by Shlomo Kalo
The highest rate of suicides was scored by bank managers of various kinds, and this was kept secret, as these were people of renown, the crème de la crème of this innovative society, models of stability, integrity and success. There was a fear that their tragic departure would engender even deeper recession and ruin, and turn this into a worldwide disaster.
Among the above-mentioned bankers was a relative of mine, Wilhelm von Keinehausen, who controlled the family’s financial interests in the New World. He chose to put an end to himself in a most original manner; he jumped from the 101st floor of a skyscraper built in the vicinity of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier – with a parachute strapped to his back. He was an indecisive though eminently sensible type, planning everything in meticulous detail – traits of character reflected with admirable clarity in the process of his death-leap; he did not touch the parachute to start with, thinking simply of the heavy losses incurred by the trust funds invested in the bank for which he was responsible, irreparable losses. And then, in mid-descent, an ingenious idea flashed into his mind (the ancient blood of the Munchausens flowed in his veins too, though, regrettably, in minuscule quantities), a way of extricating himself from the mess. At this moment he pulled the rip-cord of his parachute, and as he passed the thirty-seventh floor, the canopy opened successfully. Spectators in the streets applauded him with enthusiasm. In fact, this relative of mine was a pioneer in the art of free-fall, the first to turn theory into practice. And then, as he approached the eighth floor, his mind darkened somewhat, as he hastily assessed the facts as they stood, reconsidered and decided in favour of suicide after all. With agility not to be underestimated, he released himself from the harness and fell to the ground from a height of approximately four meters and twenty centimeters, according to my estimate, which is an expert’s estimate, with a margin of error of no more than 0.05%. But at that fateful moment, the esteemed Wilhelm von Keinehausen turned over in the air and landed on the flat memorial stone of the Unknown Soldier, his erudite head leading the way and his heavier body parts following.
As a result of this, I was left with no more than one dollar in my pocket, to buy a wreath in memory of the steadfast Wilhelm which I laid on his freshly dug grave.
Incidentally, this was not the only wreath – at least two more one-dollar wreaths were deposited there – by a street beggar, formerly the most celebrated manufacturer of bathroom taps in the whole of the American continent and an investor in Wilhelm’s bank – and a man who walked with a limp, on an artificial leg made of cherry wood, and wore a faded smoking-jacket, formerly the manager of the rival bank to that of my unfortunate relative, who also jumped from the same building but without a parachute and did not turn over in the air, and instead of landing on the flat memorial stone of the Unknown Soldier – his outstretched leg caught the open mouth of Jimmy, world champion in the sport of free wrestling, heavyweight division, who happened to be there, watching the impressive leap with rather too much excitement. Jimmy was killed on the spot; the bank manager lost his leg somewhere in the tangle of the wrestler’s guts. A group of charitable ladies held a collection on behalf of the former manager and ordered a prosthetic leg for him, made from the cherry wood which was just then coming into fashion.
There was nothing for me to do in gloomy New York. I hitched a ride on a train transporting horses, as all the vagrants used to do in those days, hiding between the legs of the magnificent beasts and deceiving the stern, grim-faced inspectors by uttering weird and wonderful sounds which neither horse nor man nor any other creature would be capable of uttering.
The grim and granite-featured inspectors were suitably alarmed and the rumor spread everywhere the train halted, that a sinister phantom was at large among the horses and they were uttering words of prophecy, like people from ancient times, but there was no one who could even interpret what was being said, let alone set down in writing whatever horrors the spirit was foretelling for this corrupt world of ours.
In Chicago I bade farewell to the warm livestock wagon, the straw and the horses. The faces of the inspectors I never got to see – they gave my wagon a wide berth, before fleeing and disappearing as if the ground had opened and swallowed them alive.
Chicago greeted me with gunfire – criminals of all kinds were shooting at cops with machine-guns mounted on speeding cars and cops were trying to respond in kind. But all that was heard from the police side was a dull and derisory stuttering of handguns, and the submachine-guns that had recently been invented and could only fire single shots, Disappointed by the police response the criminals fired at one another and also at peaceable citizens, peering out from some hole between the walls to see if the way was clear. And after robbing the neighborhood bank, the general store and the elegant boutique for women’s Parisian fashions next door, the gangsters fled from the scene in those black cars that had just come on the market, maneuvering them in artistic style down winding alleyways and across grand avenues. The gangsters in their cars shrieked with laughter, a sound reminiscent of the wailing of jackals on a moonlit night, blended with short bursts of gunfire, in the course of which they shot down housewives hurrying to the shops, old folks out to take in some sunshine, kids playing checkers, and some homeless people who failed to take refuge in time. And no protests, not so much as a whisper.
No wonder then that Chicago was following in the footsteps of New York, and the most prosperous professions there were funereal services and the manufacture of coffins, plus organized crime.
Without a second thought I went to the nearest police precinct and offered my reliable services as cop-sharpshooter-driver-genius. At first they didn’t believe my claim to be an ace marksman and a supremely talented driver, without equal in any of the continents and perhaps outside them too. They turned their depressed looks towards me, looks inundated with such panic that no room was left for scorn, let alone – a smile. Their thick blue uniforms were remarkably apt for hiding the fearful tremor which periodically affected their clumsy bodies.
