The Black Obelisk

Chapter Twenty Four

The Werdenbrück Poets’ Club is holding a farewell party for me in the Old German Room at the Walhalla. The poets are uneasy; they pretend deep feeling. Hungermann is the first to come up to me. “You know my poems. You yourself said they were one of your deepest poetical experiences. Deeper than Stefan George.”

He looks at me intently. I never said anything of the sort. It was Bambuss who said it: in return Hungermann said that he considered Bambuss more significant than Rilke. But I do not correct him. I look expectantly at the poet of Casanova and Mohammed.

“Well then,” Hungermann goes on, but his attention is distracted. “By the way where did you get that new suit?”

“I bought it today with a Swiss honorarium,” I reply with all the modesty of a peacock. “It’s the first new suit I’ve had since I was a soldier of His Majesty. No remade uniform. Real civilian clothes! The inflation is over!”

“A Swiss honorarium? So you’re already internationally known? Well, well,” Hungermann says, surprised and instantly rather vexed. “From a newspaper?”

I nod. The author of “Casanova” makes a deprecatory gesture. “I thought so!” Of course my things are not for the daily press! Only for first-rate literary magazines, if at all. Unfortunately a volume of my poems was published by Arthur Bauer here in Werdenbrück three months ago. An outrage!”

“Were you forced to do it?”

“Yes, morally speaking. Bauer lied to me. He said he was going to launch a terrific publicity campaign, he was going to enlarge his press and publish not only my work but Morike, Goethe, Rilke, Stefan George, and, above all, Holder-lin. He hasn’t done any of it.”

“He published Otto Bambuss,” I reply.

Hungermann frowns. “Bambuss—between us, a bungler and imitator. That did me harm. Do you know how many copies of my work Bauer has sold? No more than five hundred!”

I know from Bauer that the entire printing consisted of two hundred and fifty copies; twenty-eight have been sold and nineteen of these were bought secretly by Hungermann. And it was not Hungermann who was forced to publish but Bauer. Hungermann blackmailed him with the threat of recommending another book dealer to the high school where he teaches.

“Now that you’re going to be on a newspaper in Berlin,” Hungermann goes on, “you know, friendship among artists is the noblest thing in the world!”

“I know. The rarest too.”

“So it is.” Hungermann draws a slender volume out of his pocket. “Here—with a dedication. Write something about it in Berlin. And send me two proofs. On my side, I will keep faith with you here in Werdenbrück. And if you find a good publisher up there—the second volume is in preparation.”

“Agreed.”

“I knew I could rely on you.” Hungermann solemnly shakes my hand. “Aren’t you going to publish something soon?”

“No. I’ve given it up.”

“What?”

I’m going to wait a while,” I say. “I want to look around in the world a bit.”

“Very wise!” Hungermann exclaims with emphasis. “If only more people would do that instead of publishing immature stuff and getting in the way of their betters!”

He looks sharply around the room. I expect at least a wink, but he is all seriousness. I have turned into a business opportunity and his sense of humor has abandoned him. “Don’t tell the others about our arrangement,” he adds with emphasis.

“Certainly not,” I reply and see Otto Bambuss stalking me.

An hour later I have in my pocket a copy of Bambuss’s “Voices of Silence” with a flattering dedication, and, in addition, a carbon copy of the sonnet sequence “The Tigress,” which I am to get published in Berlin; from Sommerfeld a copy of the “Book of the Dead” in free verse, from other members a dozen additional works—and from Eduard a carbon of his “Paean on the Death of a Friend” in 186 lines, dedicated to “Valentin, Comrade, Fellow Warrior, and Man.” Eduard works easily and quickly.

Suddenly it all seems remote. As remote as the inflation, which died two weeks ago—or my childhood which was smothered overnight in a uniform. As remote as Isabelle.

I look at the faces around me. Are they still the faces of awestruck children, confronted by chaos and miracle, or are they already the faces of conscientious club members? Is there still something in them of Isabelle’s rapt and terrified countenance, or are they more imitators, noisily exploiting that tenth of a talent which every youth possesses, whose disappearance they boast of and enviously celebrate instead of cherishing it in silence and trying to preserve some bit of it for the future?

“Comrades,” I say. “I hereby resign from your club.”

All faces turn toward me. “Impossible! You’ll be a corresponding member in Berlin,” Hungermann declares.

“I’m resigning,” I say.

