Auto-Da-Fé

  He spoke with passion. Each word had the calculated effect. She changed colour. He paused after some sentences. Never before had he dared so much melodrama. She said nothing. He grasped that it was his presence which struck her dumb. He spoke so beautifully. She was afraid of missing a single word. Her eyes started out of their sockets, first with fear, then with love; she pricked her ears; water ran out of her mouth. The chair on which she sat creaked a popular tune. She held out her hands to him, folded into a cup. She drank with lips and hands. When he kissed her hands, the cup lost its shape and her lips breathed — he could hear it: more please. So he overcame his revulsion and kissed her hands again. She trembled; her emotion extended even to the roots of her hair. Had he embraced her she would have fainted. After his last sentence, the one about hearts, he remained fixed in a baroque attitude. Her hand and the greater part of his arm lay, ceremoniously, across his chest. She had, said she, savings. None of the books had gone altogether, she still had the pawn tickets. Ostentatiously and awkwardly she turned away — the shamefacedness of the shameless — and fetched out of her skirt, which presumably contained a pocket, a bundle of pawn tickets. Did he want her savings book too; She would give it him for love. He thanked her. For love too, he could not agree. Even while he was refusing she said, I ask you, who knows if you really deserve it. She regretted the offer before he accepted it. Would he come and see her for certain, he was what she called a man. She recovered her self-command by speaking these few words. But scarcely had he opened his mouth than she was his again.

  Half an hour later she was helping him in his campaign against the caretaker. 'You can't know who I am!' shouted George in his face. 'The head of the Paris police, on vacation ! One word from me and my friend the head of the police here will have you arrested ! You'll lose your pension. I know everything you have on your conscience. Take a look at these pawn tickets ! I won't say a word about anything else for the present. Not a word from you! I know you through and through. You lead a double life. I am for taking drastic proceedings against anti-social elements. I shall ask my friend the head of your police to purge his forces. Leave this house! To-morrow morning early you'll be gone! You are a suspect! Put your luggage together and be off! I'll let you off with a caution for the time being. I shall exterminate you! You criminal! Do you know what you've donei It's being shouted from the roof-tops!'

  Benedikt Pfaff, the stalwart ginger-headed tough, contracted his muscles, knelt down, folded his hands and implored the Head of the Police for forgiveness. His daughter had been ill, she would have died of her own accord anyway, he begged leave to recommend himself, and asked not to be sent away from his job. A man had nothing in the world except his peep-hole. What else had he left? You couldn't grudge him a beggar or two. Very few came nowadays, anyway ! The tenants were blown-out with affection for him. He had a bit of bad luck! If only he'd known! The Professor didn't look the kind of man who'd have had the head of the Paris police for his brother. He'd have had him met at the station and respectfully conducted home if he'd known ! God was reasonable. Thanking him, he permitted himself to stand up.

  He was very well satisfied with the honour he had done the important gentleman. When he got up again he blinked at him in a friendly way. George remained curt and stern. But all the same he came halfway to meet him. Pfaff promised to redeem all the books he had pawned, in person, on the following morning. He was, however, to leave the house. At the far end of the town, close to the dairy shop bought for the woman, he was to be set up in the animal business; the two declared themselves ready to move in together. The woman made her own terms: she was not to be pinched or knocked about and she was to be allowed to receive the Professor's brother whenever he wanted. Pfaff agreed, flattered. He had his doubts about the prohibition on pinching. He was only human after all. But as well as committing themselves to mutual love, they were each to watch the other. If one or the other were to go wandering off in the direction of Ehrlich Strasse the other was immediately to inform Paris. In which case both shop and liberty would be ruthlessly removed. The very first information would be followed by arrest by telegraph. The informer could claim a reward. Pfaff didn't give a sh— for Ehrlich Strasse if he could live among a crowd of canary birds. Thérèse complained: Please he's doing it again. He mustn't always sh—. George spoke to him seriously about using the sort of language which was more suited to a better-class business man. He was no longer a miserable half-pay policeman, but a made man. Pfaff would sooner have been a publican, best of all a ring-master with a boxing turn of his own and tame canary birds which would sing at a word and shush down at a word. The Head of the Police gave him permission, if his business made so much profit and he behaved himself properly, to open a pub or a circus. Thérèse said no. A circus isn't respectable. A pub perhaps. They decided to divide the work. She would look after the pub, he would look after the circus. He was the master, she was the mistress. Clients and visitors from Paris were promised by the Head of the Police.

  That very evening Thérèse began a thorough spring-cleaning of the flat. She engaged no outside help but did it all herself, so as to spare Mr. Brother needless expense: For the night, she made up her husband's bed with clean sheets and offered it to his brother. Hotels get more expensive every day. She was not afraid. Georges made his brother his excuse; he had to keep an eye on him. Pfaff withdrew for the last time to his little room; his last sleep, his dearest memory. Thérèse went on scrubbing all night.

