Flotsam

by Erich Maria Remarque

  “We need another assistant,” Steiner said. “To clean up during the day and help with the telepathic experiments in the evening. Here he is.” He pointed to Kern.

  “Is he any good?”

  “He’s just what we need.”

  Potzloch squinted. “One of your friends? How much does he want?”

  “Board, lodging and thirty schillings. For the time being.”

  “A fortune!” screamed Director Potzloch. “The salary of a movie star! Do you want to ruin me, Steiner? Why, you’d pay almost that much to a day laborer who was registered with the police,” he added more calmly.

  “I’ll stay even without pay,” Kern answered quickly.

  “Bravo, young man! That’s the way to become a millionaire. Only the unassuming get ahead in life!” Potzloch snorted, grinning, and made a quick grab for his slipping glasses. “But you little know Leopold Potzloch, the last of the philanthropists. You will receive wages, fifteen schillings cash a month. Wages, I say, dear friend. Wages, not salary. From today on you are an artist. Fifteen schillings wages is more than a thousand in salary. Has he any special talent?”

  “I can play the piano a little,” Kern said.

  Potzloch jammed the glasses violently onto his nose. “Can you play softly—background music?”

  “My soft music is better than my loud.”

  “Good!” Potzloch transformed himself into a field marshal. “Have him practise something Egyptian. In the scene where the mummy is sawed in pieces and the one with the lady without legs we can use a little music.”

  He disappeared. Steiner looked at Kern and shook his head. “You confirm my theories,” he said. “I have always considered the Jews the dumbest and most blindly trustful people in the world. We could easily have got thirty schillings out of him.”

  Kern smiled. “There’s one thing you don’t take into account—the feeling of panic that a couple of thousand years of pogroms and ghettos have bred into us. If you make allowance for that, the Jews are really insanely rash. And what’s more I’m really only a miserable mongrel.”

  Steiner grinned. “All right. All right. Come along now and eat matzoth. We’re going to celebrate the Feast of the Tabernacles. Lilo’s a marvelous cook.”

  Potzloch’s show consisted of three parts: a carrousel, a shooting gallery and the Panorama of the Wonders of the World. Steiner instructed Kern that same morning in the first of his duties. He was to sweep out the carrousel and polish the brass trappings of its more imposing horses. Kern set to work. He polished not only the horses but also the stags which careered to the music, and the swans and elephants. He was so absorbed in his job that he did not hear Steiner approach. “Come along, kid, lunch.”

  “What, food again?”

  Steiner nodded. “Yes, again. You’ve got out of the habit, haven’t you? Now you’re among artists; they have the most bourgeois customs in the world. There’s even time off in the afternoon for coffee and cakes.”

  “This is Utopia!” Kern crawled out of a gondola to which a whale was harnessed. “My God, Steiner,” he said. “Everything’s been so wonderful lately that it worries me. First in Prague—and now here. Yesterday I had no idea where I was going to sleep; and today I have a job, a place to live and someone comes to call me for lunch! I still don’t believe it!”

  “You must believe it,” Steiner replied. “Don’t think about it; take it as it comes. That’s the classic motto for travelers.”

  “I hope it lasts a while longer!”

  “It’s a lifetime job,” Steiner said. “At least for three months. Until it gets too cold.”

  Lilo had set up a rickety table in the grass in front of the gipsy wagon. She brought out a big dish of vegetable soup with meat in it, and joined Steiner and Kern at the table. It was clear weather with a hint of autumn in the air. Some pieces of laundry were hanging in the field and between them played a pair of greenish-yellow brimstone butterflies.

  Steiner stretched out his arms. “A healthy life! And now off to the shooting gallery.”

  He showed Kern the guns and how to load them. “There are two kinds of marksmen,” he explained. “The ambitious and the greedy.”

  “Just as in life,” bleated Director Potzloch, who happened to be passing.

  “Those with ambition try the trick shots,” Steiner continued his explanation. “They’re not dangerous. The greedy ones want to win something.” He pointed to a number of shelves at the back of the gallery which were filled with Teddy bears, dolls, ash trays, bottles of wine, bronze figurines, household goods, and similar objects.

