Death in Rome

by Wolfgang Koeppen

  He knocked back his cognac, a river of fire flooded his guts, little tributaries spread into his belly, rage rage rage and pain were in him, all that stood in the way of an explosion of rage was little Gottlieb with his respect for swanky surroundings, even if it was just a squalid palace of venal lust. It was bad enough, Siegfried's impertinence. Judejahn still felt capable of smacking the cissy in his unpatriotic intellectual face. But a new foe had risen up against him, crept into position, a foe of whose approach he had not managed to hear in the time of his power and who could not be discerned from the barracks in the desert either, because even there he had had power, though it was power of smaller dimensions, he had given orders, issued commands, he hadn't faced rivalry, but now the enemy was at hand, he showed his face, he launched himself to strike—it was age! Judejahn was not enraged to find his son among homosexuals. Nor did it occur to him to be amused to find his son, the deacon, seated among queers. He only saw that his son, the hypocrite, had snatched the whore from him, and Judejahn wasn't so much embittered about being cheated of his fornication, as surprised, surprised and incredulous to find himself losing out to this weakling in the womanish dress of a priest, whom he had so despised that he didn't even properly hate him, he felt ashamed of him as of some disfigurement, a funny hunchback making him ridiculous, and the boy was preferred to him. Judejahn kept looking across at the strangely empty table at which Adolf was sitting alone in Laura's lovely smile. Judejahn felt as though he were seeing an evil and dangerous fata morgana, a sand phantom, untouchable, impregnable, cruel, grotesque and deadly.

  But in fact it was his arch-enemy, it was no ghost, and yet it was a ghost, the arch-deceiver, who had disguised himself as a priest to deceive the foolish father. It was youth rising up against Judejahn, green youth had betrayed him. One lot of youth had died, Judejahn had gobbled them up in the war, they were all right, they hadn't deceived him, they were in no position to deceive and betray him, they were safely in the grave. But a new generation had betrayed him, and went on betraying him, and now it was robbing him, took away his chance of victory, stole his woman, the woman who at all times was the property of the victor, the overpowerer, and whose possession was a sexual emblem of victory, a warming sense of power and subjugation. Was Judejahn now the old stag who had lost his doe to the young buck, left to crawl into the undergrowth to die? Not yet he wasn't. That was priests' ruses. He'd been duped. Judejahn wasn't the old stag losing his horns and crawling off, not by a long chalk he wasn't. He was the better man. His deeds spoke for him; but how could he tell Laura of his deeds, his victories, his campaigns of devastation? The whole world had witnessed Judejahn's doings, no one seemed to want to remember them. Was it just a matter of eloquence now, the tongues of venal cowards, while the deeds of the brave had already been forgotten, were already a zero in the hole of the past, where even rivers of blood dried up, and atrocity mildewed and crumbled away? What could Judejahn do? He could have the bar cleared. Nonsense, he could not have the bar cleared. He couldn't even go to the cashier to get a token for another cognac. He felt giddy, and he feared ridicule, he feared the ridiculous scene of a meeting with his priest son. Judejahn gripped the brass rail of the bar as though he had to hold it in order not to collapse, not to drop dead or blindly lash out from a position of utter hopelessness. Ah, delivered unto the enemy's hands.

  I saw his hand clutching the brass rail, I saw him longing for another drink and not daring to let go of the rail, and I told the barman to give Judejahn a cognac, and the barman poured the cognac because he had me down for a queer and so he trusted me to pay for the cognac later. Judejahn took the glass. Did he know it came from me? He knocked it back with an upward thrust of his buttocks as though he were doing a knee-lift. For a moment his eyes were glassy. But then his eyelids narrowed again to sly pig's slits. The sly pig's eyes were looking at me. They looked round the bar. They looked at Adolf, they rested on Laura, and I was amazed to see him so agitated. Why was it such a terrible blow for him to see Adolf here? Was he such an over-protective father? I hardly thought so. Judejahn didn't want to protect anyone. And since he hated his son's priest's robes, it should have amused him to find the hated cassock in such unsavoury company. Now he left the counter and walked through the bar. He squeezed past Adolf and the cash-desk, and I kept an eye on him so that I could intervene if he started yelling at Adolf. But Judejahn walked right past him without appearing to notice him, and Adolf appeared not to see him either, he had forgotten about me too, he was sitting in Laura's smile as under a giant sun, the wonderful sun of an innocent paradise.

