The Black Obelisk (6 page)

A little nurse comes up to me. "Mother Superior would like to speak to you."

I get up and follow her, feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps one of the nurses has been spying and the Mother Superior is going to tell me that I am not to speak to inmates under sixty, or she may even dismiss me, although the physician in charge has said that it is a good thing for Isabelle to have company.

The Mother Superior receives me in her reception room. It smells of floor wax, virtue, and soap. Not a breath of spring has penetrated here. The Mother Superior, a gaunt, energetic woman, greets me. cordially; she considers me a model Christian who loves God and believes in the Church. "Soon it will be May," she says, looking me straight in the eye.

"Yes," I reply, examining the snowy white curtains and the bare, shining floor.

"We have been wondering whether we could not hold some May devotions."

I am silent and relieved. "In the city churches there are devotions every evening at eight during May," the Mother Superior explains.

I nod. I know those May devotions. Incense wells up through the twilight, the monstrance gleams, and after the devotion young people wander about in the squares for a time under the old trees where the June bugs buzz. To to sure, I never attend; but I know about them from the time before I was a soldier. That was my first experience with girls. It was all very exciting and secret and harmless. But I wouldn't think of coming up here every evening for a month to play the organ.

"We would like to have a devotion at least on Sunday evenings," says the Mother Superior. "I mean a formal one with organ music and the
Te Deum
.
There are simple prayers every evening for the nuns as it is."

I reflect. Sunday evenings are tiresome in the city, and the devotion lasts barely an hour. "We can pay you very little," the Mother Superior explains. "The same as for the mass. That's probably not much now, is it?"

"No," I say. "It's not much now. We have an inflation outside."

"I know." She stands there undecided. "The Church's way of dealing with requests is unfortunately not adapted to these times. The Church thinks in centuries. We must accept that. After all, one works for God and not for money. Don't you agree?"

"One can work for both," I reply. "That's a particularly happy situation."

She sighs. "We are bound by the decisions of the Church authorities. They are taken once a year, no oftener."

"For the salaries of the pastors, the cathedral chaplains, and the bishop too?" I ask.

"I don't know about that," she says, flushing a little. "But I think so."

Meanwhile, I have made up my mind. "This evening I haven't time," I explain. "We have an important business meeting."

"But today is still April. Now, next Sunday—or if you can't do it on Sundays perhaps some day of the week. After all, it would be nice to have proper May devotions. The Divine Mother will certainly reward you."

"Unquestionably. Then there is only the problem of supper. Eight o'clock is just in between. Afterward is too late and beforehand it would be a scramble."

"Oh, as far as that is concerned, of course you could eat here if you liked. His Reverence always eats here too. Perhaps that's a solution."

It is exactly the solution I wanted. The food here is almost as good as at Eduard's, and if I eat in company with the priest there is certain to be a bottle of wine as well. Since Eduard refuses to accept tickets on Sunday, this is indeed a splendid solution.

"All right," I say. "I'll try to do it. We don't need to say any more about the money."

The Mother Superior sighs with relief. "God will reward you."

I walk back. The garden paths are empty. For a time I wait for the yellow sail of shantung silk. Then the bells of the city ring for midday, and I know it's time for Isabelle's nap and after that the doctor; there is nothing more to be done until four o'clock. I walk through the big gate and down the hill. 

Beneath me lies the city with its steeples green with verdigris and its smoking chimneys. On both sides of the
allée
,
beyond the horse chestnut trees, stretch the fields where on weekdays the nondangerous inmates work. The institution is part public, part private. The private patients, of course, do not have to work. Beyond the fields are woods, streams, ponds, and clearings. When I was a boy I used to fish there and catch salamanders and butterflies. That was only ten years ago, but it seems to belong to a different life—to a vanished time in which existence proceeded in orderly organic sequence and everything belonged together, from childhood on. The war changed that; since 1914 we live scraps of one life and then scraps of a second and a third; they do not belong together and we are not able to put them together. For this reason it is really not so hard for me to understand Isabelle and her different lives. Only she is almost better off in this respect than we are; when she is in one, she forgets all the others. With us they are hopelessly confused —childhood, cut short by the war, the time of hunger and fraud, of trenches and lust for life—something of all these has been left over and remains with us even now, making us restless. You cannot simply push it away. It keeps bobbing back disconcertingly, and then you are confronted by irreconcilable contrast: the skies of childhood and the science of killing, lost youth and the cynicism of knowledge gained too young.

