Käsebier Takes Berlin

by Gabriele Tergit

  They continued to bargain. Käte came over to their table.

  “Have you already gone to see Käsebier?” Frächter asked.

  “No,” said Käte. “I’ve been putting it off every night. But I’ll go tomorrow for sure. I hear it’s so full-up you can’t get in without an inside connection. Is he really that good?”

  “Fantastic,” said Frächter.

  “Goodbye, darling,” said Käte. “I’ll ring you sometime.”

  “You see,” said Frächter. “You see.”

  “My friend!” he called out to Augur, who was sneaking through the restaurant looking gloomy with his collar turned up, hatless, the latest newspapers tucked under his arm. “Have you been to Hasenheide yet?”

  “Yes, it’s worth going if you can take something like that seriously, it’s worth it. Tempers are rising. The socialists want to approve the battleship.”

  “Yes, dreadful.”

  “I’ll give you a call sometime.”

  “You see,” said Frächter, “You see.”

  “You’re something, all right,” Mohnkopp laughed. “Fine, let’s say a thousand marks and five percent.”

  “Done.”

  Frächter got on the phone the next day. First, he called up Käsebier and commissioned twenty pages on Käsebier, in addition to ten photographs, which would include Käsebier solo, Käsebier and wife, Käsebier at home.

  “What do you like to do, Mr. Käsebier?”

  “What’m I supposed to say?”

  “Well, do you have birds?”

  “Nope. Might have some bees in my bonnet, though.”

  “Any other zoological interests—I mean, dogs or cats?”

  “Nope, just my wife.”

  “Any agricultural interests?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you have a summer house?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you play any sports?”

  “Sure, I ride a bike.”

  “Fantastic. Let’s get a picture of you on your bike.”

  “But I don’t ride it all that often.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get a picture of you in a bicycle jersey.”

  “Well, the fellas are gonna love teasing me.”

  “No one’s going to be teasing you once you’re at the Wintergarten. And six photos in costume. And don’t write fewer than twenty pages for your biography. On a typewriter, single-sided. Six photos in costume, Mr. Käsebier!”

  Frächter called up Gohlisch. “Dear Mr. Gohlisch, you simply must write five manuscript pages on Käsebier for me. Mohnkopp is publishing a book on Käsebier.”

  “And what’re you doing?”

  “I’m helping him with it.”

  “Well, aren’t you hardworking.”

  “So you’ll write something for us? I’ve got some first-rate folks on board. Not to mention Lambeck.”

  “Fine, I’ll send you an article.”

  “How delightful, Mr. Gohlisch. You’re the best local reporter in Berlin right now. I’ve read some first-rate stuff by you recently.”

  By evening, Frächter had put the book together.

  8

  The Paris correspondent of the Allgemeines Blatt comes to Berlin

  “WELL hello, pussycat.”

  “Marie Pantke speaking. Who’s this?”

  “What’s with the fancy talk, Miss? Oskar Meyer here.”

  “Wow, Meyer. Since when?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Well, isn’t that great news.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “God, lousy. Too much work. Typical typist’s life, work and more work.”

  “And the men?”

  “No dice.”

  “Well then! Why don’t we give it a shot?”

  “It ain’t gonna happen, mister.”

  “Let’s forget about that and go out today anyway.”

  “I can’t today.”

  “Why not? Tomorrow, then.”

  “Where?”

  “Hasenheide.”

  “Gee, you came all the way from Paris just to take me out to Hasenheide, are you nuts?”

  “Not at all, it’s all the rage.”

  “You’re kidding, Hasenheide? Listen, pal, I only go dancing at Mayakovsky’s, I don’t go south of Meinekestrasse.”

  “Fine, but let’s eat at Stöckler’s beforehand.”

  “Sure, I’m all for good eats.”

  “I’ll pick you up around eight.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “It’s a date, darling.”

  •

  “Hello, hello, Weissmann’s.”

  “Is the lady of the house available? Meyer-Paris speaking.”

  “One moment, please.”

  “Margot Weissmann speaking.”

  “Oskar Meyer speaking.”

  “Oh, good day, Mr. Meyer, when did you get back?”

  “Since this afternoon, my dear, and you’re my very first call.”

