Georg nods. "It's a secret! But I'll reveal it to you. Never do anything complicated when something simple will serve as well. It's one of the most important secrets of living. Very hard to apply. Especially for intellectuals and romanticists."
"Anything more?"
"No. But don't pose as an intellectual Hercules when a pair of new trousers will produce the same result. You won't irritate your partner and she won't have to exert herself to follow you; you remain calm and relaxed, and what you want will fall, figuratively speaking, into your lap."
"Be careful not to get grease on your silk lapels," I say. "Sprats are drippy."
"You're right," Georg takes off his coat. "One must never press one's luck. Another important rule."
He reaches once more for the sprats. "Why don't you write mottos for a calendar company?" I inquire bitterly of that cheerful purveyor of worldly wisdom. "It's a shame to waste them on the universe at large."
"I present them to you. For me they're a stimulus, not platitudes. Anyone who is melancholy by nature and has to work at a business like mine must do all he can to cheer himself up and mustn't be choosy about it. Another maxim."
I see that I cannot get the better of him and withdraw into my room as soon as the box of sprats is empty. But even there I can find no relief—not even at the piano, because of the dead or dying sergeant major—and as for funeral marches, the only possible thing to play, I have enough of them in my head as it is.
21.
In the window of old Knopfs bedroom a ghost suddenly rises. The sun, striking the panes of our window keeps me for a time from recognizing the sergeant major. So he is still alive and has dragged himself from his bed to the window. His gray head protrudes woodenly from his gray nightgown. "Just look," I say to Georg. "He doesn't intend to die between sheets. Theold war horse is going to have a last look at the Werdenbrück Distilleries."
We gaze at him. His mustache hangs in a sorry tangle over his mouth. His eyes are leaden. He stares out for a while, then turns away.
"That was his last look," I say. "How touching that even such a soulless slave driver should want to gaze at the world once more before leaving it forever. A theme for Hunger-mann, the poet of social consciousness."
"He's taking a second look," Georg replies.
I abandon the Presto mimeographing machine, on which I have been turning out catalogue pages for our salesmen, and go back to the window. The sergeant major is standing there again. Beyond the sun-struck pane I see him raise something to his lips and drink. "His medicine!" I say. "To think that even the most hopeless wreck still clings to life! Another theme for Hungermann."
"That's not medicine," Georg replies, who has sharper eyes than mine. "Medicine doesn't come in schnaps bottles."
"What?"
We open our window. The reflection disappears, and I see that Georg is right: old Knopf is unmistakably drinking out of a schnaps bottle. "What a good idea!" I say. "His wife has filled a schnaps bottle with water so it will be easier for him to drink. There's no liquor in his room, you know; everything has been thoroughly searched."
Georg shakes his head. "If that was water he'd have hurled the bottle out of the window long ago. For as long as I've known the old man he's only used water for washing—and grudgingly at that. What he has there is schnaps; he has kept it hidden somewhere in spite of the search, and you, Ludwig, have before you the edifying spectacle of a man courageously going to meet his fate. The old sergeant major intends to fall on the field of honor with his hand at the enemy's throat."
"Oughtn't we to call his wife?"
"Do you think she could take the bottle away from him?"
"No."
"The doctor has only given him a few days at best. What difference does it make?"
"The difference between a Christian and a fatalist Herr Knopf!" I shout. "Sergeant Major!"
I don't know whether he has heard me—but he makes a gesture as though waving to us with the bottle. Then he puts it to his mouth again. "Herr Knopf!" I shout. "Frau Knopf!"
'Too late!" Georg says.
Knopf has lowered the bottle. He makes another circular motion with it. We wait for him to collapse. The doctor has declared that a single drop of alcohol will be fatal. After a while he fades backward into the room like a corpse sinking beneath the water. "A fine death," Georg says.
"Oughtn't we to tell the family?"
"Leave them in peace. The old man was a pest. They'll be happy that it's all over."
"I don't know; attachment sometimes takes strange forms. They could get his stomach pumped out."
"He'd fight that so hard he'd get a stroke. But telephone the doctor if your conscience is bothering you. Hirshmann."
I reach the doctor. "Old Knopf has just drunk a small bottle of schnaps," I say. "We saw it from our window."
"In one gulp?"
"In two, I believe. What has that to do with it?"
"Nothing. It was just curiosity. May he rest in peace."
"Isn't there anything to be done?"
"Nothing," Hirshmann says. "He'd have died anyway. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised he held out till today. Give him a tombstone in the shape of a bottle."
"You're a heartless man," I say.