For an instant the poets are silent. They look at me. Am I mistaken or do I see something like the fear of discovery in the faces of some? “Do you really mean it?” Hungermann asks.

“I really mean it.”

“All right. We accept your resignation and we hereby make you an honorary member.”

Hungermann glances around. There is resounding applause. The faces relax. “Unanimously passed!” says the poet of Casanova.

“I thank you,” I reply. “This is a proud moment. But I cannot accept. It would be like being turned into a statue. Or a gravestone. I do not want to go into the world as the honorary member of anything—not even of our establishment in Bahnstrasse.”

“That’s not a nice comparison,” says Sommerfeld, the poet of Death.

“Give him leave,” Hungermann decrees. “Well then, how do you want to go into the world?”

I laugh. “As a spark of life struggling to avoid extinction.”

“Dear God,” Bambuss says, “isn’t there something like that in Euripides?”

“Possibly, Otto. Then there must be something to it. Besides, I don’t intend to write about it; I’m going to try to be it.”

“It isn’t in Euripides,” Hungermann, the academician, announces with a triumphant glance at Bambuss, the village schoolmaster. “So you intend—” he says to me.

“Last night I made a fire,” I say. “It burned well. You know the old marching order: travel light.”

They nod eagerly. They have long since forgotten it, I suddenly realize. “All right then,” I say. “Eduard, I still have twelve luncheon coupons. The inflation has overtaken them, but I believe I would still have the legal right, even if I had to go to court about it, to demand food from you. Will you trade two bottles of Reinhartshausener for them? We want to drink them now.”

Eduard made a lightning calculation, counting in Valentin as well as the poem about Valentin in my pocket. “Three,” he says.

Willy is sitting in a small room. He has exchanged his elegant apartment for this. It is a terrific fall in the world, but Willy is bearing it well. He has saved his suits, and some of his jewelry; with these he will be able to play the elegant cavalier for some time to come. The red car had to be sold. He had speculated too recklessly on continued depreciation. The walls of his room are papered with notes and worthless bonds of the inflation. “It was cheaper than wallpaper,” he explains. “And more entertaining.”

“And now?”

“I’ll probably get a small job in the Werdenbrück bank.” Willy grins. “Renée is in Magdeburg. She writes that she’s having a big success in ‘The Green Cockatoo.’”

“It’s nice that she goes on writing at least.”

Willy makes an expansive gesture. “None of it matters, Ludwig. Out of sight, out of mind! Besides, for the last month I haven’t been able to persuade Renée to play the general at night. So it was only half the fun. The only time lately that she shouted a command was during that memorable battle at the pissoir in New Market. Farewell, youth! As a going-away present—” he opens a bag full of bonds and paper money. “Take anything you like! Millions, billions—it was a dream, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say.

Willie accompanies me to the street. “I’ve saved a few hundred real marks,” he whispers. “The fatherland is not yet lost! Now it’s the turn of the French franc. I’m going to speculate on its falling. Would you like to take a small flier with me?”

“No, Willy. From now on I’m only speculating on rises.”

“Rises,” he says as though he were saying Popocatepetl.

I am sitting alone in the office. It is my last day. I am leaving tonight. As I leaf through a catalog, wondering whether to include Watzek’s name on one of the tombstones I have drawn, the telephone rings.

“Are you the one called Ludwig?” a husky voice inquires. “The one who used to collect frogs and slowworms?”

“Could be,” I reply. “It depends on the reason. Who’s speaking?”

“Fritzi.”

“Fritzi! of course it’s me! What has happened? Has Otto Bambuss—”

“The Iron Horse is dead.”

“What?”

“Yes. Last evening. Heart attack. While at work.”

“A beautiful death,” I say. “But too young!”

Fritzi coughs. Then she says: “You’re in some sort of monument business, aren’t you? You told me about it once!”

“We have the best monument business in the city,” I reply. “Why?”

“Why? My God, Ludwig, I’ll give you three guesses! The Madame naturally wants to give the order to a client. And, besides, it was on the Iron Horse that you—”

“Not I,” I interrupt. “But possibly my friend Georg—”

“No matter, a client is to have the order. Come on out here! But come soon! A salesman for your competitors has been here already—he kept weeping and saying it was on the Horse that he—”

Weeping Oskar! Not a doubt of it! “I’m coming at once!” I say. “That blubberer was lying!”

The Madame receives me. “Do you want to see her?” she asks.

“Is she laid out here?”

“Upstairs, in her room.”

