The Black Obelisk

Chapter Twenty One

In the window of old Knopfs bedroom a ghost suddenly rises. The sun, striking the panes of our window keeps me for a time from recognizing the sergeant major. So he is still alive and has dragged himself from his bed to the window. His gray head protrudes woodenly from his gray nightgown. “Just look,” I say to Georg. “He doesn’t intend to die between sheets. Theold war horse is going to have a last look at the Werdenbrück Distilleries.”

We gaze at him. His mustache hangs in a sorry tangle over his mouth. His eyes are leaden. He stares out for a while, then turns away.

“That was his last look,” I say. “How touching that even such a soulless slave driver should want to gaze at the world once more before leaving it forever. A theme for Hungermann, the poet of social consciousness.”

“He’s taking a second look,” Georg replies.

I abandon the Presto mimeographing machine, on which I have been turning out catalogue pages for our salesmen, and go back to the window. The sergeant major is standing there again. Beyond the sun-struck pane I see him raise something to his lips and drink. “His medicine!” I say. “To think that even the most hopeless wreck still clings to life! Another theme for Hungermann.”

“That’s not medicine,” Georg replies, who has sharper eyes than mine. “Medicine doesn’t come in schnaps bottles.”

“What?”

We open our window. The reflection disappears, and I see that Georg is right: old Knopf is unmistakably drinking out of a schnaps bottle. “What a good idea!” I say. “His wife has filled a schnaps bottle with water so it will be easier for him to drink. There’s no liquor in his room, you know; everything has been thoroughly searched.”

Georg shakes his head. “If that was water he’d have hurled the bottle out of the window long ago. For as long as I’ve known the old man he’s only used water for washing—and grudgingly at that. What he has there is schnaps; he has kept it hidden somewhere in spite of the search, and you, Ludwig, have before you the edifying spectacle of a man courageously going to meet his fate. The old sergeant major intends to fall on the field of honor with his hand at the enemy’s throat.”

“Oughtn’t we to call his wife?”

“Do you think she could take the bottle away from him?”

“No.”

“The doctor has only given him a few days at best. What difference does it make?”

“The difference between a Christian and a fatalist Herr Knopf!” I shout. “Sergeant Major!”

I don’t know whether he has heard me—but he makes a gesture as though waving to us with the bottle. Then he puts it to his mouth again. “Herr Knopf!” I shout. “Frau Knopf!”

“Too late!” Georg says.

Knopf has lowered the bottle. He makes another circular motion with it. We wait for him to collapse. The doctor has declared that a single drop of alcohol will be fatal. After a while he fades backward into the room like a corpse sinking beneath the water. “A fine death,” Georg says.

“Oughtn’t we to tell the family?”

“Leave them in peace. The old man was a pest. They’ll be happy that it’s all over.”

“I don’t know; attachment sometimes takes strange forms. They could get his stomach pumped out.”

“He’d fight that so hard he’d get a stroke. But telephone the doctor if your conscience is bothering you. Hirshmann.”

I reach the doctor. “Old Knopf has just drunk a small bottle of schnaps,” I say. “We saw it from our window.”

“In one gulp?”

“In two, I believe. What has that to do with it?”

“Nothing. It was just curiosity. May he rest in peace.”

“Isn’t there anything to be done?”

“Nothing,” Hirshmann says. “He’d have died anyway. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised he held out till today. Give him a tombstone in the shape of a bottle.”

“You’re a heartless man,” I say.

“Not heartless, cynical. You ought to know the difference! Cynicism is heart with a minus sign, if that’s any comfort to you. Have a drink in memory of the departed schnaps thrush.”

I put down the telephone. “Georg,” I say, “I believe it’s really high time I changed my profession. It coarsens one too much.”

“It doesn’t coarsen, it only dulls the sensibilities.”

“Even worse. It’s not the thing for a member of the Werdenbrück Poets’ Club. What becomes of our profound wonder, horror, and reverence in the face of death when one measures it in money or in monuments?”

