"Ali, but your face was so full of sadness . .
"Yes, one human being less on this earth ... though it's small cause for sorrow In fact, the only reason I was so sad was that it was someone else being buried, and not me."
"Well, well, and who was the lady in heavy mourning at your side, the one who was crying so lugubriously?"
"You mean the `heavy lady in mourning'. It was my wife. There, she who is sitting now behind the bar."
"Incredible! And what, pray, was your wife's connection with my uncle?"
"None."
"I don't understand. So why was the woman crying?"
"You see, my dear sir, I am also a funeral director . .
"Ah ... Oh..."
"Yes. I had the honour of taking in person the measurements of the departed to make sure he would be comfortable in his coffin. No need to add that it was done with all due respect so as not to crumple the corpse as they usually do. You have no idea of the brutal lack of respect with which those vultures in the funeral business handle mortal remains."
"And your wife?"
"The role of my wife in this sad ceremony was more artistic in nature. My wife was an actress and used to play sorrowful and weepy parts. A mother who lost seven children in a day could not cry like she can, without the slightest cause or provocation. An exceptional woman ... Would you allow me to send her a glass of this awful wine? Her talent deserves it."
"But please do, a whole bottle!"
"Thank you. Indeed, a bottle will bring her more joy than a thimbleful like this. Let it be her reward for the heartfelt tears she shed on your uncle's path to eternity."
"But why all these tears?"
"I was about to explain. The distinguished and honourable deceased, as you must be aware, was not particularly given to generosity. I think that I won't offend the memory of your dear relative if I say that even a dog would have left his house if he had to compete for bones with the master."
I nodded sadly.
"Yes, my dear sir," continued the director, "since no one expected that you would come to pay this good man your last respects ..."
"But why? I have come for my inheritance!"
"That is also a form of respect for the dead, and he must have felt a real pleasure seeing his wealth about to be taken over by a -kind man, as kind as-yourself. . ."
"Oh, don't mention it ..."
"So, since the dear departed wished to have a sumptuous funeral - perhaps because he shied away from a sumptuous life - and to this end left a tidy sum with the solicitor, I engaged my wife to pour out all her tears. I think she rose to her sad and heartrending role magnificently. Were you pleased?"
"Please, thank your wife. She was crying as movingly as if it were she and not I who had inherited the money ..."
"Thank you, sir, spoken like a true artist ... Well, with your permission, I shall return in half an hour as it is my turn on the stage. You will see some extraordinary magic."
"Can't wait to see it."
"See you later, then."
He left me, dragging his left foot, shod in a strangely cobbled shoe, and came onto the stage. He gave a short speech for the benefit of the audience who were already nicely oiled, and who greeted him like an old friend. He bowed in my direction.
What a great fellow! A funeral director, cabaret director, magician, the soul of a grieving clown, idiotically honest, bombastic, modest and scathingly ironic. I watched with interest what he could do as a conjuror. To start with, he performed a few of the tricks usually seen in a shabby circus, the ones with cards, rings and watches lent by the reluctant public. He took out of his mouth crumpled newspapers on fire, belching smoke like a steam engine, imitated beautifully the voices of animals and birds, and in the end performed an extraordinary and dangerous trick: for a split second he disappeared, and reappeared again.
I was not drunk, and I rubbed my eyes to make sure I was not asleep or under some kind of hypnotic suggestion. The director noticed this from the stage and smiled at me.
The public clapped their hands with shy enthusiasm.
As for myself, I admit I was amazed by the masterful precision of this trickery and applauded my chance friend with honest admiration. On his return to my table I congratulated him heartily:
"Your disappearing trick, without screens or veils, was excellent. How does one do it?"
"Simply, one disappears."
"But how?"
"It's difficult to explain. But in fact it's no trick at all to disappear. So many things disappear in this world - fortunes, people, wives, lovers, and no one is surprised. My trick is surprising precisely because I reappear again. But I can get away with it, it's a cabaret. Many people would be met with a very unpleasant, even violent, reception if, having once disappeared, they reappeared again. If for instance your dear uncle, who disappeared into eternity ... But I'm only joking, I hope you are not offended. Not many people return from there ..."