We go up the creaking stairs. The doors are open. I see the girls getting dressed. “Are you going to be open tonight?” I ask.

The Madame shakes her head. “Not tonight. The ladies are just getting dressed anyway. Habit, you know. Being closed is no great loss. Now that the mark is the mark again, our business has gone to pot. All the sinners are broke. Funny, isn’t it?”

It is not funny; it is true. The inflation has turned straight into deflation. Where billions are once thrown about, calculations are again being made in pfennigs. There is a general shortage of money. The horrible carnival is over. A spartan Ash Wednesday has come.

The Iron Horse lies on her bier among green potted plants and lilies. Her face is now severe and old; I recognize her only by one gold tooth just visible at one corner of her lips. The mirror, in front of which she has so often made up, is hung with white tulle. The room smells of stale perfume, evergreens, and death. On the bureau stand a few photographs and a crystal ball, with one flat side where a picture is glued. If you shake the ball the people in the picture look as if they were in a snowstorm. I know it well; it is one of the finest memories of my childhood. I longed to steal it in the days when I used to do my schoolwork in Bahnstrasse. “She was a kind of stepmother to you, wasn’t she?” The Madame asks.

“Say rather a kind of mother. Without the Iron Horse I would probably have become a biologist. But she loved poems; I had to keep bringing her new ones and finally I forgot about biology.”

“That’s right,” says the Madame. “You always had salamanders and fishes with you!”

We go out. On the way I see the Cossack cap lying on the dressing table. “Where are her high boots?” I ask.

“Fritzi has them now. Fritzi is no longer interested in anything else. Wielding the whip is less exhausting. And brings in more. In fact, we’ll soon have to find an understudy. We have quite a little circle of clients for a strenuous masseuse.”

“How did it really happen to the Horse?”

“In line of duty. She always took too much interest in the matter, that was the real reason. We have a one-eyed Dutch businessman, a very fine gentleman; he doesn’t look the part at all but the only thing he wants is beating and he comes every Sunday. Crows, when he’s had enough, like a rooster, very droll. Married, has three sweet children, but can’t, of course, order his wife to beat him—so he’s a permanent client, with foreign exchange in his wallet, pays in gulden—we almost worshiped that man—and his valuta. Well, so that’s how it happened yesterday. Malvina got too excited—and suddenly she fell over, whip in hand.”

“Malvina?”

“That’s her first name. You didn’t know, did you? What a shock for the gentleman to be sure! He won’t come again,” says the Madame woefully. “What a client! Pure sugar! We could always buy meat and baked stuffs for a whole month with his foreign exchange. How does it stand now, by the way?” She turns to me. “Not worth what it used to be, is it?”

“A gulden is worth just about two marks.”

“Is it possible! And a little while ago it was worth trillions! Well, then it’s not so bad even if our client should stay away. Won’t you take some trifle with you as a memento of the Horse?”

For a moment I think of the glass ball with its snowstorm. But one oughtn’t to carry along keepsakes. I shake my head.

“All right,” says the Madame. “Then we’ll have a nice cup of coffee downstairs and pick out the monument.”

I have been figuring on a small headstone, but it turns out that, thanks to the Dutch businessman, the Iron Horse had amassed considerable savings. She put the gulden notes away in a strongbox. Now they represent an impressive sum. The businessman has been her loyal client for years. “Malvina had no family,” the Madame says.

“Then of course,” I reply, “we can turn to the important class of Tombstones. Marble or granite.”

“Marble is not the thing for the House,” Fritzi says. “That’s more for children, isn’t it?”

“Not always, by any means! We have laid generals to rest under marble columns.”

“Granite,” says the Madame. “Granite is better. Suits her iron nature.”

We are sitting in the big room. The coffee is steaming, there are home-baked cakes with whipped cream and there is a bottle of curacao. I feel almost as though I had been spirited back to the old times. The ladies are looking over my shoulder at the catalogue just as they used to look at my schoolbooks.

“Here’s the finest thing we have,” I say. “Black Swedish granite, a memorial cross with a double socle. There aren’t more than two or three like it in the whole city.”

The ladies examine the drawing. It is one of my last. I have put Major Wolkenstein in the inscription—as having fallen in 1915 at the head of his troop—which would certainly have been a blessing for the carpenter in Wüstringen.

“Was the Horse Catholic?” Fritzi asks.

“A cross is not just for Catholics,” I reply.

