The Black Obelisk (30 page)

"Do you think you've had enough experience?"

Otto shoots a look full of lust and dread in the direction of the Iron Horse. "I don't know. But certainly enough for a small volume in boards."

"Speak up! Three million has been paid out for you. If you don't need it, let's drink it up."

"Let's drink it up!"

Bambuss tosses down another kümmel. It's the first time we've seen him like this. He has shunned alcohol like the pest, especially schnaps. His poetry thrived on coffee and elderberry wine.

"What do you make of that?" I ask Hungermann.

"It was the blows on the head with the washbasin."

"It was nothing at all," Otto howls. He has downed another double kümmel and pinches the Iron Horse on the bottom as she goes by.

The Horse stops as though struck by lightning. Then she turns around slowly and examines Otto as though he were some rare insect. We stretch out our arms to protect him from the expected blow. For ladies in high boots a pinch of this sort is an obscene insult. Otto gets up wavering, smiles absently out of nearsighted eyes, walks around the Horse, and unexpectedly lands a hearty blow on the black underwear.

Silence falls. Everyone expects murder. But Otto seats himself again unconcernedly, lays his head on his arms, and goes to sleep instantly. "Never kill a sleeping man," Hungermann beseeches the Horse. "The eleventh commandment!"

The Iron Horse opens her mighty mouth in a silent grin. All her gold plumbing glitters. Then she strokes Otto's thin, soft hair. "Children and brothers," she says, "to be so young and so silly again!"

We leave. Eduard drives Hungermann and Bambuss back to the city. The poplars rustle. The bulldogs bark. The Iron Horse stands in the second-story window and waves at us with her Cossack cap. Behind the cat house stands a pale moon. Mathias Grund, the poet of the "Book of Death," clambers out of a ditch. He thought he could cross it like Christ crossing the Sea of Gennesaret. It was a mistake. Willy is walking beside me. "What a life!" he says dreamily. "And to think you actually make money in your sleep! Tomorrow the dollar will be even higher and my shares will be climbing up after it like agile little monkeys!"

"Don't spoil the evening for me. Where's your car? Is it having puppies like your shares?"

"Renée has it. It looks well in front of the Red Mill. She takes her colleagues driving between performances—they burst with envy."

"Are you going to marry her?"

"We're engaged," Willy explains, "if you know what that means."

"I can imagine."

"It's funny!" Willy says. "Nowadays she often reminds me very much of Lieutenant Helle, that damned slave driver who made life so miserable for us in preparation for a hero's death. Exactly the same, in the dark. It's a scary and refined sort of pleasure to have Helle on the back of his neck defiling him. I'd never have guessed I would get fun out of something like that, you can believe me!"

"I believe you."

We walk through the dark, gloomy gardens. The scent of unrecognized flowers is born to us. "How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank," someone says, rising like a ghost from the ground.

It is Hungermann. He is as wet as Mathias Grund. "What's going on?" I ask. "It hasn't been raining here."

"Eduard put us out. We sang too loud for him—the respectable hotelkeeper! Then, when I tried to refresh Otto, we both fell into the brook."

"You too? Where is Otto? Looking for Mathias Grund?"

"He's fishing."

"What?"

"Damn it!" says Hungermann. "I just hope he hasn't fallen in. He can't swim."

"Nonsense. The brook is only a yard deep."

"Otto could drown in a puddle. He loves his native land."

We find Bambuss clinging to a bridge over the brook and preaching to the fishes.

"Are you ill, Saint Francis?" Hungermann asks.

"Yes indeed," Bambuss replies, giggling as though that were madly funny. Then his teeth begin to chatter. "Cold," he stammers. "I'm no open-air man."

Willy gets a bottle of kummel out of his pocket. "Who's rescuing you again? Uncle Willy, the provider. Rescuing you from inflammation of the lungs and cold death."

"Too bad Eduard isn't here," Hungermann says. "Then you could rescue him, too, and found a society with Valentin Busch. Eduard's Rescuers. That would kill him."

"Spare us your bad jokes," says Valentin, who has been standing behind him. "Capital should be sacred to you, or are you a communist? I will divide mine with no one. Eduard belongs to me."

We all have a drink. The kummel sparkles in the moonlight like a yellow diamond. "Are you going somewhere else?" I ask Willy.

'To Bodo Ledderhose's singing club. Come along. All three of you can dry out there."

"Splendid," Hungermann says.

It occurs to no one that it would be simpler to go home. Not even to the poet of death. Tonight liquids seem to have an irresistible attraction.

We walk on beside the brook. The moon shimmers on its surface. You can drink it—who was it who said that once and where and when?

"What a surprise," I say, "and so early on a Sunday morning!"

I had imagined I heard a burglar groping around in the dawn twilight; but on coming downstairs, at five in the morning, I've found Riesenfeld, of the Oden-wald Granite Works. "You must have made a mistake," I say. "This is the Lord's day. Not even the Stock Exchange works today. Still less we simple deniers of God. Where's the fire? Or do you need money for the Red Mill?"

Riesenfeld shakes his head. "This is just a friendly visit Had a day to spare between Löhne and Hanover. Just arrived. Why go to a hotel at this hour? I can get coffee just as well here. How is the charming lady across the street? Does she get up early?"
 

"Aha!" I say. "So it was lust that drove you here! Congratulations on your youthfulness. But you're out of luck. Sundays her husband is at home. An athlete and knifethrower."

"I'm the world's champion at knife throwing," Riesenfeld replies, undisturbed. "Especially when I've had some country bacon and schnaps with my coffee."

"Come on upstairs. My room's untidy, but I can make coffee for you there. If you like, you can play the piano while the water's boiling."