  “I doubt that!”

  “I beg your pardon, I’m thrilled to finally be speaking with a Berliner; my mother tongue, the sweet sounds of home.”

  “Well, shall we make a date right away? When can I have you over?”

  “Let’s talk about that another time. I’m planning an ambush. I want to meet you at nine o’clock, so guess where we’re going.”

  “Käsebier!”

  “Right on the money. So it’s a good tip. Is there anything left to write about?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you write about it, only how you do it. Lambeck may have discovered him, but his article was a bit ponderous, as usual. So there’s still lots of room for humor. Meyer-ish humor, of course. But nine is too late. I think we have to be there at eight if we don’t know the right people.”

  “I have Käsebier’s friend’s card.”

  “All the same. Eight is better. Where are you?”

  “In Halensee. Joachim-Friedrich-Strasse, as always.”

  “Come to Kurfürstendamm at half past seven and have a quick supper with me. My husband won’t be coming with us, unfortunately, he has too much work right now. We’ll easily make it there by eight with our car.”

  At half past seven, Meyer-Paris stood in front of Margot’s house. They’ve slashed its belly open, he thought, God, these crazy architects are awful. The house, Wilhelmine baroque, had once featured a wooden door with windows on the upper half. The door had been enlarged up to the second floor, and was now made only of glass. It must be dreadful to walk up that steep staircase with the whole world watching, Meyer thought. He was relieved when he rang the bell on the first floor. There was a small vestibule on the right, just before the foyer. The foyer was made of red marble, and had fluted oak columns. Gilded Corinthian capitals over the doorway, painted bas-reliefs on top of them. Girls with hairstyles from the Gay Nineties wore pink, blue, and yellow chiffon, dancing a roundelay in a spring garden. A marble fountain stood in the middle of the room. It’s as if I’m at my grandparents’ house, but everything’s from 1912, Meyer thought. He was led into the drawing room. Chippendale furniture, commodes, chairs, the walls hung with pink silk. Many sofas. Bulging cushions, Meyer thought, and was afraid to sit down. No matter how slender or small you were, it was always difficult to extract yourself from that much stuffing, and he mustn’t dare topple into the lady of the house. He chose to stand. He studied Margot’s portrait, which hung above the commode. Tasteful, he thought, which was indeed the intended effect. Blonde Margot in pale gray silk, looking quite unlike herself, painted from head to décolleté.

  She waddled toward him in a friendly manner. “So, my dear, finally back, how are you? I’m just thrilled to see you! I have so much to tell you. Käte is in Berlin, have you heard? Well, if I tell you who she’s carrying on with, you’ll split your sides. But let’s get going before it gets too late.”

  She drove. “Which way?”

  “Ufer to Hallesches Tor, I think.”

  “Lovely, good.” Oh God, I almost married th
at man, she thought. Might need to think about whether to go for the massage or not. I ran into Lotte Hoffmann recently; she looked so tired, so poorly dressed, so ugly, all because she’s working so hard. But my life isn’t all roses either. He’s always exhausted at night, and it’s not much fun for me, and he isn’t very understanding. He thinks the dress from Hammer is too expensive, not to mention a new dressing room, although I can hardly get ready in front of my old mirror anymore.

  “Well, Oskar, what is it?”

  “I’m glad that you’re looking so well, young lady.”

  “I always like to hear that, especially since I’m not that young anymore.”

  “You’re fishing.”

  “Oh, you say that, but I often despair, Ossy, I’m . . . well, you know, we took dance lessons together thirty-two years ago.”

  “Thirty-four, Margot, to be exact.”

  “You wretch. Fine, thirty-four. Adolf is turning fifty soon. Who knows how long till I lose my charm. That’s why I had the little one. I’d hoped it would make getting older easier. But it doesn’t help much.”

  “But Margot, you’re beautiful, rich, and elegant. You have a nice husband and a pretty kid. Are you just worried about lovers?”

  “You underestimate love.”

  “And you overestimate it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Just don’t say us two. Better you seek adventure within good bourgeois circles than with bohemians. Besides, you have no courage, my dear. With whom have you shared a pillow, if I might ask?”

