The Black Obelisk

  I do not reply. I am literally speechless. Erna has not seen me at all.

  Finally the music stops. Slowly the dance floor empties. Erna disappears into a booth. "Were you seventeen or seventy just now?" Riesenfeld howls.

  Since at this moment the orchestra is silent, his question thunders through the room. A couple of dozen heads turn to look at us, and even Riesenfeld is startled. I want to creep quickly under the table; but then it occurs to me that the people around us may have taken the question for a business offer and I reply coldly and loudly: "Seventy-one dollars apiece and not a cent less."

  My reply awakens immediate interest. "What's the merchandise?" asks a man with a child's face at the next table. "Perhaps I'll get into the act. I'm always interested in good items. Cash, of course. Aufstein is the name."

  "Felix Koks," I complete the introduction, happy to be able to pull myself together. "The items were twenty bottles of perfume. Unfortunately, the gentleman over there has just bought them."

  "Sh—" whispers an artifical blonde.

  The entertainment has begun. A master of ceremonies is talking nonsense and is furious because nobody likes his jokes. I pull my chair back and disappear behind Aufstein; masters of ceremonies, bent on attacking the audience, always love to pick on me, and tonight that would be bad because of Erna.

  Everything goes fine. The master of ceremonies disappears in disgust, and who should suddenly appear in a white bridal dress and veil but Renée de la Tour. Relieved, I pull my chair back and wonder how I can use my acquaintance with Renée to impress Erna.

  Renée begins her duet. Docilely and modestly she trills a few verses in a high, maidenly soprano—then comes the bass and makes an immediate sensation. "How do you like the lady?" I ask Riesenfeld.

  "Lady?"

  "Would you like to meet her? Mademoiselle de la Tour."

  Riesenfeld is taken aback. "La Tour? Are you going to pretend that this absurd freak of nature is the enchantress in the window opposite you?"

  That's just what I am about to pretend, in order to see how he reacts, when I notice a sort of angelic glow hovering about his elephantine snout. Without a word he gestures toward the entrance with his thumb. "There—over there—there she is! That walk! You recognize it instantly!"

  He is right. Lisa has entered. She is in the company of two middle-aged playboys and is behaving like a lady of the most cultivated society, at least according to Riesenfeld's conceptions. She hardly seems to breathe and listens to her cavaliers with haughty distraction. "Am I right?" Riesenfeld asks. "You recognize women instantly by their walk, don't you?"

  "Yes. Women and policemen," Georg says grinning; but he, too, looks appreciatively at Lisa.

  The second number begins. A girl acrobat stands on the dance floor. She is young, with an impudent face, short nose, and beautiful legs. She does an adagio with somersaults, handstands, and leaps. We go on watching Lisa. She apparently wants to leave the place again. That, of course, is pretense; there's only this one night club in the city; the rest are cafes, restaurants, or dives. That's why one meets everyone here who has enough cash to get in.

  "Champagne!" roars Riesenfeld in a dictator's voice.

  I am alarmed; Georg, too, is worried. "Herr Riesenfeld," I say, "the champagne here is very bad."

  At that moment a face looks at me from the floor. I look back in amazement and see that it is the dancer, who has bent over backward so far that her head protrudes from between her legs. For a second she looks like an extremely deformed dwarf. "I'm ordering the champagne!" Riesenfeld exclaims, motioning to the waiter.

  Georg winks at me. He plays the role of cavalier, while I'm there to look after awkward situations; that's the arrangement between us. "If you want champagne, you shall have it," he says now. "But of course you're our guest, Riesenfeld."

  "Impossible! I'm taking care of this! Not another word!" Riesenfeld is now the complete Don Juan of the upper classes. He looks with satisfaction at the golden neck in the ice bucket. Various ladies immediately exhibit a strong interest. I, too, feel gratified. The champagne will show Erna that she threw me overboard too soon. With satisfaction I drink to Riesenfeld, who responds formally.

  Willy turns up. That was to be expected; he is a regular patron of the place. Aufstein and his friends leave, and Willy sits down at the table next to ours. Almost immediately he gets up to greet Renée de la Tour. With her is a pretty girl in a black evening dress. After a while I recognize her as the acrobat. Willy introduces us. Her name is Gerda Schneider. She throws an appraising glance at the champagne and at us three. We watch to see whether Riesenfeld will catch fire; then we'd be rid of him for the evening. But Riesenfeld is committed to Lisa. 'Do you think I could invite her to dance?" he asks Georg.

  "I wouldn't advise you to just now," Georg replies diplomatically. "But perhaps we'll meet her later in the evening."

  He looks at me reproachfully. If I had not said in the office that we did not know Lisa, everything would be simple. But who could have guessed Riesenfeld would turn romantic? Now it is too late to explain. Romantics have no sense of humor.

  "Don't you dance?" the acrobat asks me.

  "Badly. I have no sense of rhythm."

  "Nor have I. Let's try it together."

