This was the first question to which Fischerle expected an answer. True he was as sure of the wife, whose existence he was questioning, as he was of his hump. But he longed for a game, he had oeen watched now for three hours and could bear it no longer. He was determined to bring the discussion to a practical conclusion. Kien was silent. What could he have said? His wife was his sore point; with the best intention in the -world nothing true could be said of her. He was, actually, neither married, nor single nor divorced. 'Have you a wife?' asked Fischerle a second time. But already it sounded threatening. Kien was worried about the truth. The same thing which had happened before over the book racket was happening again. Necessity makes liars of us all. 'I have not a wife!' he asserted with a smile which lit up his austerity. If he must lie, he would choose the pleasantest alternative. 'Then I'll give you mine!' burst out Fischerle. Had the man in the book racket hada wife, Fischerle's offer would have been differently worded: 'Then I'll make you a nice change from her.' Now he shouted loudly across the café: 'Are you coming, or not?'
She came. She was large, fat and round, and half a century old. She introduced herself by shrugging a shoulder in Fischerle's direction and adding, not without a breath of pride, 'My husband'. Kien stood up and bowed low. He was terrified of whatever was going to happen now. Aloud he said: 'Delighted!' To himself softly, inaudibly: 'Strumpet.' With this archaic word he reduced her to nothing. Fischerle said: 'Well then, sit down.' She obeyed. His nose reached up to her bosom. Nose and bosom leant side by side over the marble table. Suddenly the manikin burst out and rattled rapidly as if he had forgotten the most important thing: 'Book racket!'
Kien was again silent. The woman found him repulsive. She compared his boniness to her husband's hump and found the latter beautiful. Her rabbit-face always had something to say for himself. He wasn't born dumb. There was a time when he even talked to her. Now she was getting too old for him. He's quite right. It's not as though he goes with other girls. He's got a heart of gold, that kid. Everybody thinks they're still carrying on with each other. Every one of her girl friends is after him. You can't trust women. She's different. You can trust her. Men aren't to be trusted either. But you can trust Fischerle. Rather than have anything to do with a woman, he says, he'd have nothing to do with anyone. She agrees to everything. She doesn't want any of that. But he mustn't talk about it, that's all. He's so modest. He's never wanted a thing out of her. A pity he doesn't look after his clothes a bit more. Time and again you'd think he'd scrambled straight out of the dustbin. If that Ferdy hasn't given Mizzi an ultimatum: he'll wait another year for that motorbike she promised him. If she hasn't got it by the end of the year, sh— him if he doesn't find himself another girl. Now she's scraping and saving, but where's she going to get a motorbike from? Her rabbit-face wouldn't do a thing like that. The beautiful eyes he's got! He can't help his hump, can he?
Always when Fischerle found her a client she felt that he wanted to be rid of her and was grateful to him for his love. Later on she would find him too conceited again. But on the whole she was a contented creature, and in spite of her squalid life had little hate in her. That little was all for chess. While the other girls knew the first principles of the game, in all her life she had never understood why the different pieces had different moves. It disgusted her that the King should be so powerless. She'd teach that pert thing the queen a thing or two ! Why should she have it all her own way and the king not at all? Often she would watch the game tensely. A stranger would have judged her by her expression a pronounced connoisseur. In fact she was simply waiting for the queen to be taken. If that happened she burst into triumphant crooning and left the table at once. She shared her husband's hate for the stranger queen, and was jealous of the love with which he guarded his own. Her girl friends, more independent than she was, placed themselves at the top of the social hierarchy and called the queen the tart, the king the pimp. Only the Capitalist still clung to the existing order from whose lowest rank, by virtue of her regular gentleman, she had already climbed. She, who otherwise set the tone for the most outspoken jokes, would not join in against the king. As for the queen, 'tart was too good a name for her. The castles and the knights pleased her, because they looked like real ones, and when Fischerle's knight charged full gallop across the board she would laugh out loud in her calm husky voice. Twenty years after he had first come to her with his chessboard she would still ask him in all innocence why the casdes could not be left standing at the corners of the board where they had been at the beginning of the game; they looked ever so much nicer there. Fischerle spurned her woman's widessness and said not a word. When she bored him with her questions — she only wanted to hear him speak, she loved his croaking, nobody else had such a raven-voice — he would shut her up with some drastic assertion: 'Have I a hump or haven't I? And suppose I have? You can take yourself out sliding! Maybe that'll knock a little sense into your head.' His hump distressed her. She'd rather have overlooked it. She had a feeling as if she were answerable for the misshapenness of her child. As soon as he had discovered this trait in her, which seemed to him quite mad, he made use of it as blackmail. His hump was the one dangerous threat on which he could rely.