  “And they are supposed to win something. Something from the lower shelves, to be exact. But if anyone gets fifty or above then he has a chance at the upper shelves where the prizes are worth as much as ten schillings. In that case you put one of Director Potzloch’s original magic cartridges in his gun. They look exactly like the others. We keep them right here at the side. The man will be astounded when he suddenly makes a score of two or three. A little less powder, see?”

  “Right.”

  “Above all never change the gun, young man,” warned Director Potzloch, who suddenly appeared again behind them. “The boys are distrustful about guns. But not about cartridges. And you must keep a sense of proportion. People are to win, but we must make a profit—you must balance one consideration against the other. If you can do that successfully you’re an artist in living. A word to the wise is sufficient. Anyone who shoots often enough naturally has a right to the third shelf.”

  “Anyone who shoots up five schillings’ worth of powder is allowed to win a bronze goddess,” Steiner said. “Worth one schilling.”

  “Young man,” Potzloch said suddenly, in earnest warning, “I call your attention to one thing in particular—the chief prize. That is never to be won, understand? It is a private possession from my house. A showpiece!”

  He pointed to a hammered-silver fruit basket with twelve silver dishes and cutlery. “You must die before you let anyone get a sixty. Promise me that.”

  Kern promised. Potzloch wiped the perspiration from his forehead and made a grab for his glasses. “The very thought makes me shudder,” he gasped. “My wife would murder me. It’s an heirloom, young man!” he shouted. “An heirloom, in this traditionless age! Do you know what an heirloom is? Never mind, you wouldn’t know—”

  He scurried away. Kern looked after him. “It’s not so bad,” Steiner said. “Anyhow our rifles date from the time of the siege of Troy. And besides, Lilo will help you out if things get ticklish.”

  They went over to the exhibit of the Wonders of the World. It was a booth covered with colored posters and raised three steps above ground level. In front of it was a little ticket office, built in the shape of a Chinese pagoda—one of Leopold Potzloch’s inspirations. Steiner pointed to a poster that represented a man with lightning shooting out of his eyes. “Alvaro, the Telepathic Wonder—that’s me, Baby. And you’ll be my assistant.” They went into the booth which was half-dark and musty-smelling. There were a few rows of disordered chairs standing like ghosts. Steiner got up on the platform. “Now pay attention! Someone in the audience will hide something on another member of the audience; usually it’s a cigarette case, matchbox, compact or occasionally a pin. Heaven knows how people are always able to produce a pin. I have to find it. I invite an interested member of the audience up to the platform, take him by the hand and go to work. If you’re the person you lead me straight to the place and the harder you squeeze my hand the closer I am to the hidden object. A light tapping with the middle finger means that I have the right one. It’s easy. I go on searching until you tap; you show me whether to go higher or lower by moving your hand up or down.”

  Director Potzloch bustled in with a great commotion. “Is he getting the hang of it?”

  “We’re just going to rehearse it,” Steiner replied. “Sit down, Director, and hide something on yourself. Do you happen to have a pin?”

  “Of course!” Potzloch seized th
e lapel of his coat.

  “Of course he has a pin!” Steiner turned his back. “Hide it. And then you come here, Kern, and lead me.”

  Leopold Potzloch took the pin with a guileful expression and stuck it between the soles of his shoe.

  “Go ahead, Kern!” he said.

  Kern went to the platform and took Steiner’s hand. He led him to Potzloch and Steiner began to search.

  “I’m ticklish, Steiner,” Potzloch snorted and began to giggle.

  After a few minutes Steiner found the pin. They repeated the experiment with a matchbox. Kern learned the signals, and the time it took Steiner to find Potzloch’s box of matches became shorter and shorter.

  “Very good,” Potzloch said. “Practise that some more this afternoon. But here’s the principal thing: When you take the part of a spectator, you must hesitate, see? Otherwise the audience will smell a rat. That’s why you’ve got to hesitate. Go ahead, Steiner. I’ll show him.”

