But even as great and numerous the pains with which the travelling Perlefter had to contend in purchasing his pleasure, the homecoming Perlefter thought only of the pleasures and no more of the sorrows. The happiness was wrapped in grief that became reduced in his memory like a shell of bittersweet taste around a core that remained more permanently. Perlefter forgot about the expenses, the theatre, the concerts, the operas and the cinema. He recalled only the blonde women and spoke only of them. And although it was practically always the same it seemed to him as if they were ever new, ever chance and mysterious encounters.
‘Suddenly’, he recounted to a few interested friends in the club, ‘who sits down at my table, right up against me, but a large blonde, a curly-haired blonde in a low-cut dress with a dazzling white neck, and of her bust I’d rather not say anything! She orders caviar rolls, and as she eats, I tell you, as she continues to look over at me, I realize how many drinks she’s downed. Well, I need not say more.’
Perlefter actually enjoyed his experiences less than the memories of his experiences. As he chewed them over and recounted them he spun a nostalgic gloss around the experiences, of the type one culls from memories and by which they are enrobed, and that was when he first became the bold adventurer, conqueror of women and heartbreaker. As soon as he returned home he delighted in his courage and his deeds. As he conquered his way through his pocket calendar he could already hear himself telling of his conquests, reliving his memories, and it was actually only from his memories that he created adventures. He was like a man who lives for his diary. Perlefter, however, kept no diary.
Yes, he liked to travel. He could not deny, though, that he had to overcome various fears along the way. Although he never admitted it to anyone – and when the occasion arose he freely mocked the superstitions of his wife, the cook and his daughters – he was himself superstitious. He feared a train collision, especially if the porter who took his baggage wore the number thirteen. When Perlefter ascended to his compartment his primary concern was just that there be no collision. Further, he would search with his eyes for the emergency brake. He usually inspected the locomotive before boarding. He knew nothing about the engines of steam trains. Thus he was pleased with the big powerful wheels, the lustrous letters and numbers, the levers, screws and valves, and he sought to fathom whether it was a machine of the latest style or the penultimate one. His investigation of the locomotive reassured him, but he was still far from being certain. Other trains could come, signals and switches could be wrong or the engineer could be drunk. Perlefter prayed silently, quickly, but intensely.
Then something extraordinary happened. As Perlefter was ordering his ticket one day the Society for the Advancement of Tourism explained to him that there was now an opportunity to fly on an aeroplane. Would Herr Perlefter wish to fly? It was a publicity flight and of extraordinary importance, if Perlefter would care to participate. Perlefter said yes immediately. Indeed, he had no idea how he got to the point where his own courage overtook him. A minute later he was so terrified, as if realizing he had just looked Death straight in the eyes. What had he done? Was he a pilot? How did he come to put his life in danger for an organization that did not really concern him? And yet he was afraid to back out. He would become a hero out of fear. I have been told that such was the case for many a hero.
That afternoon I came by looking for Perlefter. It was past four o’clock. He had been expected there by three o’clock. He arrived at five. He was unrecognizable. On his head he wore a brown leather cap. A large green pair of goggles with square lenses lay on his forehead. He came in smiling, into the room in which everyone was sitting at the table drinking chocolate. Everyone stood up, shocked. I had never seen Herr Perlefter like this before.
He sat down at once, talked loudly, ate and drank more than usual and told of his flight.
‘I simply must. I can’t help it!’ he said. ‘This is the consequence of honorary appointments. I’ll never accept another. But if I turn down such an honour with which mortal danger is associated! It’s a publicity flight. Three aeroplanes will take off. I will sit in the first. It is to be hoped that nothing will happen.’
Frau Perlefter began to sob gently. She wanted to call it off. The children did not allow her near the telephone. During the evening they rang up all the near and far relatives of the family and reported to them in detail about Perlefter’s undertaking. Frau Perlefter secretly summoned the family doctor to come. Perlefter was still being examined at nine o’clock. The doctor said, ‘Not too much to eat and not too little. The heart is fine. Don’t look out the window, so that you won’t suffer from motion sickness.’