“There’s enough left,” Georg says. “But I understand what you mean. Now let’s go to Eduard’s and drink a silent toast to the old twelve-pointed stag.”

In the afternoon we return. An hour later screams and cries resound from Knopf’s house. “Peace to his ashes,” Georg says. “Come on, we must go over and speak the customary words of comfort.”

“I only hope they all have their mourning clothes ready. That’s the one comfort they need at this moment.”

The door is unlocked. We open it without ringing and stop short. An unexpected picture greets us. Old Knopf is standing in the room, his walking stick in his hand, dressed and ready to go out. His wife and daughters are cowering behind the three sewing machines. Knopf is screeching with rage and striking at them with his cane. Grasping the neck of the nearest sewing machine with one hand for a firm stance, he rains blows with the other. They are not very heavy blows, but Knopf is doing the best he can. Round him on the floor lie the mourning clothes.

It’s easy to see what has happened. Instead of killing him, the schnaps has so enlivened the sergeant major that he has got dressed, probably with the intention of going on his usual round through the inns. Since no one has told him he is sick unto death and his wife has been too terrified of him to summon a priest to prepare him for his passage into blessedness, it has never occurred to Knopf to die. He has already survived a number of attacks and, as far as he is concerned, this is just one more. It is not hard to see why he is enraged—no one enjoys seeing that his family has written him off so completely that they are laying out precious money for mourning weeds.

“Accursed crew!” he screeches. “You were celebrating already, were you? I’ll teach you!”

He misses his wife and gives a hiss of rage. She clings to his cane. “But Father, we had to make preparations; the doctor—”

“The doctor is an idiot! Let go of my stick, you devil! Let go, I tell you, you beast!”

The little, roly-poly woman lets the stick go. The hissing drake in front of her swings it and hits one of his daughters. The three women could easily disarm the weak old man, but he has the upper hand, like a sergeant major with his recruits. The daughters are now holding onto the cane and trying tearfully to explain. Knopf will not listen. “Let go of my stick, you devil’s brood! Wasting money, throwing it away, I’ll teach you!”

The cane is released, Knopf strikes again, misses, and falls forward on one knee. Bubbles of saliva hang in the Nietzsche mustache as he gets up and continues to follow Zarathustra’s precept by beating his harem. “Father, you’ll kill yourself if you get so excited!” cry the weeping daughters. “Please be calm! We’re overjoyed that you’re alive! Shall we make you some coffee?”

“Coffee? I’ll make you coffee! I’ll beat you to a pulp, that’s what I’ll do, you devil’s brood! Squandering all that money—”

“But Father, we can sell the things!”

“Sell! I’ll sell you, you damned spendthrifts—”

“But Father, it hasn’t been paid for yet!” screams Frau Knopf in utter despair.

That penetrates. Knopf lets the cane sink. “What’s that?”

We step forward. “Heir Knopf,” Georg says. “My congratulations!”

“Kiss my ass!” the sergeant major replies. “Can’t you see I’m occupied?”

“You are overexerting yourself.”

“Well? What’s that to you? I’m being ruined by my family here.”

“Your wife has just done a splendid bit of business. If she sells the mourning clothes tomorrow, she will make a profit of several billion through the inflation—especially if the material hasn’t been paid for.”

“No, we haven’t paid for it yet!” cry the quartet.

“Then you should be happy, Herr Knopf! While you’ve been ill the dollar has been rising fast. Without knowing it you’ve made a profit in your sleep.”

Knopf pricks up his ears. He knows about the inflation because schnaps has become constantly more expensive. “Well, a profit,” he mutters. Then he turns to his four ruffled sparrows. “Have you bought a tombstone for me too?”

“No, Father!” cry the quartet in relief—with a warning glance at us.

“And why not?” Knopf screeches furiously.

They stare at him.

