My mother says she cannot keep up with all the washing. My urine will be the ruin of her health and her white hands, of which she is so proud. Although she turned seventy last year, they do not have any of the blotches typical for elderly hands. I am sincerely sorry for my mother. But my bladder pigheadedly insists on its autonomy. In spite of various attempts at dissuasion, I cannot prevent it from emptying every night.
After lengthy deliberations, my mother and I have reached a satisfactory compromise. For simplicity’s sake we have accepted the disturbing occurrence. Grudgingly, for an organ should not push itself so much in the foreground. But after all, we couldn’t spend every evening trying to tame my bladder. There are so many activities that are far more interesting. I could farther educate myself, for example, read a book. If there is no hope of a physical recovery, the gray matter should be stimulated at least. Most edifying of all for me and my soul would be a glass of schnapps, of course. What a noble sight is a little glass of schnapps! But let’s get back to the point.
My mother’s vanity won over her social qualms. For a week now the lady concierge, an evil-smelling, gossipmongering woman, has come to collect the laundry. Soon all the tenants are bound to know that our sheets are soiled more often than convention allows. The lady concierge, of base character, gets such pleasure out of incriminating me.
Unfortunately, I am the one who has to pay. It is not a question of money with Mother, she is very generous: it’s the educating principle. She is of the opinion that a reduction in my pocket money could affect the working order of my bladder. She is not far wrong with this strategy, a mild form of blackmail. While measures of punishment no longer have any effect on my conscience, grown degenerate over the years, I have nonetheless noticed that the flood of urine has lessened over the last few days, very probably because I can’t drink so much in the evenings now because of financial reasons.
I don’t drink to drown any sorrows. So why do I drink? A deep question, a fine question, one that deserves being toasted with the raising of a glass.
I drink at home in the afternoons, and in the bar in the evening. Both with company and alone. I drink out of greed, or if you like, out of enjoyment.
Sitting up at the bar, I do not raise my glass to anyone, do not look around, and do not seek contact of any sort. My shoulders slightly hunched, I concentrate my fall attention on the sense cells in the mucous membrane of the nose and tongue that receive the pleasure of smell and taste of the schnapps.
The very sight of the clear liquid sets me aquiver. Before even touching the glass my skin begins to prickle. Patches of color appear on my face one by one. Should anyone distract me at this crucial moment, by asking nonstop questions, for example, about what I would like for my dinner tonight, I feel suffocated, as though an animal was pressing down on my chest.
Only after the first gulp does the pain subside. And then, in ever-increasing circles, penetrating my entire being, a feeling of happiness spreads, such happiness as is known by few people. It ebbs away immediately, so I have to refill my glass. I am back to the starting point: hands trembling with longing, breath catching, pulse racing with an irregular beat. After a deliberately drawn-out pause as I raise my glass to someone, for the torture of waiting contains overtones of the release, I moisten my lips with the acrid liquid. And so I continue until my senses are exhausted and my body pleasantly limp. Then all is well with the world.
Ah, schnapps, sweetest schnapps, my beloved firewater. How can I glorify you? How to describe you? You are my life. You are my mother. My homeland.
Sit and wait. Sit and wait until stomach, intestines, and liver, until each and every nerve is drenched by you. Until my blood is joined in union with you. I would love to have you in my blood, to have you in my blood permanently.
Ah, schnapps, sweetest schnapps, palatable treasure. Most beloved of the spirits, my brother, my colorless romance.
I’ve grown to love you. Have given you my repentant heart and hereby solemnly declare: at any time schnapps can raise me from the state of dullness my mother delivered me into. It gives me a sense of purpose and lends meaning to my life. With its guidance I am privy to knowledge preferable to the sobering examination of my own time. By playing games I conquer my quota of life I never asked for. Is that then not evidence enough of the profit a clever man can reap from alcohol? What is a cirrhosis of the liver in the face of all the possibilities opened up by schnapps?