  We wedge our way into the mass on the dance floor and are slowly pushed forward. "Three men without women in a night club," Gerda says. "Why?"

  "Why not? My friend Georg maintains that anyone who takes a woman into a night club is inviting her to put horns on his head."

  "Who is your friend Georg? The one with the big nose?"

  "The one with the bald head. He is a believer in the harem system. Women should not be exhibited, he says."

  "Of course," Gerda replies. "And you?"

  "I haven't any system.' I'm just chaff in the wind."

  "Don't step on my feet," Gerda says. "You're not chaff at all. You weigh at least one fifty."

  I pull myself together. We are just being pushed past Erna's table, and this time, thank God, she recognizes me although her head is resting on the shoulder of the profiteer with the seal ring and his arm is around her waist. How can I watch at such a moment? I smile sweetly down at Gerda and pull her closer to me, keeping an eye on Erna the while.

  Gerda smells of lily of the valley. "Oh, let go of me!" she says. "This won't get you anywhere with that redhead. That's what you're trying for, isn't it?"

  "No," I lie.

  "You oughtn't to have noticed her at all. But you had to keep on staring over at her and then you suddenly start this ridiculous comedy with me. What a beginner you are!"

  I still try to keep the false smile on my face; the last thing I want is for Erna to notice what's going on. "I didn't arrange this," I say lamely. "I didn't want to dance."

  Gerda pushes me away. "Evidently you're a cavalier as well. Let's stop. My feet hurt."

  I wonder whether to explain that I did not mean it that way; but who knows what would come of it? Instead I keep my mouth shut and follow her back to the table, head high, but plunged in shame....

  Meanwhile, the alcohol has taken effect. Georg and Riesen-feld are calling each other du. Riesenfeld's first name is Alex. In another hour at most he will invite me, too, to call him du. Tomorrow morning, of course, it will all be forgotten.

  I sit there rather dejected, waiting for Riesenfeld to get tired. The dancers drift past, borne by the music on a lazy current of noise, bodily proximity, and herd instinct. Erna, too, comes by, provocatively ignoring me. Gerda jabs me in the ribs. "Her hair is dyed," she says, and I have the sickening feeling that she is trying to comfort me.

  I nod and become aware that I have had enough to drink. Finally Riesenfeld shouts for the waiter. Lisa has left; now he wants to go too.

  It takes a while before we are finished. Riesenfeld actually pays for the champagne; I'd expected that we would be stuck with the four bottles he has ordered. We say good-by to Willy, Renée de la Tour, and Gerda Schneider. The place is closing anyw
ay; the musicians are putting away their instruments. Everyone crowds around the exit and the hat-check counter.

  Suddenly I am standing beside Ema. Her cavalier, at the hat-check counter, is wrestling with his long arms to get her coat. Erna measures me icily. "I would catch you here! That's something you probably didn't expect!"

  "You catch me?" I say, taken aback. "I've caught you!"

  "And in what company!" she goes on as though I had not spoken. "With dance-hall girls! Don't touch me! Who knows what you've caught already!"

  I have made no move to touch her. "I'm here on business." I say. "And you? How do you come to be here?"

  "On business!" she laughs cuttingly. "Business here? Who's dead?"

  "The backbone of the state, the man with small savings," I reply, considering myself witty. "He gets buried daily, but his memorial is not a cross—it's a mausoleum called the Stock Exchange."

  "To think that I trusted such a worthless loafer!" she says as though I had made no reply. "It's all over between us, Herr Bodmer!"

  Georg and Riesenfeld are at the counter fighting for their hats. I realize that I have been tricked into defending myself. "Listen," I hiss. "Who told me this very afternoon that she could not go out because she had a raging headache? And who is hopping around here with a fat profiteer?"

  Erna gets white around the nose. "Vulgar poetaster!" she whispers as though spewing vitriol. "You probably think you're superior because you can copy dead men's poems, don't you? Why don't you learn instead to make enough money to take a lady out in proper style! You with your walks in the country! To the silken banners of May!' Don't make me sob with pity!"

  The silken banners are from the poem I sent her this afternoon. I reel inwardly; outwardly I grin. "Let's stick to the subject," I say. "Who is leaving here with two honest businessmen? And who with a cavalier?"

  Erna looks at me big-eyed. "You expect me to go out on the streets at night by myself like a bar whore? What do you take me for? Do you think I intend to allow myself to be accosted by any loafer? What are you thinking of anyway?"

  "You oughtn't to have come here at all in the first place!"

  "Indeed? Just listen to that! Giving orders already! Forbidden to leave the house while the gentleman goes gallivanting! Any more commands? Shall I darn your socks?" She laughs cuttingly. "The gentleman drinks champagne, but seltzer and beer were good enough for me, or a cheap wine of no vintage!"

  "I didn't order the champagne! That was Riesenfeld!"