There was a young engineer in the family, a nice young man who understood nothing of aeroplanes as he had interest only in architecture. Nevertheless he was expected to intervene in all technological matters in Perlefter’s house. He was forced to repair clocks, electric lights and telephones and to check the drains. Perlefter had, in fact, once helped this young man out. The young man’s outstanding virtue was his thanks.
He came over on this occasion. He was given a cup of chocolate. In exchange he gave a lecture on aircraft. He had intended to join the air force during the war. But before he could be trained world peace was achieved. The young man recounted anecdotes of the air officers. It calmed the Perlefter family to see a young man, still alive, healthy and unscathed, drinking chocolate, despite having almost been a pilot.
The family lawyer was also consulted, a walrus-moustached attorney named Dr Nagl who had a fondness for servant girls and thus always entered through the kitchen. He came, explained the airline’s liability provisions and advised – cold and heartless as lawyers are prone to be – that a last will and testament be drawn up. Perlefter’s wife began to sob once again.
Another relative showed up, one who had not been invited, the poor seamstress who had married her carpenter. She dared not ask the reason for all the excitement. Although everyone else was drinking chocolate she was given tea, and they pretended to look for a lemon. But on this evening the lemons were all gone. She drank it all the same, an old stale tea with beads of glistening foam on the rim of the cup.
They paid no attention to the seamstress. Herr Perlefter lay down on the sofa and smoked. He let his ashes fall lustily on to the carpet, and his wife indulged him. Perhaps, she thought, this would be the last time he could recline so comfortably on the sofa.
Perlefter’s thoughts, however, revolved around the immediate future. He envisaged his scattered bones and imagined them being collected and cremated. Perlefter had specified in his will that his remains should be cremated. He was afraid of cemeteries and especially of cemeteries in winter. When he imagined himself as a corpse lying under metres of snow he felt like he was standing outside without a woollen coat. He would rather be burned than to freeze.
Perlefter was also certainly thinking of the hereafter. For he rose suddenly from the sofa, motioned me in the next room and spoke. ‘You could do me a favour. Two weeks ago I heard that the wife of our cousin Kroj is sick with pneumonia. Take this money to him straight away. Have you time?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have nothing but time to take some money to Kroj. Incidentally, Frau Kroj is perhaps already dead.’
‘Impossible!’ cried Herr Perlefter. ‘To be sure, she’s still alive!’
‘But what if she’s dead?’
‘Don’t even consider it! She can’t be dead! One can’t die so easily!’
‘Oh yes, one can die easily from pneumonia!’
‘Stop it,’ yelled Perlefter. ‘One shouldn’t make jokes about such serious matters.’
Then I took the money to Herr Kroj.
Kroj was a cobbler. The Perlefter family let him resole all their old boots. Herr Perlefter often claimed that Kroj demanded too steep a price and the stranger shoemaker in the neighbouring house was significantly cheaper. Nevertheless all the worn-out shoes found their way to this relative, the cobbler Kroj. It was Kroj’s lifelong dream to be able
personally to make a pair of shoes for Herr Perlefter. Perlefter, however, covered his needs through the Karlsbad firm of Leiduck and Co.
When I arrived at the cobbler’s I could smell vinegar, leather and sweat. Behind a partition lay a groaning Frau Kroj. I rang the shop bell, and Kroj came out in slippers.
‘Well, see here,’ said Kroj. ‘A visitor.’
‘How’s your wife?’ I asked.
‘She’s already costing me more money than I’ve got. She’s been sick six weeks now!’
‘I thought only two weeks? Didn’t you write to our cousin Herr Perlefter two weeks ago?’
‘No, it’s been six weeks since I wrote to him. He hasn’t helped me.’
‘He’s sent you this money!’
‘Oh really? He’s a fine man!’
Then I returned to Perlefter’s. He stood on the balcony of his house awaiting my return. He shouted to me, ‘Is she still alive?’
‘Yes, she’s alive!’ I cried back.
When I got inside Perlefter radiated joy. Now he was confident that nothing would happen to him, even if he flew over the ocean in a burning airship. He led me into the parlour. We drank wine, and Perlefter said, ‘That’s life!’
