Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
Auto-da-fé (45 page)
Above, doors slammed open, heavy steps were heard, many steps, echoing on the stairs. The man, who looked after the lift over there, approached slowly. If they were murdering a child now, he wouldn't demean himself to hurry. Twenty-six years he'd been looking after that lift, that is to say his wife and family had; he did the organizing.
The caretaker stood stock still. He saw it: on every first of the month someone would come to take away his pension instead of paying it out to him. Maybe lock him up as well. The canaries would die, because there'd be no one left to sing for. The peep-hole would be sealed up. Everything would come out and the tenants would ferret out his daughter even in her grave. He wasn't afraid. Couldn't sleep sometimes for thinking of the kid. Looked after her, he did. He was that fond of her. Plenty to eat she got, plenty to drink, a whole pint of milk every day. He was retired on a pension. He wasn't afraid. The doctor said himself, it's her lungs. Send her away! How would I do that, mister? He needed all his pension for food. He was like that. Couldn't live without food. You get like that in the police. Without him the whole block would fall down. Health insurance — the idea! Back she'd come with a baby. In that tiny room. He wasn't afraid.
Fischerle, on the other hand, said aloud: 'Now I'm afraid!' and stuck the money hastily into one of Kien's side pockets. Then he made himself even smaller. Escape was impossible. People were already stumbling over the parcels. He squeezed both arms close against his sides. The other money, the passage-money, was stowed away in tight bundles in his armpits. A bit of luck his being the shape he was! When he was dressed not a soul would suspect anything. He wouldn't be locked up. The police took all your clothes off and took everything away. He was always a thief to them. What did they know about his new firm? Ought to have registered it, ought he? What, and have to pay taxes! He was head of a firm, just the same. The flagpole was an idiot. What had he got to go round recognizing the sewerman for? Now he'd got his money back though. Poor fellow, it wasn't fair to leave him in the lurch. People might take all his money away. He gave it with both hands. He'd too much heart. Fischerle was loyal. Loyal to a business partner. Once he got to America the flagpole would have to look after himself. Not a soul left to help him. Fischerle crept gradually in between Kiens knees; nothing was left of him but hump. Sometimes his hump became a shield behind which he vanishes, a snail-shell into which he withdrew, a mussel shell which closed right round him.
The caretaker stands with legs set wide, a monolith, his staring eyes fixed on his murdered daughter. Out of habit his muscles still hold the limp rag Kien. Thérèse shrieks all the inhabitants of the Theresianum to her help. She thinks of nothing. She has enough to do to husband her breath-supply. She shrieks mechanically. She feels well, shrieking. She feels as diough she had won the fight. The blows on her have ceased.
A variety of hands drag the motionless four apart. They grip them tight, as though they were still fighting. Each seeks to look into the other's eyes. People jostle about them. Passers-by pour into the Theresianum. Officials and clients claim their prior right. They are at home here. The man, who had looked after the lift for twenty-six years, ought to restore order, to expel the intruders and close the doors of the Theresianum. He has no time. At last he has reached the woman who is shrieking for help and regards his presence on the scene as indispensible. Another woman catches sight of Fischerle's hump on the ground and runs screaming into the street: 'Murder! Murder!' She takes the hump for a corpse. Further details—she knows none. The murderer is very thin, a poor sap, how he came to do it, you wouldn't have thought it of him. Shot, may be, someone suggests. Of course, everyone heard the shot. Three streets off, the shot had been heard. Not a bit of it, that was a motor tyre. No, it was a shot! The crowd won't be done out of its shot. A threatening attitude is assumed towards the doubters. Don't let him go. An accessory. Trying to confuse the trail! Out of the building comes more news. The woman's statements are revised. The thin man has been murdered. And the corpse on the floor? It's alive. It's the murderer, he had hidden himself. He was trying to creep away between the corpse's legs when he was caught. The more recent information is more detailed. The little man is a dwarf. What do you expect, a cripple! The blow was actually struck by another. A redheaded man. Ah, those redheads. The dwarf put him up to it. Lynch him! The woman gave the alarm. Cheers for the woman! She screamed and screamed. A woman! Doesn't know' what fear is. The murderer threatened her. The redhead. It's always the Reds. He tore her collar off. No shooting. Of course not. Nobody heard a shot. What did he say? Someone must have invented the shot. The dwarf. Where is he? Inside. Rush the doors! No one else can get in. It's full up. What a murder! The woman had a plateful. Thrashed her every day. Half dead, she was. What did she marry a dwarf for? I wouldn't marry a dwarf. And you with a big man to yourself. All she could find. Too few men, that's what it is. The war! Young people to-day ... Quite young he was too. Not eighteen. And a dwarf already. Clever! He was born that way. I know that. I've seen him. Went in there. Couldn't stand it. Too much blood. That's why he's so thin. An hour ago he was a great, fat man. Loss of blood, horrible! I tell you corpses swell. That's drowned ones. What do you know about corpses? Took all the jewellery off the corpse he did. Did it for the jewellery. Just outside the jewellery department it was. A pearl necklace. A baroness. He was her footman. No, the baron. Ten thousand pounds. Twenty thousand! A peer of the realm ! Handsome too. Why did she send him? Should he have let his wife? It's for her to let him. Ah, men. She's alive though.