“You geese!” he shouts. “Then we could sell it too! At a profit, eh?” he asks Georg.

“Only if it had been paid for. Otherwise we’d simply take it back.”

“That’s what you think! Then we’d sell it to Hollmann and Klotz and pay you out of the proceeds!” The sergeant major turns back to his brood. “You geese! Where’s the money? If you haven’t paid for the cloth, you still have the money! Bring it here!”

“Come on,” Georg says. “The emotional part is over. The financial part is no concern of ours.”

He is mistaken. A quarter of an hour later Knopf is standing in our office. A penetrating smell of schnaps surrounds him. “I’ve found out everything,” he says. “Lies won’t help you. My wife has confessed. She bought a tombstone from you.”

“She didn’t pay for it. Remember that. Now you don’t have to take it.”

“She bought it,” the sergeant major declares threateningly. “There are witnesses. Don’t try to crawl out! Yes or no?”

Georg looks at me. “All right. But it was an inquiry rather than a purchase.”

“Yes or no?” Knopf snorts.

“Because we’ve known each other so long, let it be as you like, Herr Knopf,” Georg says to quiet the old man.

“All right then. Give it to me in writing.”

We look at each other. This worn-out martial skeleton has learned fast. He is trying to outsmart us.

“Why in writing?” I ask. “Pay for the stone and it’s yours.”

“Be silent, you betrayer!” Knopf shouts at me. “In writing!” he screeches. “For eight billion! Much too much for a piece of stone!”

“If you want it, you must pay for it immediately,” I say.

Knopf fights heroically. It takes us ten minutes to defeat him. He produces eight billion of the money he has taken from his wife and pays. “In writing, now!” he growls.

He gets it in writing. Through the window I see the ladies of his family standing in their doorway. Timidly they look over at me and make signs. Knopf has robbed them of their last measly million. Meanwhile, he has been handed his receipt. “So,” he says to Georg. “And now what will you pay me for the stone? I’ll sell it.”

“Eight billion.”

“What? You double-dealer! Eight billion is what I have paid myself. What about the inflation?”

“The inflation is here. Today the stone is worth eight and a half billion. I pay you eight as the purchase price. We have to make a half-billion profit on the sale.”

“What? You usurer! And I? Where’s my profit? You’ll just pocket that, eh?”

“Herr Knopf,” I say. “If you buy a bicycle and sell it again an hour later, you won’t get the full purchase price back. That’s one of the facts of business; our economy rests on it.”

“The economy can kiss my ass!” the incensed sergeant major declares. “A bicycle that has been bought is a used bicycle, even if you haven’t ridden it. But my headstone is new.”

“Theoretically it’s used too,” I say. “Speaking in a business way. Besides, you can’t ask us to take a loss simply because you’re still alive.”

“Frauds! That’s what you are!”

“Just keep the headstone,” Georg advises him. “It’s a good investment. Some time or other you’ll have use for it. No family is immortal.”

“I’ll sell it to your competitors. To Hollmann and Klotz if you don’t give me ten billion for it immediately!”

I pick up the telephone. “Come on, we’ll save you the trouble. Here, call them up. Number 624.”

Knopf becomes uncertain and refuses. “The same sort of shysters as you! What will the stone be worth tomorrow?”

“Perhaps a billion more. Perhaps two or three billion.”

“And in a week?”

“Herr Knopf,” Georg says. “If we knew the dollar exchange in advance we wouldn’t be sitting here haggling with you about headstones.”

“It’s easily possible that you will be a trillionaire in a month,” I explain.

Knopf considers this. “I’ll keep the stone,” he growls finally. “Too bad I’ve paid for it already.”

“We’ll buy it back any time.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you! I wouldn’t dream of it without making a profit! I’ll keep it as a speculation. Give it a good place.” Knopf looks anxiously out of the window. “Perhaps it will rain.”

“Rain doesn’t hurt headstones.”

