Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
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The blind man had no time to regret his incompetence; he might have asked for more, but the results of his good fortune were too much on his mind. Talking loudly, he reappeared at Fischerle's side; the latter was more interested in the effect of his trick than in the soft words of the blind man, who, for love and money, could contain himself no longer. He hesitated a little before taking the money out of his hand, he did not snatch at it; time enough to find a small sum and a big disappointment. Astonishment at his hundred per cent success almost knocked him out. He counted it two or three times carefully, repeating again and again: 'There's character for you! There's a man of character! You'll have to look out for yourself, Fischerle, my boy, with a character like that!' The blind man assumed the character was his and remembered in time the hundred schillings in his left pocket. He held it down to the dwarf's nose and called: 'Look at the tip he gave me, chief, and I never once asked him for it! A man what gives a hundred schilling tip's a good man!' And it happened that Fischerle, for the first time since he took over the direction of his new firm, let part of the booty slip through his fingers, so deeply engrossed was he with the character of his enemy.
Then the hawker came pushing forward; as on the previous day his turn came last. His unhappy face quite upset the blind man. Kindly as he was by nature he advised him to ask for a tip too. This time the chief heard. As soon as the hawker, this snake in the grass, who thought of nothing but his own advantage, approached him, he woke up automatically out of his dream and screeched at him: 'Don't you dare!' "Would I dare?' asked the victim, bewildered.
Since the previous day and in spite of his brief sleep, he had shrunk considerably. He would achieve nothing with violence, that he clearly saw. True he still firmly and fixedly believed that the real parcel was hidden in the church, but so cleverly that no one could find it. So he gave up hope of success and tried another way. He would gladly have been as small as Fischerle, so as to get into his mind, or even smaller, so as to get into the parcel itself and direct the sale from within. 'Crazy, that's what I am,' he told himself, 'no one's smaller than a dwarf.' But he did not doubt that the stature of the dwarf was inextricably connected with the hiding place of the parcel. He was much too smart. While others slept he was awake. Add the sleeping hours to the waking ones, and it was obvious how much smarter he must be than the others. He knew that, he was much too smart not to know that, but all the same he'd have liked to be rid of all this smartness, for a fortnight, shall we say, and have gone to sleep all that time like other people, in one of those nursing homes with every modern convenience, like they have nowadays; a chap like him gets about a bit and hears a lot of talk, other people hear it too, but they sleep it all off, he never sleeps off a thing, because he can't sleep, so he remembers every word of it.
Behind Fischerle's back, the blind man signalled to him, he held up the hundred schilling note and repeated with silendy moving lips his recommendation about the tip. He was afraid the hawker might come back defeated, because he wanted a word or two with him about his women. The chief knew nothing about that sort ofthing, he was only a deformed dwarf. The sewerman was a coward because of his own old woman, he wouldn't touch another, drinking was all he ever did without his old woman. Better tell the others nothing abouc this new situation, they'd all be wanting something, and in no time, out of all that money, he wouldn't be left with so much as a single woman on hand. The hawker was the only one to tell. He wouldn't say a word, if you talked something over with him, he was silent; he was much the best to talk to.
In the meantime the only one to tell was thinking of his job. He was to ask for the colossal sum of two thousand schillings. Should the business friend ask him whether he had not been there before, he must say: 'Yes, of course, with the same parcel! Don't you remember me?' If the flagpole got into one of his moods, the hawker must withdraw as fast as possible, without the money; in case of emergency he must even leave the parcel behind. The flagpole's habit was to draw out his revolver and shoot, one two. It didn't matter about the parcel. The books in it were not so very valuable. Fischcrle would settle up with his business friend as soon as he was normal again and could be talked to. In this devilish fashion, Fischerle planned to be rid of the hawker. He saw the infuriated Kien before him, his rage at the shameless demand and the reappearance of the hawker with the same books. He saw himself, Fischerle, shrugging his shoulders and dismissing his employee with a friendly grin. 'He won't have anything more to do with you? What am I to do? I'm afraid I shall have to dismiss you. He says, you insulted him. What did you do then? It's no use any more. You can go. Once I've got another partner, I'll take you on again, in a year or two. Look after yourself until then, and I'll see what I can do for you. I've a heart for hawkers. He says, you're a common fellow, a snake in the grass, thinking of nothing but your own advantage. How do I know what he means by that? Get out!'