  He sat down on a chair beside Kern. Steiner went up to the stage. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I invite one of you to come up here on the stage,” he thundered in a barker’s voice into the empty room. “The thought transference will take place through nothing more than the touch of my hand. Not a word will be spoken, but the hidden object will be brought to light.”

  Director Potzloch bent forward as though he were about to get up and say something. Then he began to hesitate. He squirmed about in his chair, straightened his eyeglasses and looked around in embarrassment. Then he smiled apologetically, got up halfway, giggled, quickly sat down again, finally pushed himself up, and strode, at once solemn, self-conscious, curious and hesitant, toward Steiner, who was convulsed with laughter.

  When he got to the stage he turned around. “Now just copy that, young man,” he said encouragingly to Kern, smiling with self-satisfaction.

  “That can’t be copied,” Steiner shouted.

  Potzloch beamed at the flattery. “Self-consciousness is hard to portray. As an old ham actor I know that. Genuine self-consciousness, I mean.”

  “This fellow was born self-conscious,” Steiner explained. “He won’t have any trouble.”

  “That’s fine! Now I’ve got to go over to the carrousel.” Potzloch dashed off.

  “A volcanic temperament,” Steiner remarked admiringly. “Over sixty years old! Now I’ll show you what you have to do when you don’t have a chance to hesitate—when someone else does the hesitating. There are ten rows of chairs here. The first time you run your hand over your hair you show me the number of the row where the object is. Simply that many fingers. The second time how many seats from the left it is. Then you unobtrusively touch the spot on yourself where the thing is hidden. Then I’ll be able to find it—”

  “Is that all you need?”

  “That’s all. People are amazingly lacking in imagination in such matters.”

  “It seems too simple to me.”

  “Trickery has to be simple. Complicated schemes almost always misfire. We’ll try out the act again this afternoon. Lilo helps too. Now I’ll show you the music box. It’s a museum piece. One of the first pianos ever built.”

  “I don’t think I can play well enough.”

  “Nonsense. Just pick out a couple of pretty tunes. In the scene with the sawed-up mummy play it with the sustaining pedal; for the lady without legs make it gay and staccato. No one hears it anyway.”

  “All right. I’ll practise a little and then play it for you.”

  Kern climbed into the cubbyhole behind the stage, from which the piano leered at him with yellow teeth. After some reflection he chose the Death March from “Aïda” for the mummy, and for the missing legs an informal piece called “The Junebug’s Wedding Dream.” He pounded away on the piano and thought about Ruth, Steiner, the peaceful weeks ahead, and about supper, and was sure he had never been so well off in his life.

  A week later Ruth appeared in the Prater. She came just at the moment when the evening performance of the Wonders of the World was beginning. Kern found a place for her in the front row. Then he disappeared excitedly to do his stint at the piano. In celebration of the occasion he changed his program. In the scene with the mummy he played the “Japanese Torchlight Serenade,” and for the lady without legs, “Shine, Little Glowworm.” They were very effective. Later, for Mongo, the Australian Wild Man, he added of his own accord the Prologue from “Bajazzo,” his best accomplishment, which gave him a good opportunity for runs and chords.

  Outside Leopold Potzloch stopped him. “Splendid,” he said admiringly. “Much more fire than usual! Been drinking?”

  “No,” Kern replied. “Just a matter of mood—”

  “Young man!” Potzloch made a grab for his glasses. “It’s clear that up to now you have been deceiving me! I really ought to ask you to hand back your wages. From today on it’s your duty always to be in the right mood. An artist can do that, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “And to make up to me, from now on you will play an accompaniment for the trained seals too. Something classical, see?”

  “All right,” Kern said. “I know a part of the Ninth Symphony. That will be appropriate.”

  He went into the hall and sat down in the back row. Way up in front, between a hat with a feather and a man with a bald spot, he saw Ruth’s head through the haze of cigarette smoke. Suddenly it seemed to him the tiniest and most beautiful head in the world. Once in a while it disappeared as the spectators swayed with laughter; then amazingly it was there again like a vague and distant vision, and it was hard for Kern to believe that it belonged to someone with whom he would presently be talking and beside whom he would walk.