There and then I supplied living proof of my words – I took the revolver of the cop standing beside me and shot three fleas one after the other, as they leapt from the back of one police dog to the ear of another, without missing a single one. I drove a swaying police patrol car down the nearest alleyway and across a broad intersection, and once I had built up some speed, as much speed as this wretched vehicle was capable of accumulating, I drove up the wall and over the roof of the extensive police station, coming down on the other side via a sheer wall smooth as glass, maneuvering between the barred windows of detention cells with the lightness of a classical ballet dancer. The detainees, who were not in the cells except by their own choice, in other words – they had committed some petty crime, such as stealing a balloon from a child in the park, in the hope of being arrested and eating three square meals per day – applauded me with a spontaneous cheer which almost terrified the local populace. To say nothing of the wearers of the anti-body-tremble-uniforms, all of whom, including their commander, were smitten with panic and took a long time regaining their senses. The mayor, who resembled a hippopotamus full bloom and who had been appointed to that function entirely by chance, removed his soft hat in sincere and deep admiration, my just desert from any point of view.
There and then they photographed me and took my clothing measurements, and two days later I was already out in the patrol car, in those dingy side-streets, wearing that uncomfortable uniform, with a valid police warrant card in my back trouser pocket.
Gangsters soon came to acknowledge the weight of my arm and gradually began replacing the hungry balloon-thieves in the many detention cells.
They fired at me a number of times, tried to booby-trap my car – and I always rose to the challenge and emerged victorious, whether on account of my renowned dexterity, or on account of my shrewdness, of which I can say without boasting, as a known fact – that no one in this generation, not to mention any previous generation, could compete with me.
And th
ings reached the point where it was enough for the rumor to go about that Baron Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen was setting out to chase criminals, and all the law-abiding citizens of Chicago, along with their permanent and temporary guests, left their homes, their business premises and places of entertainment and even in the worst weather, came out to watch the highly skilled and impressive chase operation, with advanced automobilobatics, the like of which has never been seen since the four-wheeled vehicle was invented.
Criminals trembled at the sound of my name and put out fantasy-stories about me, saying that my car was possessed of magical qualities, and I wore some kind of magic amulet, capable of melting any bullets aimed at me in mid-flight; the cowards among them went even further and swore they had seen me flying through the air with or without a vehicle and casting dread upon every resident who saw me, turning him to stone with just a flash of my penetrating stare, the stare of a born sorcerer.
In those days, the pursuit exhibition in which I took part was the most fascinating exhibition in the city of Chicago, an unrivalled exhibition, and hordes of Americans, addicted to competitions and demonstrations of superior skill, from all levels and strata of society, came flooding into Chicago and filled the whitewashed hotels, paying exorbitant prices for rooms, and awaiting with a thrill of excitement the opportunity of seeing me and the artistry of my driving, a sight that no one would believe. In other words, in accordance with the American fashion of those days, which has not changed at all up until the present day, there developed around the impressive pursuit driving skills of Baron Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen, a whole industry – covering everything from package tours to the sale of popcorn and hotdogs, and in particular, the wealthiest industry of them all – the complex and risky world of gambling. This industry, which is the evil sickness of the Anglo-Saxon and Latin worlds and those who come into contact with them – with the exception of the modest Slavs – decided in incontrovertible style that I was the equal of my thirty-two competitors, both in evading and in mounting pursuit, or in other words – betting office managers were offering odds of thirty-two to one to anyone betting against me. Very few so irredeemably foolhardy people were found, except for a few tourists, recent arrivals in town, and deliberately excluded from the secret of recent events and the issues of interest to the permanent residents. Among the latter too there were some avowed fantasists, driven out of their senses by the prospect of a thirty-two dollar return on a one dollar stake. It was a sure form of suicide, but at that time there was no shortage of suicides. Among the Scottish expatriates there wasn’t a single one who was tempted to bet against me, in feverish expectation of a rate of return capable of blinding the senses and the mind. The senses of the Scot, as is well known, are very alert and his modest intellect is well calculated, and the Scottish gambler always betted in my favor, to his credit and praise. The Scottish gambler never loses and this may be the outstanding national feature of his race, and none of the other attributes, rightly or wrongly, associated with it, and hence anyone who wants a sure bet – should follow the Scottish gambler and do exactly as he does.
In the end the outcome was so sure and free of any kind of doubt that the extensive gambling industry which had sprung up at such a giddy American pace, would have given up the ghost and disappeared at precisely the same pace, were it not for some shrewd citizens of Chicago who began betting on the "circuit" – at odds of ten to one or fifteen to one that the criminals would be caught on the fourth, fifth, seventh or tenth circuit (they no longer betted on the capture itself, since as already stated this was in no doubt at all, known in advance down to the last detail). There were some who came to me with disreputable offers: they tried to induce me to ensure that the criminals fleeing for their lives would be "caught" on a specifically nominated circuit, in exchange for a modest villa in the suburbs of the city which would be transferred into my name immediately. Others had the gall to imply that they were prepared to "stage" the whole event from beginning to end, and to pay me a personal fee of one hundred thousand dollars, in hard cash. Or, if this price was unacceptable to me – a luxury yacht, currently moored in the famous New York Marina, Long Island, was mine for the asking. These were the minions of that king of the underworld of all time, Al Capone. Needless to say I rejected all these despicable offers with contempt.
