The Dedalus Book of German Decadence

by Ray Furness

  Manasse, the little lawyer, turned and looked at him. ‘For how long?’ he gasped. ‘What kind of a question is that? For as long as you live! You should count yourself lucky that this possibility remains open to you – it’s certainly pleasanter to squander your millions in a villa on the Riviera than ending your days in prison! And it would be prison, I can assure you! And it’s the authorities that have left this escape route for you, the prosecution could just as well have signed the warrant for your arrest this morning, and everything would have been over by now! Damned decent of them, but they would take it very badly if you didn’t use this little exit. And when they decide to act, then they’ll get you … and then, your Excellency, this would be your last night as a free man.’

  The judge said, ‘Flee, make your escape. It seems to me the best thing you could do.’

  ‘Yes’, yelped Manasse ‘certainly the best and, indeed, the only solution for a crook and an embezzler. Disappear into thin air and take that daughter with you. Lendenich, and the whole town, would be grateful.’

  The Professor pricked up his ears. For the first time that evening some sign of life entered his features, and the rigid mask of apathy slipped, that mask upon which a nervous restlessness had flickered.

  ‘Mandra,’ he whispered, ‘Mandra, if she came too.’ He passed his plump hand two or three times across his powerful forehead. He sat down, took a glass of wine, emptied it.

  ‘Gentlemen, I think you’re right’, he said. ‘I thank you for this. Would you please go through everything once more.’ He seized the bundle of documents, shares, policies – the papers which were his undoing.

  The lawyer began, and quietly, precisely, explained the legal technicalities. He worked through the stocks and shares, summed up each possibility of getting out, or self-defence. And Professor ten Brinken threw in the occasional word and, as in the old days, fought and manipulated. He grew increasingly clearer in his mind, and with each new danger there was also a new suppleness in his thinking.

  Some papers he kept to one side, these posed no danger. But there were still sufficient number to bring about his undoing. He dictated a few letters, gave out instructions, took down notes and suggested appeals, complaints … Then he studied the train timetable, made his plans and gave instructions for what to do next. And when he left his office he could claim that he had ordered his affairs to his satisfaction. He hired a taxi and was driven to Lendenich, confident and assured. And it was only when the servant opened the gate and he was walking across the courtyard and up the stairs to the mansion that his confidence left him.

  He looked for Mandra and felt it was a good omen that there were no guests in the house. The maid informed him that she had dined alone and was in her room. So he climbed the stairs, knocked on her door, and went in at her ‘Enter’.

  ‘I must talk to you’ he said.

  She was sitting at her writing desk and briefly looked up at him. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not convenient’.

  ‘It’s most important, it can’t be delayed.’

  She looked at him, and lightly crossed one foot over the other. ‘Not now. Go downstairs. Give me half an hour.’

  He left, took off his fur coat and sat on the sofa. He waited and mulled over what he would say, every sentence, every word.

  After a good hour had passed he heard her footsteps. He rose and went to the door and there she stood, dressed as a liftboy in a bright, strawberry-coloured uniform.

  ‘Ah …’ he sighed. ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘To reward you’, she laughed. ‘Because you are such an obedient daddy … Now, what’s it all about?’

  The Professor concealed nothing of his affairs, the malpractice, neglect, the dubious transactions. He spoke precisely, embellishing nothing. She did not interrupt him, and let him speak and confess.

  ‘It’s basically you who are to blame,’ he said. ‘I could have dealt with everything, without any trouble. But I let it all slide, and devoted myself to you, and then the many-headed hydra –’

  ‘The naughty Hydra!’ she mocked. ‘And now poor Hercules has his difficulties? […] Now, little daddy, tell me what you are going to do.’