  Three days later the owner celebrated his homecoming. His first glance was for the little closet. It was empty ; where the peep-hole had been was only a desolate hole in the wall. Pfaff, the inventor, had broken up and carried off his patent. The library upstairs was intact. The communicating doors were flung open at right angles. Peter paced once or twice up and down before the writing desk. 'There are no stains on the carpets,' he said and smiled. 'If there were stains on them, I would burn them at once. I hate stains!' He pulled his manuscripts out of the drawers and piled them up on the writing desk. He read out the titles to George. *Work for years to come, my friend! And now I will show you the books.' Exclaiming, 'Here you see', and 'What do you think I have here?' with gloating glances and patient encouragement (not everyone has a dozen oriental languages all at his finger-ends), he hauled out books which only a short while before had been pawned, and explained their peculiarities to a willingly astounded brother. With uncanny speed the atmosphere changed; it rang with dates and textual references. Mere letters acquired a revolutionary significance. Dangerous misreadings were satisfactorily dealt with. Frivolous philologists were unmasked as monsters, who deserved only to be publicly pilloried in blue robes. Blue, this most ridiculous of colours, the colour of the uncritical, the credulous, the believers. A newly discovered language was proved to be one already well known, and its supposed discoverer an ass. Angry cries were heard against him. The man had dared, after a bare three years residence in the country, to come out with a work on the language there spoken! Even in the realms of scholarship the insolence of the self-made was on the increase. Scholarship should have its Inquisition, to which it could hand over heretics. There was no need, immediately to condemn them to burning at the stake. The legal independence of the priesthood in the Middle Ages had a great deal to be said for it. If only men of learning enjoyed such treatment to-day! A man of learning whose work may be of inestimable value can to-day be judged by a lay court for some small, perhaps unavoidable misdemeanour.

  George began to feel uncertain of himself. Not a tenth of the books they discussed were known to him. He despised this knowledge which oppressed him. Peter's desire for work grew powerfully. It awakened in George his yearning for a place where he too was no less absolute master than his brother in the library. He called him quickly a second Leibniz, and made use of a few perfectly true statements as a pretext to escape from his power for the afternoon. He must engage some innocuous charwoman; he must arrange with the neighbouring café to send in meals regularly; he must place
a deposit with the bank and arrange for automatic payments into the house on the first of every month.

  Late in the evening they took leave of one another. 'Why do you not turn up the lights?' asked George. It was already dark in the library. Peter laughed proudly. 'I know my way about here even in the dark.' Since he had come home he had changed into a self-assured and almost cheerful character. 'You'll harm jour eyes,' said George and turned up the light. Peter thanked him for services rendered. With aggressive pedantry he counted them all over. The most important of all, the expulsion of his wife, he passed over in silence. 'I shall not write to you!' he concluded.

  'I can well believe it. With all the work which you have planned out for yourself.'

  'Not on that account. I don't write on principle. Letter writing is a form of laziness.'

  'As you please. When you need me, send a telegram! In six months I'll come to see you again.'

  'Why? I don't need you!' His voice sounded angry. So he felt the parting. Under his rudeness he was concealing grief.

  In the train George continued the weft of his thoughts. Would it be surprising if he should care a little for me? I have helped him a great deal. Now he has everything exactly, as he wants to have it. Not a breath of wind can disturb him.

  His own escape from that inferno of a library made him feel happy. Full of impatience eight hundred believers were waiting to worship him. The train went too slowly.

  CHAPTER VI

  THE RED COCK

  Peter locked the door behind his brother. It was secured by three complicated locks and thick, heavy iron bolts. He rattled them: not a nail shook. The whole door was like a single piece of steel; behind it he was truly at home. The keys still fitted; the paint on the wood had faded; it felt rough to the touch. The rust on the darkened bolts was old and it was hard to make out what part of the door had been repaired. Surely the caretaker had smashed it, when he had broken into the flat. A kick of his and the bolts had snapped like wood; the wretched liar, he lied with his fists and feet; he had simply crashed into the flat. Once upon a time came the first of the month and brought no honorarium for Mr. Pfaff. 'Something's happened to him!' he had roared, and hurled himself upstairs to the source of his income; it had suddenly dried up. On the way he had battered the stairs. The stone whimpered under his booted fists. The tenants crept out of their dens, all his subjects in the house, and held their noses. 'It stinks!' they complained. "Where?' he asked threateningly. 'Out of the library.' 'I can stink nothing!' He couldn't even speak his native tongue. He had a thick nose and gigantic nostrils, but his moustache was twisted and reached up into his nostrils. So he could smell nothing but pomade, and as for the corpse he never smelt that. His moustache was as stiff as ice, every day he waxed it. He had red pomade in a thousand different tubes. Under the bed in his closet was a collection of salve jars, red of every colour, red here, red there, red overhead. His head, yes, his head was FIERY RED.

