He fell silent and studied Mock. Apart from weariness, he could discern nothing in his face.
“And the reason for my expulsion?” Mock extinguished his cigarette, grinding it into the bottom of the ashtray.
“Committing a criminal offence.” To calm himself, Mühlhaus had begun to twist a small skewer into his pipe. “The police would expel you for the same thing. You’ve brought it upon yourself.”
“And what offence have I committed?” asked Mock.
“Are you just pretending to be an idiot?” Mühlhaus refrained from shouting this at the top of his voice. “Yesterday, in front of ten witnesses, you beat up a casino employee, Werner Kahl. And you used a knuckle-duster. Kahl has only just regained consciousness. Then you destroyed valuable Chinese porcelain belonging to the casino manager, Norbert Risse, with the intention of forcing him to defer your nephew’s debt. This was witnessed by three men, and the crime has been reported to the officer on duty. An accusation of assault and destruction of extremely valuable property will soon be drawn up. You will then stand before a court and your chances are minimal. The Lodge anticipates the facts and removes potential criminals from its circle. The President of Police will suspend you from your duties. And then we shall say our goodbyes.”
“Criminal Director …” Mock fell silent after uttering this official title, and for a while he listened to the sounds coming through the window: a tram bell on Schuhbrücke; the squelch of thawing snow; the clapping of horses’ hooves on wet cobblestones; the shuffling of students’ feet as they hurried to their lectures. “Surely not everything has been fore-judged. That doorman abused and attacked me first. I was only defending myself. My nephew and a certain Willibald Hönness, an employee of the casino, will attest to that. I wouldn’t trust Risse. He offered me coffee and I broke a cup. And now I see he has lodged a complaint that I smashed his entire Chinese coffee service. I’m surprised he didn’t mention the rape I committed on his parrot.”
Mühlhaus raised his arms and with all his strength thumped his fists against the desk. The inkwell jumped, the penholder rolled across the surface, sand scattered from the old sand-box.
“To hell with you!” he roared. “I want to hear from you what happened! And you, instead of an explanation, are fobbing me off with some miserable joke about a parrot. Tomorrow I am to be summoned before our President of Police. When he asks me how you justify all this, I’ll reply that you defended yourself with the statement: ‘I wouldn’t trust Risse.’”
“The only justification I have is loyalty to my family ties,” said Mock. “My nephew is my blood, and there’s a great deal I’d do for that. Beyond that, I have nothing with which to justify myself.”
“That’s what I’ll tell the old man tomorrow: the call of family blood,” Mühlhaus said sarcastically. He had calmed down and lit his pipe, piercing his subordinate with two slits for eyes. Mock felt sorry for him. He surveyed the bald head criss-crossed by wisps of hair, the long beard as if from the nineteenth century, the sausage-like fingers nervously fiddling with his pipe. He knew that Mühlhaus would go home that evening after his customary Thursday session of skat, that his thin wife, who had been growing old with him for the past quarter of a century, would greet him with his dinner, that they would talk about everything but their son, Jakob, who had left behind him a cold, empty room.
“Criminal Director, you really shouldn’t believe anything Risse says. The casino manager is a homosexual mixed up in the ‘four sailors’ affair. What is his word against mine?”
“In normal circumstances, nothing. But you went too far, Mock, and acted out a real-life western before numerous witnesses. I happen to know that Risse is preparing for an interview today with the Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten. I fear that even our President lacks the power to defend you and withhold such sensational material from the press.”
“There is someone who could.” Mock still held on to the hope that he would not have to share with Mühlhaus the information he had received from Meinerer. “And that’s Criminal Director Heinrich Mühlhaus.”
“Really?” Mühlhaus raised his eyebrows so high that his monocle fell out. “Perhaps you’re right. But I don’t want to help you. I’ve had enough of you, Mock.”
Mock was familiar with the various tones of Mühlhaus’ voice. This one was new to him – it was characterized by sarcasm, disdain and deliberation. It could mean that his boss had made his final decision. Mock had no choice but to use his ultimate argument.