  He explained that they would have to flee, now, immediately. They could do a bit of travelling, see the world – London first, then Paris. They could stop there for a bit and get whatever they wanted. And then overseas, travel through America, to Japan or India, just as she wished. Or both: they had time after all. And then Palestine, Greece, Italy, Spain. Just as she wanted: they could stop for a bit, then move on. And finally they would buy a beautiful villa somewhere, on Lake Garda, or on the Riviera. She could have horses, her cars, also her own yacht. She could entertain, if she wished, and live in grand style. He was not abstemious with his promises: he painted the scene in bright colours, all the splendours, and his febrile brain devised new, even more enticing blandishments. And then he stopped, and put his question to her. ‘So, little one, what do you say? Would you like to see all of this? Would you like to live like this?’

  She was sitting on the table, and swung her slim legs back and forth. ‘O yes,’ she nodded, ‘I’d like to very much. Only –’

  ‘What?’ he asked quickly. ‘If you have another wish, just let me know. I know I can grant it.’

  She laughed at him. ‘Well, grant it then! I’d love to travel, but not with you!’

  The Professor staggered backwards and almost fell; he grasped the arm of a chair. He gasped for words, but found none.

  She continued: ‘It would be boring with you. I find you tiresome. I shall travel, but without you!’

  He laughed, too, trying to convince himself that this was a joke. ‘But it’s me who’s got to travel!’ he said. ‘I’ve got to escape this very night.’

  ‘So go then,’ she said quietly.

  He tried to seize her hands, but she put them behind her back. ‘And you Mandra?’

  ‘Me? I’m staying.’

  He started again, begging, imploring. He told her that he needed her, needed her like the air that he breathed. She should take pity on him, he would soon be eighty and he wouldn’t be a burden for much longer. Then he threatened her, yelling that he would disinherit her, cut her off without a penny …

  ‘Just you try it,’ she interposed.

  He kept on talking, describing the radiance that would surround her. She would be free as no girl before her, do whatever she wished. There would be no wish, no thought that he would not grant her. But she should just come with him, and not leave him alone.

  She shook her head. ‘I like it here. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m staying.’

  She said this quietly, calmly. She didn’t interrupt him, but let him do all the speaking, all the promising. But she shook her head every time he put the question.

  Finally she jumped from the table and walked past him, quietly, to the door.

  ‘It’s late’, she said, ‘and I’m tired. Goodnight, daddy, and bon voyage’.

  He stood in her way and made his last attempt. He insisted that he was her father, and spoke of filial duty, like a vicar. She burst out laughing: ‘That I might enter the Kingdom of Heaven!’ She was standing next to the sofa and sat astride the armrest. ‘How do you like my leg?’ she asked suddenly. And she thrust a slim leg upwards, towards him, and swung it back and forth. He gazed at it, and forgot everything, the flight, the danger. He saw nothing, experienced nothing, except this slim, boyish leg, strawberry red, that was swinging up and down before his eyes.

  ‘I’m a good girl’, she fluted, ‘a very good girl who gives her silly daddy so much pleasure. Kiss my leg, daddy, stroke my pretty leg, daddy!’

  He fell heavily to his knees, seized the red leg and grasped with trembling fingers the thigh and the plump calf … He pressed his moist lips against the red cloth, and licked it for a long time with a quivering tongue.

  Then, quickly and lightly, she jumped from the sofa, tweaked him by the ear and tapped him lightly on the cheek. ‘Well, daddy’,
she cooed, ‘haven’t I done my filial duty nicely? Good night, have a good trip, and don’t let them catch you, it’s supposed to be rather nasty in prison. And don’t forget to send a pretty postcard!’

  She reached the door before he could rise. She made a bow, correct and stiff as a boy, and saluted with her right hand to her cap. ‘A great honour, your Excellency!’ she called. ‘And don’t make too much noise with your packing, it might disturb my sleep!’

  He staggered after her and saw her run quickly up the stairs. He heard her open the door, then it snapped shut and the key was turned twice in the lock. He wanted to reach her, and laid his hand on the banister, but he sensed that she would not open, despite his pleading. This door would remain shut in his face, even if he stood all night in front of it, till dawn, till, till the police arrived to take him away.

  He stood stock still. He listened, and could hear her footsteps above him, going back and forth across the floor. Then all was silent.

  He crept out of the house and walked bare-headed through the heavy rain, across the courtyard to the library. He entered, looked for matches and lit a couple of candles on his writing desk; he collapsed heavily into an armchair.

