Auto-Da-Fé

by Elias Canetti

  As soon as the blind man had vanished from sight, the hawker thought his time had come. He overtook the dwarf with small, quick strides and fell into step with him. 'Stick like burrs, don't they?' he said. He bent his head down, but he couldn't manage to bow it right down to Fischerle's; at least he looked up while he was talking as if the dwarf, since he had become the chief, had grown to twice his height. Fischerle was silent. He had no intention of allowing any familiarities to this man. The other three he had found in the Stars of Heaven as if sent by providence; with this one he was on his guard. To-day and not again, he said to himself. The hawker repeated: 'Stick like burrs, they do, don't they?' Fischerle's patience was exhausted. 'Tell you what, you keep your trap shut! You're an employee! I'll do the talking. If you want to do the talking, get yourself another job!' The hawker pulled himself together and stooped low. His hands, a moment ago rubbing themselves in calculation, were now folded. His head, arms and backside twitched violently. How else could he show his obsequiousness? In the confusion of his nervous reactions, he all but stood on his head, so as respectfully to fold his feet. Liberation from his insomnia was at stake. The word 'wealth' was associated with sanatoriums and expensive cures. In his heaven there would be sleeping draughts which never failed. There you could sleep for a fortnight together, without waking once. You could eat in your sleep. After a fortnight you could wake up —sooner wasn't allowed —you had to give in, what else could you do? Doctors are as strict as the police. Then you could play cards half the day. There was a special room for that, open only to people in higher-class lines of business. In a few hours you were as rich again, you were that lucky at cards. Then you could sleep another fortnight. Time — as much time as a man could want. 'What are you jigging about for? Ought to be ashamed of yourself!' screeched Fischerle. 'Stop shaking this minute or you're no use to me.' The hawker started out of his sleep and, as far as he could, calmed down his quivering limbs. Once again he was all greed.

  Fischerle saw that he had not a shred of a reason for sacking this suspicious character. Furious, he began with his instructions. 'Pay attention, now, or you'll get the sack! I shall give you a parcel. A parcel, do you understand? A hawker like you must know what a parcel is. You take it to the Theresianum. I don't need to tell you anything about that. You spend most of your time there anyway, a fellow like you who doesn't use his head. You push open the glass door where it leads up to the book section. Stop waggling about so, I tell you! If you waggle about like that you'll smash the glass door, and that's your affair. At the window you'll see a thin gentlemanly gentleman. He's a business friend of mine. You go up to him and don't say anything. If you speak to him before he speaks to you, he'll turn his back and leave you standing. He's like that. He's a person of authority. So you be quiet, see! I don't want to have to bring an action for damages against you. But if you make a mistake, I'll have to, you can be sure of that; I won't have you wrecking my hard-earned business for me ! If you're nervy, clear out ! I'd sooner have that sewerman. Where was I? Can you tell me that?' Suddenly Fischerle became aware that he had lost grip on that high-class way of talking which he had acquired during his few days' association with Kien. Precisely this way of talking seemed to him the only one possible when dealing with this pretentious employee. He paused to calm himself and used the opportunity to catch out the hated rival unawares. But the hawker replied promptly: 'You've got to your gentlemanly business-friend and I'm to say nothing.' ' You've got there, you've got there,' croaked Fischerle, 'and where's your parcel?' Til have that in my hand.' The humility of this treacherous creature made Fischerle wild. 'Ugh!' he sighed, 'by the time I've made you understand, I'll have grown another hump.' The hawker grinned, writing off the abuse against the hump. But even from his height he did not feel safe against observation and looked stealthily down. Fischerle had noticed nothing, he was clutching round for more words of abuse. He wanted to avoid such vulgar expressions as were usual under the Stars of Heaven ; they would have made no impression on one of its denizens. Merely to go on saying 'Bonehead' was too boring. Suddenly he hastened his step so that the hawker was left half a pace behind, then turned contemptuously on him and said: 'Tired already? Tell you what, go and drown yourself.' Then he went on with his instructions. He impressed on him, he must ask for a 'payment' of ioo schillings from the tall business friend, but only when he had been intercepted and spoken to, and then, without wasting another word, come back to the square behind the church with parcel and payment. He'd learn the rest when he got there. One word about his work, even to the other employees, and he'd be sacked on the spot.

  At the idea that the hawker might give away the whole show and go into business with the others against him, Fischeile softened a little. To atone for his attacks, he slackened his pace and said, when the other was left a good yard in advance by this manœuvre: 'Stop, where are you off to? We aren't in such a hurry as all that!' The hawker took this for some new trick. The remaining words, which Fischerle spoke to him in a calm and friendly voice, as though they were still equals under the Stars of Heaven, he explained as the outcome of Fischerle 's fear of arbitrary action. In spite of his nerves he was by no means a fool. His judgment of men and motives was just; in order to persuade them to buy matches, shoe laces, writing pads and even soap, he made use of more cunning, sympathy and even discretion than a successful diplomat. Only when he was involved in his dream of a long, long sleep did his thoughts diffuse themselves in a vague mist. He grasped that the success of the new business depended on a secret.