  They sat on the pavement in front of the bar, the night streamed past them, rich Rome, elegant Rome, the Rome of the magnates and ostentatious foreigners, the Via Veneto paraded past the rows of chairs belonging to cafés, bars, hotels and pricey clubs, and lights glittered everywhere, the chestnuts flowered and rustled, and stars shone over the great city. To begin with, they had been impressed by everything, even the waiters in violet tails, but then an aura of disrepute spread over the chairs, the twittery voices, the jangling bracelets, the scent of curled hair and womanishly manicured hands that rested on the acquiescent hips of others. Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath was aghast. He dared not give a name to what he suspected, and he thought under no circumstances should Judejahn have brought Anna his wife to such a place. Dietrich also was indignant, but outrage and indignation about morals and seediness had a positive effect too, they stiffened the spine, they made a man hold his head high, decency was sitting among Mediterranean licentiousness, and the Goths would prevail. Dietrich was tormented by curiosity and desire. Curiosity asked him what might have caused Judejahn to seek out this establishment. He wasn't a queer. But maybe he had some secret contacts here, underworld informers, since spies and informers often came from corrupt backgrounds; one exploited them and, having gained power, eliminated one's despicable if useful helpers. Lust cried out for the passing girls. On high heels they teetered past, in tight skirts that exposed their thighs, they were as bred and spirited as circus horses, expensive mounts, talented tricks. Dietrich imagined it for himself, but he knew how to count, and he reckoned that it would come expensive, at any rate it would cost more than he was willing to shell out, and so he hated the girls instead, he found them shamelessly provocative and their walking the public street at night was a scandal, and he thought greedily and bitterly of the publication in his suitcase, the illustrated magazine with the disclosures that brought about relief and slumber. Finally Judejahn emerged from the strange aviary. Something must have angered him, because his breathing was laboured, the veins on his brow stood out, and his hand trembled as he reached for the wine bottle. And then he insulted them, he called them names, because Germany had not yet awoken, because young people were not yet marching, because young people were insolent to their superiors and were going to the dogs. How could they defend themselves? They had never been able to defend themselves against Judejahn. Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath was pathetically vulnerable to any loud-mouth who banged on about the nation, because the nation was an idol, a Moloch to whom one sacrificed reason and life and even property. The Roman chestnuts rustled in the balmy spring night. When would flags start to rustle again? Fervently Friedrich Wilhelm Pfaffrath wished for it, flags were lofty symbols, they were the nation surging ahead, but now perhaps he was growing old. When he heard Judejahn's tirade against himself and the nation, he was seized by a peculiar mild disgust for Judejahn's flags that were soon to rustle again, and he felt as though the mild Roman chestnuts were tittering like old ladies. He thought of his mother, the vicar's wife, who had been left cold by National Socialism. Perhaps she was now watching him from the starry firmament. She had been a firm believer in the hereafter. Rationally, Pfaffrath rejected such a possibility. Even so—if his mother was looking down on him, if she had found him and was watching him, would she feel sorry for him? Judejahn was accusing Pfaffrath of cowardice and disloyalty. At this transfigured moment of the night, tired, exhausted, ful
l of elevating and strange impressions, Pfaffrath accepted his reproaches. He had been cowardly and disloyal, but not in the way his raging brother-in-law had in mind. It now seemed to Pfaffrath as though he had lost his way in his early years, as though there had been another road for Germany and for himself than the military road that Pfaffrath had gone down; another German possibility, which he had disregarded for years, now lay before him in the landscape of youth clarified by a trick of memory, and it was this other possibility that he had betrayed, and the other Germany had been lost for ever. The chestnuts were whispering to one another of his cowardice, his treachery, his failure, as the lindens were at home. But for men the reproachful voice of the night passes with the nocturnal trembling of trees, and after a refreshing night's sleep Pfaffrath will once more feel without stain, an upright German man and an Oberbürgermeister, free from guilt, guiltless towards his ancestors, guiltless towards his children, guiltless towards his own soul. But now, in this transfiguring hour of the night, he asked himself whether Siegfried and his symphony hadn't sought the better home, and whether the notes jarring in Pfaffrath's ear hadn't held a dialogue with his own youthful soul.

