The Other Side (18 page)

I noticed a huge shell lying conveniently by the bank of the river, like a rocky reef, and jumped onto it. Another disaster! Straining with the motion, the shell opened and the business became precarious. Inside I could see quivering heaps of gelatinous matter and … I woke up.

I

Everyone was talking about Hercules Bell from Philadelphia. A millionaire and liberal with his wealth, he almost literally flooded the Dream Realm with gold. He must have been horrified at the ramshackle state of our currency. He came to an understanding with Alfred Blumenstich and we soon realised that the country’s finances had been put on a new footing. No one would accept paper money any more and it was no use trying to pay with the old copper coins covered in verdigris, they were no longer legal tender, either. The immediate result of this reform was an increase in lavish expenditure; Pearl was gripped by a frenzy of mindless extravagance. Day after day the rich put on luxurious banquets and the common people crammed together in the bars, a boozing, sweaty mass. And everywhere they drank to the ‘American’, as he was known, toasting his open-handed generosity.

Autumn was approaching. Happy at the spiritual clarity I had achieved, I allowed myself some time off for relaxation. The American had set up his headquarters in the Blue Goose where, for an enormous sum, he had rented the whole of the first floor. One evening, in order to see him, I put on my best bib and tucker and went to the hotel restaurant. There I found Castringius already present, with Hector von Brendel. I was to see my fellow artist from a new side.

In the many months during which I had not seen him, Castringius had made the acquaintance of Baron von Brendel. The artist rolled his eyes as he recognised me but, to my surprise, behaved in a very reserved, aloof manner. He gave a curt and somewhat chilly response to my greeting, as if he only had a vague idea who I was, and immediately turned away.

‘What’s got into him?’ I wondered. ‘I’ve never insulted him and up to now he’s usually been the one forcing his company on me. We can’t have seen each other for almost … what? Four months it must be. Odd.’

I was genuinely pleased to find Brendel there. He was studying the menu and didn’t see me come in, but when he did notice me he jumped up and warmly invited me to join him at his table. At first Castringius raised his eyebrows in surprise but quickly realised what the situation was. His arrogance vanished and he held out his ship’s propeller to me. The fact of the matter was that Castringius had no idea I had long been intimate with Brendel and he wanted to keep dear Hector for himself. Since that had turned out to be impossible, he accepted things as they were; he was a genius at adaptation. When he left the table for a short while Brendel immediately started to moan about this new friend who kept a jealous eye on his every step. He would accompany him to all his rendezvous and then insist, ‘That was fine, he could always wait somewhere in the vicinity’. Now and then Brendel employed the artist as go-between in his affairs of the heart but even there he had an idiosyncratic way of carrying out his commissions. ‘I’ll be stuck with him for ever’, he sighed. ‘And he’s so incredibly hail-fellow-well-met! Ah well, you live and learn.’

‘Yes, there you have a true artist’, I said with a laugh.

Things got quite merry that evening. Brendel ordered champagne, at which Castringius gave me a patronising pat on the thigh and said, ‘How about that, then?’ little knowing that alcohol was a matter of complete indifference to me, in whatever shape or form.

It was noisy in the hall next door. We could hear speeches and applause; the American had called a meeting. ‘I’m going to sort out this Dream Realm once and for all’, he was said to have vowed. Later I saw him as he went out through the restaurant. I will never forget my first sight of him. In the doorway there appeared a man in his early forties, short and with massive shoulders. His features seemed to be a combination of bull and eagle, and everything was just slightly asymmetrical: a hook nose pushed to one side, a pronounced chin and a high, narrow, very angular forehead gave his head a kind of twisted recklessness. His black hair was thinning on top. He was wearing tails. He passed our table with short, springy steps. Castringius gave him a deferential, ‘Good evening’, and was rewarded with a curt nod. The American had attracted the attention of the whole restaurant.

‘Now that man’, Nicholas Castringius mused as he watched him leave. ‘If one could only get at him, money to burn. And Patera’s sworn enemy, our editor told me that.’ As he spoke he was refilling his glass. With a sceptical laugh Brendel clinked glasses with him, saying, ‘Well, here’s to him then, and to you.’

