The Black Obelisk

Chapter Twenty Three

“The cuckold is like a domestic animal,” Georg says, “an edible one, a chicken, let’s say, or a rabbit. You eat it with pleasure provided you don’t know it personally. But if you grow up with it, play with it, feed and protect it—then only a barbarian could relish it as a roast. That’s why one should never know cuckolds.”

Silently I point at the table. There between the samples of stones lies a thick, red sausage—horse sausage—a gift Watzek left for me this morning. “Are you going to eat it?” Georg asks.

“Of course I’m going to eat it. I’ve eaten worse horse meat before, in France. But don’t dodge the issue! There lies Watzek’s gift. I am in a dilemma.”

“Only because you love dramatic situations.”

“All right,” I say. “I grant that. Nevertheless, I saved your life. Widow Konersmann is going to keep on spying. Is the affair worth it?”

Georg gets a Brazilian out of the cupboard. “Watzek considers you his brother now,” he replies. “Is that what causes your conflict of conscience?”

“No. Besides, he’s still a Nazi—that cancels out this one-sided brotherhood. But let’s stick to the subject.”

“Watzek is my brother too,” Georg announces, blowing the white smoke of the Brazilian into the face of a painted plaster image of Saint Catherine. “Lisa, you must know, is deceiving me as well.”

“Are you making that up?” I ask in amazement. “Not a bit of it. Where do you think she gets all those clothes and jewels? Watzek, her husband, never gives them a thought—I, however, do.”

“You?”

“She confessed to me herself without my asking. She explained she didn’t want any kind of deception between us. She meant it honestly too—not as a joke.”

“And you? You betray her with the fascinating creatures of your imagination and your magazines.”

“Of course. What does betrayal mean anyway? The word j never used except by those to whom it is happening at the moment. Since when has feeling had anything to do with morality? Is that all you’ve learned from the postwar education I’ve given you here among the symbols of morality? Betrayal—what a vulgar word for the everlasting, sensitive dissatisfaction, the search for more, always more—”

“Granted!” I interrupt him. “That short-legged, muscular fellow with a bump on his head you just saw turning into his house is the freshly bathed butcher Watzek. His hair has been cut and is still damp with bay rum. He is trying to please his wife. Don’t you find that touching?”

“Of course. But he will never please his wife.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

“That was during the war when she was very hungry and he could provide plenty of meat. Since then she has grown six years older.”

“Why doesn’t she leave him?”

“Because he has threatened to kill her whole family if she does.”

“Did she tell you all this?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God,” I say. “And you believe it!”—Georg blows an artistic smoke ring. “If you ever get to be as old as I am, you proud cynic, I hope you will have found out that some beliefs are not only convenient but often justified as well.”

“All right,” I say. “Meanwhile, what about Master Butcher Watzek and the sharp-eyed Widow Konersmann?”

“Disturbing,” he replies. “Besides, Watzek is an idiot. At the moment he has an easier life than ever before—because Lisa is deceiving him she treats him better. Just wait and listen to his screams when she is true to him again and makes him pay for it. Now come along, let’s eat! We can consider this case another time.”

Eduard almost has a stroke when he sees us. The dollar has risen to nearly a trillion marks, and we still seem to have an inexhaustible supply of coupons. “You’re printing them!” he asserts. “You’re counterfeiters! You print them secretly!”

“We’d like to have a bottle of Forster Jesuitengarten after our meal,” Georg says with dignity.

“Why after your meal?” Eduard asks suspiciously. “What are you trying to get away with now?”

“The wine is too good to drink with what you’ve been serving these past weeks,” I explain.

Eduard swells with rage. “To eat on last winter’s coupon, at a miserable six thousand marks per meal and then criticize the food—that’s going too far! I ought to call the police!”

“Call them! One more word out of you and we’ll eat here and have our wine at the Hotel Hohenzollern!”

Eduard looks as though he were about to explode, but he controls himself because of the wine. “Stomach ulcers,” he mutters, hurriedly withdrawing, “stomach ulcers is what I’ve got because of you! Now all I can drink is milk!”

We sit down and look around. Covertly and guiltily I search for Gerda, but do not see her. Instead, I become aware of a familiar, grinning face moving toward us through the middle of the room. “Do you see what I see?” I ask Georg.

“Riesenfeld! Here again! ‘Only the man acquainted with longing—’”

Riesenfeld greets us. “You’ve come at exactly the right time to express your gratitude,” Georg says to him. “This young idealist here fought a duel for you yesterday. An American-style duel, knives against chunks of marble.”