  ‘Who is she?’ he whispered. ‘What is she? What a creature!’

  He opened the old mahogany desk, drew open a drawer and took out the leather volume, staring at her initials on the cover.

  The game was finished, he knew this well enough. And he had lost, he had no more cards left. It had been his game: he had dealt the cards. He had held all the trumps, but he had lost the game. He smiled grimly. Now he would have to pay the bill. Pay? Oh yes, and in which currency?

  He looked at the clock, it was past midnight. They would come with a warrant for his arrest, no later than seven. He had six hours left. They would be very polite, very considerate: they would take him to prison in his own car. And then, the trial would begin. That would not be so bad, he could defend himself for months and make difficulties for his opponents every inch of the way. But finally, in the main hearing, he would collapse – Manasse was correct. And finally, prison.

  Or: flight. But alone? All on his own? Without her? He felt hatred for her now, but he also knew that he could think about nothing but her. He would rush about the world endlessly, aimlessly, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but her warbling voice, her red, swinging leg. He would die of hunger, either out there, or in prison, whichever. This leg! This sweet, slim boyish leg! How could he live without it?

  The game was lost, and he had to pay the cost. So he would pay it, now, tonight, and be in nobody’s debt. He would pay it with what remained: his life. And then he felt that it was a worthless tribute, and that he would be cheating his partners at the end. The thought cheered him, and he brooded on the chance of giving one final kick. That would finally give some satisfaction.

  He took his will from the writing desk, the will which had made Mandra his sole beneficiary. He read it through, then tore it carefully into tiny pieces. ‘I must make a new one,’ he whispered, ‘but for whom?’

  He took out a sheet of paper, and dipped his pen in the ink. There was his sister, and there was her son, his nephew, Frank Braun.

  He paused. Him? him? Had he not brought this gift into his house, this strange creature who was now destroying him? He, like the others? He should strike him, him more than Mandra Gora.

  ‘You will be tempting God,’ the young man had said. ‘You will ask him a question, one so insolent that He must reply.’ Oh yes, and now he had his answer!

  But if he were inexorably lost, perished, so the boy must share his fate also, he, Frank Braun, who gave him the idea in the first place! He had a very sharp weapon, his little daughter Mandra! And she would bring Frank Braun to the place that he was in now …

  He pondered, shook his head slowly and grinned in the certain knowledge of having gained his last triumph. And he wrote his will without a pause in quick, ugly writing.

  Mandra remained his legal heir, she alone. But he left a legacy to his sister and one to his nephew. The latter was also to be his executor and guardian to the girl until she came of age. So Frank Braun would have to come, to be close to her and breathe the sultry perfume of her lips. And he would go the same way as all the others, as he had done!

  He laughed out loud. He then added a codicil making the University a beneficiary if Mandra should die without issue, thus excluding his nephew. He signed the document, then dated it. And then he took up the leather volume, read it, added the details and scrupulously brought it up to date. He finished with a final address to his nephew, dripping with venom. ‘Try your luck …’ he wrote. ‘Pity I won’t be there when it’s your turn! I would like to have seen it!’

  He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the volume and carefully placed it in the drawer, alongside other mementoes […] He went across to the curtain and loosened the silk braid. With a long pair of scissors he cut a piece off and threw it into the drawer. ‘Mascotte!’ he laughed. ‘ça porte bonheur pour la maison!’

  He moved along the walls, climbed on to a chair and, with considerable effort, removed a massive iron crucifix from its heavy hook. He laid it carefully on the divan. ‘Sorry to have to move you,’ he grimaced, ‘but it’s only for a short time, for a couple of hours … You shall have a worthy deputy!’

  He knotted the silk braid and threw it over the hook. He tugged at it to make sure it was firmly attached, and then he climbed back on the chair again …

  The police found him early next morning. The chair had fallen over, but the dead man was still touching it with the tip of one of his feet. It seemed as if he had regretted his deed and had tried to save himself at the very last minute. His right eye was wide open, staring at the door. And his thick, blue tongue was hanging out of his mouth. He looked very ugly.