"Not many? Methinks, no one returns from there!"
"That cannot be stated with complete certainty. But, to turn our conversation to other topics - there is one person I would gladly teach this trick to, omitting the reappearing part ... Don't look towards the bar . . . Careful! If only she, ah...Mywife ..."
"Oh...
"My wife is an angel, sir. But in life even angels, you understand ..."
"Let's drink," I interrupted hastily, "you're becoming gloomy."
"Ah, yes, thank you. Since you are so kind, I'll have a glass. Soon the place will be empty. Are you in a great hurry?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning at eight, and I am not sleepy yet. I'll be glad to stay for a chat."
"I'll be gladder still. But, please don't be offended by my directness: could I send my wife something to drink, with your compliments?"
"But of course! Waiter, wine."
"Perhaps something else? Something stronger ... ? A bottle of rum for instance?"
"Rum? For a lady? A bottle?"
"Oh, she can handle it. She is a gentle creature, but strong. Strong drink, moreover, has a soothing effect on her. She has a special predilection for rum because it makes her dreamy. I as well. And if you don't mind, I'd venture to recommend we change from this wine to something less awful."
"Cognac?"
"You drink cognac, and I, with your permission, vodka. Ordinary, neat vodka."
I ordered. My uncle turned in his grave and groaned, I heard it clearly.
"Vodka," my companion carried on, "has many noble characteristics: it soothes pain, enlivens the temperament, stirs the heavy, lazy northern blood. Apart from that, it looks like crystal clear spring water, and perhaps that is why it is liked so much by the good-natured Sarmatians.' Here, we have more winter than summer, more ice than sunshine; and vodka is nothing but melted ice. Every nation drinks in this way: the Italians and the French drink the gold of melted sunshine, we the ice. That's why a Pole glides through life as if on skates, and that is why he often staggers, for he finds it slippery. The Pole's sorrow is so hot that he finds it necessary to cool it with vodka, the sorrow of other nations is cold so they have to fuel it with wine. We have this undeniable advantage over other nations of the world in that we can drink anything. In this respect we are a nation of pure genius. If a Spaniard drank a bottle of our `pure one' he would die in agony; a Pole would only be roused to drink Spanish wine. A mighty nation and always ready for a drink. But one has to know how to drink. To see a jolly drunken Pole is inspiring. What power, my dear fellow, what stamina, what openheartedness! An Englishman drinks like a fugitive, in hiding, bad. In this respect I hold him in contempt. A Frenchman drinks beautifully, a German - it's not a pretty sight. How could beer defeat the wonderful and heroic power of wine? It's ridiculous. I'm beginning to worry seriously about the French growing into the habit of drinking beer. These are bad and dangerous things. I'm thinking of writing a manifesto imploring the French to stick to wine and ban beer drinking. Your health."
"Thank you. This cognac is infernal
."
"Infernal? Don't think that everything from hell is bad, with the exception of women, though I think that even hell didn't want what women have done in its name."
"Do you mean there are no heavenly women?"
"Of course there are. How many times has the devil assumed the guise of an angel? It's one of the oldest and easiest of hellish tricks. Apropos of hell, my wife is sending her regards as she is about to retire. With your permission, I'll ask her for a little more time and offer her your goodbyes."
"Where do you live?"
"Here. If I may put it this way, in the ante-chamber of the temple of art ... There,behind that curtain there are the doors which lead to our apartments. They are very modest as they are converted lumber-rooms. That is why everything has the musty smell of a museum, though the only museum piece is my august spouse."
"Please, convey my regards."
"Thank you. You show great kindness in honouring the monster."
"But, my dear fellow! How can you ... ?"
"I can, I can," he said melancholically, "the Egyptians had their holy crocodile and I have my wife ... I'll be back in a minute."