  “That’s outrageous. One doesn’t discuss such matters,” she said, slightly piqued. She didn’t know whether it was more desirable these days to have experienced a lot, or a little.

  They had arrived. The car was stowed away. Another six cars were waiting. She wore a black dress under an incredibly thick muskrat fur. The dress made her look even thinner than she already was. She looked very dressed-up, though going to Hasenheide required a cheaper outfit.

  Two dark figures stood outside. “Tickets here.”

  Meyer and Margot ignored them.

  “Four marks apiece, you won’t find any others, sir.”

  “Sold out.” Some gentlemen were engaged in a shouting match with the cashier, while women in black rabbit fur waited impatiently.

  “What nonsense!” one woman cried. “Just let us in.”

  The young man standing by the red rope at the entrance shrugged his shoulders and said, “Police.”

  “It’s full-up,” said an old man standing next to him.

  “I’m not going anywhere, won’t even consider it, you can stick a few more seats in there!” a fat man yelled.

  “You’re right, a few more seats. This is ridiculous,” said a tall, thin man.

  “You’d best leave it,” said his wife. “It’s not their fault there are no seats.”

  “Well, sure, but this madhouse is ridiculous.”

  “Come on, let’s go.”

  “I’m not leaving, won’t even think of it.”

  “I’m out of here,” a very short man yelped at a high pitch across the room, as if he wanted to spite the world.

  “I told you, we should have gotten here at seven,” said Margot.

  “This will be the first time I haven’t gotten in somewhere,” said Meyer. “Where’s Mr. Gohlisch’s table?” he asked the bouncer.

  “I don’t know, but I can’t let you in, sir.”

  “ ’Scuse me, that gentleman is Mr. Käsebier’s best friend. He’s been saving two seats for me for an hour. I’ll just take a quick peek.”

  The bouncer let him through. It was dark inside, and a girl was singing, “Wilted leaves, wilted leaves.”

  He looked for two chairs. It was very crowded, six to a table. The whole square hall was full. He found two seats on the upstairs balcony. Not great, but seats all the same. He politely reserved them, and bolted downstairs.

  “Found my friends. There are two free seats on the upstairs balcony.”

  “I’ll have to ask the manager first.”

  “Mr. Schwoller, the gentleman has two seats, can he still get tickets?”

  “They’re up to the left on the balcony, a friend reserved them for me. I’m happy to show them to you.”

  “Well, fine, you can still get tickets. If anyone makes a fuss, say they were reserved.”

  “Understood,” said Meyer, pressed something into his hand, and went to the cashier.

  Then the ruckus started.

  “Why’s that guy getting tickets?”

  “Well, isn’t this outrageous.”

  “Guess we’re not fancy enough for Käsebier’s parlor, huh?”

  “I’m gonna complain.”

  “Where’s the manager?”

  “Well, this is a hoot.”

  “Says ‘sold out’ on the door, and now he’s getting some. Unbelievable.”

  “They were reserved!” Meyer shouted.

  “Yeah, right!”

  “You little sneak, you!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who’re you, anyway?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I’m gonna complain.”

  Meyer had the tickets. “Gentlemen, I told you that they were reserved three days ago.”

  “In that case, everyone could’ve come.”

  “This is the last time I’m going to this joint.”

  Meyer quietly said to Margot, “Hurry up at the coat check, or we’ll be lynched.”

  There was a blockade at the coat check. Honest men, average, upright citizens stood there like Caryatids. With raised arms, they carried their winter coats, their wives’ coats, their hats, their wives’ hats, their umbrellas, and their wives’ galoshes. Some were holding the belongings of three or four people. A lone, full-bosomed coat check attendant moved slowly behind the counter. But it didn’t matter. Even if she had moved quickly, the flood of garments would never have abated.

  “Hopefully we won’t have to spend the night here,” Meyer joked, steeling himself for a long wait.

  Margot was freezing. The coat check was in the corridor, and an icy wind blew in from the street.

  “They call this spring,” Meyer said.

  Everyone waited patiently until Meyer got the ball rolling. “Would you come over here, young lady!”

  “You’re completely right.”

  “She’s always over on that side, ignoring us.”

  “What a state, I’m telling you!”