He's
the corpse. Fancy dying like that! A peer of the realm too. Serve him right. The unemployed are starving. What's he want with a pearl necklace. String 'em up I say! Mean it too. The whole lot of them. And the Theresianum too. Burn it! Make a nice blaze.
Inside the scene was as bloodless as it was bloody outside. As soon as the people started crowding in, the glass panel of the door splintered into a thousand fragments. No one was hurt. Therese's skirt protected the only person who was in real danger, Fischerle. Scarcely had he been seized by the collar than he croaked out: 'Leave me go! I'm his keeper!' He pointed to Kien and said over and over again: 'I tell you, he's mad. I'm his keeper. Take care, he's dangerous. I tell you he's mad. I'm his keeper.' No one took any notice of him. He was too small; they expected great things. The only person on whom he made an impression took him for the corpse and told the people outside. Thérèse went on screaming. She was doing well. If she stopped people might go away and leave her. While one half of her savoured her happiness the other sweated with fear at what might come next. Everyone pitied her. They comforted her; she was frightened. The lift-attendant even laid his hand on her shoulder. He emphasized the fact that this was the first time he had done such a thing in twenty-six years. She must calm herself. He asked it as a personal favour. He could sympathize. He was the father of three himself. She could come back to his own home if she liked. She would be able to recuperate there. For twenty-six years he had never asked anyone else. Thérèse took good care not to stop screaming. He was hurt. He even took his hand away. Without demeaning himself, he declared, she must have gone out of her mind with terror. Fischerle pounced on his assertion and whimpered: 'But I tell you, this one's mad; she's quite O.K. You can take it from me, I know about madmen! I'm the Keeper!'
Although a couple of officials with nothing better to do had taken him in charge, not a soul paid the slightest attention to him. All eyes were fixed on the redhead. He had let himself be seized and held quite quietly, without knocking out half a dozen; not once, even, had he let out a bellow. But this unearthly stillness was followed by a gigantic thunderclap when they tried to disentangle him from Kien. He wouldn't give up the Professor, he clutched him tight and with his right hand hurled back his attackers. His thoughts straying to his darling daughter, he bathed Kien in a flood of loving words: 'Professor — you're my only friend! Don't forsake me! I'll hang myself! It wasn't my fault. My only friend! I'm a retired policeman! Don't be angry! I'm goodness itself!'
So stunningly vociferous was his affection that everyone at once recognized Kien as the burglar. Everyone quickly saw through the mockery and was delighted with his own penetration. Everyone was penetrating; everyone felt how just was the vengeance which the redhead was about to take, with his own hands, on the criminal. He had seized him by the arm. He pressed him to his heart and told him what he thought of him. A big fellow like that wanted to take his own revenge, but even those who held him back could not but admire him, this hero, who would do it all himself; they would do just the same in his place, they were doing it, they were in his place. They even accepted the hard kicks they were now inflicting on themselves.