Fischerle had allowed for everything, but he had underestimated the effect of the news of Thcrese's death. The hawker came upon a much disturbed business friend, who never stopped smiling even over the most important transactions, who paid out the gigantic sum with a smile, and when he had done, added not without another well-bred smile, 'I seem to know your face.' 'I seem to know yours!' answered the hawker, rudely. He was fed up with being smiled at; either .the business friend was getting at him, or he was crackers. But since he was manipulating such large sums of money, the former was more probable. 'Where have we met before?' asked Kien, smiling. He felt the need to talk of his good luck to some harmless person, some person to whom he had not promised the library and who did not know him. 'We met in church,' answered the hawker, disarmed by the gentleman's friendly interest. He wanted to see how this wealthy man would react to the mention of the church. Perhaps he would suddenly transfer the whole business into his hands. 'In church,' repeated Kien, 'of course, in church.' He had no idea what church they were talking of. 'I'd like you to know — my wife's dead.' His haggard face beamed. He bowed; involuntarily the hawker gave ground and squinted anxiously at his hands and pockets. His hands were empty, but you couldn't tell about his pockets. Kien followed him; in front of the glass door he grasped the trembling creature by the shoulder and whispered in his ear: 'She was illiterate.' The hawker understood not a word, he shook in every limb and muttered fervently: 'Deepest sympathy! Deepest sympathy!' He sought to tear himself free, but Kien would not relinquish his grasp and asserted, smiling, that the same fate lies in wait for all illiterates, and all of them deserve it, though none so much as his wife, the news of whose death he had received only a few minutes ago. Death is the end of each one of us, but comes first to the illiterate! At this he shook his free fist and his face straightened itself to the stern expression which it normally wore. The hawker began to understand, the man was threatening him with death; he stopped in his prayer, gasped aloud for help and let the heavy parcel fall on the feet of his terrible opponent who, in the first shock of pain, let go of him. Then he clenched his jaws and slipped swiftly away; if he didn't cry out again, the flagpole probably wouldn't fire. In his thoughts, he besought him imploringly to put off shooting until he was round the corner; he would never do it again. In front of the Theresianum he went over his clothes for signs of an unobserved wound. He had the presence of mind to ask for his share before giving Fischerle his notice. Only after the dwarf, ecstatic at his luck which held even when he least expected it, had counted over the 2000 schillings and paid him his twenty, the hawker broke down again and told him between sobs that, although he had not asked a single question, the rich business friend had fired at him and nearly hit him. He was not going on with the job any more. Besides which, Fischerle must pay him compensation for the shock. The dwarf promised him six months' salary at fifty schillings, the first to be paid a month from to-day. (By that time he would have been weeks in America.) The hawker declared himself satisfied and went.
Kien had picked up the fallen books. Their fate distressed him, but the man's disappearance distressed him still more; he would have liked to say more to him. He called softly and gently after him: 'But she's dead, you can rely on it, believe me, she can't hear us!' He did not trust himself to call any louder. He knew why the man was running. Everyone was afraid of this woman; when he had told Fischerle of her yesterday, he too had grown pale. Her name spread terror, it was enough only to hear it to be turned to stone. Fischerle, loud, noisy Fischerle, whispered when he spoke of her twin sister, and the unknown whose books he had ransomed did not believe she was dead. Why else should he run? Why should he be so timid? He had proved to him that she must be dead, her death was self-evident, it arose from her nature, or more correctly, from her condition. She had destroyed herself, she had devoured herself for love of money. Perhaps she had had provisions in the house, who can tell where she might not have hoarded provisions, in the kitchen, in her old servant's bedroom (she was in fact only a housekeeper), under carpets, behind books, but there is an end to all things. For weeks she lived on these, and then suddenly there was no more. She realized that she had used up all her stores. But she did not lie down and die. He would have done so in her place. He would have preferred any death to an unworthy life. But she, driven to madness by her desire for his will, had eaten herself up, piece by piece. To her last moment she saw the will before her. She tore the flesh off her bones in tatters, this hyena, she lived from body to mouth, she ate the bleeding flesh without cooking it, how could she cook it, then she died, a skeleton, the skirt arched stiffly over her bare bones, and looked as though a storm had blown it out. It was the same skirt as ever, but she had been swept away by the storm from beneath it. She was found, for one day the flat was broken open. That rough and loyal landsknecht, the caretaker, was trying to discover the whereabouts of his master. He had knocked daily and was uneasy because he had had no answer. He waited several weeks before he permitted himself to break in. The flat was strongly bolted on the outside. When he broke in, he found the corpse and the skirt. They were placed together in a coffin. No one knew the Professor's address or they would have notified him of the funeral. This was lucky, for, in the sight of all the bystanders, he would have laughed instead of crying. Behind the coffin walked the caretaker, the only mourner, and he only there out of loyalty to his liege-lord. A huge bloodhound leapt on the coffin, dragged it to the ground and tore out the starched skirt. He worried it till his mouth was bloody. The caretaker thought, the skirt belongs to her, the skirt was closer to her than her heart, but because the dog was mad with hunger, he did not dare to interfere or risk a fight with it. He could only stand by and watch, deeply moved, as piece by piece, soaked in the blood of the mighty beast, disappeared into its jaws. The skeleton went on. As no one else was in the procession, the coffin was thrown on the great rubbish heap outside the town, no cemetery, no religion would have anything to do with it. A messenger with news of this fearful end was sent to Kien.