“Nonsense! Then they’re no longer new! I demand that mine be kept in the shed. On straw.”

“Why don’t you put it in your house?” Georg asks. “Then it will be protected from the cold during the winter.”

“You’re completely crazy, aren’t you?”

“Not in the least. There are lots of admirable people who keep their coffins in their homes. Holy men, principally, and South Italians. Some even use them for beds. Wilke upstairs always sleeps in his giant coffin when he has drunk so much that he can’t get home.”

“It won’t work!” Knopf decides. “The women! The stone is to remain here. Untouched! You’ll be responsible! Insure it! At your own expense!”

By now I have had enough of this military tone. “How about holding a review every morning?” I inquire. “See to it that the polish is first class, that the tombstone is precisely lined up with the ones in front, that the base is properly drawn in like a belly, that the bushes around are standing at attention, and, if you insist, Herr Heinrich Kroll can report every day in uniform. He would certainly enjoy that.”

Knopf looks at me somberly. “The world would be a better place if there were more Prussian discipline in it,” he replies, and belches frighteningly. The smell of Roth schnaps is pervasive. The sergeant major has probably had nothing to eat all day. Knopf belches again, this time more softly and melodiously, stares at us for a while while with the pitiless eye of a full sergeant major in retirement, turns around, almost falls, catches himself, and then wavers purposefully out of the courtyard toward the left—in the direction of the first inn, in his pocket his family’s remaining billions.

Gerda is standing in front of her gas ring, making cabbage roulades. She has a pair or worn-down green bedroom slippers on her feet and a red checked kitchen towel draped over her right shoulder. The room smells of cabbage, fat, powder, and perfume; outside, the red leaves of the wild grapevine swing in front of the window, and autumn stares in with blue eyes.

“It’s nice that you came again,” Gerda says. “I’m moving out of here tomorrow.”

“You are?”

She stands unconcernedly in front of the gas ring, confident of her own body. “Yes,” she says. “Does that interest you?”

She turns around and looks at me. “It does interest me, Gerda,” I reply. “Where are you going?”

“To the Hotel Walhalla.”

“To Eduard?”

“Yes, to Eduard.”

She shakes the pan with the cabbage roulades. “Have you anything against that?” she asks presently.

I look at her. What can I have against it? I think. I wish I did have something against It! For a moment I am tempted to lie, but I know she will see through me. “Aren’t you staying on at the Red Mill?” I ask.

“I finished up there long ago. You didn’t bother to find out, did you? No, I’m not going to continue. People starve in our profession. But I’ll stay in this city.”

“With Eduard,” I say.

“Yes, with Eduard,” she repeats. “He’s turning the bar over to me. I’ll be the barmaid.”

“And you’ll live in the Walhalla?”

“I’ll live in the Walhalla, upstairs under the rafters, and 111 work in the Walhalla. I’m not as young as you think; I have to look for some kind of security before I find myself with no more engagements. Nothing came of the circus either. That was just a last try.”

“You can go on finding engagements for years, Gerda,” I say.

“You don’t know anything about that. I know what I’m doing.”

I glance at the red vine leaves swinging in front of the window. For no reason I feel like a shirker. My relationship with Gerda has been no more than that of a soldier on leave, but for one of every pair it is always something different.

“I wanted to tell you myself,” Gerda says.

“You wanted to tell me it’s all over between us?”

She nods. “I play fair. Eduard is the only one who has offered me something secure—a job—and I know what that’s worth. I’m not going to cheat.” She laughs suddenly. “Farewell to youth. Come, the cabbage roulades are done.”

She puts the plates on the table. I look at her and am suddenly sad. “Well, how is your heavenly love affair getting on?” she says.

“It’s not, Gerda. Not at all.”

She serves the meal. “The next time you have a small affair,” she says, “don’t tell the girl anything about your other loves. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m sorry, Gerda.”

“For God’s sake, shut up and eat!”