The Madame scratches her head. “I don’t know whether she would have cared for anything as religious as that. Isn’t there something else? Something more like a natural rock?”

For an instant my breath leaves me. “If you want something of that sort,” I say, “I have just the thing. Something extraordinary! An obelisk!”

It is a shot in the dark, I know. My fingers suddenly trembling with the excitement of the chase, I search for the drawing of the veteran and lay it on the table.

The ladies study it in silence. I hold back. Sometimes there is a kind of beginner’s luck that accomplishes with a child’s touch things that would baffle the expert. Fritzi suddenly laughs. “Really not bad for the Horse,” she says.

The Madame smiles too. “What does the thing cost?”

For as long as I have been in the business, no price has ever been put on the obelisk, since everyone knew it was unsalable. I calculate quickly. “A thousand marks is the official price,” I say. “For you, as friends, six hundred. For the Horse, as my teacher, three hundred. I can take the chance of making this ridiculous price because this is my last day in the office—otherwise I’d be fired. Cash payment of course! And the inscription extra.”

“Well, why not?” Fritzi says.

“It’s all right with me!” the Madame nods.

I can’t trust my ears. “Then it’s a deal?” I ask.

“A deal,” the Madame replies. “How much is three hun-red marks in gulden?”

She begins to count out the notes. A bird shoots out of the cuckoo clock on the wall and chirps the hour. It is six o’clock. I put the money in my pocket. “A schnaps to Malvina’s memory,” says the Madame. “She’ll be buried tomorrow morning. We need the place again for the evening.”

“Too bad I can’t stay for the funeral,” I say.

We all drink cognac with a dash of crème de menthe. The Madame wipes her eyes. “It touches me deeply,” she remarks.

It touches us all. I get up and say good-by. “Georg Kroll will install the monument,” I say.

The ladies nod. I have never met so much loyalty and good faith as here. They wave to me from the windows. The bulldogs bark. I walk quickly along the brook toward the city.

“Impossible!” Georg says. Silently I take the Dutch gulden out of my pocket and spread them on the desk. “What have you sold for all that?” he asks.

“Just a minute.”

I have heard the tinkle of a bicycle bell. Immediately thereafter there is the sound of an authoritative cough at the front door. I pick up the bills and put them back in my pocket. Heinrich Kroll appears in the doorway, the cuffs of his trousers somewhat soiled by the dust of the roads. “Well,” I ask, “sold anything?”

He stares at me venomously. “Go out and try to sell something yourself! There’s a state of general bankruptcy. No one has money! And anyone who has a couple of marks holds onto them!”

“I was out,” I reply, “and I sold something.”

“Did you? What?”

I turn so that I have both brothers in front of me and say: “The obelisk.”

“Nonsense!” Heinrich says curtly. “Go make your jokes in Berlin!”

“I have nothing more to do with the business, of course,” I explain, “inasmuch as my employment terminated at twelve o’clock today. Nevertheless, I wanted to show you how simple it is to sell tombstones. A kind of vacation job really.”

Heinrich swells with rage, but restrains his anger. “Thank God we won’t have to listen to this sort of nonsense much longer! Have a good trip! They’ll teach you to talk respectfully in Berlin.”

“He has actually sold the obelisk, Heinrich,” Georg says.

Heinrich stares at him incredulously. “Prove it!” he barks at length.

“Here!” I say, letting the gulden notes flutter down. “Even in foreign exchange!”

Heinrich gapes at the notes. Then he seizes one of them, turns it over and examines it to see whether it is genuine. “Luck,” he snaps finally. “Fool’s luck!”

“We can use such luck, Heinrich,” Georg says. “Without this sale we couldn’t have paid the note that’s due tomorrow. You ought to thank him warmly. It’s the first real money we’ve seen. We need it damned badly.”

“Thanks him? I’d rather die!”

Heinrich disappears, slamming the door—a genuine, honest German who owes thanks to no one. “Do we really need the money so badly?” I ask.

“Badly enough,” Georg replies. “But now let’s do some figuring. How much have you?”

“Enough. I was given traveling expenses third class. I’m going fourth class and so will save twelve marks. I sold my piano—I couldn’t take it with me. The old box brought a hundred marks. That is, all told, one hundred and twelve marks. I can live on that till I get my first pay.”

Georg takes thirty Dutch gulden and offers them to me. “You worked as a special agent. That means you have a right to a commission just like Weeping Oskar. For extraordinary services, five per cent additional.”