“What?” Riesenfeld asks, seating himself and calling for a glass of beer. “How’s that?”

“Herr Watzek, the husband of Lady Lisa, whom you are pursuing with flowers and chocolates, assumed that these items came from my friend here and lay in wait for him with a long knife.”

“Wounded?” Riesenfeld asks abruptly, examining me.

“Only the sole of his shoe,” Georg says. “Watzek is slightly injured.”

“Are you two lying again?”

“Not this time.”

I look at Georg with admiration. His impudence is incomparable. But Riesenfeld is not easy to upset. “He must go at once!” he decrees like a Roman emperor.

“Who?” I ask. “Watzek?”

“You?”

“I? Why not you? Or both of you?”

“Watzek will do battle again. You are his natural victim. He won’t think of us at all. We have bald heads. So you must go. Understand?”

“No,” I say.

“Didn’t you want to leave anyway?”

“Not on Lisa’s account.”

“I said anyway,” Riesenfeld explains. “Didn’t you want to plunge into the wild life of a big city?”

“As what? You aren’t fed for nothing in a big city.”

“As a newspaper employee in Berlin. At first you won’t earn much, but it will be enough to live on. Then you can look around.”

“What?” I say breathlessly.

“You’ve asked me a couple of times whether I couldn’t find something for you! Well, Riesenfeld has connections. I have found something for you. That’s why I came by. You can begin on January 1, ’24. It’s a small job but in Berlin. Agreed?”

“Hold on!” Georg says. “He has to give me five years’ notice.”

“Then he’ll just run away without giving notice. That taken care of?”

“How much will he make?” Georg asks.

“Two hundred marks,” Riesenfeld replies calmly.

“I thought all along it was a joke,” I say angrily. “Do you enjoy disappointing people? Two hundred marks! Does a ridiculous sum like that still exist?”

“It does again,” Riesenfeld says.

“Indeed?” I ask. “Where? In New Zealand?”

“In Germany! Rye marks. Haven’t you heard about them? Renten marks!”

Georg and I look at each other. There has been a rumor that a new currency was to be issued. One mark to be worth a certain quantity of rye; but in recent years there have been so many rumors that no one believed it.

“This time it’s true,” Riesenfeld explains. “I have it on the best authority. Then the rye marks will be converted into gold marks. The government is behind it.”

“The government! It’s responsible for the devaluation!”

“Possibly. But now things are changing. The government has got rid of its debts. One trillion inflation marks will be valued at one gold mark.”

“And then the gold mark will start slipping, eh? And the dance will begin all over again.”

Riesenfeld drains his beer. “Do you want the job or don’t you?” he asks.

The restaurant suddenly seems very quiet. “Yes,” I say. It is as though someone next to me has said it. I don’t trust myself to look at Georg.

“That’s sensible,” Riesenfeld declares.

I look at the table cloth. It seems to be swimming. Then I hear Georg say: “Waiter, bring us the bottle of Forster Jesuitengarten at once.”

I glance up. “After all, you saved our lives,” he says. “That’s what it’s for!”

“Our lives? Why ours?” Riesenfeld asks.

“A life is never saved singly,” Georg replies with great presence of mind. “It is always bound up with others.”

The moment has passed. I look at Georg gratefully. I betrayed him because I had to, and he has understood. He will stay behind. “You’ll visit me,” I say. “Then I’ll introduce you to the great ladies and all the movie actresses in Berlin.”

“Children, what plans!” Riesenfeld says. “Where’s the wine? After all, I’ve just saved your life.”

“Who’s saving whom?” I ask.

“Everyone saves someone at least once,” Georg says. “Just as he kills someone at least once. Even though he may not know it.”

The wine is standing on the table. Eduard appears. He is pale and upset. “Give me a glass too.”

“Make yourself scared” I say. “You sponger! We’ll drink the wine ourselves.”

“You don’t understand. This bottle is on me. I’ll pay for it. But give me a glass. I have to have a drink.”

“You’re going to treat us to this? Think what you’re saving!”

“I mean it.” Eduard sits down. “Valentin is dead,” he declares.

“Valentin? What happened to him?”

“Heart attack. I’ve just heard about it by telephone.”

He reaches for his glass. “And you want to drink to that, you scoundrel?” I say indignantly. “Because you’re rid of him?”

“I swear to you that’s not the reason! After all, he saved my life.”

“What?” Riesenfeld asks. “You too?”

“Yes of course. Who else?”