"Not heartless, cynical. You ought to know the difference! Cynicism is heart with a minus sign, if that's any comfort to you. Have a drink in memory of the departed schnaps thrush."
I put down the telephone. "Georg," I say, "I believe it's really high time I changed my profession. It coarsens one too much."
"It doesn't coarsen, it only dulls the sensibilities."
"Even worse. It's not the thing for a member of the Werdenbrück Poets' Club. What becomes of our profound wonder, horror, and reverence in the face of death when one measures it in money or in monuments?"
"There's enough left," Georg says. "But I understand what you mean. Now let's go to Eduard's and drink a silent toast to the old twelve-pointed stag."
In the afternoon we return. An hour later screams and cries resound from Knopf's house. "Peace to his ashes," Georg says. "Come on, we must go over and speak the customary words of comfort."
"I only hope they all have their mourning clothes ready. That's the one comfort they need at this moment."
The door is unlocked. We open it without ringing and stop short. An unexpected picture greets us. Old Knopf is standing in the room, his walking stick in his hand, dressed and ready to go out. His wife and daughters are cowering behind the three sewing machines. Knopf is screeching with rage and striking at them with his cane. Grasping the neck of the nearest sewing machine with one hand for a firm stance, he rains blows with the other. They are not very heavy blows, but Knopf is doing the best he can. Round him on the floor lie the mourning clothes.
It's easy to see what has happened. Instead of killing him, the schnaps has so enlivened the sergeant major that he has got dressed, probably with the intention of going on his usual round through the inns. Since no one has told him he is sick unto death and his wife has been too terrified of him to summon a priest to prepare him for his passage into blessedness, it has never occurred to Knopf to die. He has already survived a number of attacks and, as far as he is concerned, this is just one more. It is not hard to see why he is enraged—no one enjoys seeing that his family has written him off so completely that they are laying out precious money for mourning weeds.
"Accursed crew!" he screeches. "You were celebrating already, were you? I'll teach you!"
He misses his wife and gives a hiss of rage. She clings to his cane. "But Father, we had to make preparations; the doctor—"
"The doctor is an idiot! Let go of my stick, you devil! Let go, I tell you, you beast!"
The little, roly-poly woman lets the stick go. The hissing drake in front of her swings it and hits one of his daughters. The three women could easily disarm the weak old man, but he has the upper hand, like a sergeant major with his recruits. The daughters are now holding onto the cane and trying tearfully
to explain. Knopf will not listen. "Let go of my stick, you devil's brood! Wasting money, throwing it away, I'll teach you!"
The cane is released, Knopf strikes again, misses, and falls forward on one knee. Bubbles of saliva hang in the Nietzsche mustache as he gets up and continues to follow Zara-thustra's precept by beating his harem. "Father, you'll kill yourself if you get so excited!" cry the weeping daughters. "Please be calm! We're overjoyed that you're alive! Shall we make you some coffee?"
"Coffee? I'll make you coffee! I'll beat you to a pulp, that's what I'll do, you devil's brood! Squandering all that money—"
"But Father, we can sell the things!"
"Sell! I'll sell you, you damned spendthrifts—"
"But Father, it hasn't been paid for yet!" screams Frau Knopf in utter despair.
That penetrates. Knopf lets the cane sink. "What's that?"
We step forward. "Heir Knopf," Georg says. "My congratulations!"
"Kiss my ass!" the sergeant major replies. "Can't you see I'm occupied?"
"You are overexerting yourself."
"Well? What's that to you? I'm being ruined by my family here."
"Your wife has just done a splendid bit of business. If she sells the mourning clothes tomorrow, she will make a profit of several billion through the inflation—especially if the material hasn't been paid for."
"No, we haven't paid for it yet!" cry the quartet.
"Then you should be happy, Herr Knopf! While you've been ill the dollar has been rising fast. Without knowing it you've made a profit in your sleep."
Knopf pricks up his ears. He knows about the inflation because schnaps has become constantly more expensive. "Well, a profit," he mutters. Then he turns to his four ruffled sparrows. "Have you bought a tombstone for me too?"
"No, Father!" cry the quartet in relief—with a warning glance at us.
"And why not?" Knopf screeches furiously.
They stare at him.
"You geese!" he shouts. "Then we could sell it too! At a profit, eh?" he asks Georg.
"Only if it had been paid for. Otherwise we'd simply take it back."
"That's what you think! Then we'd sell it to Hollmann and Klotz and pay you out of the proceeds!" The sergeant major turns back to his brood. "You geese! Where's the money? If you haven't paid for the cloth, you still have the money! Bring it here!"
"Come on," Georg says. "The emotional part is over. The financial part is no concern of ours."