A short argument ensues; then I take the money, as an anchor to windward in case I am fired during the first month. “Do you know yet what you’re going to have to do in Berlin?” Georg asks.

I nod. “Report fires, describe thefts, review unimportant books, fetch beer for the editors, sharpen pencils, correct proof—and try to get ahead in the world.”

The door is kicked open. Like a ghost Sergeant Major Knopf stands in the doorway. “I demand eight trillion,” he croaks.

“Herr Knopf,” I say. “You have not yet altogether awakened from a long dream: the inflation is over. Two weeks ago you could have got eight trillion for the stone you paid eight million for. Today the price is eight marks.”

“You rat! You did it on purpose!”

“What?”

“Stopped the inflation! To exploit me! But I won’t sell! Ill wait for the next one!”

“What?”

“The next inflation!”

“All right,” Georg says. “We’ll have a drink on that.”

Knopf is the first to reach for the bottle. “Want to bet?” he asks.

“On what?”

“That I can tell by taste where this bottle came from.”

He pulls out the cork and sniffs. “It’s impossible for you to tell,” I say. “With schnaps from a cask, perhaps—we know you’re the greatest expert in the district—but with schnaps in bottles never.”

“How much will you bet? The price of the headstone?”

“We’re suddenly impoverished,” Georg replies. “But we’ll risk three marks. To oblige you.”

“All right. Give me a glass.”

Knopf smells and tastes. Then he demands a second and a third glassful. “Give up,” I say. “It’s impossible. You don’t have to pay.”

“This schnaps is from Brockmann’s Delicatessen Store in Marienstrasse,” Knopf says.

We stare at him. He is right. “Hand over the money!” he croaks.

Georg pays the three marks, and the sergeant major disappears. “How was that possible?” I say. “Has the old schnaps thrush second sight?”

Georg laughs suddenly. “He tricked us!”

“How?”

He lifts the bottle. On the back at the bottom in a tiny label: J. Brockmann, delicatessen, 18 Marienstrasse. “What a sharpie!” he says with amusement. “And what eyes he has!”

Eyes!” I say. “Day after tomorrow he won’t trust them—when he comes home and finds the obelisk gone. His world, too, will collapse.”

“Is yours collapsing?” Georg asks.

“Daily,” I reply. “How else could one live?”

Two hours before train time we hear tramping feet outside and the sound of voices raised in song.

Then at once, a four-part harmony rises from the street: “Holy night, or pour the peace of Heaven upon this heart—”

We go to the window. On the street stands Bodo Ledderhose’s club. “What’s this all about?” I ask. “Turn on the light, Georg!”

In the glow falling from our window, we recognize Bodo. “It’s about you,” Georg says. “A farewell song from your club. Don’t forget you’re a member still.”

“Grant the weary pilgrim peace, soothing ointment for his pain—” they roll on loudly.

Windows fly open. “Quiet!” Widow Konersmann screams. “It’s midnight, you drunken dogs!”

“Brightly shine the stars on high like lamps in the distant blue—”

Lisa appears in her window and bows. She thinks the song is for her.

In short order the police arrive. “Disperse!” an authoritative voice commands.

The police have changed with the deflation. They have grown strict and energetic. The old Prussian spirit is back again. Every civilian is a permanent recruit.

“Disturbance of the peace!” growls the uniformed music hater.

“Arrest them!” howls the widow Konersmann.

Bodo’s club consists of him and twenty steadfast singers. Opposed to them stand two policemen. “Bodo,” I shout in alarm, “don’t lay hands on them! Don’t defend yourselves! Otherwise you’ll be in jail for years!”

Bodo makes a reassuring gesture and goes on singing wide-mouthed: “Might I but depart with thee—on thy way to Heaven.”

“Quiet, we want to sleep!” the widow Konersmann screams.

“Hey there!” Lisa shouts to the policemen. “Just leave the singers alone! Why aren’t you out catching thieves?”

The policemen are perplexed. They order everyone to accompany them to the police station, but no one moves. Bodo begins the second stanza. The policemen finally do the best they can—each arrests one of the singers. “Don’t defend yourselves!” I shout. “It’s resisting the law!

The singers offer no resistance. They let themselves be led away. The rest go on singing as though nothing had happened. The station is not far. The police come back on the run and arrest two more. The others go on singing, but they have become very weak in first tenors. The police are making their arrests from the right; on the third trip. Willy is taken away and with that the first tenors are silenced. We hand bottles of beer out of the window. “Hold out, Bodo!” I say.