“What’s going on here?” Riesenfeld asks. “Are we a life-savers club?”

“It’s the times,” Georg replies. “During these last years lots of people have been saved. And lots haven’t.”

I stare at Eduard. He actually has tears in his eyes; but what can you tell about him? “I don’t believe you,” I say. “You’ve wished him dead too often. I’ve heard you. You wanted to save your damned wine.”

“I swear to you that’s not true! I may have said it occasionally, the way you do. But not in earnest!” The drops in his eyes have grown bigger. “He actually saved my life, you know.”

Riesenfeld gets up. “I’ve had enough of this lifesaving nonsense! Will you be in the office this afternoon? Good!”

“Don’t send her any more flowers, Riesenfeld,” Georg warns him.

Riesenfeld assents and disappears with an indecipherable look on his face.

“Let’s drink to Valentin,” Eduard says. His lips are trembling. “Who would have thought it! He got through the whole war and now suddenly he’s lying dead, from one second to the next.”

“If you’re going to be sentimental, do it in style,” I reply. “Fetch a bottle of the wine you always begrudged him.”

“The Johannisberger, yes indeed.” Eduard gets up quickly and waddles away.

“I believe he’s honestly grieved,” Georg says.

“Honestly grieved and honestly relieved.”

“That’s what I mean. Usually you can’t ask for more.”

We sit in silence for a time. “There’s rather a lot going on just now, isn’t there?” I say finally.

Georg looks at me. “Prost! You’d have had to go sometime. And as for Valentin, he has lived quite a few years longer than anyone would have expected in 1917.”

“So have we all.”

“Yes, and for that reason we should make something of it.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Georg laughs. “You’re making something of life if you don’t want anything at any particular moment beyond what you’ve got.”

I salute him. “Then I’ve made nothing of mine. And you?”

He grins. “Come along, let’s get out of here before Eduard comes back. To hell with his wine!”

“Tender one,” I murmur, my face turned toward the dark wall. “Tender and wild one, whiplash and mimosa, how foolish I was to want to possess you! Can one lock up the wind? What would become of it? Stale air. Go now, go your way, go to the theaters, the concerts, go and marry a reserve officer, a bank director, a conquering hero of the inflation, go, miracle of a gale that has become a calm, go, Youth who abandons only those who wish to abandon you, banner that flutters but cannot be seized, sail against many blue skies, fata morgana, fountain of sparkling words, go, Isabelle, go, my late-recovered, somewhat too knowing and too precocious youth, snatched back from beyond the war, go both of you, and I, too, will go. We have nothing to reproach ourselves for; our directions are different, but that, too, is only an appearance, for no one can betray death, one can only endure it. Farewell! We die a little each day, but each day we have lived a little longer too; you have taught me that and I will not forget it; nowhere is there annihilation, and he who does not try to hold on to anything possesses everything; farewell, I kiss you with my empty lips, I embrace you with my arms and cannot and will not hold you; farewell, farewell, you are in me and will remain there as long as I do not forget you—”

I have a bottle of Roth schnaps in my hand and I am sitting on the last bench in the allée, facing the asylum. In my pocket crackles a check for sound foreign exchange, thirty whole Swiss francs. Marvels have not ceased: a Swiss newspaper, which I have been bombarding with my poems for two years, has suddenly accepted one and sent me a check for it. I have already been to the bank to inquire—it’s perfectly good. The bank manager immediately offered me a quantity of black marks for it. I am carrying the check in my breast pocket next to my heart. It came a few days too late. With it I could have bought a new suit and a white shirt and cut a respectable figure in the eyes of the ladies Terhoven. Too late! The December wind whistles, the check crackles, and I sit here in an imaginary tuxedo, wearing a pair of imaginary patent-leather shoes, which Karl Brill still owes me, and I praise God and worship you, Isabelle! A handkerchief of finest batiste flutters from my breast pocket, I am a capitalist on a pleasure trip; if the whim strikes me the Red Mill lies at my feet, in my hand sparkles the fearless drinker’s champagne, the tipple of Sergeant Major Knopf with which he put death to flight—and I drink to the gray wall behind which are you, Isabelle, Youth, and your mother, and God’s bookkeeper, Bodendiek, and Wernicke, Reason’s major, and the great confusion and the eternal war; I drink and see opposite me on the left the District Lying-in Hospital, with a few windows still lighted, where mothers are giving birth, and I am struck for the first time by its proximity to the insane asylum—I recognize it, as indeed I should, for I was born there and until today I had not thought of that! Salutations to you, too, familiar home, beehive of fruitfulness; they took my mother to you because we were poor and there was no charge for a delivery if it took place with a class looking on; thus from the very start I was useful to science! Salutations to the unknown architect who placed you so suggestively close to the other building! Very likely he intended no irony, but the good jokes in the world are always made by serious practical men. Nevertheless—let us praise reason, but let us not be too proud of it and not too sure! You, Isabelle, have yours back again, that gift of the Greeks, and up there sits Wernicke rejoicing—and he is right. But each time you are right you are one step closer to death. He who is right all the time has turned into a black obelisk! His own monument!