  I disturbed him in his reverie, I disturbed him in his devotion to Laura's smile. Once more I was moved by Adolf. I put my hand on his arm, my hand on the sleeve of his black cassock, but he pulled back his arm and said: 'You don't understand.' I said: 'Yes I do, you've discovered a new pain in yourself.' He asked: 'Do you really know?' I said: 'Yes.' I had ordered him a glass of vermouth, and he had his vermouth and he asked: 'Do we have to go now?' I said: 'Her name's Laura. We'll leave with her.' He looked at me, and his mouth quivered, and he said: 'You don't understand me.' I said: 'I do understand you.' And I thought: He thinks it will be enough to look, and he's right, looking is bliss, and if he remains resolute, and doesn't go to bed with her, then he'll have gained something. I thought: He will have gained something, but he will think he's lost everything. I thought: What would have happened to him if the Teutonic castle hadn't collapsed along with the Nazis? I thought: Would he even have seen Laura then? I thought: He is on a difficult path. I didn't know whether he would carry on on that path. Carry on to where? There are many viae dolorosae, a whole bewildering street map of them.

  He observed them secretly from his car. They left the bar. They walked down the Via Veneto, below its gradually extinguishing lights, under the rustling trees, the girl in the middle. Judejahn's car followed them, a black shadow that slowly crept up, came level with them, and then slipped back again. They passed Judejahn's great hotel, and behind the American embassy they turned left, down the Via Venti Settembre. Judejahn gave up the pursuit. He had wanted to be sure. He had certainty—his son had ousted him with that whore. His son was sleeping with a Judaeo-Roman whore. It was ridiculous to be indignant about it. He was aware of that. He thought: Well, what if he is. It would suit him fine if Adolf slept with a girl, might make a man of him. But he had been defeated, he, the great Judejahn had been beaten, had been repulsed, his writ did not run, the world was in rebellion! That was what stirred up a flood of pointless oaths in him. His son sleeping with a girl didn't bother him. He didn't see why it should. He thought all priests were hypocrites and randy goats. He would avenge himself. He would avenge himself on all priests and all whores. He had himself driven up to his hotel. He went up to his luxurious room. Little Gottlieb was very pleased with the room. Benito the cat yowled a greeting to Judejahn. He was hungry. Judejahn was furious that the beast had been given nothing to eat. He stroked the cat, ran his fingers through its mangy fur, and said: 'Poor Benito!' He rang for room service, swore at the waiter, he ordered raw mincemeat for the cat, and champagne for himself. It had to be champagne. Little Gottlieb had always drunk champagne in the officers' mess. Little Gottlieb had toasted his victories with champagne. He had drunk champagne in Paris, in Rome, in Warsaw. In Moscow he had drunk no champagne.

  They walked silently through the night. They didn't touch. The tall buildings were silent. They were friendly. The paving stones lay benevolently at their feet. They heard the bells of San Bernardo striking; then Santa Maria della Vittoria and Santa Susanna sounded the hour. But they weren't thinking about time. On the Piazza della Esedra they passed through the semicircular arcades. The shop-windows were behind grilles. The shop-keepers were worried, they feared the night and robbers. The displays were lit up. Treasures lay spread out. Laura did not desire them, she desired none of those treasures, marked with high price tags behind the locked grilles. Her smile was a beacon in the night, it filled the night and it filled Rome. Laura smiled for the city and the world, urbi et orbi, and Rome and the night and the world were transfigured. They crossed the square, and Laura dipped her fingers into the water of the fountain, dipped them into the little Fountain of the Naiads, and as though with holy water, she, a devout Catholic, anointed the brow of her silent deacon with the water of the naiads. Then they stepped into the shadow of an ancient wall where night birds might nest. They stood in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli close by Diocletian's baths. Siegfried listened for screech-owls. He thought, compositionally, that the too-wit-too-woo of the death bird belonged here, but all he heard was the cry of the locomotives from the station near by, full of sorrow and full of fear of so much distance. How distant they were one from another, the three who were gathered together to face the night. Siegfried looked at Adolf and Laura. But did he see them? Was he not projecting himself on the shapes of his companions? They were thoughts of his brain, and he rejoiced that he had thought them. They were kind thoughts. As for them, did they see each other? It was dark in the shade of the ancient bath-house masonry, but in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli there was the gleam of a light everlasting, and by that light they tried to see one another's souls.