  Fischerle made use of the rest of the way to indicate by means of a number of different examples the dangerous nature of his apparently so harmless friend, the tall gentlemanly gentleman. He had fought so long in the last war that he d gone raving mad. For days at a time he wouldn't move or lift a finger against anyone. But if you were to utter a single unnecessary word to him, he'd draw his old army revolver and shoot you on the spot. The courts can do nothing about it, he's not in his right senses, he carries a doctor's certificate about with him. The police know him. But why take him up? they say, he's always let go again. Anyway, he doesn't shoot people dead on the spot, he fires at their legs. In a couple of weeks his victims are usually alright again. Only one thing really gets him wild. Asking questions, that's what does it. He won t stand a single question. A person asks him as innocent as you please, how he is. The next minute, that person's a corpse. On these occasions my business-friend fires straight at the heart. He's like that. Nothing can be done about it. He's sorry afterwards. There've only been six proper corpses so far. Everyone knows about this dangerous habit and only six have actually asked him anything. If it weren't for this, you could do very good business with him.

  The hawker believed not a word. But he had an inflammable imagination. He saw a well-dressed gentleman standing before him who, even before you could have your sleep out, would be shooting you dead. He decided to avoid questions in all circumstances and to get to the bottom of the secret some odier way.

  Fischerle put his fingers to his lips and said 'Pst!' They had reached the church, where the blind man, with dog-like devotion in his eyes, was waiting for them. In the meantime he had not stared at a single woman, he only knew that several had passed by. In his excessive joy he would have been happy to greet his colleagues cordially; the poor devils would be sacked in three days, but he'd got a job for life. He welcomed the hawker as warmly as if he hadn't seen him for years. Behind the church the three linked up with the Fishwife. She had run so hard that she had been panting a full ten minutes to regain her breath. The blind man fondled Tier hump. "What's up, Ma!' he shouted and laughed over the whole of his furrowed, flaccid face. 'We're in luck to-day!' Maybe he'd give her a bit of fun one day. The Fishwife screamed aloud. She felt that it was not Fischerle's hand touching her, said to herself: it is him, and then heard the coarse voice of the blind man. Her scream changed from fear to delight and from delight to disillusion. Fischerle's voice was alluring. He ought to sell newspapers! P
eople would have rushed to buy. But he was too good for work. It would have tired him. It was better really, he should stay the chief.

  For it wasn't only his voice, he had such sharp eyes. Here was'the sewerman coming round die corner. He saw him first, ordered the others to 'Stay put!' and hurried to meet him. He drew him into the porch of the church, took die parcel from him — it was still lying in is arms just as it had been before — and the two hundred schillings in notes from between the finger's of his right hand. He counted out fifteen schillings and put them into his hand, though he had to uncurl it himself. At this point the tongue-tied mouth of the sewerman brought out the first sentence of his report. 'Went off a treat,' he began. 'I see, I see!' cried Fischerle. 'To-morrow at nine sharp. Nine sharp. Here. Here. Nine sharp, here!' The sewerman made off with heavy, lagging strides and began to count over his salary. After a stubborn pause he said: 'That's right.' Up to the door of the Stars of Heaven he struggled with his habit and finally gave in. Fifteen schillings for his wire, five for his beer. He stuck to it. Originally he had intended to drink the lot.

  It was in the church porch that Fischerle first saw what a bad plan he had made. If he gave the Fishwife the parcel now, the hawker was close by and would see everything. As soon as he twigged it was always the same parcel, it was all over with the beautiful secret. But the Fishwife, as if she could read his thoughts, had come of her own accord to find him in the porch: 'My turn,' she said. 'You take your time, you!' he turned on her and gave her the parcel. 'Off with you!' She nobbled off as fast as she could. Her hump hid from the eyes of the others the parcel she was carrying.

  The blind man all this time was explaining to the hawker that it was no good trying on anything with women. In the first place a man must have a good job, a job in which a man can keep his eyes open. You get nothing out of being blind. People think if a man looks blind, they can do what they like with him. But if you've got on in the world, women come of their own accord, dozens of them, so that you don't even know where to lay them all. Common people don't understand a thing about it. Like dogs they are, don't care where they do it. Filthy beasts, he's different! He has to have a good bed, with a horsehair mattress, a nice stove in the room, not one of those smelly oil-stoves, and a juicy bit. of goods. He can't stand a smoking stove, his lungs aren't the same since the war. He's not the kind to go with any woman. Of course, when he was still a beggar, he used to try his luck pretty well anywhere. Now he was going to get himself a better suit, he'd have money to burn soon, and he'd take his choice. He'd have a hundred or so nice bits of goods, pinch them all — they needn't undress, he could tell without — and take three or four home. More at a time wouldn't be good for his health. No more buttons for him. 'I shall have to see about a double-bed!' he sighed, 'or where shall I put the three plump little bits?' The hawker had other troubles. He was dislocating his neck in an effort to see round the Fishwife's hump. Is she, or isn't she, carrying a parcel? The sewerman came up with a parcel, and went away without. Why did Fischerle make him go into the porch? You can't sec any of them, not Fischerle, not the sewerman not the Fishwife as long as they're up there. The parcel must be hidden in the church, of course. A stupendous idea! Who'd look for stolen goods in a church? That hunchback's got a head on his shoulders. The parcel is most interesting — a delivery of cocaine. How did that sneak-thief get into this grand line of business?