  "Of course! Always the innocent, you miserable failure of a schoolteacher. Why are you still standing here? I'll have nothing more to do with you! Stop molesting me!"

  I can hardly speak for rage. Georg comes up and hands me my hat. Erna's profiteer also appears. They go off together. "Did you hear?" I ask Georg.

  "Part of it. Why are you fighting with a woman?"

  "I didn't intend to get into a fight."

  Georg laughs. He is never entirely drunk, even after pouring it down by the bucket. "Never let them get you into it. You always lose. Why do you want to be right?"

  "Yes," I say. "Why? Probably because I'm a son of the German soil. Don't you ever get into arguments with women?"

  "Of course. But that doesn't keep me from giving good advice to my friends."

  The cool air hits Riesenfeld like a hammer tap. "Let's call each other du," he says to me. "After all, we're brothers. Exploiters of death." His laugh is like the barking of a fox. "My name is Alex."

  "Rolf," I reply. I wouldn't dream of using my real first name for this drunken, one-night brotherhood. Rolf is good enough for Alex.

  "Rolf?" Riesenfeld says. "What a silly name! Have you always had it?"

  "Since my military service Tve had the right to use it on leap years. Besides, Alex is nothing special."

  Riesenfeld staggers a bit. "It doesn't matter," he says generously. "Children, it's been a long time since I've felt so fine! Could we get some coffee at your place?"

  "Of course," Georg says. "Rolf is a first-class coffee cook."

  We wobble through the shadows of St. Mary's to Hacken-strasse. In front of us paces a lonely wanderer with a storklike gait. He turns in at our gateway. It is Sergeant Major Knopf, just returning from his tour of inspection of the inns. We follow him and catch up just as he is urinating against the black obelisk beside the door. "Herr Knopf," I say, "that's improper conduct!"

  "At ease," Knopf mutters, without turning his head.

  "Sergeant Major," I repeat, "that's improper conduct! It's disgusting! Why don't you do it in your own house?"

  He turns his head briefly. "You want me to piss in my parlor? Are you crazy?"

  "Not in your parlor! You have a perfectly good toilet in your house. Use it! It's only about ten yards from here."

  "Drivel!" Knopf replies.

  "You're soiling the trade-mark of our firm. Besides, you're committing sacrilege. That's a tombstone. A holy object."

  "Not till it's put in the cemetery," Knopf says and stalks off to the door of his house. "Good night to all of you, gentlemen."

  He makes a half-bow at random, striking his forehead against the doorpost. Growling, he disappears. "Who was that?" Riesenfeld asks me, while I look for the coffee.

  "Your opposite. An abstract drinker. He drinks without imagination. He needs no help at all from outside. No wishful fantasies."

  "That's something too!" Riesenfeld takes his place at the window. "Just a hogshead for alcohol then. Man lives by dreams. Haven't you found that out yet?"

  "No. I'm too young."

  "You're not too young. You're just a product of the war— emotionally immature and with too much experience in murder."

  "Merci," I say. "How's the coffee?"

  Apparently the fumes have cleared. We are now back to formal terms of address. "Do you think the lady over there is already home?" Riesenfeld asks Georg.

  "Probably. It's all dark."

  "That could be because she hasn't come back yet. We can wait a few minutes, can't we?"

  "Of course."

  "Perhaps we can get our business out of the way in the meantime," I say. "All that's needed is a signature to the contract. Meanwhile I'll get some fresh coffee from the kitchen."

  I go out, giving Georg time to work on Riesenfeld. This sort of thing goes better without witnesses. I sit down on the steps outside. From Wilke's carpenter shop come peaceful snores. Heinrich Kroll must still be there, for Wilke lives elsewhere. The national businessman will get a fine shock when he wakes up in a coffin. I debate whether to wake him up, but I'm too tired and it's already getting light—let the shock serve that fearless warrior as an icy bath to strengthen him and reveal to him the end result and aim of any war. I look at my watch, waiting for Georg's signal, and then stare into the garden. Morning is rising silently from the blossoming trees as though from a soft bed. In the lighted second-story window of the house opposite stands Sergeant Major Knopf in his nightgown taking a last gulp from the bottle. The cat rubs against my legs. Thank God, I say to myself, Sunday is over.

  5.

  A woman in mourning slips unobstrusively through the gate and stands irresolute in the courtyard. I go out. Someone shopping for a small tombstone, I think, and ask: "Would you like to look at our exhibition?"

  She nods, but then says immediately: "No, no, that's not really necessary."

  "You can look around at leisure. You don't have to buy. If you like I'll leave you alone."

  "No, no! It's just—I simply wanted—"

  I wait. Pressure has no place in our business. After a while the woman says: "It's for my husband—"

  I nod and continue to wait. At the same time I turn toward the row of little Belgian headstones. "These are very much in demand," I say finally.

  "Yes—It's just that—"

  She breaks off again and looks at me almost beseechingly. "I don't know whether it's permissible—" she finally forces herself to say.