Phantoms of Breslau (7 page)

“And on top of all that, these sailor’s hats!” Mock muttered to himself, forgetting that he was venturing into territory allocated to Wohsedt. “It
would have to be an exclusive and secret brothel for society ladies! A Chinaman in one room, a sailor in another, and a soldier in a third!”

The waiter serving Mock a third glass of schnapps listened to this monologue with surprise and interest, as did the two women of a certain age who were drinking cocoa liqueur at the next table. Mock looked at them intently and set his imagination to work – one of them approaches and asks him: “Kind sir, I would like a sailor … where can I find one?” He glanced again at the ladies nearby and realized how inauthentic such a hypothetical scene sounded. In fact the inauthenticity was so acute that he tasted its bitterness in his mouth. He decided to rinse it out with rowanberry schnapps.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 1ST, 1919
A QUARTER TO MIDNIGHT

Mock sat at a table in the dance hall of the Hungarian King Hotel and, holding a square bottle of gin to his eye, observed three couples dancing on an area marked out with coloured lights. The surrounding tables were occupied by a few lone men, all of whom were leaning on the railings encircling the floor, puffing out clouds of smoke, occasionally drinking from their glasses and watching the movements of the dancers. Beyond the tables and up a few steps were alcoves, some with cherry-coloured velvet curtains drawn across them, some with the curtains pulled back. The open alcoves shone with emptiness, and those that were closed resounded with women’s high-pitched laughter. Whenever the head waiter discreetly struck his little hammer against one of the iron curtain rods, Mock pricked up his ears and strained his eyes. The waiter would then draw the curtains aside, and the ladies would adjust their hair and run slender fingers over their velvety nostrils. There were not many men in the alcoves. Mock smelled sweat and face powder, as well as the scent
of perfume. The haughtiness with which they addressed the waiters made it apparent that the ladies belonged to high society. Their laughter, on the other hand, was quite plebeian, and greatly aroused the plebeian in Mock.

The orchestra played a shimmy in the rhythm of a funeral march and it was obvious that the musicians would have liked most of all to return to their former occupation, namely that of immersing their moustaches into enormous tankards of beer. The dance hostesses displayed a typical Monday-morning willingness to work as they turned with studied elegance in the arms of three merry dancers, while their eyes – which Mock could see quite clearly through the magnifying lens of the gin bottle – betrayed reluctance and indifference.

This observation made Mock think of women of ill repute, who – like dance hostesses tired out after a working Sunday – also concealed smooth apathy in their eyes. Eyes that would usually come to life three times in a session: once when the girl approached her client, once when she feigned pleasure and once when she took his money. In the first two situations, she was generally a poor actress; in the last, an efficient calculator. He remembered his reasoning: the dead men were clients, not employees of a brothel. The thought had been prompted when he had imagined one of the ladies sitting next to him in Michael’s restaurant asking for a sailor-stud, and the image had not rung true. Sensing this inauthenticity at the time, he had resolved to take the difficult and long road which he was going to describe at the briefing the following day in Mühlhaus’ office. He was going to question all the prostitutes in town, starting now. He poured his first glass of gin and conceded that he was going to stop at the one. He did not want to fall asleep. There was no way he wanted to fall asleep. Dreams were not his allies, either in this investigation or in life.

Mock the rationalist intended to begin his questioning at this very venue. He would fire the prostitutes with questions concerning clients
who had a penchant for leather underwear. If, however, someone had asked him why he had begun his explorations at the Hungarian King on Bischofstrasse, he would not have known what to say. Had he been sober, his answer would have been: “Because the lighting is good and the venue is made up of three ascending circles – the dance floor, the tables and the alcoves – so it has the best view. I need to start in a place like this before I bury myself in the dark corners of those forbidden dives near Blücherplatz.” Had he been drunk, he would have retorted: “Because the prettiest whores are here, and I want them – all at the same time.” Mock the rationalist did not want to permit the thought that something might be controlling him; he did not want to admit, with his petty bourgeois conscience, that his trousers concealed a ruthless and capricious demon. Right then it reminded him of its existence.