At this very moment she was gazing lovingly upon him. His hump compared to this skeleton was beautiful. She was happy that he had called her to his table. She gave herself no trouble at all with Kien. After a general silence she said: 'Well, what about it? How much will you give me?' Kien blushed. Fischerle went for her at once. 'Don't talk so silly! I won't have my friend insulted. He's got a head on his shoulders. He doesn't talk nonsense. Every word he turns over in his head a hundred times before he says it. If he says something it's worth saying. He's interested in my Stipendium and is going to make a voluntary contribution of twenty schillings.' 'Stipendium? Whatever's that?' 'Stipendium is a refined word!' Fischerle bawled. 'It comes from the French and means the same as capital in Jewish!' 'Capital? Who says I got capital?' His wife simply didn't catch on. Why on earth had he used a French word? He was determined to be in the right. He looked at his wife long and gravely, indicated Kien with his nose and declared pompously: 'He knows everything.' 'Everything?' 'That we're saving up for my chess championship.' 'I wouldn't dream of it! I don't earn that much. My name isn't Mizzi and you're not Ferdy. What do I get out of you? More kicks than ha'pence. You know what you are, do you? You're a cripple! Go and beg if you don't like it!' She called Kien to witness the crying injustice of it. The cheek of it! You wouldn't hardly credit it. A cripple like him! He ought to think himself lucky!'
Fischerle shrank down, he gave his game up for lost and only said mournfully to Kien: 'You be thankful you're not a married man. First we scrape and save twenty years every brass farthing and now she's blued the whole bloody Stipendium with her fancy boys.' For a moment this shameless lie took his wife's breath away. 'I swear,' she screamed as soon as she had recovered herself, 'in all these twenty years I haven't had a single man, only him!' Fischerle opened his hands to Kien in a gesture of resignation: 'A whore who never had a man!' At the word 'Whore' he raised his eyebrows. At this insult his wife burst into noisy crying. Her words grew incomprehensible but one had the impression that she was sobbing about a regular income. 'Now you can see yourself, she's admitting it.' Fischerle was regaining courage. 'Where do you think she gets a regular income from? From a gentleman who turns up every Monday. In my flat. Listen, a woman always tells lies, and why does a woman always tell lies? Because she's a liar! Now I ask you: Could you tell a lie? Could I tell a lie? Out of the question! And why? because we've got heads on our shoulders. Have you ever seen a man with a head on his shoulders who tells lies? I haven't!' His wife sobbed more and more loudly.