The lift-attendant thought his dignity here better safeguarded. He gave up the woman, out of her mind with fear, and now laid on the shoulders of the raging man a fleshy but considerable hand. Neither too loud nor too low, he informed him that for twenty-six years no lift had gone up or down without him, for twenty-six years he had kept order in this place, and never before had such a thing happened, he gave his personal guarantee. His words were lost in the din. As the redhead didn't even notice, he leaned confidentially over his ear and explained-that he sympathized perfectly. For twenty-six years he had been the father of three himself. A fearful punch sent him reeling back to Thérèse. His cap rolled on the floor. He recognized that something must be done and went for the police. No one had had this idea yet. Those closest to the scene of action regarded themselves as the police, those further off hoped to advance to that stage. Two of them now took it on themselves to carry both the parcels of books to a place of safety. They used the trail blazed by die lift-attendant, and shouted out: 'Mind your backs !' on all sides. Those parcels ought to be handed in at the cloakroom before anyone stole them. On the way they decided to investigate the contents first. They vanished undisturbed. No other parcels were stolen, because there were no others.
Thanks to the lift-attendant, even the police — who had a sub-station in the Theresianum itself—smelt a riot. Since four principals were named by their informant, they set off for the scene of action, six strong. The lift-attendant had clearly described the place. But he lent them his help just the same, and led the way. The crowd jostled admiringly about the police. Their uniforms cover a multitude of actions, permitted to others only when the police are not there. People readily made room for them. Men who had fought hard for good places, gave way at once to uniforms. Less determined natures gave way too late, brushed against the sacred material and trembled with awe. Everybody pointed at Kien. He had tried to steal. He had stolen. Everyone had always known he was a thief. Thérèse was respectfully treated by the police. She was the victim. She had discovered the crime. She was evidendy married to the redhead as she hurled glances of loathing in his direction. Two policemen took up their stand on her right and on her left. As soon as they saw her blue skirt, their respect changed to smiling familiarity. The four others dragged Kien from the clutches of his red victim; without force they could hardly do it. The redhead clung with determination to the thief. For one reason or another this must be the thief's fault, for he was, after all, the criminal. The caretaker imagined he was being arrested. His terror grew. He bellowed to Kien for help. He was a retired policeman! Dear Professor! Don't let them arrest me! Let me go! My daughter! He lashed wildly about him. His strength exasperated the police. Still more, his assertion that he was one ofthem. A engthy struggle developed between them. All four policemen were careful to spare their own skins. If they didn't, where would they be in their profession? They hit out at the redhead from all directions and in every possible manner.
The onlookers divide into two parties. The hearts of one beat for the heroic redhead, of the others for the law. But not only their hearts. The men's fists itch, a shrill sound comes from the throats of the women; so as not to involve themselves with the police, all fall on Kien. He is beaten, battered, trampled on. His restricted surface area affords only restricted satisfaction. They unite therefore to wring him out like a wet rag. He knows he's in the wrong; that's clear from his saying nothing. Not a sound does he utter, his eyes are closed, nothing can open them.
Fischerle couldn't bear the sight any longer. Ever since the police appeared on the scene, he had been thinking incessantly of his employees, waiting for him outside. For a moment the money in Kien's pocket held him back. The idea of regaining it in the presence of six policemen intoxicated him. But he took care not to put it into action. He watched out for a favourable moment for escape. None came. All on edge, he watched Kien's tormentors. Whenever they touched the pocket into which he had stuffed the money, a sword went through his heart. This torture smote him to the ground. Blind with pain he saved himself by crawling between the nearest legs. The physical excitement of the inmost circle of spectators was to his advantage. Further afield, where no one knew of his existence, they began to notice him. As plaintively as possible, he screeched: 'Ow, I can't breathe, lemme out!' Everyone laughed and hastened to help him. Instead of the thrills of the lucky ones in the front rank, they were getting at least a bit of fun. Not one of the six policemen had spotted him; he was too low on the ground, his hump for once didn't register. Even in the street he was often held up without the slightest criminal pretext. To-day he was lucky. He slipped away unnoticed in the vast crowd round the Theresianum. For a whole quarter of an hour his employees would have been waiting for him. His armpits were intact.