I look at her. She is eating calmly and matter-of-factly, her face is clear and firm, she has been used from childhood on to living independently, she understands her existence and has adjusted herself to it. She has everything I lack, and I wish I were in love with her and that life were clear and foreseeable and one always knew what one needed to know about it—not very much but that little with certainty.

“You know, I don’t want much,” Gerda says. “I grew up among blows and then was thrown out. Now I have had enough of my profession and I’m going to settle down. Eduard is not the worst.”

“He is vain and stingy,” I declare and am at once angry at myself for having said it.

“That’s better than being slovenly and extravagant, if you’re going to marry someone.”

“You’re going to get married?” I ask in amazement. “Do you really believe that? He’ll exploit you and then marry the daughter of some rich hotel owner.”

“He hasn’t promised me anything. I just have a contract for the bar, for three years. In the course of those years he will discover that he can’t get along without me.”

“You have changed,” I say.

“Oh, you sheep! I have just made up my mind.”

“Soon you will join Eduard in cursing at us about those coupons.”

“Do you still have some?”

“Enough for another month and a half.”

Gerda laughs. “I won’t curse. Besides, you paid for them properly at the time.”

“It was our one successful financial transaction.” I watch Gerda as she clears away the plates. “I’ll turn them all over to Georg,” I say. “I’ll not be coming to the Walhalla any more.”

She turns around. She is smiling, but her eyes are not. “Why not?” she asks.

“I don’t know. It’s the way I feel. But perhaps I shall, after all.”

“Of course you’ll come! Why shouldn’t you?”

“Yes, why not?” I say dispiritedly.

From below come the subdued tones of the player piano. I get up and walk to the window. “How fast this year has gone!” I say.

“Yes,” Gerda replies, leaning against me. “Idiotic!” she murmurs, “when once you find someone you like, it has to be somebody like you, somebody who just doesn’t fit.” She pushes me away. “Now go—go to your divine love—God, what do you know about women?”

“Not a thing.”

She smiles. “Don’t try to either, baby. It’s better this way. Now go! Here, take this with you.”

She gets a medal and gives it to me. What’s that?” I ask.

“A man who carries people through the water. He brings luck.”

“Has he brought you luck?”

“Luck?” Gerda replies. “That can mean many different things. Perhaps. Now go.”

She pushes me out and closes the door behind me. I walk down the stairs. In the courtyard two gypsy women meet me. They are on the program at the inn. The lady wrestlers have long since gone. “Your future, young gentleman?” asks the younger of the gypsies. She smells of garlic and onions.

“No,” I say “Not today.”

At Karl Brill’s the tension is extreme. A pile of money lies on the table; there must be trillions there. The opposing bettor is a man with a head like a seal and very small hands. He has just tested the nail in the wall and is coming back. “Another two hundred billion,” he offers in a clear voice.

“Done,” Karl Brill replies.

The opponents lay down the money. “Anyone else?” Karl asks.

No one speaks. The wagers are too high for all of them. Karl is sweating in clear drops, but he is confident. The odds stand at forty to sixty in his favor. He has allowed the seal to give a last tap with the hammer; in return the odds of fifty-fifty have been changed to forty-sixty. “Will you play the ‘Bird Song at Evening’?” Karl asks me.

I sit down at the piano. Presently Frau Beckmann appears in her salmon-colored kimono. She is not so imperturbable as formerly; her mountainous breasts heave as though an earthquake were raging beneath them, and her eyes have a different expression. She does not look at Karl Brill.

“Clara,” Karl says, “you know the gentlemen here except for Herr Schweizer.” He makes an elegant gesture. “Herr Schweizer—”

The seal bows with an astonished and rather worried expression. He glances at the money and then at this foursquare Brünhilde. The nail is wrapped in cotton, and Clara takes up her position. I play the double trill and stop. Everyone is silent.