With every glass Castringius became more expansive. When the gypsy band with the cimbalom turned up he cracked nuts with his teeth, slapped himself on his woolly negro curls and called out to the leader, ‘Look, here’s the man with lion’s teeth.’ At Brendel’s look of astonishment he said, ‘A good friend of mine. Shall I invite him over?’ Brendel said I should decide, seeing that I was there too, but I thought the gypsy violinist was dreadful. Then we heard the hubbub of the meeting again, drowned out by the American’s stentorian voice.

Looking round, I saw an old friend, Professor Korntheuer. Splendidly attired in a light-coloured silk waistcoat and a cravat that enveloped his chin, the old gentleman was sitting in an alcove with a bottle of burgundy in front of him. I got up and went over to say hello. He looked as if he had something to celebrate and offered me a seat. ‘Just for a moment’, I said. ‘Have you had some good news?’

‘Oh, my dear sir, you have no idea. Today is a great day. I’ve got her, she’s mine!’ There was an ecstatic gleam in his honest eyes. ‘It’s ten years now I’ve been looking for her and at last I’ve found her. You’ve no idea what that means to an old man like me. It’s like an elixir of youth! It’s put life back into these weary old limbs! Now Acarina Felicitas will never leave my side.’

I congratulated him. (‘One last fling?’ I wondered. ‘Well well, I’d never have believed it of such a dignified old gentleman. A chorus girl from the music hall, I suppose? There might well be one or two quite nice ones among them.’)

‘Why didn’t you bring her along, then?’ I asked, feeling sorry for the old man. (‘She’ll squeeze every last penny out of him’, I thought.)

‘But I have, I have!’ he exclaimed, taking a little box covered in silver paper out of his jacket pocket.

‘A photograph? A locket? May I have a look?’

‘No. My darling Acarina Felicitas herself. There she is, sitting in the corner.’

Now I understood. Crouched there in the box was a tiny, dirty grey insect, the blasted dust-louse.

In my Father’s house are many mansions.

As we were leaving I asked the hotel-owner if he knew what it was that had been decided next door with such noisy acclamation.

‘Yes, I can tell you that’, he said with a mysterious air. ‘This evening a
Lucifer Club
was founded.’

Castringius, lit up almost to the gills, tried to drag us round to Mine Adrienne’s, but we declined. ‘Then one will just have to put on a solo performance’, he said, turned his coat inside out and swaggered off in stately fashion, the lining on the outside. His last words were, ‘Good night, little boys, make sure you get home before bedtime.’

II

The rich American became more and more the centre of attention. Every afternoon he galloped down Long Street on a black stallion. From the café we could see the sneer of contempt on his face as the pale Dreamlanders scuttled into nooks and doorways to get out of the way of this ruthless horseman. At the bathing pool he dismounted, undressed, then plunged into the water on horseback. The beast shied and reared, but the athletic American mastered it with ease. After one such dip he came to our coffee house and ordered several drinks, none of which was obtainable here. He swore at this, but finally calmed down a little over a glass of grog. His satanic profile was right in front of me, giving me the opportunity of observing him from close to. ‘An extremely dangerous individual’, was the conclusion that imposed itself on me. A short pipe seemed to be plumbed into his mouth, but he also had two huge cases with fat cigars in them. ‘Propaganda cheroots’ he called them himself. He offered them to everybody; if you took one you were already half-way to belonging to him. Then he would start on about his theories and his association. He was trying to recruit supporters in the coffee house too. The
Lucifer Club
, the association for social and political questions he had founded, had been given due welcome in the
Voice
; the official
Gazette
ignored it. He addressed us all and said a lot about what was happening in the world outside, constantly looking round, as if trying to gauge the impression he was making. I can still remember some of the things he said. ‘You need the sun, that’s what’s wrong with you, you fools! It serves you right if you waste your whole lives. Why don’t you do something about it? Look at me, that’s what I think of your Patera’, and he spat on the floor then thumped the table with a scornful laugh. His audience cowered, presumably afraid a thunderbolt would immediately strike to punish such blasphemy. They lowered their eyes in embarrassment. Mine host hastily crossed himself several times, patted himself on the chest and muttered a few quick prayers. Anton crouched down by the stove, whispering, ‘Lord preserve us, Lord preserve us.’ The chess players were the only ones unmoved.

