When he was big enough he left school, although a career as a teacher had been predicted for him while he was still resolute in his studies. In reality, nothing interested him less than books and science. Certainly, he would have become a professor if he had been forced (I know, we’ve all met this kind of professor), and at wistful times, when Perlefter was feeling nostalgic, he would say, ‘If only I had made a sacrifice for my father! What kind of professor would I be now?’ Yes, he would have been a professor. What a sacrifice!
But his father was not in favour of him becoming a professor. He sent Alexander to a flour factory. There one had to carry sacks. Alexander did not like hard work. Alexander was so diligent, so mannered, so obedient that he was made overseer of the other sack carriers. Soon he was paying them their weekly wages. Although Alexander was no longer content he enjoyed more honour than his counterparts and was, with little money, a big shot. Other flour handlers took notice of him. But he also had the luck to appeal to grain dealers. He joined a large grain concern. He became the director. He now had a salary and not simply wages. He decided to get married. For a wife is the first step to professional independence – when God provides a dowry the need to earn money is no longer a concern. It was therefore necessary to seek a wealthy wife. He succeeded in finding one. His bride was an awkward girl, no longer young and not pretty. But she was still a girl. She thus belonged to that category of person of whom Alexander was always respectful. He did not need respect in this case. The girl sneaked out to meet him. Out of this relationship emerged a kind of love. It led to a marriage that might be called happy. And as Alexander Perlefter was not very experienced he fathered children against his will. There were four children, and he was now with his brother-in-law’s company. It was then that the brother-in-law suffered a fatal heart attack. He left behind a widow. She had always been a little frivolous and to the family was an ill-mannered abomination. Alexander inherited his brother-in-law’s business. The widow lost in court. Perlefter paid her every month a small sum of his own volition, as anyone would, he insisted over and over. He said, ‘I ask no gratitude!’ quite insistently. The widow visited him, she was a white-seamstress, and Perlefter gave her work and recommended customers for her, rich merchants of his acquaintance. For him she took 10 per cent off the price. Perlefter permitted her to demand triple the price from everyone else. ‘Herr Hahn can afford it!’ he said. But Herr Hahn could also refuse the price. Indeed, he complained to Perlefter about the widow’s outrageous requirements, and Perlefter said indignantly, ‘Outrageous! I will tell this person!’ But the person said to him, ‘He’s a dirty miser, this Hahn!’
It is quite interesting enough to write in more detail about the career of Herr Perlefter. In any case, it can be seen that, whether good or bad, from the start he had an angel accompany him along his way, one with a weakness for businessmen, removing inconvenient obstacles and associates and diligently rewarding the dedication with which Perlefter saved small or large amounts. For the sake of thoroughness, I will also share that Perlefter was a distinguished businessman, respected member of the stock exchange, that he had begun a wholesale timber business and then had the magnificent idea of using the wood himself. For when he realized, after careful calculation, that those to whom he sold the timber earned more than he did, he decided to be his own customer. He thought first of a furniture business. He could employ one of his countless poor relatives to turn the bad wood into good wardrobes. As it happened, the widow described earlier had married a respectable carpenter. A carpenter who was a relative was certainly better than one who was a stranger. A furniture business was thus not a bad idea. Then the death of another of Herr Perlefter’s brothers-in-law brought a still better idea. The brother-in-law died from neglected gallstones and left behind a considerable sum of money and two inexperienced daughters who were not able to make the preparations for their father’s burial, and so Herr Perlefter had to take it on himself. He went to a coffin establishment and became annoyed over the high prices. But he was not annoyed for long. As he felt the coffin he realized through his great expertise that it was hewn from miserable wood. One certainly spent more on a coffin than on a piece of furniture. The customers in a furniture shop were young engaged couples. And, from personal experience, Perlefter knew that happiness, particularly the happiness of love, is so overpowering that one forgets to be critical. On the other hand, it could be assumed that misfortune makes one uncritical and blind against the defects of merchandise that was destined anyway to rot in the ground. Who among all the kin would dare to skimp on the last necessity of a deceased loved one? Certainly coffin-making was a brilliant occupation, and the statistics of the previous year showed that there were more deaths than engagements. So Perlefter founded a coffin shop. The carpenter whom the widow had married began to make good coffins out of bad pine. Thus Perlefter was finally relieved of his voluntary commitment to support the seamstress as he had given her husband work.