Kien agreed with all his heart. In his terror he had never asked himself whether Fischerle was telling the truth or lying. Since the woman had sat down at the table, he was relieved by every hostile gesture in her direction wherever it came from. Since she had asked him for a present he knew who it was
he had before him; a second Thérèse. He knew nothing about the rituals of the place, but one thing he recognized clearly — this stainless spirit in a wretched body, had struggled for twenty years to lift itself out of the mire of its surroundings. Thérèse would not allow it. He was forced to impose enormous sacrifices on himself, never losing sight of his glorious goal — a free mind. Thérèse, no less determined, dragged him for ever back into the slime. He saves, not out of meanness, his is a generous soul; she wastes it again, so that he shall never escape her. He has clutched at one tiny corner of the world of the spirit and clings to it like a drowning man. Chess is his library. He only talks about rackets because any other kind of speech is forbidden here. But it is significant that he regards the book racket with such esteem. Kien pictured to himself the battle this down-trodden man fought for his own flat. He takes a book home to read it secretly, she tears it in pieces and scatters it to the winds. She forces him to let her use his home for her unspeakable purposes. Possibly she pays a servant, a spy, to keep the house clear of books when she is out. Books are forbidden, her own way of life is permitted. After a long struggle he succeeds in wringing from her the concession of a chessboard. She has confined him to the smallest room in the house. There he sits through the long nights and handling those wooden chessmen recovers his human dignity. He almost feels released when she is receiving these visits. During these hours he might be dead for her. Things must reach this pass with her before she will stop torturing him. But even then he listens unwillingly lest she should reappear, the worse for drink. She stinks of alcohol. She smokes. She flings open the door and with her clumsy foot kicks over the chessboard. Mr. Fischerle weeps like a little child. He had just reached the most interesting part of his book. He picks up the letters scattered all over the floor and turns his face away so that she shall not rejoice over his tears. He is a little hero. He has character. How often does the word 'Strumpet!' spring to his lips. He swallows it, she would not understand. She would long since have turned him out of the house, but she is waiting until he makes a will in her favour. Probably he is not rich. All the same he has enough for her to want to rob him of it. He has no intention of making this final sacrifice. Defending himself he keeps his roof over his head. Did he but know that he owed that roof to her speculations on his will! He must not be told. He could do himself an injury. He is not made of granite. His dwarfish constitution...
Never before had Kien felt himself enter so deeply into the mind of another man. He had been successful in freeing himself from Thérèse. He had struck at her with her own weapons, outwitted her and locked her in. Here she was again, sitting at his very table, making the same demands as before, nagging as before, and — the only alteration in her — had this time adopted a suitable profession. But her destructive activity was not directed at him, she took little notice of him, all her attention was directed at the man opposite, whom nature by a mistaken etymology had, moreover, fashioned as a cripple. Kien felt himself deeply indebted to this man. He must do something for him. He respected him. Had Mr. Fischerle not been of so delicate a sensibility he would have offered him money direct. No doubt he could make use of it. But he was as anxious not on any account to hurt his feelings, as he was anxious not to hurt his own. Possibly he might steer the conversation back to that point at which, with a woman's shamelessness, Thérèse had interrupted them?
He drew out his wallet, still crammed full of valuable banknotes. Holding it unusually long in his hand, he extracted from it all the banknotes and placidly counted them all over. Mr. Fischerle was to be persuaded by this that the offer about to be made to him was by no means a great sacrifice. When he reached the thirtieth-hundred schilling note Kien looked down at the little fellow. Possibly he was already mellowed enough for the offer to be dared, for who enjoys counting money? Fischerle was looking stealthily all about him; the only person for whom hè had no eyes at all was Kien counting his money, surely out of the delicacy of his feelings and his repulsion from filthy lucre. Kien was not to be discouraged, he went on counting, but loudly now in a clear high voice. Secretly he apologized to the little man for his insistence, for he noticed how much he hurt his ears. The dwarf wriggled restlessly on his chair. He laid his head down on the table so as to stop up at least one ear, the sensitive creature, then he pushed his wife's bosom about, what was he doing that for, he was making it broader; it was broad enough already, he was obscuring Kien's views. The woman let him do as he liked, she was silent now. Doubtless she was counting on the money. But she was making a mistake there. Thérèse would get nothing. When Kien had got to forty-five the little fellow's agonies had reached their peak. Imploringly he whispered: 'Pst ! Pst !' Kien softened. Should he spare him the gift after all, no, no, later he would be glad of it all the same, perhaps he would run away with it and rid himself of this Thérèse. At the number fifty-three Fischerle clutched his wife's face and croaked out like a madman: 'Can't you keep quiet? What are you after, you silly bitch? What d'you know about chess? I'll chessboard you ! I'll eat you alive ! Scram!' With every new figure he said something else; the woman seemed bewildered and made as if to go. This did not suit Kien at all. She had to be there when he gave the little fellow his present. She had to be angry at getting nothing herself, or her husband wouldn't enjoy it. Money alone meant little to him. He must hand it over to him before she went.