The police remained calm in the face of Kien's executioners. They were fully occupied. Four of them struggled with the redhead; two flanked Thérèse. She must not be left alone. She had long since stopped screaming. But now she began again: 'Harder! Harder! Harder!' She beats time for the wringing out of that wet rag, Kien. Her guards try to quieten her. As long as her excitement continues in this abandoned way, they feel any interference on their part would be useless. Therese's encouragements are intended equally for the four bold spirits who are beating the rage out of the caretaker. She's had enough of it, letting him pinch her. She's had enough of it, letting him rob her. Her fear of the police gives way to feelings of pride. People in her position can do as they please. She gives orders here. That's right. She is a respectable woman. 'Harder! Harder! Harder!' Thérèse dances up and down, her skirt sways. A powerful rhythm seizes on the crowd. Some sway this way, some that, the zest of the movement increases. The noise swells to a unison, even non-participants are panting. Little by little laughter dies away. Business comes to a standstill. At the remotest counters in the building they pause, listening. Hands are cupped to ears, fingers lifted to lips, talking is prohibited. Anyone daring to offer an object for pawning would have been met with mute indignation. The Theresianum, always alive with action, is filled with a gigantic calm. One panting breath alone reveals that it still lives. Allliving creatures in its huge population draw in one single deep breath together, and together, ecstatic, breathe it out again.
Thanks to this general mood the police at length managed to restrain the caretaker. Two of them applied the come-along, a third watched his feet, which alternately struck out, or sought to manœuvre the Professor closer to him. The fourth restored order. The mob were still belabouring Kien, but there wasn't much pleasure in it now. He behaved neither like a human being nor like a corpse. The wringing process provoked not a sound from him. He might defend himself, cover his face, twist about or at least jerk; all sorts of things were expected of him but he was just disappointing. A type like this must have had a lot to answer for, but when you didn't know what it was, you couldn't take it out of him proper. Disgusted and glad to be rid of a wearisome task, they yielded him to the police. With great self-control they restrained themselves from turning their free fists on each other. Each looked at the others, and at the sight of his neighbour's suit, became clothed once more, and recognized in his fellow-combatants, colleagues and friends. Thérèse cried: 'There now!' What else could she order them to do. She would have liked to go, and squared head and elbows for the task. The policeman who had taken Kien in charge, was astonished at the placidity of this creature, with a row like this on his conscience. He had suffered most at the hands of the redhead, and consequently loathed his wife. She must come along too. Her two bodyguards joyfully took her in charge. They were shamed at their idleness, since the other four had risked their lives against the redhead. Thérèse came quiet, for they could do nothing to her. She would have come, anyway. She fully intended to do both men down at the police station.
Another policeman, noted for his excellent memory, counted the prisoners on his fingers, one, two, three. Where is the fourth? he asked the lift-attendant. The latter had watched the whole fight with an injured expression, and had just finished brushing his cap when all his enemies had been arrested. Now he thawed; he knew nothing about a fourth. The policeman with the memory asserted he had himself reported four combatants. The lift-attendant protested vehemently. He had kept order here for twenty-six years. He was the father of three. He supposed he could count as well as anyone. Other voices supported him. No one knew anything about a fourth. The fourth was an invention; the fourth was an invention of the thief's to mix the clues. That cunning dog knew why he was keeping his trap shut. Even the policeman with a memory was satisfied with this explanation. All six policemen had their hands full. The three prisoners were cautiously manoeuvred through what remained of the glass door and the crowd. Kien brushed against the only fragment of glass still remaining and cut his sleeve open. When they reached the police station, blood was trickling from it. The few remaining curious who had followed as far as this, contemplated it in amazement. This blood they found incredible. It was the first sign of life Kien had given.
Almost all the crowd had dispersed. Some of them had gone back behind their counters, others were offering goods with imploring or defiant countenances. But the officials unbent so far as to exchange, even with these poor devils, a word or two on the event. They accepted the opinions of people towards whom it was their highest duty to turn a deaf ear. As to the object of the crime, no united opinion was reached. Some said it was jewellery, or else what was all the fuss about? Books, said others, for it happened in the book section. More respectable gentlemen referred to the evening papers. Of the conflicting views, the majority leant towards money. The officials pointed out, more gently than usual, that people with so much money rarely came to the public pawnbroking establishment. But perhaps they were coming away after completing a transaction. This too had to be ruled out, for every official was sure he would have recognized them if he had dealt with them. Some still regretted the redheaded hero, most of them had forgotten him already. To prove their finer feelings, they were sorrier for his wife, even though she was no chicken. Not one of them would have married her. It had all been a waste of time, but pleasant while it lasted.