My entire body trembles, sweating hot and cold, at the thought of the money running out. Fold my hands in prayer, and silently beg that schnapps hears me: do not desert me. Do not grow weary of me. And when morning comes, and I wake with a splitting headache, I find another little bottle in the wardrobe. One last mouthful under the bedside table, missed by my mother.
That is what I drink to: to the development of my creative initiative under the influence of alcohol. To creative plans and shapes after the sixth glass of schnapps. To my razor-sharp mind and wealth of imagination as far as finding new hiding places goes.
The old hag doesn’t like you. Why, you have already taken her husband, you should let her son be. She declared war on you then. Wants to save her son. The son must not acquire a drinker’s liver, and his room is checked. After all these years.
Nonetheless, I chalk up lots of points. I am, after all, a learned swindler, a master of creeping, pretending, and covering things up. And if she does find it, and pours it out, then I repay her brutal behavior by shitting in my bed. Make a steaming pile, then the old witch shouts, and peace resumes.
Ah, schnapps, dear schnapps, palatable treasure trove. My fruit schnapps, my cherry schnapps, my most beloved damson schnapps. You bring me fulfillment, you give me meaning. You mold me and my body. Over the years I have bloated, grown broader. My translucent pallor is thanks to you. This is my lordly title. This is my mark of Cain, my pride and joy. When I look at my naked shapeless body in the morning, I see your work everywhere.
With my lips I kiss you. With my tongue I lick you. I breathe your fruity aroma. Carefully I try you, so that you unfold in me, that you open up in me, that you give yourself. No one else, no one, do you hear me, can caress me as you do. And I am a primus inter pares, have gathered certain experience, but no one comes close to you.
2.
You call it a degeneration of the human race. You talk of a brain riddled with alcohol. Liver, stomach, intestines, kidneys, all done in. What remains then? A human wreck.
His odious offspring must be wiped out in advance, you say At this point, we must be brutally frank. He is a good-for-nothing. He just costs money. There is no reversing events for him now, and even if there were … who would want him anyway?
I ask to be queried on the matter. Am glad to comment on my life, past or future. I have talents you know nothing about — let me explain. Then you will see that your suppositions are far from the truth. Like some other people, I know how to make up for my weak points. Have a beautiful laugh, warms every listener’s heart when I get going. Even my mother agrees, the poor old dear, and giggles along with me, you can count on it. Also in my defense it must be said that I belong to the human species — a particular, most complex organism, with a body, a personality, and a thirst.
You do not believe in the saving grace of my laughter, want to hear a more convincing answer. Thirst, you retort, has yet to save a man.
You do not need background information, I should respond only to the questions you ask. My comments are irrelevant, confuse the matter, as there is nowhere for them to be filed. Fine, I shall adhere to the given columns. A short yes, a short no, and what lies in between is not of interest. But what happens in the case of my life not fitting into one of their columns, if the given answers distort my meaning, what do I do then? Mother, you do it, and do it quickly. Was once young, was once handsome. Also loyal, devout, and humble — I was all these once. Should I not be able to decide myself, I ask that you protect me. Should it not be looked into again to save money and time, I ask that y
ou do so.
You do it. Or else I’ll hang myself. I’ll swallow a couple of tablets. Then I’ll have my peace. Or you could slash open my wrists. My warm blood on the cool sheet. My blood, “enemy to the national community,” on the freshly washed sheet. My inherited inferior blood, what would it matter, after all. The evaluation of my questionnaire shows that no tears will be shed on my account.
Herr Office Manager, sir, highly valued Union of General Practitioners, your Highness the Local Health Authority. I refuse to surrender. A doctor is not an oracle and cannot explain what turns the future may take. I will not hand myself over. Not even you can be so farsighted. I will bite your hand. You will have to come and get me. I will spit in your face. I — a bothersome psychopath — dismiss all your reproaches. I have been selected in an inadmissible way. I do not follow the legal connection between my thirst and my genetic makeup, and therefore ask that you reconsider your decision.