Frau Beckmann stands there, calm and concentrated. Then two quivers pass through her body. Suddenly she casts a wild glance at Karl Brill. “Sorry!” she grits through clenched teeth. “It won’t go.”

She moves away from the wall and leaves the workroom. “Clara!” Karl screams.

She does not reply. The seal emits a burst of oily laughter and begins to pick up the money. The drinking companions are as though struck by lightning. Karl Brill groans, rushes over to the nail, and comes back. “Just a minute!” he says to the seal. “Just a minute, we’re not through yet! We bet on three tries. These were just the first two!”

“There were three.”

“You’re no judge of that! You’re new here. It was two!”

Sweat is now running down Karl’s skull. The drinking companions have found their tongues again. “It was two,” they asseverate.

An argument ensues. I do not listen. I feel as though I . were sitting on an alien planet. It is a brief, intense, and horrible feeling, and I am happy when I can follow the voices again. The seal has exploited the situation; he will grant a third try if there is a further wager thirty-seventy in his favor. Sweating, Karl agrees to everything. As far as I can see, he had wagered half his workshop, including the soiling machine. “Come here!” he whispers to me. “Come upstairs with me! We must change her mind! She did that on purpose.”

We climb the stairs. Frau Beckmann has been waiting for Karl. She is lying on her bed in the kimono decorated with a phoenix, excited, marvelously beautiful to anyone who likes big women, and ready for battle. “Clara!” Karl whispers. “Why this? You did it on purpose.”

“So?” Frau Beckmann says.

“Of course you did! I know it! I swear to you—”

“Don’t swear anything! You beast, you slept with the cashier at the Hotel Hohenzollern! You disgusting swine!”

“I? What a lie! How do you know about it?”

“You see, you admit it!”

“I admit it?”

“You have just admitted it! You asked how I knew. How could I know it, if it isn’t true?”

I look with sympathy at Karl Brill, the breast-stroke expert. He has no fear of water no matter how cold, but here he is out of his depth. On the stairs I have advised him not to get into an argument but simply to plead with Frau Beckmann on his knees and beg her forgiveness, without, of course, admitting anything. Instead, he is now reproaching her with a certain Herr Kletzel. Her answer is a fearful blow in the nose. Karl leaps backwards, feels his snout to see whether it is bleeding, and then with a cry of rage moves forward in a crouch like an experienced fighter to seize Frau Beckmann by the hair, pull her out of bed, place one foot on the back of her neck, and to go to work on her mighty hams with his braces. I give him a fairly stiff kick in the rear. He turns around, ready to attack me too, sees my warning glance, my raised hands, and my silently whispering mouth and awakens from his thirst for blood. Human reason shines once more from his brown eyes. He nods briefly, with blood now gushing from his nose, turns around, and sinks down on his knees beside Frau Beckmann’s bed with the cry: “Clara! I have done nothing, but forgive me!”

“You pig!” she screams. “You double pig! My kimono!”

She jerks the precious garment aside. Karl is bleeding onto the sheets. “Damned liar!” she trumpets. “And lying still!”

I notice that Karl, a simple, honorable man, who expected an immediate reward for falling on his knees, is about to get up again in rage. If he starts another boxing match while his nose is bleeding, all is lost. Perhaps Frau Beckmann will forgive him for the cashier at the Hohenzollern, but never for ruining her kimono. I step on his foot from behind, holding him down with one hand on his shoulder, and say: “Frau Beckmann, he is innocent! He sacrificed himself for me.”

“What?”

“For me,” I repeat “That happens often among old war comrades—”

“What? You and your damned war camaraderie, you liars and cheaters—and you expect me to believe something like that!”

“Sacrificed himself!” I say. “He introduced me to the cashier, that was all.”

Frau Beckmann straightens up with flaming eyes. “You want me to believe that a young man like you would hanker after an old worn-out bag like that cadaver at the Hohenzollern!”