“Will you really do nothing and let Risse walk out, triumphant? Allow the triumph of a homosexual patron of artists, who love him with their whole hearts and bodies? Among them a young painter who goes by the pseudonym of Giacoppo Rogodomi.”
Mühlhaus turned to the window, presenting Mock with his hunched and rounded back. Both knew this was the pseudonym used by Jakob Mühlhaus, Heinrich’s prodigal son. Minutes passed. Rain beat against the windowpane, a police siren wailed, the bells pealed at the church of St Matthias.
“Criminal Counsellor,” Mühlhaus did not turn away from the window, “there will be no extraordinary sitting of the Horus Lodge.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
HALF PAST SEVEN IN THE EVENING
A light frost was settling under a cloudless, starry sky. Cobblestones were covered with a layer of thin icing. Mock climbed into the Adler and drove out of the Police Praesidium courtyard. He greeted the porter who shut the gate, and turned left at the Two Poles tenement into Schmiede brücke. A hunched coalman was leading his thin horse by its bridle; it dragged its hooves with such great effort that the coal wagon it was pulling had blocked the street, forcing Mock to slow down. The Criminal Counsellor’s brain was empty and sterile rendered thus by hundreds of pieces of useless information from the police files, by dozens of names and reports of criminality, abuse and despair. He could not put his mind to anything and was not even angry with the coalman. He pressed his foot lightly on the accelerator and, in the glow of neon lights and shop displays, watched the passers-by. An enraged dandy in a bowler hat emerged from Noack’s drinking den and tried to explain something to a weeping, pregnant girl. The light cast by the windows of Messow & Waldschmidt’s department store illuminated two postmen arguing vehemently about the city’s topography. The immense corpulence of one testified to the fact that his knowledge might be rather theoretical, derived from persistent journeys made by his finger across a map. From a gate adjacent to the preserves shop rolled a drunken medical student or obstetrician lugging a doctor’s bag so large that, apart from his medicines and surgical instruments, it could also have contained his entire professional ethics.
With relief Mock overtook the consumptive coalman, then turned right and, with a roar of his engine, sped along the north side of Ring. He glanced over his left shoulder and caught sight of Mrs Sommé, the wife of one of the jeweller brothers.
“At this hour?” He was surprised, and then suddenly remembered something. He stopped the car, got out, crossed the busy street and made his way briskly towards the shop.
“Good evening, Mrs Sommé,” he called. “I see you’re still open. I’d like to see the necklace I spoke to your husband about, the one with the rubies.”
“Certainly, Counsellor,” Mrs Sommé said, displaying her pink gums in an alluring smile. “I didn’t think you would be coming. Here it is – I’ve got the necklace ready in a maroon case. I think it will suit your wife beautifully. It goes so well with green eyes …”
They went into the shop. Leaning over the counter, Mrs Sommé handed Mock the necklace. His eyes swept over her thirty-something, shapely figure and then he pored over the piece. A stream of words and sighs flowed from the lips of the jeweller’s wife at his side, flooding his mind with cascades of clear syllables, but a moment later they were joined by another sound. He listened intently; from the back room came the sound of a man’s happy voice singing Otto Reutter’s “Wie reizend sind die Frauen”.†
“ … it is so rare. A woman wh
o is so loved must be very happy,” prattled Mrs Sommé. “Oh, you always think of your wife, you’re so hard-working, so concerned about our safety …”
Mrs Sommé’s words reminded Mock that recently he had been concerned with his nephew’s safety, and that the money with which he was about to buy Sophie’s necklace was to have covered Erwin’s gambling debts. He also remembered that there was no need for him to buy the necklace that day; that Völlinger had calculated the day on which they would conceive to be the following one. It was then that he would take his wife in his arms, and she would be wearing nothing but rubies … He tipped his hat, promised to buy the necklace the next day, and mumbled an apology to the jeweller’s wife as she continued:
“ … if only all married couples were like you two …”
He left the shop, deep in thought as to how he would obtain the money for the necklace.