And then came the inevitable confrontation with the pathetic Al Capone gang, composed mostly if not entirely of psychopaths who had not been placed in the appropriate institutions because of the obsession of modern society with the pursuit of mammon and its blind attachment to the fat bribes which they (the psychopaths) knew how to put into the hands of its official or semi-official representatives. The Al Capone case, like all similar cases, since then and up to the present day and for always, is nothing other than the end-result of a sick, hedonistic society, consumed by its perverse adoration of the dollar-bill.
What happened, happened at the very time that a Swedish actress – young and delightful and above all, incomparably gifted, captivating the hearts of all who saw her with her rare personal charm – appeared in her debut performance at the Metropolitan Opera. All the crème de la crème of Chicago society streamed to the central square, its dimensions those of an average-sized European city, in the middle of which stood the Opera building, constructed in faux-classical style, with twelve thousand velvet-upholstered seats and four corrals for those who preferred to watch and listen on horseback.
All the tickets were sold out. And the highly skilled profiteers did not sit back idly, issuing so many forgeries that sometimes a noisy altercation broke out among four patrons, wearing frock-coats, starched shirts and white bow-ties, each holding an apparently valid ticket for the same velvet-upholstered seat. In the end, the arguments were silenced. The mayor set a living example for the more belligerent spirits, sharing his armchair with the overweight chief of the fire service and with the attorney-general, a man so emaciated he resembled that famous knight from La Mancha.
So the divine Greta Garbo appeared before the host of culture seekers while in the streets of Chicago – Al Capone appeared in all his perverse glory, riding in an armor-plated car, challenging not only the Chicago police force, whose heroic officers hurriedly took refuge in their holes, like wet rats with chattering teeth – but also the heavens above and the earth beneath.
Al Capone sped along the winding alleyways, firing all his weapons, lurching back and forth unexpectedly, sowing terror, death and destruction.
It is possible that Capone’s display would, somehow, have passed off quietly, with little attention paid to the seven plundered bank-branches and scores of dead innocents, had it not emerged that the only police driver still on duty in the central precinct was none other than Baron Leutenlieb of the House of Munchausen, in person.
I had no time to give any thought to the state of the Chicago police force, to consider the opportunity that was being missed, a unique opportunity perhaps, to feast my eyes on such a charming, proud and poetic creature as Greta Garbo – so I took some automatic weapon or other and climbed into the driver’s cab of one of the few serviceable police vehicles remaining. I turned on the siren and headed towards those dingy side-streets, so familiar to me, down to the last worm-hole in them.
In a way that I will never understand, the news leaked out and spread with the speed of light, that I was mounting the pursuit, in person, and the quarry was none other than Al Capone in person, in his bullet-proof armor-plated car, with fourteen outriders accompanying him to guard against attack from any suspicious looking corner.
As a spontaneous response to the fresh news – all of the distinguished throng of culture seekers left the halls of the Metropolitan Opera, and crowded onto the broad pavements of the square and alongside the dark alleyways – to watch the race, staged free and without charge and without any need for a ticket bought on either the white or the black market. And the celebrated actress, rising star of the dawn, was abandoned by Chicago’s elite, includi
ng the mayor, the chief of the fire service, the Cervantes-style attorney-general, and all the respected senators, their wives, grown-up sons and virginal daughters, journalists and government functionaries, famous boxers, renowned weightlifters, not to mention sprinters holding Olympic medals and high-jumpers, tennis stars and shopkeepers, shareholders in the steel industry and moguls of the entertainment business – and left alone on the boards of the stage.
As it turned out she did not lose her nerve, and true to the old Anglo-Saxon adage "If you can’t beat them – join them", she came down herself, with the agility of a distinguished artiste, to the main doors of the Opera building, where she was greeted by the mayor and invited to sit in the single armchair which the employees of that august institution provided for her benefit.
Relaxed and radiant, Greta the Great watched with lively interest the cars streaming before her eyes in such unruly fashion, enjoying the sound of the powerful siren which did not pause for a moment in its evening performance, fit to raise the dead to life, and the hail of bullets which now and then killed an unlucky spectator, whose head protruded too far above the parapet, a victim of his excessive curiosity. Later, Greta Garbo said with spontaneous actressy excitement that at the first moment of the incident, she imagined that the building was about to go up in flames, or a bloody political revolution had broken out, or a deadly plague was rife in the city and had wiped out half the population…
One way or the other, Garbo sat in the velvet armchair and went on watching the heart-warming mayhem that I had created. There were some who said she tried to place a bet of some kind, but the mayor dissuaded her with chivalrous vigor, explaining with a gentle smile that the game was fixed and the outcome a foregone conclusion. The mayor was right in the second part of his statement, but in the first part there was not the slightest hint of truth.
