The Black Obelisk (49 page)

"No. Besides, he's still a Nazi—that cancels out this onesided brotherhood. But let's stick to the subject."

"Watzek is my brother too," Georg announces, blowing the white smoke of the Brazilian into the face of a painted plaster image of Saint Catherine. "Lisa, you must know, is deceiving me as well."

"Are you making that up?" I ask in amazement. "Not a bit of it. Where do you think she gets all those clothes and jewels? Watzek, her husband, never gives them a thought—I, however, do."

"You?"

"She confessed to me herself without my asking. She explained she didn't want any kind of deception between us. She meant it honestly too—not as a joke."

"And you? You betray her with the fascinating creatures of your imagination and your magazines."

"Of course. What does betrayal mean anyway? The word j never used except by those to whom it is happening at the moment. Since when has feeling had anything to do with morality? Is that all you've learned from the postwar education I've given you here among the symbols of morality? Betrayal—what a vulgar word for the everlasting, sensitive dissatisfaction, the search for more, always more—"

"Granted!" I interrupt him. "That short-legged, muscular fellow with a bump on his head you just saw turning into his house is the freshly bathed butcher Watzek. His hair has been cut and is still damp with bay rum. He is trying to please his wife. Don't you find that touching?"

"Of course. But he will never please his wife."

"Then why did she marry him?"

"That was during the war when she was very hungry and he could provide plenty of meat. Since then she has grown six years older."

"Why doesn't she leave him?"

"Because he has threatened to kill her whole family if she does."

"Did she tell you all this?"

"Yes."

"Dear God," I say. "And you believe it!" < Georg blows an artistic smoke ring. "If you ever get to be as old as I am, you proud cynic, I hope you will have found out that some beliefs are not only convenient but often justified as well."

"All right," I say. "Meanwhile, what about Master Butcher Watzek and the sharp-eyed Widow Konersmann?"

"Disturbing," he replies. "Besides, Watzek is an idiot. At the moment he has an easier life than ever before—because Lisa is deceiving him she treats him better. Just wait and listen to his screams when she is true to him again and makes him pay for it. Now come along, let's eat! We can consider this case another time."

Eduard almost has a stroke when he sees us. The dollar has risen to nearly a trillion marks, and we still seem to have an inexhaustible supply of coupons. "You're printing them!" he asserts. "You're counterfeiters! You print them secretly!"

"We'd like to have a bottle of Forster Jesuitengarten after our meal," Georg says with dignity.

"Why after your meal?" Eduard asks suspiciously. "What 
are you trying to get away with now?"

"The wine is too good to drink with what you've been serving these past weeks," I explain.

Eduard swells with rage. "To eat on last winter's coupon, at a miserable six thousand marks per meal and then criticize the food—that's going too far! I ought to call the police!"

"Call them! One more word out of you and we'll eat here and have our wine at the Hotel Hohenzollern!"

Eduard looks as though he were about to explode, but he controls himself because of the wine. "Stomach ulcers," he mutters, hurriedly withdrawing, "stomach ulcers is what I've got because of you! Now all I can drink is milk!"

We sit down and look around. Covertly and guiltily I search for Gerda, but do not see her. Instead, I become aware of a familiar, grinning face moving toward us through the middle of the room. "Do you see what I see?" I ask Georg.

"Riesenfeld! Here again! 'Only the man acquainted with longing—'"

Riesenfeld greets us. "You've come at exactly the right time to express your gratitude," Georg says to him. "This young idealist here fought a duel for you yesterday. An American-style duel, knives against chunks of marble."

"What?" Riesenfeld asks, seating himself and calling for a glass of beer. "How's that?"

"Herr Watzek, the husband of Lady Lisa, whom you are pursuing with flowers and chocolates, assumed that these items came from my friend here and lay in wait for him with a long knife."

"Wounded?" Riesenfeld asks abruptly, examining me.

"Only the sole of his shoe," Georg says. "Watzek is slightly injured."

"Are you two lying again?"

"Not this time."

I look at Georg with admiration. His impudence is incomparable. But Riesenfeld is not easy to upset. "He must go at once!" he decrees like a Roman emperor.

"Who?" I ask. "Watzek?"

"You?"

"I? Why not you? Or both of you?"

"Watzek will do battle again. You are his natural victim. He won't think of us at all. We have bald heads. So you must go. Understand?"

"No," I say.

"Didn't you want to leave anyway?"

"Not on Lisa's account."

"I said anyway," Riesenfeld explains. "Didn't you want to plunge into the wild life of a big city?"

"As what? You aren't fed for nothing in a big city."

"As a newspaper employee in Berlin. At first you won't earn much, but it will be enough to live on. Then you can look around."

"What?" I say breathlessly.

"You've asked me a couple of times whether I couldn't find something for you! Well, Riesenfeld has connections. I have found something for you. That's why I came by. You can begin on January 1, '24. It's a small job but in Berlin. Agreed?"

"Hold on!" Georg says. "He has to give me five years' notice."

"Then he'll just run away without giving notice. That taken care of?"

"How much will he make?" Georg asks.

"Two hundred marks," Riesenfeld replies calmly.

"I thought all along it was a joke," I say angrily. "Do you enjoy disappointing people? Two hundred marks! Does a ridiculous sum like that still exist?"

"It does again," Riesenfeld says.