† “How delightful women are.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
A QUARTER TO EIGHT IN THE EVENING
Elisabeth Pflüger was practising the first violin part of Schubert’s ‘Death and the Maiden’ when her servant quietly slipped into the parlour and, next to a vase of white chrysanthemums, placed a scented envelope with the monogram s. m. Elisabeth interrupted her playing, seized the envelope and, drawing her slender legs up beneath her, made herself comfortable on the chaise-longue. With trembling hands she lost herself in reading the cornflower-blue pages covered in rounded writing.
Dear Elisabeth,
I know that what I write may make you cry. I also know how devoted you are to me. Yet I cannot allow this noble feeling that unites us to be the death of my marital happiness.
My darling, do not blame yourself for anything. Nobody forced me to take part in the meetings with the Baron that give you so much joy. I took part in them of my own free will, and of my own free will I relinquish them. Yes, my sweet, I have to leave your circle, but that does not mean this letter to you is goodbye. What unites us will endure, and neither human anger nor envy will destroy it, because what can set at variance two priestesses who serve only one mistress – Art? It is in her silent temple that we experience spiritual rapture. Our friendship will remain unchanged, and the number of our meetings will simply be reduced by those we have spent with the Baron.
It would be dishonest of me not to give you the reasons for my parting company with the Baron’s group. As you know, the meetings cleansed me spiritually. I am too proud to allow Eberhard to humiliate me. And every moment he spends without me – apart from those engaged in professional duties – is a humiliation. Every second he willingly deserts me is for me the cruellest of insults. He also humiliates me when he reproaches me, beats me, accuses me of being barren, or when, overcome with desire, he begs me for love. Spiritual blows are the worst, the cruellest and the most painful. But, my love, you know I cannot live without him, without his bitterness, his cynicism, his plebeian strength, his lyricism and his despair. If that were taken away from me, I would have no reason to live.
Darling, you know our meetings with the Baron were, for me, an antidote to the harm Eberhard subjected me to. After my humiliations there came our meetings, and with them a heavenly revenge. Then, purified and innocent, as if cleansed in a spring fount, I would throw myself at Eberhard and give myself to him, longing for the conception that was to change our lives. There was no conception and there were no changes. Then, desperate, Eberhard would begin his alcoholic rantings with his own demons, after which he would debase me, presenting yet another reason for revenge. I would phone you and you – so wonderfully debauched – would return to me my former innocence.
This rhythm has been broken. This morning I experienced a moment of dread in that awful, empty house when I looked into the eyes of a little girl who had emerged from hypnosis and was watching your highest ecstasies with terror. That little orphan standing at our bed was depraved in a most hideous manner, for she saw something she will never forget to her dying day. I am totally convinced of this, since I myself was a witness to such an act committed by my parents, and their bestiality tore asunder the most sensitive strings of my soul. The saddest thing is that the orphan looked with unimaginable dread and helplessness into my eyes, the eyes of a woman who could be her mother – bah! – who would like to have been her mother. Today I was not purified, today I cannot give myself to Eberhard for all the riches in the world. Instead of revenge, I have plunged myself into the depths of despair. I am evil and dirty. I do not know what can purify me. Perhaps death alone.
That is all, my love. I end this sad letter and embrace you, wishing you happiness.
Yours,
Sophie
BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
The usual evening lull reigned in Grajeck’s restaurant. Ladies of the night fixed their eyes in vain on the hard-working citizens who, in turn, drowned their eyes in perspiring tankards of beer. One man was doing so for the tenth time that day – Criminal Sergeant Kurt Smolorz. He smiled wryly when he caught sight of his chief, awakening in Mock vague suspicions as to his subordinate’s sobriety. The golden beverage worked wonders for Smolorz’s facial expressions, but not for the rather poor formulations of his tongue.
“As usual,” the sergeant tried to speak clearly. “Ten till two: Miss Pflüger, music. After two, home.”