We are sitting in the office waiting for Riesenfeld. For supper we had pea soup so thick a spoon would stand up in it; in addition, we ate the meat cooked in the soup—pigs' feet, pigs' ears, and a very fat piece of side meat for each of us. We need the fat to coat our stomachs against alcohol; we must not on any account get drunk before Riesenfeld does. And so Frau Kroll has done the cooking for us herself and as dessert has forced on us a helping of fat Dutch cheese. The future of the firm is at stake. We must wring a shipment of granite out of Riesenfeld even if we have to crawl home in front of him on our hands and knees to do it. Marble, shell lime, and sandstone we still have, but we are in bitter need of granite, the caviar of sorrow.

Heinrich Kroll has been removed from the scene. Wilke, the coffinmaker, has done us this service. We gave him two bottles of schnaps and he invited Heinrich to a game of skat with free drinks before dinner. Heinrich was taken in; he can never resist getting something for nothing, and on such occasions he drinks as fast as he can; moreover, like every nationalist, he considers himself a very clearheaded drinker. In reality he can't stand anything at all, and drink overtakes him suddenly. One moment he is ready to drive the Social Democratic party out of the Reichstag single-handed and the next he is snoring openmouthed, not even to be aroused by the command On your feet, forward march! This is particularly true when he has been drinking on an empty stomach, as we have arranged for him to do. Now he is innocently sleeping in Wilke's workshop in an oak coffin, comfortably bedded down on wood shavings. In our concern about waking him, we did not carry him back to his own bed. Wilke is now in the ground-floor studio of our sculptor, Kurt Bach, playing dominoes with him, a game both love because it gives them so much time for thought. They are engaged in drinking up the bottle and a quarter of schnaps left over from Heinrich's defeat and claimed by Wilke as an honorarium.

The shipment of granite we want to extract from Riesenfeld is something we cannot, of course, pay for in advance. We never have that much money at one time and it would be madness to try to accumulate it in the bank—it would melt away like snow in June. Therefore we want to give Riesenfeld a promissory note payable in three months. That means we want to pay practically nothing.

Naturally, Riesenfeld must not lose on the transaction. That shark in the ocean of human tears needs to make a profit like every honest businessman. And so on the day he receives the note from us he must take it to his bank or ours and have it discounted. The bank ascertains that both Riesenfeld and we are good for its face value, deducts a few per cent for discounting the note, and pays out the money. We pay back to Riesenfeld the amount of the bank's commission. Thus, he receives full payment for the shipment just as though we had paid in advance. Nor does the bank lose. It immediately sends the note to the Reichsbank, which in turn pays just as the bank paid Riesenfeld. And there in the Reichsbank it remains until, on the expiration date, it is presented for payment. What it will be worth then is easy to imagine.

We have only known about all this since 1922. Before then we tried to transact business in the same way as Hein-rich Kroll and almost went broke doing it. We had sold out almost our entire inventory and, to our amazement, had nothing to show for it except a worthless bank account and a few suitcases full of currency not even good enough to paper our walls with. We tried at first to sell and then buy again as quickly as possible—but the inflation easily overtook us. The lag before we got paid was too long; while we waited, the value of money fell so fast that even our most profitable sale turned into a loss. Only after we began to pay with promissory notes could we maintain our position. Even so, we are making no real profit now, but at least we can live. Since every enterprise in Germany is financed in this fashion, the Reichsbank naturally has to keep on printing unsecured currency and so the mark falls faster and faster. The government apparently doesn't care; all it loses in this way is the national debt. Those who are ruined are the people who cannot pay with notes, the people who have property they are forced to sell, small shopkeepers, day laborers, people with small incomes who see their private savings and their bank accounts melting away, and government officials and employees who have to survive on salaries that no longer allow them to buy so much as a new pair of shoes. The ones who profit are the exchange kings, the profiteers, the foreigners who buy what they like with a few dollars, kronen, or zlotys, and the big entrepreneurs, the manufacturers, and the speculators on the exchange whose property and stocks increase without limit. For them practically everything is free. It is the great sellout of thrift, honest effort, and respectability. The vultures flock from all sides, and the only ones who come out on top are those who accumulate debts. The debts disappear of themselves.