At that moment Fischerle appeared in the glass door and said: 'Ready to go, I see.' 'A good thing I locked her up,'said Kien. 'Lock me up? Not on your life!' Fischcrle started back. 'She deserved her death. Even to-day I don't know for certain if she could read and write fluently.' Fischerle understood. 'And my wife can't play chess! What d'you say to that? Makes your blood boil, doesn't it?* 'I would gladly have learnt some details. We have to be content with such scanty information. My informant has vanished.' True, he had sent him away himself, but he was ashamed to confess to Fischerle the tremendous oath he had sworn. 'And he left his parcel here, the ass! Give it to me! I'm carrying everything already, I can carry this too.'
At these words he remembered their reconciliation of the previous evening and apologized to Kien for having addressed him too formally; it was merely out of his natural respect. In fact he already despised him, for he was now four times as rich as Kien. He looked upon it as a favour to go on knowing him, and had it not been for the last fifth of the capital, he would simply have been silent. Besides, Kien's domestic arrangements were beginning to interest him more closely. Perhaps his wife really was dead. All the signs pointed to it. If she had been still alive, she would have hauled her man home long ago. Any woman would have hauled home such an ass of a man with so much money. He didn't believe in her madness, all the details Kien had told him of her, were totally in order. That this weakly, skinny creature could have locked up anyone, let alone such a competent woman, seemed to him impossible and ridiculous. She would have broken down the door all the more, if she were mad. So she must be dead. But what was happening to the flat? If there was anything of value in it, there were things which ought to be fetched out; if it was only full of books, these could at least be pawned. The flat itself could be sold to someone else for a huge premium. In any case, something had happened and capital, whether large or small, was lying about unused.
In the street Fischerle looked up anxiously at Kien and asked: 'Dear friend, what are we to do now with the beautiful books at home? The whore's gone and the books are all alone.' He placed the outstretched fingers of his right hand close together, grabbed at them with his left hand and broke them suddenly asunder just as if he had wrung the whore's neck in person. Kien was grateful to him for this reminder; he had been waiting for it. 'Calm yourself,' he said, 'the caretaker has undoubtedly sealed up the flat. He is honesty itself. How otherwise could I walk so calmly beside you? As to whether the woman was a harlot, I could not absolutely decide.' He was just; she was dead, it seemed to him proper not to condemn her without valid proof. Moreover he was ashamed of himself for not having noticed in eight long years what her real profession was. 'A woman who isn't a whore, there s no such thing!' Fischerle, as usual, had found the right solution. It was the outcome of a life spent under the Stars of Heaven. Kien recognized the truth of the statement at once. He himself had never yet touched a woman. Could there be — outside the sphere of knowledge — any better justification for his conduct than the fact, that they were all harlots? 'Alas, I must confess you are right,' said he, disguising his agreement in the form of a parallel experience. But Fisherle had had enough of the whore and swerved to the caretaker. He doubted his honesty. 'First of all there are no honest men,' he declared, 'except us two, naturally, and secondly there are no honest caretakers. What do caretakers live on? Blackmail! And why? Because they couldn't live any other way. A caretaker can't live on flats alone. Others might, but not a caretaker. We had a caretaker, he took a schilling offmy wife for every gentleman she brought in. If she came home one night without a gentleman — in her profession nothing's impossible — he used to ask, where the gentleman was. I haven't one, she said. Show me the gentleman or I'll show you up, he used to say. Then she used to cry. Where was she to find a gentleman? Went on for an hour and more like that sometimes. To end it all she always had to show him the gentleman, even if it was only a tiny one,' Fischerle held his hand out flat at knee-height, 'she could have hidden him easy if the creature had had any sense. A pity for the schilling! And who went down the drain? Me of course!'