Mock removed the cold bottle from his burning cheek and acknowledged that the statement about the beauty of the girls working there was indeed true. He got up and made towards the steps leading down to the dance floor. As he walked by one of the alcoves, he heard a woman say to a waiter in a slurred voice: “Call me a cabby!” He passed, followed by the woman’s persistent: “I want a carter! Now! Immediately!” and the waiter’s reply: “Right this minute, at your service, my lady.” Mock stepped onto the dance floor and sensed the eyes of the men at the railings turn to him; the opera glasses and pince-nez belonging to the ladies in the alcoves burned into him; and the eyes of the female dancers enticed him. He asked one of them to dance, a petite, slim, red-headed girl with Jewish looks. He held her tight, and beneath the thin material of her dress he could feel the hooks of her brassiere. After a few wrong steps the girl helped him catch the rhythm. Not for long. Mock had no talent for dancing. After a while he realized that his partner’s dancing skills were not up to much either. Fortunately, the orchestra took a break and the weary musicians sank their noses into their frothy beer. The girl stood
helplessly in the middle of the dance floor, not knowing what to do with herself. Mock kissed her on the hand and offered his arm, aware of the ironic smiles of the lone drinkers and the astonishment of the ladies in the alcoves. “He kissed a whore on the hand,” he could almost hear them whisper.

The girl held him gently by the arm and allowed herself to be led to his table. She was very docile and devoured the snacks and drinks Mock bought for her with relish. She agreed with everything he said, which was not hard since he did not say much, nor did he ask for her opinion. She nodded automatically. But she did not consent when he proposed they spend the night together in a hotel. Instead she invited him to a room she rented in the house next door.

I.IX.1919

An ordinary school day. I was woken by the cries of children hurrying to school. I tried to get back to sleep. Despite tremendous tiredness, I did not succeed. This happens sometimes. You are dead tired, yet are not able to fall asleep. Maybe it is your daimon which prevents you from doing so.

It is noon. I am going to the Municipal Library.

Evening. Today I translated a number of pages from Augsteiner’s work. It is written in difficult Latin. It is as if some spirit is speaking through the author. Sentences are broken and unclear. Often there are no predicates. Yet one can look at them from a different angle: they are the notes of a scholar, lacking grammatical brilliance, yet abounding in the brilliance of truth. Augsteiner fascinates me more and more. According to him, Platonic notions are nothing other than souls. This is not, however, a primitive animism of reality. Augsteiner makes precise distinctions between souls. He divides them into active and passive on the one hand,
and potential and actual on the other. Objects have a passive soul, meaning they are ordinary reflections of the ideal, while human beings have an active soul, meaning they are independent reflections of the ideal. Independent in the sense that they possess the possibility of abstraction. This may take place actually or potentially. The author poses the question: How can a subject, that is, a human being, abstract the active soul? But unfortunately he does not offer an answer. His complex epistemological system, saturated with the ideals of Christian Rosenkreuz (not surprising, they lived at the same time!), lacks even the slightest nod towards spiritualism. There are no instructions whatsoever: How is one to set about it? How is one to abstract a man’s soul from him? This past night, I followed Gregorius Blockhus’ instructions and tried to perceive the souls leaving these four bodies at the moment of their deaths. I proceeded according to Blockhus’ writings. I opened up the energy channels in their bodies, did away with the blockages in their joints and arranged them just as he advised. By puncturing them at precise points, I took away their breath. According to Blockhus one cannot help but perceive such concentrated energy. I did not sense this energy. I failed. I do not know whether I understood Augsteiner’s difficult Latin correctly, or Blockhus’ instructions, which smack of superstition. Tomorrow I shall get down to Augsteiner’s work again. Maybe there will be other passages with instructions on how to proceed. Maybe Augsteiner will finally drop his haughty philosopher’s mask and assume the attitude of a classical spiritualist?

BRESLAU, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2ND, 1919
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

The small yard at Plesserstrasse 24, in the Breslau suburb of Tschansch, was full of the the usual morning bustle. Pastor Gerds’ maid was hanging bedlinen over the balustrade, while the concierge, Mrs Bauert, scrubbed
away at the wooden stairs that lead to the locksmith’s workshop at the back of the small building. Konrad Dosche, the retired postman, emerged from the lavatory, and a small ginger mongrel leaped at his feet with unrestrained joy. Streams of sunlight cut through the yard, and as the pump squeaked and tiny particles of dust soared above the linen recently thrashed by the strong hands of the pastor’s maid, an elderly man walked out into the yard. The skin on his face and hands was deeply furrowed, his eyes were bloodshot, and his breathing wheezy. He sat down heavily on a bench and whistled to the ginger dog, which raced up and began to fawn at his feet, all the while glancing at its master. Dosche approached the elderly man and shook his hand.