“Don’t worry! To the last man!”

The police come back and arrest two second tenors. We have no more beer and begin handing out our schnaps. Ten minutes later only the basses are left. They stand there, disregarding the arrests. I have read somewhere that herds of walruses will remain unconcerned in just this way while hunters bludgeon their neighbors to death—and I have seen whole nations behave the same way in war.

After another fifteen minutes Bodo Ledderhose is standing there alone. The angry, sweating policemen come galloping up for the last time. They take Bodo between them. We follow him to the station. Bodo goes on humming alone. “Beethoven,” he says briefly and starts humming again, a lonely musical bee.

But suddenly it is as though aeolian harps were accompanying him from afar. We prick up our ears. It sounds like a miracle—angel voices are actually accompanying him—angels in first and second tenor and in both basses. They weave their flattering and deceptive strains around Bodo and grow clearer as we advance. When we round the church, we can actually understand the fleeting, disembodied voices. They are singing: “Holy night, oh pour the peace of Heaven—” at the next corner we recognize whence they come—from the police station, where Bodo’s arrested friends are unconcernedly going on with their song. Bodo takes his place as leader, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and continues: “Grant the weary pilgrim peace—”

“Herr Kroll, what’s the meaning of this?” the desk sergeant asks in perplexity.

“It is the power of music,” Georg replies. “A farewell song for a man who is going out into the wide world. It’s harmless and really ought to be encouraged.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“It is disturbance of the peace,” protests one of the men who made the arrests.

“Would it have been disturbance of the peace if they had been singing ‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles’?” I ask.

“That would have been different!”

“Throw them out!” shouts the sergeant. “But they’re to keep quiet from now on.”

“They’ll keep quiet. You’re not a Prussian, are you?”

“Franconian.”

“That’s what I thought,” Georg says.

We are at the station. It is windy and there is no one on the platform but us. “You will visit me, Georg,” I say. “I’ll do all I possibly can to meet the women of your dreams. Two or three will be there for you if you come to visit me.”

“I’ll come.”

I know he will not. “You owe it to your tuxedo at least,” I say. “Where else could you wear it?”

“That’s true.”

The train bores through the darkness with two glowing eyes. “Keep the colors flying, Georg! We’re immortal you know.”

“So we are. And you, don’t let them get you down. You’ve been saved so often it’s your duty to survive.”

“Sure,” I say. “If only because of the others who weren’t saved.”

“Nonsense. Simply because you’re alive.”

The train roars into the station as though five hundred people were waiting for it. But only I am waiting. I look for a compartment and get in. The compartment smells of sleep and people. I open the window in the passageway and lean out. “When you give up something, you don’t have to lose it,” Georg says. “Only idiots think that.”

“Who’s talking about losing?” I reply as the train begins to move. “Since we lose in the end anyway, we can give ourselves the luxury of winning beforehand like the spotted monkeys of the forest.”

“Do they always win?”

“Yes—because they don’t know what winning is.”

The train is already rolling. I feel Georg’s hand. It is too small and too soft and there is an unhealed scar on it from the Battle of the Pissoir. The train moves faster, Georg is left behind and suddenly he is older and paler than I thought. Now I can only see his pale hand and pale head and then nothing more but the sky and the fleeing dark.

I go into the compartment. A commercial traveler with eyeglasses is wheezing in one corner; a woodsman in another. In the third a fat man with a mustache is snoring; in the fourth a woman with sagging cheeks and a hat askew on her head is emitting quavering sighs.

I feel the sharp hunger of sorrow and open my bag, which is in the luggage net. Frau Kroll has provided me with sandwiches for the trip. I fumble for them unsuccessfully and get the bag down out of the net. The quavering woman with the tilted hat wakes up, looks around furiously and goes back challengingly to her quavers. I see now why I could not find the sandwiches. Georg’s tuxedo lies on top of them. Very likely he put it in my bag while I was selling the obelisk. I look at the black cloth for a while, then I get out the sandwiches and begin to eat. They are admirable sandwiches. The whole compartment wakes up for a moment at the smell of bread and liverwurst. I pay no attention and go on eating. Then I lean back in my seat and look out into the darkness, where now and again lights fly past, and I think of Georg and the tuxedo and then I think of Isabella and Hermann Lotz and of the obelisk that was pissed on and that saved the firm in the end, and finally I think of nothing at all.