It was Riesenfeld who at the last instant instructed us in these matters and turned us into small-time participants in the great sellout. He accepted our first ninety-day note, although at the time we were by no means good for the sum on the face of it. But the Odenwald Granite Works was, and that was enough.

Naturally we were grateful. We tried to entertain him like an Indian rajah when he came to Werdenbrück—that is, insofar as an Indian rajah could be entertained in Werdenbrück. Kurt Bach, our sculptor, made a colorful portrait of Riesenfeld which we solemnly presented to him. Unfortunately, he did not like it. It makes him look like a country preacher, which is exactly what he does not want. He wants to look like a dark seducer and he assumes that that is the effect he makes—a remarkable example of self-deception, considering his pointed belly, and short, bandy legs. But who does not live by self-deception? I, with my innocuous, average talents, do I not cherish, especially at night, the dream of becoming a better man with ability enough to find a publisher. In these circumstances who is to throw the first stone at Riesenfeld's parenthetical legs, especially when they, at a time like this, are clad in genuine English tweeds?

"What in the world are we going to do with him, Georg?" I ask. "This time we haven't a single attraction! Riesenfeld won't be satisfied with just getting drunk. He has too much imagination and too restless a character for that. He wants something he can see and hear, or, better yet, grab hold of. Our choice of women is hopeless. The few pretty ones we know haven't the slightest desire to spend a whole evening listening to Riesenfeld in his role of Don Juan of 1923. Unfortunately, helpfulness and understanding are only to be found among the older and homely dames."

Georg grins. "I don't even know whether our cash will last out the night. When I got the stuff I made a mistake about the dollar rate; I thought it was still the same as at ten o'clock. When the twelve o'clock quotation was announced, it was too late."

"On the other hand there's been no change today."

"There has at the Red Mill, my boy. On Sundays they're two days ahead of the dollar rate there. God knows what a bottle of wine will cost tonight!"

"God doesn't know either," I say. "The proprietor himself doesn't know. He only decides on the price when the electric light goes on. Why doesn't Riesenfeld have a passion for the arts? That would be a lot cheaper. Admission to the museum still costs only two hundred and fifty marks. For that we could show him pictures and plaster heads for hours. Or music. There's an organ concert at St. Catherine's today—"

Georg chokes with laughter. "Well, all right," I admit, "it's absurd to picture Riesenfeld in such a setting; but why doesn't he at least love operettas and light music? We could take him to the theater, and it would still be much less than that damn night club!"

"Here he comes," Georg says. "Ask him."

We open the door. Through the early spring evening Riesenfeld comes sailing up the steps. We see at once that the enchantment of spring twilight has had no effect on him. We greet him with false camaraderie. Riesenfeld notices it, squints at us, and drops into a chair. "Quit the play acting," he growls in my direction.

"That's just what I was going to do," I reply. "It's not easy for me. What you call play acting is known elsewhere as good manners."

Riesenfeld grins briefly and evilly. "Good manners won't get you far these days—"

"They won't? Then what will?" I ask to draw him out.

"Cast-iron elbows and a rubber conscience."

"But, Herr Riesenfeld," Georg says reassuringly, "you yourself have the best manners in the world! Perhaps not the best in the bourgeois sense—but certainly the most elegant—"

"Really? There's just a chance you might be mistaken!" Despite his disclaimer Riesenfeld is flattered.