He is mistaken. A quarter of an hour later Knopf is standing in our office. A penetrating smell of schnaps surrounds him. "I've found out everything," he says. "Lies won't help you. My wife has confessed. She bought a tombstone from you."
"She didn't pay for it. Remember that. Now you don't have to take it."
"She bought it," the sergeant major declares threateningly. "There are witnesses. Don't try to crawl out! Yes or no?"
Georg looks at me. "All right. But it was an inquiry rather than a purchase."
"Yes or no?" Knopf snorts.
"Because we've known each other so long, let it be as you like, Herr Knopf," Georg says to quiet the old man.
"All right then. Give it to me in writing."
We look at each other. This worn-out martial skeleton has learned fast. He is trying to outsmart us.
"Why in writing?" I ask. "Pay for the stone and it's yours."
"Be silent, you betrayer!" Knopf shouts at me. "In writing!" he screeches. "For eight billion! Much too much for a piece of stone!"
"If you want it, you must pay for it immediately," I say.
Knopf fights heroically. It takes us ten minutes to defeat him. He produces eight billion of the money he has taken from his wife and pays. "In writing, now!" he growls.
He gets it in writing. Through the window I see the ladies of his family standing in their doorway. Timidly they look over at me and make signs. Knopf has robbed them of their last measly million. Meanwhile, he has been handed his receipt. "So," he says to Georg. "And now what will you pay me for the stone? I'll sell it."
"Eight billion."
"What? You double-dealer! Eight billion is what I have paid myself. What about the inflation?"
"The inflation is here. Today the stone is worth eight and a half billion. I pay you eight as the purchase price. We have to make a half-billion profit on the sale."
"What? You usurer! And I? Where's my profit? You'll just pocket that, eh?"
"Herr Knopf," I say. "If you buy a bicycle and sell it again an hour later, you won't get the full purchase price back. That's one of the facts of business; our economy rests on it."
"The economy can kiss my ass!" the incensed sergeant major declares. "A bicycle that has been bought is a used bicycle, even if you haven't ridden it. But my headstone is new."
"Theoretically it's used too," I say. "Speaking in a business way. Besides, you can't ask us to take a loss simply because you're still alive."
"Frauds! That's what you are!"
"Just keep the headstone," Georg advises him. "It's a good investment. Some time or other you'll have use for it. No family is immortal."
"I'll sell it to your competitors. To Hollmann and Klotz if you don't give me ten billion for it immediately!"
I pick up the telephone. "Come on, we'll save you the trouble. Here, call them up. Number 624."
Knopf becomes uncertain and refuses. "The same sort of shysters as you! What will the stone be worth tomorrow?"
"Perhaps a billion more. Perhaps two or three billion."
"And in a week?"
"Herr Knopf," Georg says. "If we knew the dollar exchange in advance we wouldn't be sitting here haggling with you about headstones."
"It's easily possible that you will be a trillionaire in a month," I explain.
Knopf considers this. "I'll keep the stone," he growls finally. "Too bad I've paid for it already."
"We'll buy it back any time."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you! I wouldn't dream of it without making a profit! I'll keep it as a speculation. Give it a good place." Knopf looks anxiously out of the window. "Perhaps it will rain."
"Rain doesn't hurt headstones."
"Nonsense! Then they're no longer new! I demand that mine be kept in the shed. On straw."
"Why don't you put it in your house?" Georg asks. "Then it will be protected from the cold during the winter."
"You're completely crazy, aren't you?"
"Not in the least. There are lots of admirable people who keep their coffins in their homes. Holy men, principally, and South Italians. Some even use them for beds. Wilke upstairs always sleeps in his giant coffin when he has drunk so much that he can't get home."
"It won't work!" Knopf decides. "The women! The stone is to remain here. Untouched! You'll be responsible! Insure it! At your own expense!"
By now I have had enough of this military tone. "How about holding a review every morning?" I inquire. "See to it that the polish is first class, that the tombstone is precisely lined up with the ones in front, that the base is properly drawn in like a belly, that the bushes around are standing at attention, and, if you insist, Herr Heinrich Kroll can report every day in uniform. He would certainly enjoy that."
Knopf looks at me somberly. "The world would be a better place if there were more Prussian discipline in it," he replies, and belches frighteningly. The smell of Roth schnaps is pervasive. The sergeant major has probably had nothing to eat all day. Knopf belches again, this time more softly and melodiously, stares at us for a while while with the pitiless eye of a full sergeant major in retirement, turns around, almost falls, catches himself, and then wavers purposefully out of the courtyard toward the left—in the direction of the first inn, in his pocket his family's remaining billions.
The Black Obelisk Page 36