So Herr Perlefter continued to grow in stature. Among the pillars of human society he was an outstanding one. He could no longer escape the various honours that were bestowed upon him, although he claimed he would have rather avoided them. He became a councillor and member of the Liberal and Moderate Party Club. I cannot underestimate this Moderate Party Club, neither its magnificent facilities nor the integrity and character of its members, their power and possessions. They were men as upright, as solid, as steady as the wide leather armchairs in which they sat, smoking and speaking of the politics of the country and the world. They were council members, parliamentarians, ministers in the making and former ministers. Within the club there were class differences. Naturally Herr Perlefter had to greet a minister first. Naturally the response from the minister was quite condescending. There were moderately educated businessmen and also their academic counterparts, men of scientific backgrounds. This club had numerous tables, and at each one sat a select company. One could determine the influence of a club member by the manner in which they treated the servants, who, like all the servants of the world, were the best at understanding such nuances. And, although Perlefter and people like him were not always pleased with the behaviour of the upper classes, they were proud of this, of their good fortune at being allowed to share the same room with them.
It was, as I said, a club of the Moderate Party, which had no great significance in the country but had newspapers – a lot of papers and skilful pens. It was as if this party had been created for Alexander Perlefter. It was like that bridge where he liked to linger; it required no decisiveness or risky actions – rather, it seemed moderating. It mediated, it created no decisive enemies, it met Perlefter’s world view, it left God alone – as well as the princes and the rich people – but also the workers, the homeless and the gypsies.
One might assume that this club was frequented by people such as Perlefter. But it was not so. As far as I could tell, there were not many of the ordinariness of Alexander Perlefter. The opportunity was offered me, on a few occasions, to dine at the club. I came to know some of the members. Perlefter introduced me to them. He did not fail to praise my talents and achievements in front of the men to whom he introduced me, although he himself did not think as much of my talents and achievements as he pretended. Afterwards he did not forget to describe for me, enthusiastically, the importance, the greatness and the character of each man. I recall that neither Herr Perlefter nor I had made any impression upon these people. They nodded in a friendly manner and smiled, revealing their yellowed smoker’s teeth and gold fillings, but I disappeared from their memory as might any indifferent object, some insignificant poster or the number of a taxi they had used. I didn’t bother trying to make an impression on these great and decorous men because I was too anxious trying to memorize their faces and their mannerisms. Thus I knew that the divorce lawyer, Herr Doctor Sigismund Grunewald, who used to be known as Grünewald, wore a full beard that looked like a black carpet which has become grey around the edges through frequent use. He had rather
thin fingers with improbably strong knuckles, which looked like nodes or frostbite scars. With these white and sinister fingers he often stroked his beard, stretching them apart to make a sort of natural comb out of them. At the attorneys’ table sat the former minister Lierecke, a man whose bushy beard concealed his upper and lower lip and who liked furtively and absentmindedly to wipe his fingers dry on the end of the tablecloth. There was also in the club the tin-can manufacturer Simmwinger, a grey gentleman with striking and colourful wide neckties and high collars, in whose ears were whitish-yellow tufts of overgrown moss. Frequenting the club was the café owner and former master baker Ringelhardt who owned the three largest cafés in the city and who always spoke loudly as if he were addressing the thousands of customers at one of his packed locations. There also came into the club a pensioner named Major Grohl, a small man with a red and porous nose who, although he wore civilian clothes, could not manage without the spurs on his boots and who ever lived in an eternal cloud of silver clinking and owned a large sheep-dog that answered to the unusual name of Kratt. There was also the Member of Parliament, Schundeler, a young man from the garment industry who through diligent studies of the national economy and several courses in public speaking had worked his way to becoming a representative of the people. I can recall the tobacco dealer Zopf, the watchmaker and jeweller Beständig, the riding-school owner Nessedolt, the Fire Department inspector Teul, the government commissioner Taklap and the Jewish rabbi Bloch.
All these men esteemed Perlefter. He received respect from all of them. But there were different grades of respect, and they corresponded to the different social levels of gentleman. Herr Perlefter was on familiar terms with some of them. Some he even called his friends. But they were really not all his friends, those whom he thus designated. When he, for example, said ‘My friend, the Minister’ it wasn’t true. It was safe to assume that the Minister never said ‘My friend, the merchant Perlefter’. But what did it mean? There was a small nuance. For, in reality, none of these men would have paid him any attention had he not been one of their club mates. They loaned each other money – with interest naturally. They did business with each other but only when each party profited. And thus they ensured not only their own well-being but also secured friendships. For how can one resent an institution that only earns or at least will never cost anything?
Perlefter’s membership of this club was seen at home as an honour and a signifier of rank. Frau Perlefter often said to her guests, ‘My husband’s in a club!’ or ‘Do you know what happened yesterday? My husband heard it at the club!’ She spoke the words slowly, stretching her voice in such a way that the harmless term seemed sinister, terrible, as if it were a supreme court. On the other hand, Alexander spoke of his club as if it were perfectly ordinary and understandable. ‘I’m going to the club!’ he said, as one would say, ‘I’m going to take the tram.’ And so when Perlefter said ‘club’ there was a moment of silence at the table, and I distinctly believe that each family member was proud during that very brief moment and actually imagining themselves in the club. It was practically as if all the club members were there in the room. It was not as if Herr Perlefter was going to the club but, rather, as if the club had come to Perlefter.