"Indeed?" I ask. "Where? In New Zealand?"

"In Germany! Rye marks. Haven't you heard about them? Renten marks!"

Georg and I look at each other. There has been a rumor that a new currency was to be issued. One mark to be worth a certain quantity of rye; but in recent years there have been so many rumors that no one believed it.

"This time it's true," Riesenfeld explains. "I have it on the best authority. Then the rye marks will be converted into gold marks. The government is behind it."

"The government! It's responsible for the devaluation!"

"Possibly. But now things are changing. The government has got rid of its debts. One trillion inflation marks will be valued at one gold mark."

"And then the gold mark will start slipping, eh? And the dance will begin all over again."

Riesenfeld drains his beer. "Do you want the job or don't you?" he asks.

The restaurant suddenly seems very quiet. "Yes," I say. It is as though someone next to me has said it. I don't trust myself to look at Georg.

"That's sensible," Riesenfeld declares.

I look at the table cloth. It seems to be swimming. Then I hear Georg say: "Waiter, bring us the bottle of Forster Jesuitengarten at once."

I glance up. "After all, you saved our lives," he says. "That's what it's for!"

"Our lives? Why ours?" Riesenfeld asks.

"A life is never saved singly," Georg replies with great presence of mind. "It is always bound up with others."

The moment has passed. I look at Georg gratefully. I betrayed him because I had to, and he has understood. He will stay behind. "You'll visit me," I say. "Then I'll introduce you to the great ladies and all the movie actresses in Berlin."

"Children, what plans!" Riesenfeld says. "Where's the wine? After all, I've just saved your life."

"Who's saving whom?" I ask.

"Everyone saves someone at least once," Georg says. "Just as he kills someone at least once. Even though he may not know it."

The wine is standing on the table. Eduard appears. He is pale and upset. "Give me a glass too."

"Make yourself scared" I say. "You sponger! We'll drink the wine ourselves."

"You don't understand. This bottle is on me. I'll pay for it. But give me a glass. I have to have a drink."

"You're going to treat us to this? Think what you're saving!"

"I mean it." Eduard sits down. "Valentin is dead," he declares.

"Valentin? What happened to him?"

"Heart attack. I've just heard about it by telephone."

He reaches for his glass. "And you want to drink to that, you scoundrel?" I say indignantly. "Because you're rid of him?"

"I swear to you that's not the reason! After all, he saved my life."

"What?" Riesenfeld asks. "You too?"

"Yes of course. Who else?"

"What's going on here?" Riesenfeld asks. "Are we a life-savers club?"

"It's the times," Georg replies. "During these last years lots of people have been saved. And lots haven't."

I stare at Eduard. He actually has tears in his eyes; but what can you tell about him? "I don't believe you," I say. "You've wished him dead too often. I've heard you. You wanted to save your damned wine."

"I swear to you that's not true! I may have said it occasionally, the way you do. But not in earnest!" The drops in his eyes have grown bigger. "He actually saved my life, you know."

Riesenfeld gets up. "I've had enough of this lifesaving nonsense! Will you be in the office this afternoon? Good!"

"Don't send her any more flowers, Riesenfeld," Georg warns him.

Riesenfeld assents and disappears with an indecipherable look on his face.

"Let's drink to Valentin," Eduard says. His lips are trembling. "Who would have thought it! He got through the whole war and now suddenly he's lying dead, from one second to the next."

"If you're going to be sentimental, do it in style," I reply. "Fetch a bottle of the wine you always begrudged him."

"The Johannisberger, yes indeed." Eduard gets up quickly and waddles away.

"I believe he's honestly grieved," Georg says.

"Honestly grieved and honestly relieved."

"That's what I mean. Usually you can't ask for more."

We sit in silence for a time. "There's rather a lot going on just now, isn't there?" I say finally.

Georg looks at me. 
"
Prost!
You'd have had to go sometime. And as for Valentin, he has lived quite a few years longer than anyone would have expected in 1917."

"So have we all."

"Yes, and for that reason we should make something of it."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

Georg laughs. "You're making something of life if you don't want anything at any particular moment beyond what you've got."

I salute him. "Then I've made nothing of mine. And you?"

He grins. "Come along, let's get out of here before Eduard comes back. To hell with his wine!"

"Tender one," I murmur, my face turned toward the dark wall. "Tender and wild one, whiplash and mimosa, how foolish I was to want to possess you! Can one lock up the wind? What would become of it? Stale air. Go now, go your way, go to the theaters, the concerts, go and marry a reserve officer, a bank director, a conquering hero of the inflation, go, miracle of a gale that has become a calm, go, Youth who abandons only those who wish to abandon you, banner that flutters but cannot be seized, sail against many blue skies, fata morgana, fountain of sparkling words, go, Isabelle, go, my late-recovered, somewhat too knowing and too precocious youth, snatched back from beyond the war, go both of you, and I, too, will go. We have nothing to reproach ourselves for; our directions are different, but that, too, is only an appearance, for no one can betray death, one can only endure it. Farewell! We die a little each day, but each day we have lived a little longer too; you have taught me that and I will not forget it; nowhere is there annihilation, and he who does not try to hold on to anything possesses everything; farewell, I kiss you with my empty lips, I embrace you with my arms and cannot and will not hold you; farewell, farewell, you are in me and will remain there as long as I do not forget you—"