  I left them alone together, what business did I have with them? I had brought them together, what further business did I have with them? I strolled over to the station. I stepped into its neon glare. Let Adolf pray in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli. 'Ut mentes nostras ad coelestia desideria erigas. Mayest thou lift up our hearts to heavenly desires.' Had I led Adolf into temptation? I had not led Adolf into temptation. There was no temptation. In the baths, in the National Museum, there were pictures of the old gods, now securely locked away. They were well-guarded. Had I given pleasure? I could not give pleasure. There was only illusion, momentary tricks of the light. I went to the platform. A train stood ready. The third-class carriages were overcrowded. In first class there was a single thin man. Would I be the man in first class? Perhaps he was a bad man. Would it be me? I didn't want to travel in the overcrowded third-class carriages. Florence-Brenner-Munich. Did the journey tempt me? It didn't tempt me. I went into the albergo di giorno, situated like a neon grotto beneath the station. The nymphs of the grotto manicured the hands of gentlemen. I love the Roman barber shops. I love the Romans. At all hours they think of their beauty. Men came here to have their hair cut, to have themselves shaved, permed, manicured, massaged, covered with unguents, sprinkled with scents; they sat with sober expressions under barbers' hoods and glittering hairdryers, as hot sirocco winds blew over their hair. I had nothing to do. I asked for a compress. I asked for a compress because I was bored. My face was wrapped up in a steaming hot towel, and I had hot dreams. I was Petronius the novelist, and I spoke in the public baths with wise men and with boys, we loafed on the marble steps of the steam room, and talked about the immortality of the soul, there was a mosaic on the floor, a bright and skilful piece of work. Zeus the eagle, Zeus the swan, Zeus the golden shower—but the mosaic had been laid by a slave. My face was wrapped in a towel dipped in ice water, I was Petronius the novelist, I enjoyed the conversation of wise men and the beauty of boys, and I knew there was no immortality, and that beauty decays and I knew Nero was mulling things over, and I knew how to place the blade against a vein—the last marble step was cold. I left the grotto, I wasn't beautiful, I went into a waiting-room somewhere, and I drank a grappa, because Hemingway recom
mended grappa, and again it tasted to me like German rotgut from the time before the currency stabilization. I bought a newspaper at the big station news-stand. The jungle fastness had fallen. The delegates were leaving Geneva. My little Communist with her red kerchief was striding proudly through Rome. She wasn't leaving. Why should she leave? This was her home. The headline said: What now?

  Kürenberg had made a lot of telephone calls, he had spoken to critics and arts administrators, he had spoken to agents, and to the organizers of the congress, and to the prize committee and the prize-givers, it was all very political and very diplomatic, and all the officials were secretive and self-important, but Kürenberg had had his way, Siegfried was to receive the music prize, not the whole prize, but he was to get half of it; for diplomatic reasons the prize was to be shared. Kürenberg told Ilse that Siegfried was getting the prize, and Ilse Kürenberg, who was running a bath, didn't care whether Siegfried got the prize or not; it didn't upset her, but neither did it give her any pleasure. She thought: Have I been infected, have I been contaminated by this meanness, by the simple-mindedness of thinking in groups, infected by the mutual enmity of groups, by the vicious idea of collective guilt, am I against Siegfried and his music, just because he belongs to that family? He isn't happy with them. I know he's left them behind. But why do I see the others when I see him? She thought: I don't want revenge, I never did, revenge is sordid, but I don't want to be reminded, I can't stand to be reminded, and Siegfried can't but remind me; he reminds me, and I see the killers. The bath was full, but the water was too hot. Ilse Kürenberg turned off the light in the bathroom. She opened the window. She was naked. She liked walking through the room naked. She liked standing naked by the open window. The wind moulded itself round her firm, well-kept body. Her firm body stood firmly on the floor. She had withstood the storm. The wind would not carry her away. There was something in her, though, that longed to be carried away.