The hunter pursues the hare in the field. The soldier goes to war for his Fatherland. In spring the meadows flower: yellow blossoms. The education that equips one for life is not that learned in school. A mistake is not a lie. To lend is not to give. If one scrimps on sympathy, one is a thrifty person. Why and for whom is one stinting?
I have resolved to respect the will of the person concerned. The subject of examination is rebelling. Am I to be left no dignity? Admittedly there is a problem. But will it disappear if my ardor is stamped out? Would it not be possible to think up something else? A little punishment, a good measure of torture.
I admit there are friendlier people around. It is not nice that I soil my bed at night. And I would have run my father’s bakery into the ground had my brother not taken over. But surely there is a more human way to punish me for no longer being operational. That is something you can learn, to be operational. Show me where economics is lurking, and I’ll study the basics and come to love it. I am not too old for love. Or I could go to a reeducation center. Send me to a house of correction. I will cut leather, chop wood, wash dishes. Let me still be useful.
Help me, Mother. My morals are impeccable, my grasp of ethics very, very beautiful. As far as what I learned at school, you can judge for yourself:
7 × 9 = 63
17 ÷ 32 = 49
51-16 = 35
Who was Bismarck? An old fool.
Who was Luther? Son of a whore, perhaps an angel.
Holiest Union of General Practitioners. In case you were not already aware, I am no Lamb of God. I am not cut out for this role at all. I have always been self-pitying. A sniveling, bloated person. I am no penitent. I would not be a pretty sight: snotty, howling, pissing on the cross. You have got to understand. I do not possess the necessary qualities. Not even my mother would shed a tear.
One imagines the Savior to be handsome and noble. He must come from high above, so that those watching have time to follow his fall. A big cheese, a king’s son if it can’t be the Son of God. The chosen people, but not the son of a baker. Believe me, I do not fit the bill. I know what is good for you and I am not it.
You have managed to collect a rich array of victims. I suggest you pick someone else. I am perfectly willing to help you choose. Take him, or him, or him.
And then, dear Local Health Authority, I want to add, look at what you have left to catch up on. All the cases handed in.
So many women that have yet to be treated. So many women who are waiting to be taken into the city hospital, to the gynecology ward, so that a specialist can cut through their ovaries, so that no man, to the devil with them, so that no man can fertilize the sick egg of those sick whores.
Snip-snip, clip-clip. Snip-snip, clip-clip. The scalpel nimbly cuts through the plans of the Creator. Made us in his image. Wants us to multiply. Was a crude nature. An evil force.
Death is in his court. He holds death in his hand. Judge, executioner, blade, and gallows. Our death is a sacrifice to you. Our horror is your freedom. Our torture your memorial. With every cry I raise a monument made of air to you. That is my contribution. Do you hear me? Do you hear?
What would you do if you won the lottery, for example? There is a nice thought. Why can one not set fire to one’s own house? Why does the sun rise? Why do children go to school? What does the boiling of water mean? What is the opposite of courage? What is faithfulness? What is piety? Why do we have courts of law?
The examination being performed on me is pointless. You are just wasting your time with me. I am nothing. Ask my mother. She scolds me. She knows it and can confirm it whenever: masturbator sum. A poor sinner. My hand is my loyal friend. Between my legs I turn it into a tugging predator and pull until the bed rocks. But, my good men, the act requires the whole person, not just the hand.
Of course, I like looking at beautiful women. Even the backside of the concierge sets my fantasy in motion. But I no longer find my way to unknown beds. And even if I did, I would only collapse on them groaning. An old snoring colossus. A bit of skin, a bit of fat, and all that alcohol in my blood. Believe me when I say I will not be fertilizing any eggs now. Those who lead idle comfortable lives, they could do it, but I am not up to anything anymore, restricted as I am by my manifold activities, drinking, sleeping, and eating.
What you call life is closed to me. The tangible beating of the heart as a sign of love is alien to me. Fear, greed, a little cheerfulness, these I can identify. A little glass here, a little glass there, cannot hurt anyone.