“And a very good day to you, Mr Mock.” Dosche’s face radiated delight. “How did you sleep?”

“Badly,” Willibald Mock said shortly. “Something stopped me getting to sleep …”

“A bad conscience, no doubt,” Dosche laughed, “gnawing away at you after yesterday’s game of chess …”

“What do I have to do” – Willibald Mock rubbed his eyes edged with crusts of pus – “to make you believe that I didn’t move that bishop when you were in the toilet?”

“Alright, alright,” Dosche reassured his friend, still smiling. “And how is your son? Had enough sleep yet? Got up, has he?”

“He’s just coming.” Relief registered on the old man’s face.

Eberhard Mock marched briskly across the yard. He walked up to his father and kissed him on the cheek. The old man did not detect a strong smell of alcohol and drew a long breath. Eberhard shook Dosche’s hand and an uncomfortable silence descended.

“I’m just on my way to the pharmacy,” Dosche said, to break it. “My dog’s got diarrhoea. Terrible diarrhoea. Can I get you anything?”

“If you’d be so kind, Mr Dosche,” replied the old man, “as to buy
us a loaf of bread from Malguth’s on your way. It has to be from Malguth’s”.

“I know, I know, Mr Mock,” Dosche nodded and told his dog: “You stay here, Rot. Mr Mock will look after you. You can crap in the yard but not under the bench!”

Dosche set off in the direction of Rybnikerstrasse. The old man played with Rot. Murmuring, he tickled him lightly on the neck while the dog growled and squirmed, catching the old man’s hand gently in its teeth. Eberhard sat down next to his father and lit his first cigarette of the day. He smiled at the events of the night. He realized he had not got around to asking the girl about any clients in leather underpants. “Never mind,” he thought, “yesterday I was there outside working hours. As of today, the actual investigation starts. I’ll ask her today.”

“It’s so early and you’re already awake, Father.” He blew smoke straight at the sun.

“Old people get up early. They don’t wander around in the night and they sleep in their own beds.”

“I didn’t drink that much yesterday. I’m conducting a very difficult case over the next few weeks. I’ve been seconded to the Murder Commission, and I’m no longer booking whores. You ought to be pleased, Father.”

“You’re always knocking it back and mixing with whores.” The old man’s stale morning breath engulfed Mock like a cloud. “You ought to get married. A man ought to have a son to hand him a tankard of beer when he comes home from work.”

Mock placed an arm on his father’s bony shoulder and rested his head against the wall. He imagined this idyllic scene: his future son, Herbert Mock, handing him a tankard of beer and with a smile turning to his mother at the kitchen stove. The woman nods approvingly, praises Herbert: “You’re a good boy, you’ve given your papa some beer”, and stirs the large pot on the hob. She is tall and handsome, her generous breasts
pressing tight against her clean apron, her skirt touching the pale, scrubbed floorboards. Mock strokes little Herbert’s hair, then walks up to his wife and holds her by the waist. Red hair frames her delicate face, the apron is a nurse’s apron, an appetizing smell emanates from the pot where syringes are being boiled. Mock lifts the lid and sees a decoction of bones. “Bones for shoe glue,” he hears his father say. Large globules float to the surface – human eyes.

Mock felt his lips burning, then shook his head and spat out the cigarette butt. A trickle of sweat flowed down from beneath his bowler hat. He looked about him. He was still sitting on the bench by the wall. His father was just disappearing through the gate. Mock got to his feet, picked up the cigarette butt – much to the concierge’s satisfaction – and hurried after his father. Willibald Mock had wanted to get home, but feeling tired he had sat down on a bench by the butcher’s shop. He was breathing heavily. Rot lay down beside him and hung his pink tongue out. Mock hurried over to his father, touched him on the hand and said: