Soon Fischerle had forgotten him. In his hiding place right at the back under the bed he counted over the beautiful new notes, just for the pleasure of it. He remembered exactly how many there were. As soon as he had done he started again at the beginning. Fischerle is off now to a far country, to America. There he goes up to the world champion Capablanca, and says: 'I've been looking for you!' puts down his caution money and plays until the fellow is beaten hollow. On the next day Fischerle's picture is in all the papers. He does pretty well out of it all. At home, under the Stars of Heaven, that lot wouldn t believe their eyes, his wife, the whore, begins to howl and yell if she'd only known it she would have let him play all he wanted; the others shut her up with a couple of smacks — serve her right — that's what happens when a woman won't bother to learn about the game. Women'll be the end of men. If he'd stayed at home, he'd never have made good. A man must cut loose, that's the whole secret. None but the brave deserve to be world champion. And people have the nerve to say Jews aren't brave. The reporters ask him who he is. Not a soul knows him. He doesn't look like an American. There are Jews everywhere. But where does this Jew come from, who's rolled in triumph over Capablanca? For the first day he'll let people guess. The papers would like to tell their readers, but they don't know. Everywhere the headlines read: 'Mystery of the new World Champion.' The police become interested, naturally. They want to lock him up again. No, no, gentlemen, not so fast this time; now he throws the money about and the police are honoured to release him at once. On the second day, a round hundred reporters turn up. Each one promises him, shall we say, a thousand dollars cash down if he'll say something. Fischerle says not a word. The papers begin to lie. What else are they to do? The readers won't wait any longer. Fischerle sits in a mammoth hotel with one of those luxury cocktail bars, like on a giant liner. The head waiter brings the loveliest ladies to his table, not tarts mind you, millionairesses with a personal interest in him. He thanks them politely, but hasn't time, later perhaps ... And why hasn't he time? Because he's reading all the lies about him in all the papers. It takes all day. How's he to get through it? Every minute he's interrupted. Press photographers ask for a moment of his time. 'But gentlemen, a hump . . . !' he protests. 'A world champion is a world champion, honoured Mr. Fischerle. The hump is quite immaterial.' They photograph him right and left, before and behind. "Why don't you retouch it,' he suggests, 'take the hump out. Then you'll have a nice picture for your paper.' 'Just as you please, most honoured world champion!' But really, where's he had his eyes? His picture is everywhere, without a hump. It's gone. He hasn't one. But ne worries a bit about his size. He calls the head waiter and points to a paper. 'A bad picture, what?' he asks. The head waiter says: 'WeIl.' In America people speak English. He finds the picture excellent. 'But it's only the head,' he says. That's right too. 'You can go now,' says Fischerle and tips him a hundred dollars. In this picture he might be a fully grown man. No one would notice he was undersized. He loses his interest in the articles. He can't be bothered to read all this in English. He only understands 'Well!' Later on he has all the latest editions of the papers brought to him and looks hard at all his pictures. His head is everywhere. His nose is a bit long, that's true; can't help his nose. From a child up he's been all for chess. He might have taken some other idea into his head, football or swimming or boxing. But not he. It's a bit of luck really. If he were a boxing champion, now, he'd have to be photographed half naked. Everyone would laugh at him and he'd get nothing out of it. On the next day at least a thousand reporters turn up. 'Gentlemen,' he says, 'I'm surprised to find myself called Fischerle everywhere. My name is Fischer. I trust that you will have this error rectified.' They promise they will. Then they all kneel down in front of him — how small men are — and implore him to say something at last. They'll be thrown out, they'll lose their jobs, they cry, if they get nothing out of him to-day. My sorrow, he thinks, nothing for nothing, he gave the head waiter a hundred dollars, but he won't give the reporters anything. 'What's your bid, gentlemen?' he cries boldly. A thousand dollars, shouts one. Cheek, screams another, ten thousand! A third takes him by the hand and whispers: a hundred thousand, Mr. Fischer. People throw money about like nothing. He stops his ears. Until they get into millions he won't even listen to them. The reporters go mad and begin tearing each other's hair, each one wants to give more than the other; all this fuss; auctioneering his private life! One goes up to five millions, and all at once there is absolute quiet. Not one dares offer more. World Champion Fischer takes his fingers out of his ears and declares: 'I will now say something, gentlemen. What good will it do me to ruin you? None. How many of you are there? A thousand. Let each one of you give me ten thousand and I'll tell you all. Then I shall have ten millions and not one of you will be ruined. Agreed?' They fall on his neck and he's a made man. Then he clambers up on a chair, he doesn't really need to any more but he does it all the same, and tells them the simple truth. As a world champion, he fell from Heaven. It takes a good hour to convince them. He was unhappily married. His wife, a Capitalist, fell into evil ways, she was — as they used to call it in his home, the Stars of Heaven — a whore.' She wanted him to take money from her. He didn't know any way out. If he wouldn't take any, she used to say, she'd murder him. He was forced to do it. He had yielded to her blackmail and kept the money for her. Twenty long years he had to endure this. In the end he was fed up. One dav he demanded categorically that she should stop or he'd become chess champion of the world. She cried, but she wouldn't stop. She was too much accustomed to doing nothing, to having fine clothes and lovely clean-shaven gentlemen. He was sorry for her but a man must keep his word. He goes straight from the Stars of Heaven to the United States, finishes off Capablanca, and here he is! The reporters rave about him. So does he. He founds a charity. He will pay a Stipendium to every cafe in the world. In return the proprietors must undertake to put up on their walls every game played by the world champion. Any person defacing the notices will be prosecuted. Every individual person can thus convince himself that the world champion is a better player than he is. Otherwise some swindler may suddenly pop up, a dwarf or even a cripple, and brag he plays better. People may not think of checking up the cripple's moves. They are capable of believing him simply because he's a good liar. Things like that must stop. On each wall is a placard. The cheat makes one wrong move, everyone looks at the placard and who then will blush to the very hump on his miserable back. The crook! Moreover the proprietor must undertake to fetch him a sock on the jaw for saying things about the world champion. Let him challenge him openly if he's got the money. Fischerle will put down a million for this foundation. He's not mean. He'll send a million to his wife so she needn't go on the streets any more. In return she'll give it him in writing that she won't come to America and will keep mum about his former dealings with the police. Fischer's going to marry a millionairess. This will reimburse him for his losses. He'll have new suits made at the best possible tailor so that his wife'll notice nothing. À gigantic palace will be built with real castles, knights, pawns, just as it ought to be. The servants are in livery; in thirty vast halls Fischer plays night and day thirty simultaneous games of chess with living pieces which he has only to command. All he has to do is to speak and his slaves move wherever he tells them. Challengers come from all the chief countries of the world, poor devils who want to learn something from him. Many sell their coats and shoes to pay for the long journey. He receives them with hospitality, gives them a good meal, with soup, a sweet and two veg, and pretty often a nice grilled steak instead of a cut from the joint. Anyone can be beaten by him once. He asks nothing in return for his kindness. Only that each one should write his name in the visitors' book on leaving and categorically assert that he, Fischer, is the world champion. He defends his tide. While he does so his new wife goes out riding in her car. Once a week he goes with her. In the castle all the chandeliers are put out, lighting alone costs him a fortune. On the door he pins up a notice: 'Back soon. Fischer:
World Champion.' He does not stay out two hours, but visitors are queueing up like in the war when he gets back. 'What are you queuing for.?' asks a passer-by. 'What, don't you know? You must be a stranger here.' Out of pity the others tell him who it is that lives here. So that he shall understand each one tells him singly, then they all shout in a chorus: 'Chess Champion of the World, Fischer, is giving alms to-day.' The stranger is struck dumb. After an hour he finds his voice again. 'Then this is his reception day?' That is just what the natives have been waiting for. 'To-day is not a reception day or there would be far more people.' Now all of them begin talking at once. 'Where is he? The castle is dark!' 'With his wife in the car. This is his second wife. The first was only a simple Capitalist. The second is a millionairess. The car belongs to him. It isn't just a taxi. He had it built specially.' What they are saying is the simple truth. He sits in his car, it suits him very well. It is a little too small for his wife who has to crouch all the time. But in return she's allowed to ride with him. At other times she has her own. He doesn't go out in hers. It's much too big for him. But his was the more expensive. The factory made his car specially. He feels inside it just as if he were under the bed. Looking out of the windows is too boring. He shuts his eyes tight. Not a thing moves. Under the bed he is perfectly at home. He hears his wife's voice from above. He's fed up with her, what does she mean to him; She doesn't understand a thing about chess. The man is saying something too. Is he a player? He's obviously intelligent. Wait, now, wait; why should he wait? What's waiting to him? That man up there is talking good German. He's a professional man, sure to be a secret champion. These people are afraid of being recognized. It's with them like it is with crowned heads. They have to come to women incognito. That man's a world champion for sure, not just an ordinary champion! He must challenge him. He can't wait longer. His head bursts with good moves. He'll beat him into a cocked hat!
Fischerle crept swiftly and silently from under the bed, and reared himself on his crooked legs. They'd gone to sleep; he stumbled and clutched at the bedstead. The woman had vanished, all the better, she'd leave him in peace. A lanky stranger was lying alone on the bed, you might think he was asleep. Fischerle tapped him on the shoulder and asked loudly: 'Do you play chess ?' The stranger was really asleep. He must be shaken awake. Fischerle was about to grasp him with both hands by the shoulders when he noticed that he was holding something in his left hand. A little packet, it was in the way, throw it down Fischerle ! He flung his left arm about but his hand refused to let go. What's all this? Will you or won't you? he screamed. His hand clutched fast. It clung to the packet as if it were a conquered queen. He looked at it closer. The packet was a bundle of banknotes. Why should he throw them away? He could do with them, he was only a poor devil. Perhaps they belonged to the stranger? He was still asleep. But they belonged to Fischerle, because he was a millionaire. How did this person get here? A visitor? He might want to challenge him? People should read the notice on the entrance gate. A world champion and he couldn't even go for a quiet spin in his car? The stranger had a familiar look. A visitor from the Stars of Heaven? That wasn't a bad idea. Why, this was the chap in the book racket. What did he want here, book racket, book racket...? He used to be in his service once. First he had to spread out brown paper on the floor and then ...