"He has the manners of a robber," I remark, exactly as Georg expects. We play this game without rehearsal, as though we knew it by heart, "Or rather those of a pirate. Unfortunately, they bring him success."

Riesenfeld has recoiled a little at the word robber; the shot went too near home. But "pirate" reassures him. Exactly as intended. Georg gets a bottle of Roth schnaps out of the cupboard where the porcelain angels stand and pours. "What shall we drink to?" he asks.

Ordinarily people drink to health and success in business. With us it's a bit difficult. Riesenfeld's too sensitive a nature for that; he maintains that in the tombstone business such a toast is not only a paradox but the equivalent of wishing that as many people as possible may die. One might as well drink to cholera, war, and influenza. Since then we have left the toasts to him.

He stares at us sidewise, his glass in his hand, but does not speak. After a while he says suddenly in the half-darkness: "What actually is time?"

Georg puts his glass down in astonishment. "The pepper of life," I reply. The old rascal can't catch me so easily with his tricks. Not for nothing am I a member of the Werdenbrück Poets' Club; we are used to big questions.

Riesenfeld disregards me. "What's your opinion, Herr Kroll?" he asks.

"I'm a simple man," Georg says.
"
Prost!
"

'Time," Riesenfeld continues doggedly. "Time, this uninterrupted flow—not our lousy time! Time, this gradual death."

Now I, too, put down my glass. I think we'd better have some light," I say. "What did you eat for dinner, Herr Riesenfeld?"

"Shut up, youngster, when grownups are talking," Riesenfeld replies, and I notice that I have been inattentive for a moment. He did not intend to disconcert us—he means what he says. God knows what has happened to him this afternoon! I am tempted to reply that time is an important factor in the note we want him to accept—but content myself with my drink instead.

"I'm fifty-six now," Riesenfeld says, "but I remember the time when I was twenty as though it were only a couple of years ago. What's become of everything in between? What's happened? Suddenly you wake up and find you're old. What about you, Herr Kroll?"

"Much the same," Georg replies. "I'm forty but I often feel sixty. In my case it was the war."

He is lying to support Riesenfeld. "It's different with me," I explain. "Also because of the war. I went in when I was a little over seventeen. Now I am twenty-five; but I still feel like seventeen. Like seventeen and seventy. The War Department stole my youth."

"With you it was not the war," Riesenfeld replies. "You're simply a case of arrested intellectual development. That would have happened to you if there'd never been a war. As a matter of fact, the war really made you precocious; without it you would still be at the twelve-year-old level."

"Thanks," I say. "What a compliment! At twelve everyone is a genius. He only loses his originality with the onset of sexual maturity, to which you, you granite Casanova, attribute such exaggerated importance. That's a pretty monstrous compensation for loss of spiritual feedom."

Georg fills our glasses again. We see that it is going to be a tough evening. We must get Riesenfeld out of the depths of cosmic melancholy, and neither one of us is especially keen on being involved in philosophical platitudes tonight. We should prefer to sit quietly under a chestnut tree and drink a bottle of Moselle instead of in the Red Mill commiserating with Riesenfeld over his lost youth.

"If you're interested in the relativity of time," I say, briefly hopeful, "then I can introduce you to a society where you can meet experts in that field—the Poets' Club of this dear city. Hans Hungermann, the writer, has elucidated the problem in an unpublished sequence of sixty poems. We can go there right now; there's a meeting every Sunday night with a social hour afterward."

"Are there women there?"

"Naturally not. Women poets are like calculating horses. With the exception, of course, of Sappho's pupils."

"Well then, what's the social hour?" Riesenfeld asks.

"It consists of running down other writers. Especially the successful ones."

Riesenfeld grunts contemptuously. I am ready to give up. Suddenly the window in the horse butcher's house across the street lights up like a brightly lit painting in a dark museum. Behind the curtains we see Lisa. She is just getting dressed and has nothing on except a brassiere and a pair of very short white silk panties.