  Kien put out the light in the hall. He only had to press a switch and it grew dark at once. Through cracks in the door a pale glimmer reached him from the study and gently stroked his trousers. How many trousers had he not seen! The peep-hole existed no longer. The ruffian had broken it off. The wall was left desolate. To-morrow a new Pfaff would move in down below and wall up the gash. If only it had been staunched at once! The napkin was stiff with blood. The water in the basin was reddened by a sea-battle off the canary islands. Why had they hidden themselves under the bed? There was room enough on the wall. There were four cages ready. But they looked down haughtily on the small fry. The flesh-pots were empty. Then came the quails and the children of Israel could eat. All the birds were killed. Little throats they had, under their yellow feathers. Who would think it, that powerful voice, and yet how get at their little throats! Once you grasp them, you press them, there s an end of the four part song, blood spurts in all directions, thick, warm blood, these birds live in a perpetual fever, hot blood, it BURNS, my trousers BURN.

  Kien wiped the blood and the glow offhis trousers. Instead of going into his study, whence the light assaulted him, he went through the long dark corridor into the kitchen. On the table was a plate of bread. The chair in front of it was crooked as if someone had justbeen sitting on it. He pushed it away with hostility. He seized the soft, yellow brioches, they were the birds' corpses, and poured them into the bread bin. It looked like a crematorium. He hid it away in the kitchen cupboard. On the table the plate alone was left, shining and dazzlingly white, a cushion. On top of it lay a book — 'The Trousers...' Thérèse had opened it. She had stopped at page 20. She was wearing gloves. 'I read every page six times.' She was trying to seduce him. He wanted nothing but a glass of water. She fetched it. Tm going away for six months.' 'Excuse me, I can't have it!' 'It is necessary.' 'I can't have it.' 'But I'm going just the same.' 'Then I'lllock the door of the flat!' 'I have the key.' 'Where, excuse me?' 'Here!" 'And if a Fire should break out?'

  Kien went to the sink and turned the tap on full. With full force the stream shot into the heaw basin; it almost broke it. Soon it was full of water. The flood streamed over the kitchen floor and quenched every danger. He turned the tap off again. He slipped on the stone tiles. He slipped into the bedroom next door. It was empty. He smiled at it. In earlier times there had been a bed here and against the opposite wall a trunk. In the bed the blue virago had slept. She kept her weapons hidden in the trunk; skirts, skirts and yet more skirts. Daily she performed her devotions at the ironing board in the corner. The limp folds were laid out on the table; they arose resurrected in their strength. Later she moved in with him and brought the furniture with her. The walls went pale with joy. They have been white ever since. And what did Thérèse pile up against them? Sacks of flour, great sacks of flour! She was making the bedroom into her store cupboard against the lean years. Thighs hung down from the ceiling, smoked thighs. The floor was abristle with sugar loaves. Bread rolls tumbled against kegs of butter. Milk cans sucked close up to each other. The sacks of flour against the wall defended the town from hostile attack. There were things laid up here for all eternity. She let herself be locked in, unperturbed, and Dragged of her keys. One day she opened the bedroom door. There was not a crumb left in the kitchen and what did she find in the bedroom? The flour bags were nothing but holes. Instead of hams, strings hung from the ceiling. The mille had all run out of the cans, and the sugar loaves were only blue paper. The floor had eaten up the bread and smeared the butter into its cracks. Who has done this? Who? Rats! Rats appear suddenly in houses where there were never any before, no one knows where they come from, but there they are, they eat up everything, kind blessed rats, and they leave nothing behind for hungry women but a pile of newspapers; there they lie, nothing else. They don't care for newspaper. Rats hate cellulose. They manœuvre in the darkness all right, but they are not termites. Termites eat wood and books. The love riot among the termites. FIRE IN THE LIBRARY.

  As fast as his arm would obey him, Kien clutched for a paper. He did not have to stoop far. The pile reached above his knee. He pushed it violently aside. The floor in front of the window all the way across was taken up with papers; all the old papers for years had been piled up here. He leaned out of the window. In the courtyard below all was dark. From the stars light penetrated to him. But it was not enough to read the paper by. Perhaps he was holding it too far off. He approached it to his eyes, his nose touched the surface and sucked in the faint smell of oil, greedy and fearful. The paper trembled and crackled. The wind which swayed the paper came from his nostrils, and his nails clawed through it. But his eyes were in quest of a headline so big that it could be read. Once he could get a hold of it, he would read the whole paper by starlight. First of all he made a huge M. So murder was the subject. Immediately next to it there was indeed a U. The headline, coarse and black, occupied a sixth part of the whole paper. So this was how they expanded his deed? Now he was the talk of the whole town, he who loved peace and solitude. And George would have a copy of the paper in
his hand even before he crossed the frontier. Now he too would know about the murder. If only there were a learned censorship the paper would be half blank. Then people wouldn't find so much blue to read, further down. The second headline began with a V and close to it an R: Fire. Murder and arson lay waste the papers, the land, the minds — nothing attracts them more, if there's no fire after the murder their pleasure is incomplete; they'd like to start the fire themselves, they haven't the courage for murder, they're cowards; no one should read the papers; then they'd die of themselves, of a universal boycott.