Fischerle grew even more crooked with laughing. While laughing he woke up completely. He was standing in an hotel bedroom, he ought to be sleeping next door, he had stolen the money. Quickly, off with it. He must get to America. He ran two or three steps in the direction of the door. Why did he laugh so loud? Perhaps he had waked up the book racket. He slipped back to the bed and made sure he was still asleep. The creature would go to the police. He wasn't that mad; he'd go to the police. He took the same steps in the direction of the door; this time he walked instead of running. How was he to get out of the hotel? The room was on the third floor. He was bound to wake the porter. The police would watch him in the morning, even before he could get into a train. Why would they catch him? Because of his hump. His long fingers fondled it with repulsion. He wouldn't be locked up again. Those swine took his chessboard away. He had to touch the pieces or he got no pleasure out of the game. They forced him to play in his head. Flesh and blood couldn't stand that. He must make his fortune. He could do the book racket in. Jews don't do things like that. What would he do him in with? He could force him to give his word not to go to the police. 'Your word or your life!' he'd say to him. The creature was sure to be a coward. He d give his word. But who could rely on such an idiot? Anyone could do what they liked with him. He wouldn't break his word anyway; he'd break it from pure silliness. Silly, Fischerle had got all the money in his hand. America was a wash-out. No, he'd cut and run for it. Let them find him if they could. If they couldn't then he'd become chess champion of the world in America. If they could, he'd hang himself. A pleasure. What the devil... He couldn't make a go of it. He hadn't got a neck. Once he hanged himself by his leg but they cut him down. You didn't catch him hanging himself by the other leg. No!
Between the bed and the door Fischerle racked his brains for a solution. He was in desperation over his rotten luck. He could have cried out loud. But he mustn't for fear of waking the creature. It might be weeks before he got another chance. Weeks, weeks — he'd waited twenty years already! One foot in America and the other in a noose. Then jet a fellow try and make up his mind. The American leg took a step forward, the hanged one a step back. What a filthy trick to play! He beat his hump, sticking the packet of notes between his legs. The hump was the root of all the trouble. Let it be hurt. It deserved to be hurt. If he didn't beat it he'd have to cry out loud. If he cried out loud, America was dead and buried.
Exactly in the middle between bed and door Fischerle stood rooted to a spot and beat his hump. Like whip-handles he raised his arms alternately and brought down his fingers, five double-knotted lashes, over his shoulders on to his hump. It did not budge. A pitiless mountain, it rose above the low foothills of his shoulders, proud in its rocky hardness. It didn't even scream, 'I've had enough!' It was silent. Fischerle got into his stride. He saw the hump could take it. He prepared for a long drawn ordeal. It wasn't a matter of expressing his anger but of seeing that the blows struck home. His long arms were much too short for him. He had to make do with them, though. The blows fell with regularity. Fischerle gasped. He needed music for this. There was a piano at the Stars of Heaven. He'd make his own music. His breath gave out; he sang. His voice sounded sharp and shrill with excitement. 'That'll teach you —that'll teach you! He beat the brute black and blue. Let it go to the police if it liked! Before each blow he thought: 'Come down you carrion!' The carrion didn't budge. Fischerle was running with sweat. His arms ached, his fingers were limp and tired. He persevered, he was patient, he swore, the hump was at its last gasp. Out of sheer spite, it pretended it didn't care. Fischerle knew it of old. He would look it in the face. He twisted his head round so as to leer in scorn at his enemy. So that was it, it was hiding — you coward — you abortion — a knife! a knife! he'd stab it dead, where was a knife? Fischerle frothed at the mouth, big tears gushed out of his eyes, he cried because he had no knife, he cried because the abortion wouldn't even answer him. The strength of his arms forsook him altogether. He crumpled up, an empty sack. It was all over, he'd hang himself. The money rolled to the floor.
Suddenly Fischerle leapt up again and yelled: 'Checkmate!'
Kien was dreaming most of the time about falling books and trying to catch them with his body. He was as thin as a darning needle; to left and right the rarest books were cascading down; now the floor itself gave way and he woke up. Where are they, he whimpered, where are they? Fischerle had beaten the abortion, he picked up the bundle of notes at his feet, went up to the bed and said: 'Tell you what, you can talk of luck!'
'The books, the books!' Kien groaned.
'All of them saved. Here's the money. You've got a treasure in me.'
'Saved — I dreamt '
"Dreaming were you? And I was being beaten up.'
"Then there was someone here!' Kien leapt up. "We must go over the books at once!'
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