The American, observing the effect of his speech, spat on the floor again, tossed a gold coin on the counter and strode out with an expression of contempt on his face.

Even if he didn’t manage to get everyone on his side, he did stimulate political activity among the Dreamlanders and in this he probably did more damage than he intended. Groups and organisations started springing up like mushrooms, and they all had different aims: free elections, communism, the introduction of slavery, free love, direct contact with outside countries, stricter isolation, the abolition of border controls. The most disparate movements appeared and religious factions formed as Catholics, Jews, Mohammedans and freethinkers each banded together. The inhabitants of Pearl split up into societies, often with no more than three members, based on a wide variety of political, commercial and intellectual points of view.

This seething ant-hill of clubbery was not the kind of activity the American had expected to stir up. ‘You’re useless’, he was heard to say on several occasions, ‘you’re nothing but shadows with no common sense or backbone, and what little brain you have has been completely taken in by all that humbug.’

About this time a great influx of strangers from abroad led to many bizarre misunderstandings. The new arrivals found their doubles here, which gave rise to both amusement and genuine annoyance. Many of the new Dreamlanders resembled old inhabitants not only in looks and manner, but even in dress, so that it seemed to be their intention deliberately to ape them. It was ridiculous, but there appeared to be two Alfred Blumenstichs going round, two Brendels and several Lampenbogens. You would dash into the 
café
 to say hello to an old friend you hadn’t seen for some time, to be greeted with a blank look–it was the wrong one. Lampenbogen was walking down the street, I raised my hat, and at the next corner there was another Lampenbogen! One day I saw the owner of the 
café
 four different times, and I could have sworn he was in his café all along. I must have had another ‘self as well. Several times I felt a playful tap on the shoulder only to turn round and see a complete stranger who would mutter a disgruntled apology.

Another day I was devastated. In Huxter’s Lane, a dark cleft leading from the French Quarter to the fruit and vegetable market, I came across a woman who was the spitting image of my wife. It awoke painful memories and I followed her until she disappeared into a house with a high, old-fashioned gable. She turned round on the doorstep to see who had been following her: the similarity, right down to the least movement, was uncanny. From then on I saw her quite often and I must admit that I did lie in wait for her a little. Subconsciously, not even admitting it to myself, I began to wonder whether love might not be beckoning again, until, that is, the day I saw her on the arm of a burly man with long, artistic locks and a slouch hat. I asked at the house where she lived and was told she was the wife of a distinguished organ-builder. I felt as if I had been made a fool of. Now, in the gentle autumn rain which dissolved everything in its shimmer, you could not be too careful to avoid being deceived. Under a false name a Castringius 11 ran up debts in all the bars until no one would extend credit to the genuine Castringius either.

The League of Joy
was set up by members of the wealthy classes with a big celebration in the former theatre. Melitta played a special role in this, enjoying a sad notoriety. She ran off and every night for a whole week performed a striptease act,
The New Eve
, at the music hall. Despite the fact that her face was masked, everyone recognised her. The scandal brought Lampenbogen and Brendel closer together. Both suffered from wounded pride and a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. Brendel was completely in thrall to her and found it impossible to transfer his affections. He went round holloweyed and heart-sick, and deliberately avoided me, he felt so ashamed. In her insatiable lust Melitta, on the other hand, was impervious to shame. She was completely smitten with the American, attracted by his broad shoulders and his healthy complexion, so rare in the Dream Realm. Someone once saw her walking along in front of him, her skirts raised above her knees. One after the other she dropped her handkerchief, her lorgnon and her purse but, with a complete lack of chivalry, the American did not respond to her little ploys, and when the fair lady bent down herself, presenting her rump in mute appeal to the masterful millionaire, he said coldly, ‘Out of my way, missie’, and pushed her aside. Filled with hatred, she urged Brendel to challenge the obstinate object of her desires, but to no avail. The American sent word that the sole weapon he was in the habit of using was the horsewhip, and that was the end of that.