My gentlemen, you have to understand: the sick seed drips on the bedsheet. It dries there. A little stain is no crime. The concierge comes and takes my secretion away. It is cleaned, for goodness’ sake. The concierge washes it all out.
From the room I can see down to the courtyard. I pull up the blind and see the bedsheet, billowing in the wind. My white sheet, set at half-mast. The flapping symbol of my surrender: damp flag against the gray wall. Damp flag waving in the wind. Back and forth, back and forth. I hum a song in time to it. Should be your lullaby.
3.
Let us try to put it clearly. In one simple sentence: I do not want to.
No, I do not want to. I am no less thirsty than some of the German emperors. My will is the essential force for my soul and my universe. Taking measures to preserve my kind, I flee beneath the bed. In spite of my pitiful state I raise my legs, fart, fall to the ground, and crawl on all fours around my room. My mother screams for the concierge and hauls me back onto the bed. I sit there and cry. A wretched picture. I know the work has to be carried out, it is in the interest of everybody. It will make for a nicer future.
I can already hear the lark’s song, the babbling of the stream, the chirping of the crickets, and all that goes with it. I can already see the shadowy lindens, winding paths, and a carpet of yellow moss there. Poor old me. Me, the old sinner. The future is ghastly. It has nothing to offer me. To the victor the laurel. And what do I get? I get to lie in the dust, and kiss the boots of the murderer. There I lie, poor old fool, hoping to melt a stony heart.
Hoping that someone will have mercy on me. That someone at least will feel for me. I have left all pride behind. I come to you. The journey is a difficult one, but here I am and I ask you to take me. The country does not only need young men. The country also needs someone like me.
I will sit in a cage and eat nuts for you. I will scratch my head and leap from branch to branch. As a fearful example, I’ll serve as a warning. Repellent leper, pitiful wreck of a human. Then they could see what you have saved them from, these naturally healthy descendants of your naturally healthy ancestors. There they’ll have a live example and will be afraid.
Take me. I wipe the tears from my face. I will give you everything I have. Here is my silver ring, here is a little glass — brother, drink.
When everything is over, when everything has been conquered, when everyone is dead, then you will have no one left to destroy. The Jew will be gone, the communist, the gay pig, the tramp, the stinking Gypsy, Negro, Asiatic, the German whore floundering in foreign seme
n, the Pole, the sidewalk poet, Bolshevik, traitor: I want to replace all of them for you, want to be your enemy. Mess me up and spit on me. I am degenerate. I am a dwindling percentage, the divine mistake, ethically and morally rotten, but I do not stem from those types: mother a northern tramp, father a northern drinker. Me: a piece of northern dirt that will drink itself into a state in which it cannot struggle.
Yes, I am having a drink in the interest of the Fatherland. Leave individuality behind and drink myself to sleep. For the sleeping enemy is preferable to the enemy awake, though it cannot replace the dead enemy.
Mother, you should have pushed him away, the father, who desecrated your temple. Smashed our shrine. You should not have let him penetrate. It would have remained a wish, a desire consuming you in quiet moments.
Mommy, one should not give in to every desire. You had me. And that was it. Or did he use devious means to sleep with you? Old rascal, I have to reap what you sowed. I ask the question: Why should the son be made responsible for the behavior of his father? I ask the question: Who, in these times of progress, believes in inherited sin?
Just a watch, a worn-out suit, and a master craftsman’s diploma, that is the sum of the estate of the baker whose son I am. Oh, and this thirst, this exaggerated thirst.
I, chained to my body, vulnerable and lazy, have little hope as far as my person is concerned. My provisions consumed, I am out in the cold. Boozing has driven me into the ground. What more do you wish for? My features are already melting, my body freezing, my breath rattling. Is this death? Am I upon my deathbed?
Ave, pia anima.
Ave, and shut your trap.
The gate is locked. I go back. I am not waiting for Peter anymore. Who wants the mission? I will give my task to another. He can pay what I still owe. Here is my authorization. Angels, heaven, that is nothing for me. No, my lot is another one.
The Inventory: A Novel Page 17