  “Don’t forget about the left side, miss, the heart’s on the left.”

  “My arms are getting stiff.”

  Margot and Oskar entered the hall at nine thirty. There were acrobats on stage. The girl had the body of a snake. She splayed her legs until her feet popped out in the most unlikely places. She bent over backwards, and her head hit her feet in a horseshoe. Her breasts were immovable.

  Meyer was delighted. “I’ve got to say, I could still fall in love with a thing like that.”

  Margot was insulted. Why would he say something like that to her?

  But Berlin has no climate for love.

  You don’t say something like that when a beautiful woman is next to you, Margot thought. It’s tactless. Berlin men are impossible. Berlin has no flair, no grace, no charm. And then the bicyclists came on. Meyer noticed an acquaintance at the next table. He went over to him.

  “May I introduce Mr. Gödovecz?”

  “Are you here on business?” Gödovecz asked.

  “I’ll know around midnight. What about you?”

  “Me? Yes. You know, I had a whole page just on Käsebier in the Breslauer Illustrierte this past Sunday. ‘Käsebier Sings a Song,’ in seven panels. I had loads of Käsebier in the Berlin papers last week.”

  “So business is good?”

  “Yes, I’m not so talented, you know, but the others are really un-talented. That’s all that matters in the end. Mostly, the world is full of idiots.”

  “Waiter, another beer. Do you want something, Marg
ot?”

  “A sherry cobbler.”

  “A cobbler in the Hasenheide! Ah, sweets, I can’t take you out to Hasenheide. You’ve got to order a beer, a sausage, or coffee here.”

  “Fine, coffee.”

  “You don’t look very happy to be here.”

  “No, I think it’s dreadful. Just look at the audience.”

  “Of course it is. Berliners don’t know how to dress,” said Gödovecz.

  “And you only have to add, ‘and the Berliners can’t cook, either.’ Then we’ll be having the right conversation. But the Berlin woman is the chicest in the world today, and no European stomach can handle the food in Budapest. Paprika plus pepper—no thanks.”

  “Well, say what you like, but the general opinion is . . .”

  And now Tubby Tub the clown had begun, the wonderful clown with the cigar box.

  Meyer discovered Krienke, the press photographer, over in the corner.

  “D’you know that Richard Thame is downstairs?” Krienke asked.

  “You’re kidding. Then this is the right place. Margot, do you know who Richard Thame is? Can’t guess? What rhymes with fame, do you know? Find a rhyme for fame! Thame. Do you know how Thame found his way to his profession? One day, as he was strolling down Leipziger Strasse, he wondered which ran deeper, the Spree or his debts. Then he thought, Thame, Thame, fame, and he’d found it. He creates fame, but a highly exclusive, lasting kind of fame. Fame conferred by Dr. Richard Thame doesn’t explode or expire. If Dr. Richard Thame finds someone worthy of fame, you can bet that there’s a good reason for it.”

  “Well, now,” said Margot, with the highest respect.

  “You may say ‘well, now,’ but how does Dr. Richard Thame generate fame? By only photographing the right subjects. He’s built a reputation until everyone says, if Dr. Richard Thame has taken a picture of him, well, there must be something to it. Take our friend Krienke. He photographs every Tom, Dick, and Harry, all the filler for the international press. If England has a new king, he’s there; he’s there for the Prince of Wales in Scottish, the Prince of Wales in French, the Prince of Wales as a Bantu, the Chancellor of the Reich, the Chancellors of the Reich, the French Prime Minister, the Boxing Champion of the World, the World Boxing Champion, the Boxing World Champion, some professor who’s found a cure for cancer, Stalin, Chicherin, etc. But our Dr. Richard Thame only photographs people he knows will live on forever—by means of a phone call to our dear Lord himself. The director of the Adda-Adda factories, for example, in the first cabin of the biggest Hapag steamer, or the Indian Countess of Kapurthala in conversation with the First Lord Lollipop, just so. If he’s endorsed this member of the hoi polloi, then, Krienke, we can found a corporation on Käsebier’s head. We’ll get high returns. Whoever Thame photographs—or, rather, whoever is a subject of his portraiture—will live in eternal fame! Well, Krienke, not us two.”