“As usual, you say,” Mock said sullenly, accepting a glass of cognac and a coffee from the waiter. “But something isn’t ‘as usual’, and that’s the condition you’re in. When did you start drinking again?”
“A few days ago.”
“What happened? You haven’t been drinking since the ‘four sailors’ case.”
“Nothing.”
“Any problems?”
“No.”
“What have you been drinking?”
“Beer.”
“How many?”
“Five.”
“You’re sitting here drinking instead of keeping an eye on my wife?”
“Sorry, Counsellor, but I’d drop in for a beer then go back and watch the window. Your window. That ended up being five beers.”
In the next room, a customer had made his way to the piano. His playing hinted at his profession – he was a butcher. From force of habit, he played as if he were hacking up carcasses on the keyboard.
Deep in thought, Mock blew out smoke rings. He knew his subordinate well; five beers would not be enough to bring a smile to his gloomy face. And there was no doubt the grimace Smolorz had produced on his arrival had been a smile. He must, therefore, have drunk more. Smolorz got to his feet, put on his hat and bowed as politely as he could.
“With that bow of yours, you could take part in a school performance,” muttered Mock, without shaking Smolorz’s hand as he usually did. Watching as his sergeant’s angular figure made its way out, Mock wondered why his subordinate had broken his vow of abstinence, and why he had lied about the amount of alcohol he had consumed. He stood up, approached the bar and raised a finger to call the rather mature barmaid. The latter spun willingly on her heel and gestured to Mock’s empty glass.
“No, thank you,” he said, placing a five-mark coin on the counter, which hastened the barmaid and quickened the heartbeats of the lonely girls who sat about. “There’s something I want to know.”
“Yes?” The barmaid carefully slipped the coin between her breasts. A safe and comfortable hiding-place.
“That man I was talking to, how long has he been sitting here and how many beers has he had?” Mock asked softly.
“He’s been here since three, drank four large beers,” the barmaid answered just as softly.
“Did he go out at any point?”
“No. I don’t think he felt like going out. He looked all broken up.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can’t explain. After twenty years working behind bars I can recognize customers who drink to forget.” The barmaid was not lying. She may not have kn
own much, but she knew everything there was to know about men. “Your friend pretends to be hard and uncouth, but he’s completely soft on the inside.”
Mock, not waiting for a psychological dissection of his own character, looked into her wise and arrogant eyes, tipped his hat, paid for the cognac and stepped into the street. “Even he’s lying to me,” he thought. “Even Smolorz, who owes me so much. Sophie could have been up to anything while he’s been drinking.”
Light flakes of snow were falling to the ground. Mock got into his Adler and drove towards Rehdigerplatz, a hundred metres away. He was exploding with fury; a violent rhythm pulsated in his veins and arteries, and the pressure of his blood pressed onto his cranium. He stopped outside his house and opened the car window. The frosty air and snow that blew in cooled his emotions for a while. He recalled the previous evening: the passion on the staircase; rescuing Erwin; the mink stole lying on the doormat; the bedroom pitilessly locked; the burning schnapps trickling down to his stomach. “I’ll spend tonight cuddled up to Sophie,” he thought. “We’ll just lie next to each other. An excess of alcohol might not be to my advantage today – tomorrow I’ll be full of virile strength, and I’ll give her the necklace. Is it definitely tomorrow?”
He reached into his briefcase for astrologer Völlinger’s chart and turned it towards the bluish glow of the gas-light. He skimmed through the cosmograms and personality profiles of both Mr and Mrs Mock, and his attention was drawn to the prognostic report. Suddenly blood was drumming in his ears. He blew away the flakes of snow that had settled on the page and read with horror: “best date for conception – 1st December, 1927”. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could and imagined Sophie waiting in their dining-room. She is determined and unapproachable, but a moment later her face lights up at the sight of the ruby necklace. She kisses her husband, skimming his strong neck with her hand …
End of the World in Breslau Page 10