The bottle is empty. I throw it as far away as I can, and it makes a dull thud in the soft, plowed field. I get up. I have had enough to drink and now I am ready for the Red Mill. Riesenfeld is giving a farewell party there tonight—a farewell and lifesaving party. Georg will be there and so will Lisa. I, too, am going, but I had my few private farewells to attend to, and after all of it we are going to celebrate a terrific and general farewell—the farewell to the inflation.

Late at night we move like a drunken funeral procession along Grossestrasse. The scattered street lamps nicker. We have buried the year a little prematurely. Willy and Renée de la Tour have joined us. Willy and Riesenfeld got into a heated argument; Riesenfeld swore to the end of the inflation and the beginning of the rye mark era—and Willy explained that he would be bankrupt then and so it couldn’t be true. At this Renée de la Tour grew thoughtful.

Through the windy night we see in the distance another procession. It is coming toward us up Grossestrasse. “Georg,” I say. “Suppose we leave the ladies a little way behind; this looks like a fight.”

“Agreed.”

We are near New Market. “If you see we’re getting the worst of it, run straight to the Cafe” Matz,” Georg instructs Lisa. “Ask for Bodo Ledderhose’s singing club and say we need them.” He turns to Riesenfeld: “It would be better for you to pretend you aren’t with us.”

“Run, Renée,” Willy remarks. “Keep away from the shooting!”

The other procession has reached us. Its members are wearing boots, the pride and joy of German patriots; with one or two exceptions they are all twenty years old. On the other hand, they are twice as many as we.

We start by. “There’s that red dog!” someone shouts suddenly. Even at night Willy’s shock of hair is conspicuous. “And the bald pate!” a second shouts, pointing at Georg. “After them!”

“Get going, Lisa!” Georg says.

We see her heels flash. “The cowards are going to call the police,” shouts a bespectacled towhead, starting after Lisa. Willy sticks out his foot and the towhead pitches forward. After that we’re in a fight.

There are five of us, not counting Riesenfeld. Really four and a half. The half is Hermann Lotz, a war comrade, whose left arm was amputated at the shoulder. He and little Kohler, another comrade, ran into us in the Café Central. “Watch out, Hermann, or they’ll knock you down!” I shout. “Stay in the middle. And you, Kohler, if they get you on the ground bite!”

“Backs to the wall!” Georg commands.

The order is a good one, but the wall behind happens to be the big show window of Max Lein’s clothing store. The German patriots are attacking in full force, and who wants to be pushed through a glass window? You’re sure to get your back cut to ribbons, and, besides, there’s the question of damages for the window. We’d certainly be stuck with them if we were found sitting among the ruins. We couldn’t escape.

For a moment we stay close together. The window is half-lighted, and so we can see our opponents clearly. I recognize a middle-aged man; he is one of those we had a row with in the Café Central. Following the maxim of getting the leader first, I shout to him: “Come here, you coward. You ass with ears!”

He wouldn’t dream of it “Haul him out!” he orders.

Three of them rush at me. Willy cracks one on the head and he falls. The second has a blackjack with which he hits me on the arm. I can’t reach him, but he can reach me. Willy sees what is happening, leaps forward, and twists his arm. the blackjack falls to the ground. Willy tries to pick it up but is knocked down. “Grab the blackjack, Köhler!” I shout. Kohler dives into the melee on the ground where Willy in his light gray suit is already fighting.

Our battle line has been broken. I get a kick that sends me flying against the window so hard that it rings. Fortunately the glass does not break. Windows fly open above us. Behind us, from the depths of the show window, Max Klein’s elegantly attired mannequins stare out at us. They stand motionless, clad in the latest winter fashions, like strange voiceless versions of the wives of the ancient Germans, cheering on their warriors from the wagon fort.