To the family there was nothing that could not be accomplished with the help of the club. ‘Enquire about it some time at the club!’ said Frau Perlefter. If one needed the assistance of the police, they said, ‘Bring it up at the club!’ Perlefter himself often said, ‘I will see what can be done about it at the club!’ or ‘I will discuss this at the club!’ And only in the most difficult and desperate times did he say, ‘I’m going to speak with the editor Philippi.’
The editor Philippi was the final authority and rightfully so. For he held the post of City Editor at one of the larger papers. Nobody could speak ill of him. He could easily speak ill of everyone else. But he did not often do so. He looked quite dumb but was very intelligent. He had a small, neatly maintained goatee of an uncertain, slightly greenish colour. His gentle large brown eyes were like lacquered lifeless balls. He spoke only when he was addressed. Summer and winter he wore galoshes. Pince-nez dangled from a thin chain over his flowery waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons. He liked to sit at the outermost edge of his seat. It was as if he wanted to spare the seat. He was a bachelor. There were rumours that he had had an affair with a housekeeper and had two illegitimate sons. This City Editor was necessarily secretive. One would certainly not like him if one would not need him so often. No, people didn’t actually like him, but they did need him often. He had influence. He was Perlefter’s most distinguished acquaintance. People often gave him the title ‘Editor’, but that was not really his actual title, or they pretended not to know that he was not a doctor and called him ‘Doctor’. He rejected both. He smiled foolishly with his bulging ball-eyes, but his seeming stupidity was not to be trusted. One said of him that he was a man of honour. He conducted no business. He lived, in reality, very modestly, always wearing his rubber overboots to save his leather boots because in his opinion the streets were too muddy. Have I mentioned this already? He was one of the most distinguished visitors to Perlefter’s house. For although to Herr Perlefter education meant as little as poverty, and he held the editor in low esteem because he either did not know how to make use of his connections or had no interest in doing so, he tried to pretend that there was nothing more worthy of respect in the world than an honest and talented poverty, an unfulfilled grandeur. Perlefter casually announced the names of most of his visitors with seeming impatience, almost incidentally. On the other hand, he placed sharp emphasis on the name Philippi. ‘Editor Philippi comes today!’ said Perlefter. ‘He initiated the visit himself.’ But that was not true. Perlefter had taken a long time to persuade him. Nevertheless the family believed that Philippi himself had applied to visit Perlefter. And the family was proud.
Professor Strisower was also invited. He was known as the Little Professor. He was an instructor in Oriental languages, a professor for thirty years, hard of hearing, awkward, frail-looking but healthy and untiring. He came, did not recognize anyone, mixed up the children, pondered about common things and accepted the most remarkable without astonishment. One had to peel his coat off, lead him to a chair and make him aware of the food and drink that lay before him. He fastened his serviette tightly around his neck and sat there like a little child and ground his jaws. He listened to what he was told. But he parsimoniously and mistrustfully heard each word that was spoken from across the table. For he was afraid that people were speaking ill of him and mocking him. He was picked up late in the evening by his housekeeper, an evil-looking but good-natured woman with a thick shawl over her arms who waited for the professor in the hall, sitting in the corner like a toilet attendant and slurping tea and munching cakes.
Herr Perlefter sometimes asserted his views about the Professor. ‘A poor old man,’ said Perlefter. ‘He ought to get married. He should have children to provide for him and a wife. For what is the purpose of man on earth? To found a family and to be happy, each according to his options. What does he have from life? And this is a celebrated man, one whom the world has to thank for many discoveries. He is one of those people who will only begin to be appreciated for the first time after his death. I wouldn’t like to have his head! What must be going on in the brain of such a man? He must have a hundred thoughts per minute. I have to wonder why learned men aren’t better paid. All of them are poor devils!’ Thus Perlefter ended his monologue, sorry that he was right.
Sometimes he would suddenly say, and as if a most serious thought had been awakened within him, ‘My son will not be a professor!’
No! There was no doubt that Perlefter would not make a professor out of his son. He had great respect for professors, but he regarded them with that timidity which one has in the face of holy men and hermits, people whom one reveres, whom one even holds above oneself, yet whom one deplores and with whom one would not wish to trade places for any amount of mone
y.
He made an exception only for such professors whose knowledge and field of speciality was medicine, the celebrated surgeons who earn thousands with a little knife and whom every man with lung disease requests for a consultation. Two of these famous men were officials in Herr Perlefter’s party. But one never saw them at public events; they earned a great deal of money but had so little time.