He waited for a round figure — the next was sixty — and broke off his counting. He rose to his feet and took out a hundred schilling note. He would rather have selected several at once but he was not going to hurt the dwarf's feelings with either too large or too small a sum. For a moment he stood there, tall and in silence, to heighten the solemnity of his proposal. Then he spoke; they were the most courteous words of his life:
'Honoured Mr. Fischerle! It is impossible for me to repress any longer a request which I have to address to you. Pray do me the honour of accepting towards your Stipendium, as you are pleased to call it, this token of my esteem!'
Instead of 'thank you', the little fellow whispered 'Pst ! Have it your own way,' and went on screaming at his wife; he was evidently bewildered. His furious words and looks almost knocked her under the table. He cared so little for the money offered that he did not even look at it. Not to hurt Kien's feelings he simply stretched out his arm and clutched at the note. Instead of the single note he grasped the entire bundle, but in his excitement didn't even notice it. Kien nearly smiled. From sheer modesty the man acts like the greediest thief. As soon as he notices it he will be painfully embarrassed. To spare him embarrassment, Kien exchanged the bundle for the single note. The dwarf's fingers were hard and sensitive, they clawed themselves, doubtless against the will of their owner, round the bundle; they still did not feel anything even when Kien detached them one after another from the packet, but closed themselves automatically again over the single hundred schilling note which remained. Playing chess has hardened his hands, thought Kien; Mr. Fischerle is used to grasping the pieces firmly, they alone keep him alive. In the meantime he had sat down again. His beneficence made him happy. Thérèse too, smothered in injuries, her face aflame, had got up ana left the table in earnest. She might as well go, he had no further use for her. She could expect nothing from him. It was his duty to help her husband to his victory over her, and in that he had succeeded.
In the tumult of his happy sensations, Kien did not hear what was going on about him. Suddenly he felt a heavy blow on his shoulder.
It made him jump and he looked round. A vast hand lay there, and a voice zoomed: "What about me?' At least a dozen fellows were seated round about, since when? He had not noticed them before. Fists were piled up on the table, more fellows were coming along, those standing at the back leant over those in front who were sitting. A girl's voice called out plaintively: 'Let me out, I can't see a thing.' Another one, shrilly: 'Ferdy, your motorbike's in the bag!' Someone held the open brief-case in the air, shook it, found nothing, and wailed, disillusioned: 'Go to hell with your paper.'
You couldn't see the room any more for the people in it. Fischerle was croaking. No one listened to him. His wife was there again. She was screaming. Another woman, fatter still, struck out right and left and forced her way through the men shouting: 'I'll have something too!' She was covered with all those sreaps of rags that Kien had seen behind the bar. The stars shook. Chairs collapsed. An angel's voice was crying with joy. Just as Kien understood what it was all about, he was crowned with his own brief-case. He saw and heard no more, he only felt that he was lying on the floor while his pockets, and the very seams and holes in his suit were being searched by hands of every shape and weight. He trembled all over, not for himself, only for his head; they might throw his books about. They are going to kill him but he won't betray his books. We want the books! they will order him, where are your books; But he won't give them up, never, never, never, he is a martyr, he is dying for his books. His lips move, they want to say how strong he is in his resolution, but they dare not speak aloud, they move only as though they had spoken.
But it occurs to no one to ask him. They prefer to find out for themselves. Several times he is pushed around over the floor. They all but undress him to the skin. Whichever way they twist and turn him, they find nothing. Suddenly he realizes that he is alone. All the hands have vanished. Stealthily he feels for his head. As a protection against the next attack he leaves his hand up there. The second hand follows it. He tries to stand up without taking his hands away from his head. His enemies are watching for this moment to snatch at the defenceless books; careful, careful! He succeeds. He is lucky. Now he is standing. Where are these creatures? Better not look round; he may be noticed. His glance, cautiously directed to the furthest corner of the room, falls on a heap of people at work on each other with knives and fists. Now, too, he hears their wild screams. He will not understand them. If he did they might understand him. On tiptoe, on his long legs he creeps out. Someone clutches at his back. Running even, he is too cautious to look round. He squints backwards, holding his breath, pressing his hands with all his strength to his head. But it is only the door curtains. In the street he draws a deep breath. What a pity he can't close those doors. The library is saved!
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