“Not hanker after, gnädige Frau,” I say. “But when needs must, the devil eats flies. If loneliness has you by the throat—”

“A young man like you could surely do better!”

“Young, but poor,” I reply. “Nowadays women want to be taken to expensive bars. And while we’re speaking about it, you’ll have to admit that if you doubt that a bachelor like me living alone and caught in the storm of the inflation could be interested in the cashier, it would be completely absurd to suspect anything of the sort of Karl Brill, who enjoys the favors of the most beautiful and interesting woman in all of Werdenbrück—undeservedly, I admit—”

This last makes an impression. “He’s a beast!” Frau Beckmann says. “And undeservedly is right.”

Karl takes a hand. “Clara, you are my life!” he moans hollowly from the bloody sheets.

“I’m your bank account, you cold-blooded devil!” Frau Beckmann turns back to me. “And what about that half-dead she donkey at the Hohenzollern?”

I dismiss the creature. “Nothing, not a thing! It came to nothing at all! She turned my stomach.”

“I could have told you that in advance!” she declares with deep satisfaction.

The battle had been decided. We are now engaged in a rear-guard action. Karl promises Clara a sea-green kimono with lotus blossoms, and swansdown slippers. Then he goes to bathe his nose in cold water and Frau Beckmann gets up. “How high are the bets?” she asks.

“High,” I reply. “Trillions.”

“Karl!” she shouts. “Cut Herr Bodmer in for two hundred and fifty billion.”

“Of course, Clara!”

We stride down the stairs. Below sits the seal, guarded by Karl’s friends. We find out that he has tried to cheat while we were away, but Karl’s drinking companions tore the hammer away in time. Frau Beckmann smiles haughtily, and thirty seconds later the nail lies on the floor. Majestically she stalks out to the accompanying strains of “Alpine Sunset,”

“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Karl says to me emotionally later on.

“Question of honor! But what’s all this about the cashier?”

“What’s a man to do?” Karl replies. “You know how you feel sometimes in the evenings! But to think the bitch talked! I’m going to withdraw my patronage from those people. But you, dear friend—choose whatever you like!” He points to his array of leathers. “A first-class pair of shoes made to order as a gift—whatever you like: black buckskin, brown, yellow, patent leather, doeskin—I’ll make them for you myself—”

“Patent leather,” I say.

As I come home I see a dark figure in the courtyard. It is actually old Knopf, who has arrived just before me and, just as though he had not already been pronounced dead, is making ready to desecrate the obelisk. “Sergeant Major,” I say, taking him by the arm, “now you have a headstone of your own for your childish necessities. Make use of it!”

I lead him over to the stone he has bought, and wait at the door so that he can’t return to the obelisk.

Knopf stares at me. “You mean my own headstone? Are you crazy? What’s it worth now?”

“According to the latest exchange, nine billion.”

“And you want me to piss on that?”

Knopf’s eye wanders about for a few seconds, then he reels muttering into his house. What no one has been able to achieve has been accomplished by the simple concept of property! The sergeant major is making use of his own toilet. Let them talk about communism! It is possessions that produce a feeling for order!

I stand for a while, reflecting on the fact that it has taken nature millions of years, from the amoeba up through fish, frog, vertebrates, and monkeys, to achieve old Knopf, a creature compound of physical and chemical marvels, with a circulatory system that is a work of genius, a heart mechanism one can only regard with awe, a liver and two kidneys by contrast with which the I.G. Farben factories are ridiculous journeyman workshops—and all this, this perfect miracle carefully elaborated over millions of years, called during his short time on earth full Sergeant Major Knopf, simply for the purpose of making life miserable for young recruits and afterward, on a moderate pension from the state, of giving itself up to drink! Truly God sometimes takes a great deal of trouble for nothing!

Shaking my head I turn on the light in my room and stare into the mirror. There I see another miracle of nature that hasn’t been able to make much of itself. I turn the light off and undress in the dark.