  * * * *

  Intermezzo.

  And perhaps my blonde little sister, perhaps the silver bells of your quiet days now send forth the gentle tones of sleeping sins.

  Now the golden laburnum casts its poisonous yellow where the pale snow of the acacias is lying, and the hot clematis shows its deep blue where the pious bunches of wistaria sound peace to all …

  Sweet is the gentle play of lustful desires, sweeter, to me it seems, the cruel battle of the nocturnal passions. But sweeter than all, I think, is the sleeping sinfulness of hot summer days.

  Lightly she slumbers, my gentle friend, and one may not wake her. For she is never so lovely than in such a sleep.

  My dear sinfulness rests in a mirror, quite near, resting in a thin silk shift upon white linen. Your hand, my sister, hangs over the edge of the bed, the narrow fingers lightly clenched, fingers that wear my golden rings; your pink nails gleam like the first blush of day. Fanny, your black maid, has manicured them, created this small miracle. And in the mirror I kiss the transparent wonder of your rosy nails.

  Only in the mirror, in the mirror alone. Only with caressing glances and the gentle breath of my lips. For when sin awakes they grow, grow and become the sharp claws of a tigress. And tear my flesh.

  Your head rises from the lacy pillow, and your blonde curls fall profusely. They fall gently, like a flickering golden fire, like the gentle rustling of the first winds at the young day’s awakening. But your small teeth smile between your narrow lips like the milky opals in the gleaming bracelet of the moon–goddess. I kiss your golden hair, little sister, and your gleaming teeth.

  Only in the mirror, in the mirror alone. With the gentle breath of my lips and with caressing glances. For this I know: when hot sin awakes, then the little milky opals become tusks, and your golden locks become fiery vipers. Then the tiger’s claws tear my flesh, and the sharp fangs gouge bloody wounds. The flaming vipers hiss about my head, creep into my ears, squirt their poison into my brain, and whisper and utter the wild legends of monstrous lusts …

  Your silken shift slips from your shoulder, and your childish breasts laugh. They rest like two white kittens, young as the day, and their sw
eet, pink lips pout upwards. They gaze at your gentle eyes, blue eyes of stone which refract the light: they dazzle as the starry sapphire which gleams in the silent head of my golden Buddha.

  Do you see, little sister, how I kiss them back in the mirror? For I know well: when it wakes, when the eternal sin awakes, blue lightning will flash from your eyes and strike deep into my poor heart. Make my blood boil and seethe, and their heat will melt the powerful chains which keep madness in thrall, and madness will roar into the world.

  And then the wild beast, free of its chains, will be unleashed, and it will hurl itself upon you, sister, in raging torment. And it will hack its claws into your sweet little breasts, breasts that now – because sin is wakened – become the monstrous breasts of a lustful harlot, and the beast’s wild maw will sink its fangs into you … And pain exults in torrents of blood.

  But my glances are still gentle, quieter than the tread of nuns at the holy sepulchre. And still more gentle is the breath of my lips. Like the spirit’s kiss on the Host in the minster, the kiss that transforms the bread into the body of our Lord.

  It should not wake, this beautiful sin, it should rest and have peace.

  For nothing, my dear friend, seems to me sweeter than chaste sinfulness in its tender sleep.

  * * * *

  Frank Braun had returned to his native land, to his home, from somewhere or other, from one of his fruitless journeys, from Kashmir, or the Bolivian chaco, from the West Indies perhaps, where he had played at being a revolutionary in preposterous republics, or from the south seas, where he had dreamed strange dreams with the slender daughters of dying people.

  He returned, from somewhere or other. […] He returned to Lendenich, through the fragrance of Spring, to his ward. […]

  Frank Braun crossed the courtyard and noticed that a light was burning in the library. He entered and Mandra was sitting on the couch.

  ‘Are you here, dearest coz?’ he greeted her flippantly. ‘Up so late?’

  She said nothing, but beckoned him to sit down. He sat opposite her, and waited, but she was silent, and he did not press her.