But we had not spoken at all about life.
The next morning I went to the airfield. Frau Perlefter was there with all the children along with Dr Nagl, the young man who had not become a pilot and the chauffeur, who placed a fur coat in the aeroplane. Frau Perlefter had red eyes. Herr Perlefter stood near the pilot and looked confusingly similar to the pilot. The other passengers arrived in ordinary clothes. They took Perlefter for the pilot and asked, ‘Is everything in order?’
Herr Perlefter smiled because he recognized all of them. The gentlemen had met each other somewhere before. They were all honorary members. They wondered about Perlefter’s outfit and asked whether he had flown often previously.
‘This is my sixth time,’ said Perlefter with conviction.
At ten o’clock the propellers began to spin, and Perlefter’s children were thrown to the ground by the wind. The gentlemen climbed in, drew their handkerchiefs and waved. The propellers stopped spinning. Everyone climbed out again. It was embarrassing to both the travellers and their escorts that the aeroplane had not yet taken off. Herr Perlefter kissed his wife once more then gave the chauffeur his hand, for he believed that kindness to others kept one alive. The chauffeur was visibly surprised. Finally the propellers rattled again, and the gentlemen waved conclusively, Perlefter’s round face looking out from the window. I will never forget it.
His wife began to sob. She wanted to catch another glimpse of her husband, but he had already ascended to an altitude of three hundred metres. The spectators all craned their necks towards the flying honorary members, but then the large bird vanished behind a red brick wall that restricted their view of the horizon.
Perlefter was flying. Perlefter had flown away.
His family returned home and invited me to lunch ‘so it won’t be that lonely’. So we sat and ate scrambled eggs, as the roast on this frightful day was burnt. The young Perlefter boy seemed unwilling to eat any scrambled eggs. He was given a chocolate bar, although everyone knew that he had a bad stomach through eating too many sweets. Nevertheless they let him, as I said, eat chocolate.
Late in the night came a telegram: Landed safely. Your father. The postman received a tip, and we could hear his joyful footfalls upon the steps.
Herr Perlefter stayed away from his loved ones for more than two months. Let us leave him living abroad for the time being while we dedicate ourselves to his house and family.
IV
I have already mentioned that Perlefter controlled his house. He could control nobody else. Not his friends nor his employees. He could dominate only his family members, for they were even weaker, even more anxious, even more weak-willed than Perlefter himself. They lived in a wealthy household – for he earned and had money – and yet it was a poor household, filled with sighs, worries and bills. The family was convinced that Perlefter was overworked, that he did not sleep, that he was constantly struggling to earn his daily bread, that for him every expense brought new worries. Therefore the family spent not a single penny without concern. There was no joy in this house without underlying grief, no celebrations without pain, no birthdays without illness, no wine without bitterness. One cooked and baked, managed the wash and clothes, furniture, rugs and jewellery, but none of these things in sufficient quantity – on the contrary, it was just the bare minimum, never enough for anything. It was never, ever enough. There was fine cake but cut in such thin slices that one could not taste its quality. Good meat was purchased and chopped into tiny portions. A soup was cooked that would have caused a sensation if only one had the chance actually to taste it. Fourteen guests were invited, but the meal was just enough for twelve. In the ice box were the laughable leftovers, about which one worried as if over the fading life of a dying child. There lay, still and timid, a plate of miserable heaps of butter, yellow and melting into a puddle, awaiting its end. The children’s leftovers were rescued from their plates at lunch and the meat chopped up and used to make dinner. Somewhere within closed cabinets dry yellow cake awaited a special occasion. Such an occasion came. It was realized that the cake might endanger the teeth of the guests. Accordingly it was put into the oven to soften, but instead it got charred. It came to the table blackened with a hard carbonized crust. One had to scrape away the crust with a knife. The apples shrank smaller and smaller; they became puckered and the size of cherries. Old oranges grew mouldy and became silvery. The cheapest fruit was purchased. The plums had splits, and their reddish flesh swelled like that of a wounded person. Over the course of time the Emmental lost its moisture and was hard as