Riesenfeld dismisses the idea. "I'll stay here. This combination of midsummer, early morning, and tombstones pleases me. Makes me hungry and full of zest for life. Besides, the schnaps is here."

"I have much better schnaps upstairs."

"This is good enough for me."

"All right, Herr Riesenfeld, just as you like!"

"Why are you shouting so?" Riesenfeld asks. "I haven't grown deaf since you saw me."

"It's the joy of seeing you, Herr Riesenfeld," I reply even louder, laughing noisily.

I can't very well explain that I am trying to waken Georg by my shouting and alert him to what has happened. To the best of my knowledge, the butcher, Watzek, went off last evening to a meeting of the National Socialists, and Lisa has profited by the occasion to come over and, for once, spend the whole night in her lover's arms. Without knowing it, Riesenfeld sits as guardian at the chamber door. The only way out for Lisa is through the window.

"All right then, I'll bring the coffee down," I say, running up the stairs. I take the
Critque of Pure Reason
,
wrap a string around it, let it down through my window, and swing it back and forth in front of Georg's window. Meanwhile, with a colored crayon I write a warning on a sheet of paper: "Riesenfeld in the office," make a hole in the paper and let it flutter down the string and come to rest on the volume of Kant. Kant knocks a couple of times, then I see Georg's bald head. He makes a sign to me. We carry on a short pantomime in which I make it clear to him in sign language that I can't get rid of Riesenfeld. It's impossible to throw him out: he is much too important for our daily bread.

I pull the
Critique of Pure Reason
up again and lower my bottle of schnaps. A beautifully molded arm seizes it before Georg can reach it and pulls it inside. Who knows when Riesenfeld will leave? Meanwhile, the lovers will be faced by the sharp pangs of morning hunger after a wakeful night. I lower my bread and butter and a piece of liverwurst.

The string comes back with a lipstick smear on the end. I hear a sighing sound as the cork is drawn from the bottle. Romeo and Juliet had been rescued for the time being.... I am serving Riesenfeld his coffee when I see Heinrich Kroll coming across the courtyard. That national businessman, in addition to his other repulsive qualities, is an early riser. He calls that opening his breast to God's great outdoors. By God, of course, he understands not a kindly legendary figure with a long beard, but a Prussian field marshal.

He gives Riesenfeld a hearty handshake. Riesenfeld is not overjoyed. "I wouldn't in the world keep you from anything," he declares. "I'm just drinking my coffee here, and then I'll doze a bit until it's time for business."

"Nothing could take me away from such a valued guest and one we see so seldom!" Heinrich turns to me. "Haven't we any fresh rolls for Herr Riesenfeld?"

"We'll have to ask the widow of the baker Niebuhr or your mother," I reply. "Apparently no baking goes on in the republic on Sundays. Reprehensible slackness! It was different in imperial Germany."

Heinrich shoots me an evil glance. "Where is Georg?" he asks abruptly.

"I am not your brother's keeper, Herr Kroll!" I reply Biblically and loudly to let Georg know about this new danger.

"No, but you're an employee of my firm! I must insist that you speak respectfully."

"This is Sunday. Sundays I am not an employee. I came down at this hour of my own free will and out of love for my profession and a friendly regard for the manager of the Odenwald Granite Works. Unshaven, as perhaps you have noticed, Herr Kroll."

"There you see," Heinrich says bitterly to Riesenfeld. "That's why we lost the war. Because of the slackness of the intellectuals and because of the Jews."

"And the bicyclists," Riesenfeld replies.

"What do you mean the bicyclists?" Heinrich asks in amazement.

"What do you mean the Jews?" Riesenfeld asks in return.

Heinrich is puzzled. "Oh, I see," he says presently, displeased. "A joke. I'll wake up Georg."

"I wouldn't do that, Herr Kroll," I remark loudly.

"Kindly spare me your advice!"

Heinrich approaches the door. I do nothing to stop him. If Georg has not locked it, it must be because he is dead.

"Let him sleep," Riesenfeld says. "I have no desire for serious conversation at this hour."

Heinrich stops. "Why don't you take Herr Riesenfeld for a walk to see God's great outdoors?" I ask. "When you get back, the household will be up, eggs and bacon will be sputtering on the stove, rolls will have been baked especially for you, a vase of freshly picked gladioli will be here to relieve the dark paraphernalia of death, and Georg will be shaved and smelling of cologne."

"God forbid," Riesenfeld mutters. "I'll stay here and sleep."

I shrug my shoulders in perplexity. There's nothing I can do to get him out of the room. "All right," I say. "In the meantime, then, I'll go and praise God."

Riesenfeld yawns. "I had no idea people paid so much attention to religion here. You toss God's name around like a pebble."

"That's our misfortune! We have all become too intimate with Him. Formerly God was the familiar of emperors, generals, and politicians. At that time we were not supposed to so much as mention His name. But I'm not going to pray. Just to play the organ. Come with me!"

Riesenfeld declines. Now there is nothing more I can do. Georg must help himself. All I can do is leave—then perhaps the others will go too. I'm not worried about Heinrich; Riesenfeld will know how to get rid of him.

The city is fresh with dew. I still have more than two hours before mass. Slowly I walk through the streets. It is an unfamiliar experience. The breeze is mild and as soft as though the dollar had fallen two hundred and fifty thousand marks yesterday instead of rising that much. For a time I stare at the peaceful river, then into the show window of Bock and Sons, producers of mustard which they package in miniature casks.

A slap on the shoulder wakes me up. Behind me stands a tall thin man with watery eyes. It is the town pest, Herbert Scherz. I look at him with distaste. "Shall I say good morning or good evening?" I ask. "Is this before or after your night's rest?"