  At that moment the dwarf came running back to them, crying: 'Patience gendemen! By the time she gets back on her crooked legs, we'll all be dead.' 'No dying for me, chief!' shouted the blind man. 'We all die in the end, sir,' the hawker obsequiously confirmed, turning the palms of his hands outwards just as Fischerle would have done in his place. 'Ah,' he added, 'if we'd a good chess player here, but neither of us is up to playing with a champion.' 'Champion, champion,' Fischerle shook his head, injured. 'In three months I shall be world champion, gendemen.' Both his employees gazed at each other in delight. 'Long live the world champion!' yelled the blind man suddenly. The hawker, in his thin, twittering voice —he had only to open his mouth for everyone under the Stars of Heaven to say: 'Hark at the mandoline' — rapidly joined in the plaudit. He managed to get out 'world' but 'champion' stuck in his throat. Fortunately the small square was deserted at this hour by every living soul; not one of those farthest outposts of civilization in the town, the police, was to be seen. Fischerle bowed acquiescence, but felt all the same that he had gone too far and croaked: 'Unfortunately I must ask for more quiet during working hours! No talking please!' "What's this?' asked the blind man, who wanted to start again on his future plans and thought he had a right to, in return for his acclamation. The hawker put his finger to his lip and said: 'I always say, silence is golden,' and said no more.

  The blind man was left alone with his women. He was not to be put off his pleasures, and went on talking aloud. He began with its being no use to go after women, ended with the double-bed, and, getting the impression that Fischerle brought far too little understanding to these matters, began again at the beginning and laboriously described in detail some of the hundred and more women who were being kept in readiness for him. He allotted an incredible backside to each, gave their weight in hundredweights and increased it each time. When he got to the sixty-fifth woman, whom he selected as an example for the sixties, her backside alone weighted two hundredweight. He was bad at arithmetic, and liked to stick to a figure once he had named it. All the same, two hundredweight seemed to him a little exaggerated. 'What I say is gospel,' he asserted. 'I don't know how to tell a lie, it's always the same since the war!' All this time, Fischerle had enough to think of. He must forcibly keep down the mounting thoughts of chess. There was no interruption he feared more than this growing lust for a game. It might be the ruin of his business. He tapped the little chessboard in his right coat-pocket which served at the same time as a box for the pieces, heard them jump excitedly within, mumbled: 'You be quiet now!' and tapped again, until he was tired of the noise. The hawker was thinking of drugs and confusing their effects with his own desperate need for sleep. If he found the parcel in the church, he would take out a packet or two and try. He was only afraid that in a drugged sleep ofthat kind he'd dream. If he had to dream, he'd sooner not sleep at all. What he wanted was a real sleep, with people to feed but not to wake you, at least not for a fortnight.

  Then Fischerle saw the Fishwife disappear into the church after signalling vehemendy to him. He seized the blind man by the arm, said, 'Of course you're right!' and to the hawker, 'You stay here!' and pulled the former over to the church door with him. There he told him to wait and dragged the Fishwife into the Church. She was in a high state of excitement and couldn't utter a word. To calm herself a little she pressed the parcel and 250 schillings into his hands. While he was counting the money she took a deep breath and sobbed: 'He asked me, was I called Mrs. Fischerle !' 'And you answered ...' he screeched, quivering with terror lest she should have wrecked his whole business by a stupid answer; she had wrecked it, for sure, and was pleased with herself, the silly goose! You've only got to suggest to her that she's Mrs. Fischerle and she goes out of her head! He never had been able to stand her, and that great donkey there, what had he to go and ask her that for, he's met my wife ! Just because she's got a hump, and I've got a hump he has to think we're married; he's tumbled to something after all, and now I'll have to cut and run with this wretched 450 schillings, what a filthy trick! "What did you say?' he screeched a second time. He forgot he was in church. He was usually respectful and cautious in churches, for his nose was very marked. 'I — wasn't — to say — anything!' She sobbed between each word. 'I shook my head.' The money he had thought lost rolled like a weight off his heart. But the terror she had caused him, made him fly into a passion. He would have liked to knock her block off. Unfortunately he hadn't the time. He pushed her out of the church and snarled in her ear: 'To-morrow you can go and sell your fdthy papers! I'll never read one again!' She understood she had lost her job with him. She was
in no condition to calculate what money she was losing. A gentleman had taken her for Fischerle's wife and she hadn't been allowed to say anything! People see that she belongs to him, but she mayn't say a thing. What a blow! what a fearful blow! In all her life she had never been so happy before. All the way home she sobbed without a break: 'He's all I've got in the world.' She forgot that he still owed her the twenty schillings, a sum which in bad times she had to run round for a week to collect. She accompanied her refrain with the image of the gentleman who had called her 'Mrs. Fischerle'. She forgot that every one called her the Fishwife, anyway. She sobbed too because she didn't know where the gentleman lived or where he was going. She would have offered him a paper every single day. He would have asked her again.