A big pimply youngster has me by the throat. He smells of herring and beer, and his head is as close to me as though he were trying to kiss me. My left arm is lame from the blackjack blow. With my right thumb I try to gouge his eye, but he prevents me by keeping his head pressed tight against my cheek as though we were a pair of unnatural lovers. I can’t kick him either because I am too close, and so he has me pretty much at his mercy. Just as my breath begins to fail and I am about to lunge downward with all my strength, I see what strikes me as an illusion of my failing senses—a geranium in full bloom sprouting from the pimply youth’s skull as though out of an especially potent dung heap. At the same time his eyes take on a look of mild surprise, his grip on my throat relaxes, fragments of the flowerpot rain down around us, I dive, get free, shoot up again, and feel a sharp crack; I have caught him under the chin with my skull, and he goes down slowly onto his knees. Strangely, the roots of the geranium that was dropped on us from above have fixed themselves so firmly to the head of this pimply Ancient German that he sinks to his knees with flowers on his head. It makes him more attractive than his forebears, who wore ox horns at their headgear. On his shoulders rest, like the remnants of a shattered helmet, two green majolica shards.

It was a big pot, but the patriot’s skull seems to be made of iron. I feel him, still on his knees, trying to get at my genitals, and I seize the geranium along with its roots and the earth sticking to them and jam the dirt into his eyes. He lets go, rubs his eyes, and since at the moment I can do nothing with my fists, I pay him back by a kick in the balls. He doubles up and lowers his paws to protect himself. I thrust the sandy tangle of roots into his eyes once more and expect him to bring up his hands so that I can repeat the process. But his head sinks forward as though he were making an oriental salaam, and the next instant everything around me is ringing. I have not been alert and have received a terrific blow from the side. Slowly I edge along the show window. Heroic in size and completely disinterested, a mannequin with painted eyes and a beaver coat stares out at me.

“Break through to the pissoir!” I hear Georg shout.

He is right. We need a better cover for our rear. But it’s easier said than done; we’re wedged in. The enemy has been reinforced, and it looks as though we will end up with broken heads among Max Klein’s mannequins.

At that instant I see Hermann Lotz kneeling on the ground. “Help me get this sleeve off!” he gasps.

I reach over and pull off the left sleeve of his jacket. His gleaming artificial arm comes free. It is made of nickel and ends in a black-gloved hand of artificial steel. Because of it, Hermann has the nickname Götz von Berlichingen of the Iron Hand. Quickly he frees the arm from his shoulder, seizes the artificial hand with his real one and gets up. “Gangway! Götz is coming!” I shout from below. Georg and Willy make room from him so that he can get through. He swings his artificial arm around him like a threshing flail and with the first blow lays the leader low. The attackers draw back for an instant. Hermann springs among them and whirls in a circle with his artificial arm outspread. Then in a trice he reverses it so that he now holds it by the shoulder piece and can attack with the steel hand. “Get moving! To the pissoir!” he shouts. “I’ll cover you!”

It is a remarkable thing to see Hermann go to work with his artificial hand. I have often watched him fight that way, but our opponents have not. They stand gaping for a moment as though the devil had fallen in their midst, and that gives us our chance. We break through and race toward the pissoir in New Market. As I rush by I see Hermann land a beautiful blow on the open snout of the second ringleader. “Quick, Götz!” I shout. “Come along! We’ve got through!”

Hermann takes one more swing. His empty coat sleeve flutters, he makes wild motions with the stump of his arm to keep his balance, and two booted enemies in his path gape at him with amazement and horror. One gets a cut in the chin, the other, as he sees the artifical black hand hurtling toward him, screeches with terror, shuts his eyes, and runs.

We reach the attractive, square sandstone building and take refuge on the women’s side. It is easier to defend. On the men’s side they might climb in through the window and take us in the rear; on the women’s side the windows are small and high.

Our enemies have followed us. There must be at least twenty of them by now; they have been reinforced by some Nazis. I can see a few of their shit-colored uniforms. They are trying to break in on the side where Köhler and I are standing. But amid the confusion I see help coming. A moment later Riesenfeld is bringing his rolled-up brief case, full of samples of granite I hope, down on someone’s skull, while Renée de la Tour has taken off one of her high-heeled shoes, seized it by the toe, and is flailing away with the heel.