  Steiner appeared on the stage. He wore a black jacket on which astrological symbols were painted. A fat woman hid her lipstick in a young man’s handkerchief pocket and Steiner invited someone to come up to the stage.

  Kern began to hesitate. He hesitated in really masterly fashion; even when he was halfway to the stage he made as though to go back to his seat. Potzloch threw him an approving glance—mistakenly, for this was no piece of finished artistry, it was only that Kern suddenly felt that he could not walk past Ruth.

  But after that everything went smoothly and easily.

  After the performance Potzloch motioned Kern over to him. “Young man,” he said. “What’s happened to you today? You did a first-class job of hesitating. There was even nervous sweat on your forehead. Sweat is hard to represent, as I know myself. How did you manage it? Hold your breath?”

  “I think it was stage fright.”

  “Stage fright?” Potzloch beamed. “At last! The genuine excitement of a true artist before his entrance. Let me tell you something: you play an accompaniment for the seals from now on and for the Wild Man from the outskirts of Cologne as well, and I’ll give you a five-schilling raise. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” Kern said. “And ten schillings advance.”

  Potzloch stared at him. “So you’ve learned the word ‘advance’ already.” He drew a ten-schilling note from his pocket. “Now there can be no more doubt: You’re actually an artist!”

  “Well, children,” Steiner said, “run along! But be back here to eat at nine o’clock. There’ll be hot piroshki, the national dish of Holy Russia. Won’t there, Lilo?” Lilo nodded.

  Kern and Ruth walked across the field behind the shooting gallery toward the uproar of the merry-go-rounds. The lights and music of the amusement park rolled to meet them like a bright sparkling wave and broke over them in a foam of carefree gaiety.

  “Ruth!” Kern took her arm. “You’re going to have a big evening tonight. I’m going to spend at least fifty schillings on you.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort!” Ruth stopped.

  “Yes I will! I’ll spend fifty schillings on you. But I’ll do it the way the German Reich does. Without having them. You’ll see. Come along!”

  They went to the Ghost Ride. It was a giant maze with tracks that rose high in the air over which tin
y cars shot to the accompaniment of laughter and screams. People were crowding up to the entrance. Kern pushed his way through, drawing Ruth with him. The man at the ticket window caught sight of him. “Hello, George,” he said. “Here again? Go right in!”

  Kern opened the door of one of the low cars. “Step in!”

  Ruth looked at him in amazement.

  Kern laughed. “This is how it goes! Pure magic! We don’t have to pay.”

  They whizzed off. The car went up a steep incline and then pitched downward into a dark tunnel. A monster in chains rose screeching before them and made a grab at Ruth. She screamed and pressed close to Kern. Next moment a grave opened and a number of skeletons rattled out a grisly death march with their bones. Then the car shot out of the tunnel, whirled around a curve and pitched into a new shaft. Another car was rushing toward them with two people in it pressed close together and staring at them in terror; a collision seemed inevitable—then the car careened around a curve, the mirrored reflection disappeared and they flew into a steaming hell in which clammy hands swept across their faces.

  “Cheers you up, doesn’t it?” Kern shouted.

  “Not me,” Ruth shouted back and closed her eyes.

  They ran over a wailing old man, then emerged again into the light and the car stopped. They got out. Ruth rubbed her eyes. “How fine all this suddenly seems,” she said smiling, “the light, the air, the breeze, the fact that you can move and breathe.”

  “Have you ever been to a flea circus?” Kern asked.

  “No.”

  “Then come along!”

  “Good evening, Charlie,” said the woman at the door. “This your day off? Go right in. Alexander II is on now.”

  Kern looked complacently at Ruth. “Again, nothing to pay,” he explained. “Come on.”

  Alexander II was a strong, reddish flea who was making his first solo appearance before the public. His trainer was a trifle nervous; hitherto Alexander II had only acted as the left lead horse in a tandem and he possessed a wild and incalculable temperament. The audience, which, including Ruth and Kern, consisted of five people, observed him intently.