic Switzer with hazel eyes who was heading to Bukarest with the intention of finding gainful employment doctoring Wallachians' teeth. At last, the train glided along the tracks to Vienna—it slipped between troop movements and war maneuvers, it let itself be caressed by torrid heat and fields of ripe wheat, it panted like a supple greyhound loyal to its purpose, it puffed smoke like a young gentleman and became somehow flustered as it neared that city pampered by the fates. Joseph greeted the new sunset dozing in another second-class carriage, with new companions and a new destination, Pest, one of the lungs of the empire, the other being Buda. If someone were rotating a globe in his palms (as a certain count with a catarrh had done that February) or scrutinizing a planisphere, he might have remarked that the dentist had descended a quarter of an inch, at most three-quarters of an inch (some three hundred miles, in fact), as far as one of the soles of the empire's feet, when the railway came to an end and once more the waters of the Danube could be glimpsed. In Baziaş, a gloomy little town dominated by the coal trade, the portmanteaus, bags, and trunk that had set out from Berlin, together with their owner and the tomcat in the basket, boarded a boat for the second time. The passengers' papers were carefully inspected, and so Herr Kranich's profession did not remain unknown to the captain, a fellow with a well-trimmed mustache and a good memory. As the boat passed a long island occupied by a fort, white houses, a Franciscan monastery, and tobacco plantations, an island that was called, in the Turkish tongue, Ada Kaleh, the officer on watch appeared suddenly on the lower deck, called out the name of a migratory bird, and was answered by a pale, thin man holding a tomcat in his lap. He entreated him to come urgently to one of the cabins in first class, where a baroness, a young Russian, was about to give birth. Though he preferred to treat only teeth, the doctor did not hesitate. He hastened to fetch his medical bag and reach the room with sunlit portholes, in which a woman was groaning and trembling, livid, blonde, frightened and astonished, stretched out in bed. Aksinia Larisa Yakovleva was at the end of a honeymoon voyage that had laste
d more than a year. The breaking of her water had soaked her dress and the sheets. She was immersed in the throes of childbirth, while her husband, who was older, much older, caressed and kissed her hands, babbling, complaining, weeping in a muffled way, and blaming himself for having miscalculated the length of the pregnancy and for not having delayed the voyage home. Joseph looked at the scene and remained silent for a quarter of a minute. Un-impressed by the baron's laments, Joseph invited him into the corridor and asked him to send for a basin of hot water. Then time progressed like a lazy snail, sometimes curling up in its shell and dozing, sometimes advancing undecidedly, until the baby arrived, just as evening was falling. It was a blond-haired boy who screamed loudly in amazement, and in amazing circumstances: he had Russian parents, he had been delivered by a Swiss (in reality, German) dentist, and found himself on an Austro-Hungarian vessel, with a Czech captain, between the Romanian and the Bulgarian banks of the Danube, both buffeted by winds from Istanbul. At the behest of Osip Afanasievich Yakovlev, the physician tossed back four brimming glasses of vodka and then admitted that he had never supervised a birth before. Plashing the Danube jerkily with its paddles, the steamer had long since passed Turnu-Severin, where he ought to have disembarked, and headed toward Giurgiu, while Joseph slept soundly for two hours, forgetting Siegfried, the young mother, past and future. On dry land at last, he was greeted by a dust storm and dozens of people, some of them barefoot, who jostled him to carry his luggage. It was not until he was in the coupé, jolting along the road to Bucharest, that he found the diamond ring. It was in his matchbox. Next to his pipe. He had seen it on the left hand of the baron, on his middle finger, when they had clinked glasses for the lucky star of the newborn. He laughed.
The Days of the King Page 2