As I watch all this someone butts me in the stomach with his skull and my breath shoots out of my mouth with a bang. I strike about me feebly and wildly, and have at the same time a feeling of being in a familiar situation. Automatically I raise my knee, expecting the billy goat to attack again. At that instant I see one of the loveliest sights imaginable in such a situation: Lisa, like the Victory of Samothrace, is storming across New Market, beside her Bodo Ledderhose and behind him his singing club. At the same instant I feel the billy goat again and see Riesenfeld’s brief case descend like a yellow flag. Simultaneously Renée shouts in her vibrant voice of command: “Halt, you swine!” A number of our attackers involuntarily jump. Then the singing club goes into action and we are free.

I straighten up. It is suddenly quiet. Our attackers have fled, dragging their wounded with them. Hermann Lotz is coming back. He has pursued the fleeing foe like a centaur and has succeeded in landing one more good crack. We have got off not badly. I have a fair-sized bump on my head and I feel as though my arm were broken. It is not. But I feel very sick. I have drunk too much to enjoy blows in the stomach. Once more I am tormented by that tantalizing, familiar memory which I cannot place. What was it? “I wish I had a schnaps,” I say.

“You’ll get one,” Bodo Ledderhose replies. “Come along now, before the police turn up.”

Just then there is the sound of a resounding slap. We turn around in surprise. Lisa has hit someone. “You damned drunkard!” she says with dignity. “So this is the way you look after your home and wife—”

“You—” the figure gurgles.

Lisa’s hand descends again. And now, suddenly, the knots of memory are released. Watzek! There he stands, oddly grasping his behind.

“My husband!” Lisa says to New Market in general. “That’s the man I’m married to.”

Watzek makes no reply. He is bleeding profusely. The old wound I gave him has opened again. In addition, blood is running out of his hair. “Did you do that with your brief case?” I ask Riesenfeld softly.

He nods, watching Watzek attentively. “What odd places people meet!” he says.

“What’s the matter with his rear end?” I ask. “Why is he holding onto it?”

“A wasp sting,” Renée de la Tour replies, replacing a long hat pin in her ice blue satin cap.

“My respects!” I bow low before her and go over to Watzek. “So,” I say, “now I know who was butting me in the stomach! Is this the thanks I get for my instruction in a finer way of life?”

Watzek stares at me. “You? I didn’t recognize you! My God!”

“He never recognizes anybody,” Lisa explains sarcastically.

Watzek makes a sorry picture. And yet I notice that he has actually followed my advice. He has had his mane cut, with the result that Riesenfeld’s blow was all the more effective; he is also wearing a new white shirt, on which the bloodstains show up clearly. He really is a bad-luck bird.

“Back home with you! You pig’s foot, you brawler!” Lisa says, departing. Watzek follows her at once. They wander across New Market, a strange pair. No one follows them. Georg helps Lotz adjust his artificial arm.

“Come along,” Ledderhose says. “We can still get a drink in my inn. A private party!”

We sit for a while with Bodo and his club. Then we start

homeward. The gray of dawn is crawling across the streets. A newspaper boy comes by Riesenfeld motions to him. The big headlines on the front page read: INFLATION ENDS! ONE MARK FOR A TRILLION!

“Well?” Riesenfeld says to me.

I nod.

“Children, I may actually be broke,” Willy announces. “I’ve kept on playing it short.” He looks ruefully at his gray suit and then at Renée. “Well, easy come, easy go—it was only money anyway.”

“Money is very important,” Renée replies coolly. “Especially when you haven’t got it.”

Georg and I walk along Marienstrasse. “Strange that Watzek got his beating from me and Riesenfeld,” I say, “not from you. It would have been more natural if you and he had fought.”

“More natural, perhaps, but not more fair.”

“Fair?” I ask.

“In a complicated sense. I’m too tired now to disentangle it. Men with bald heads oughtn’t to fight. They ought to philosophize.”

“Then you’ll have a lonesome life. The times look like fighting.”

“Maybe not. Some kind of horrid carnival has come to an end. Doesn’t today feel like a cosmic Ash Wednesday? A huge soap bubble has burst.”

“And?” I say.

“And?” he replies.

“Someone will blow a new and bigger one.”

“Perhaps.”

We stop in the garden. The milky light of morning is streaming like a gray flood around the crosses. The youngest Knopf daughter appears, sleepy-eyed. She has been waiting up for us. “Father says you can buy back the headstone for twelve trillion.”

“Tell him we offer eight marks. And the offer only holds until noon today. Money will be very short.”

“What’s that?” Knopf asks from his bedroom window, where he has been listening.

“Eight marks, Herr Knopf. And after noon today only six. Prices are going down. Who would ever have expected that, eh? Instead of up.”

“I’d rather keep it through all eternity, you damned grave robbers!” Knopf screeches, slamming the window.