the wood that Perlefter bought. From twenty different bottles you could gather altogether sixty drops of liquor. In the cigar boxes, which were intended for guests, could be found only one layer of cigars. The curtain ropes were broken for months. One closed the curtains by hand, pulled them together, but they didn’t work as desired; they refused. All objects were in a state of permanent opposition. The doors creaked. They had cracks the width of a finger and let the cold air through. Into the large furnace were placed tiny pieces of coal. The humidifier didn’t work. The best carpets lay rolled up in the attic, covered with a bunch of newspapers. Torn linoleum was spread on the tables. The pretty red-velvet chairs were covered in white linen, like furniture corpses eerily awaiting their funeral. The flower vases lacked their bases. The coffee service had only nine cups; the tenth was cracked. Near the crystal fruit bowl lay its broken handle. After being worn down through so much use the knives had thin and flexible blades like fencing foils. They were blunt and had to be sharpened daily in the kitchen on the edge of an earthenware pot. The piano was ever out of tune, for Perlefter had bought the cheapest one – one of the oldest – at half price. It was a bargain. The gramophone was hoarse; the records lay worn and dusty in an old cylindrical case. Two pendulum clocks stood, both missing their weights. The alarm clock rang only once a week and only when one was not expecting it, usually after midnight. The doorbell did not work, and on the door was ever the reminder ‘Knock loudly!’ All the family’s umbrellas were broken. The locks on all the suitcases had to be opened by force, because every family member had lost his or her key. There was a clothing stand that could not find its balance and constantly swayed, even if it carried no clothes.
In the drawers of the commode lay the children’s still, dead pocket watches next to broken hairpins and dusty yellow tobacco residue. In the inkwells the ink was dry, no more than a black crust. The quills splayed as soon as one put them to paper. There was colourful stationery in all shades; purchased in cheap cigar shops, it was as porous as blotting paper. The postal scale was out of balance. The pencils could not be sharpened, for the lead consisted entirely of fragments and the wood was brittle and fibrous. In the bathroom cold water streamed out of the hot tap and vice versa. The bath towels were frayed. An
old mousetrap did not snap shut any more. Inside hung a bait of such a composition that even a hungry rat would be deterred. The laundry cart was missing its right front foot. To steady it a couple of bricks from his son Alfred’s set of toy building blocks had been placed underneath. On the mantle stood a plaster ballerina without arms. Under the mirror in the girls’ room hung a wreath of pink paper flowers. They didn’t throw it out because they felt sorry for it. They liked all broken, defective and useless things. From the proud row of encyclopaedias was missing the volume ‘Buddha to Cologne’.
The baker came but three times a week with fresh bread. They preferred to eat it dry and withered, claiming that fresh bread was harmful to the stomach. Old sardines in open cans were refreshed with lemon juice. Marinated herring, however, they ate too soon, before the flavour had soaked in. Breaded cutlets were made that fell apart on the plates. There was cauliflower soup without the cauliflower. Bunches of radishes lay in the kitchen. Only Perlefter himself was allowed to eat them, as long as they were fresh. For only Perlefter himself lived in affluence. He ate the best soups, the largest and freshest cakes, the specialities, the fresh bread (even though it was harmful); his liquor filled entire bottles; his inkwells were filled to the top with good, flowing blue ink; his pencils lay secure in a shut drawer and were made of the finest material; his bath towel was given to him every morning from the chest (for he would not use the tattered ones); and upon the sofa where he took his afternoon nap there was no white linen. Perlefter was annoyed with his wife’s thrift and the miserly disorder in the house, yet was himself the cause of this frugality. For only out of concern about him and out of fear that he might overwork himself in order to provide new things did they keep the old and broken-down furniture and extend their frugality to such things as useless paper garlands. Perlefter, however, did not sigh over the difficult life. His good wife came to the most natural conclusion. Ah! She didn’t know that the only reason he came home was because no place else could he find such willing ears that were fine-tuned to his trials and tribulations. He unloaded all his suffering at home and then became annoyed that his house resembled a mortuary.