The kind man limped away towards his "apartments". In that room full of fuel-oil fumes, cigar smoke and the smell of an old wiping cloth, which even the strongest blast of fresh air wouldn't shift, there was no one left. The cut-throat dressed as a waiter was counting the night's takings at his table. I asked him to bring me more alcohol, paid the bill and told him to go to the devil, adding that the director would close the shop himself.
I was left alone. It seemed to me however that the greenish, already thinner ghost of my uncle swam out from behind the stove and, having counted the bottles with his bony finger, sighed deeply like the Ghost in a provincial production of Hamlet. But it only seemed like that. I was alone and the ghost must have been born in the bottle of cognac.
I looked in the direction from where I expected to see my companion return. All that came from there were rising screams and the quiet voice of my table companion.
"Rum goings-on," I thought.
Suddenly I heard myself scream - I saw the director sitting next to me at the table.
"Here I am," he said in a sad voice.
I did not see him coming through the door. In fact I did not see anything ...
"How - where did you come from?" I whispered terrified.
"Yes, I returned quite fast, which surprised you. But had you been present at the conversation with my wife you would be surprised why it took me so long. Apropos, you are a man of honour and perfect manners, I must ask you openly if you are offended by the fact that you are sitting with a man who only seconds ago had his face slapped?"
"You?"
"I wish it were someone else but there were no other candidates."
"Your wife? So violent? Why did you give her the rum then?"
"It would have been worse without it, the rum deprived her mighty feet of certainty in their movements, and the movements of their speed and power, so that in the end it was the soul rather than the flesh that suffered."
"You poor man ..."
"Ah, sir, your sympathy is like a wonderful balsam poured over my head. I haven't felt so good, so joyful for a hundred million years. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I spend my days among such rabble that an hour spent with a man of such irreproachable manners and lofty soul is, for me, a great happiness."
"Drink then."
"Thank you. Even this stuff tastes unusually good. Let's make it a bit stronger."
He raised his glass of vodka and just as he was bringing it to his lips something terrible happened: his eyes turned green, his face pale, and from the glass burst out a bluish red, toxic flame. The director emptied it with relish.
I leapt off my chair. My head must have looked like a brush as the terrifying fear made my hair stand on end. I wanted to run away.
"What ... what was that? ..." I stammered.
"Some like it'cold, some like it hot," said the director in a voice which seemed to be coming from his stomach. "Something wrong?"
"Who are you, for God's sake? Who are you?!" I cried out in a strangled voice.
Suddenly the lights went low and it became very quiet, as in a theatre. The director got up from his chair, bowed and said:
"The Devil, at your service."
Something grabbed me by the throat till I felt I was choking; my eyes were popping out of their sockets and my heart started pounding in my chest like a man trying to run away from a fire, my legs gave way and I couldn't even tell whether my hair was still standing on end or not, for inside my head I felt my brain turning into a block of ice.
The terrible man suddenly became sad. His eyes switched off like green lights and more normal colours returned to his face. The room became light again and he started speaking in a melancholy voice:
"And there we are. Even you became frightened, even you. I am sorry, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am. Please, sit down and calm your nerves ..."
He came up to me and forced me onto the chair. My soul fled like a little deer while my numbed body could not make the slightest move. I followed him with my stupefied, frightened, half-crazed eyes, my ears full of whirring noise. Seeing that it had come to no harm my heart was slowly returning to its normal beat. I had an impression he was talking to me from far away, as if through a speaking-tube:
"These are the results of scaring children with the devil. Tell me yourself - what's so frightening about me? I am just like the others, only a bit uglier...
"Eyes! ..." something said within me, but it was not me who spoke.
"Eyes? ... They just flashed a bit. Haven't you ever seen flashing eyes, or green eyes?"
"The foot ... said something within me again.
"The foot? Well, it's a bit out of shape. What can I do, my dear fellow, it's a hoof. But I prefer my devil's hoof to some people's feet. At least it is more of a horse's foot than that of an ass. And what, pray, is so extraordinary about my foot?"
"You drank fire . . ." I said with the voice of -a dying man.
"If you could stand it you would drink it this way yourself. With respect, even the devil cannot stand that stuff people make out of potatoes without adding a touch of refinement. I rather prefer it in a fiery form ... There, there ... Nothing to be frightened of, really, is there?"
"No
"And you aren't that frightened anymore?"
"A bit less ..."
"So now, looking at it clearly and without fear you can see what dirty tricks have been used by the opposition to disgrace the devil - black, horned, terrifying, breathing fire, always on the look out to catch a soul ... My dear sir, never in my whole life have I done anybody any harm. Besides, what am I, a poor good-natured devil, compared to a man? And the amount of pain the devil gets from him is simply beyond measure ... Well, are we feeling better now?"
"A bit better, but please, don't do any of your tricks!"
"Ha, ha!" laughed the devil, "my repertoire is very limited. I'll only show you my tricks if you ask; you have seen some already, anyway. Let's drink."
"Let's drink. It's very nice talking to you, but you've scared the hell out of me, if I may put it that way."
"I can guarantee you, dear sir, that you would have been just as scared seeing an angel. Except that you won't see one. The devil is a creature much closer to man, much more curious and sociable. An angel is a count, an aristocrat, a subtle and delicate creature, and therefore reluctant to enter into the earthly atmosphere, which, to tell the truth, doesn't even smell all that nice. And the devil, a ruddy peasant, a brother-man-to-all, a good mate and old pal, won't turn up his nose, he'll stick it in and be happy anywhere, no whimsy or pretension. An angel though, finds it difficult to appear among people, he has to assume a more poetic, comely and tender form, he has to be a youth with lovely hair, swathed in white, with a long staff in his hand. Just imagine such a wonderful creature in the grey, human crowd. As for the devil, he is so like man, or
should I say, man is so like the devil, that the keenest eye can't tell them apart. Would you guess what I am if I hadn't told you?"
"Maybe not ... But your sudden reappearance...
"They show better tricks at the cinema."
"So, please, tell me ... Would you mind?...
"I am proud that you ask a devil for permission. Usually they chase away the wretched devil like a dog. Please, ask your questions."
"Where did you come from? Why here and why in this form? You, a powerful being...
"Powerful? Oh, my good young man! What false information you have! What do you call power? That I can turn my eyes green? That I drink vodka with fire? Any decent drunkard can do that trick for you. Of course, I do know more tricks of that sort, and more effective too, but that's all. This is just a means, a more or less skilful, more or less clever means.
"To what?"
"To keep up the good name of the firm. Hell is in a bankrupt state. Man has grown wiser, more skilful and clever than the devil himself."
"Impossible!"
"Alas, only too possible. Those few secrets that a devil had at his disposal to gain a reasonable degree of respect and position in the world have been almost entirely usurped by man. We are not protected by the Patent Office, my dear sir. And imagine the effort needed to give all these tricks the aura of wonder, horror and mystery - all this business with witches' sabbaths, brooms, goats, pucks, the midnight hour, anointing with magic potions and flying out of chimneys. And the result? The result was that when in a godforsaken hole of a village an old cow stopped giving milk, a witch had to be found and burnt, it was `Get the devil!' then. Don't you think it ridiculous? Witches! Any actress would do for all the burnt witches."
"Unfortunately...
"Or take that business of flying. The devil used to fly on a stretched-out cloak, clumsily, without comfort and in a ridiculous, grotesque way. Now, think what an envious eye he must be casting at the aeroplane, he can't fly around the world in just a few moments, you know ... And the radio? Man is terrible, sir. He will be the devil's downfall, nay, he is that already!"
"What are you saying?"
"I say it with bitterness but I am telling the truth. Man improved on the devil's methods, made them more effective. The devil has to sweat weaving an intricate web of intrigue, use scores of people and strain his wits to come up with a slander. And then he jumps with joy that he is such a genius and has managed to create a situation where a man got another stitched up in a libel. Ha! Pick up any newspaper now and tell me who can do better: the devil or a man, a man with his few inches of newsprint?"
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