Chapter V
In his oldest clothes Köster had gone off to the income tax office. He meant to try to get our tax reduced. Lenz and I were alone in the workshop.
"Well, Gottfried," said I, "now for the old Cadillac!"
Our advertisement had appeared the night before. So to-day we might reckon on customers—if anybody came at all, that is. Anyway we must have the car ready.
First we went over the varnish with polishes. It took on a wonderful shine and already looked as if it had cost another hundred marks. Then we filled up the engine with the thickest oil there is. The pistons were no longer first rate, and knocked a bit. The thick oil made up for that and the engine ran wonderfully quietly. And in the gears and the differential we put plenty of grease to make them completely silent.
Then we drove her out. In the neighbourhood was a stretch of very bad road. We took her over it at fifty kilometres. The body rattled. We let a quarter of an atmosphere out of the tyres. That was an improvement. We let out another quarter. Now there wasn't a sound.
We drove back, oiled the squeaking bonnet, stuck a bit of rubber in between, put hot water in the radiator so that the engine would spring to it all right, and sprayed the car underneath once again with a petrol dust remover, so that it shone there as well. Then Gottfried lifted his hands to heaven. "Now come, blessed customer! Dearest possessor of a pocketbook, come! As the bridegroom awaiteth the coming of the bride, so we wait for thee!"
The bride kept us waiting. So we shoved the baker's puffing billy over the pit and began to take down the front axle. We worked steadily for some hours without speaking. Then I heard Jupp at the petrol pump start to whistle, "See what is coming here . . ."
I clambered out of the pit and looked through the window. A little, undersized man was walking around the Cadillac. He looked solid and respectable.
"Look here, Gottfried," I whispered, "do you think that's a bride?"
"Sure," said Lenz after the first glance. "Look at the expression. Suspicious already, before anybody is there. Get busy. I'll stay here in reserve—and come afterwards, if you can't manage it. Remember the tricks."
"Right." I went out.
The man looked at me out of cool, black eyes.
I introduced myself: "Lohkamp."
"Blumenthal."
That was Gottfried's first trick—introduce yourself. He said it created at once a more intimate atmosphere. His second trick was to hold back to start with and let the customer talk, and then hoe in later when the moment had come.
"You have come about the Cadillac, Herr Blumenthal?" I asked.
Blumenthal nodded.
"There she is, over there," said I, and pointed.
"I see that," replied Blumenthal.
I gave him a quick glance. Look out, thought I, a wily customer.
We walked across the yard. I opened the door of the car and started the engine. Then I kept quiet to give Blumenthal time to make his observations. He would be sure to find something to criticize; then I would start in.
But Blumenthal did not examine; he did not criticize either. Like me, he said nothing also and just stood there like a blockhead. There was nothing for it, I should have to take out my knife and fork.
I began to describe the Cadillac, slowly and systematically, as a mother her child, trying at the same time to worm out of the fellow whether he knew anything at all. If he were an expert then I must go more for the engine and the chassis; if he knew nothing, then for comfort and the knicknacks.
But as yet he betrayed nothing. He let me talk until I felt like a balloon.
"What would you want the car for? For the city or for travelling?" I asked at last, in the hope of contact that way. perhaps.
"For everything," explained Blumenthal.
"Aha. And would you drive it yourself or with a chauffeur?"
"Depends."
Depends. The man was no better than a parrot. He belonged to an order of Trappists, evidently.
To liven him up I tried to get him to try something. Usually that made customers more amenable. I was afraid he would go to sleep on me otherwise.
"The hood for such a large body is remarkably light," said I. "You just try to close it. You can do it with one hand."
But Blumenthal thought it was unnecessary. He could see it.
I flung the doors shut with a bang and rattled the handles. "Nothing worn. As tight as the taxes. Try them."
Blumenthal did not try. It was self-evident. A damned hard nut.
I led him to the windows. "Light as a feather to turn. Stay put, at any height."
He did not stir.
"And unbreakable glass," I went on, almost desperate. "An inestimable advantage. In the workshops there stands a Ford . . ." I told him the story of the baker's wife, improving on it a bit in that I smashed up a child as well.
But Blumenthal had an inner life like a burglar-proof safe.
"All cars have unbreakable glass," he interrupted. "That is nothing out of the way."
"With no car is unbreakable glass the general thing," I replied with mild sharpness. "At most, in a few types, the windscreen. But in no case the big side windows."
I sounded the horn and turned to a description of the inside comforts—the luggage carrier, the seats, the pockets, the switchboard; I went into every little detail; I even passed Blumenthal the cigarette-lighter, taking advantage of the opportunity to offer him a cigarette, to get at him that way perhaps—but he declined.
"I don't smoke them, thanks," said he, and looked at me in such a bored way that a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me—perhaps he did not want us at all, perhaps he had merely lost his way and wanted to buy something quite different—a machine for sewing buttonholes or a radio—and was just standing around here awhile, undecided, before going on.
"Let us make a trial run, Herr Blumenthal," I suggested at last, already well beaten.
"Trial run?" said he, as if I had said "railway station."
"Yes, trial run. You ought to see, of course, how the car runs. She lies on the road like a board. Might be on rails. And the engine pulls as if the heavy body were no more than a feather—"
"Ach, trial runs—" He made a belittling gesture. "Trial runs prove nothing. You find out only afterwards what's the matter with the car."
Of course, you cast-iron limb of Satan, thought I wrath-fully; or do you think I'm going to make you a present of it?
"Very well, then not," said I abandoning all hope. The fellow did not want it, that was clear.
But then he turned round suddenly, looked me full in the eyes, and asked softly and sharply and very quickly: "What's the car cost?"
"Seven thousand marks," I replied like a shot without flickering an eyelash. This chap must not see that I have to consider even for a moment. I knew that. One second's hesitation would have cost a thousand marks off the price. "Seven thousand marks net," I replied firmly, thinking, "and if you offer five you'll get away with it."
But Blumenthal offered nothing. He just gave me one short snort: "Much too dear!"
"Of course!" said I, and resigned the case.
"Why of course'?" asked Blumenthal, suddenly almost human.
"Herr Blumenthal," I replied, "where did you ever meet the man who ever answered anything else to a price?"
A suspicion of a smile stole over his face. "True. But the car is really too dear."
I could not believe my ears. There it was at last, the right note. The tone of the interested. Or was this only another damned twist?
At that moment a smartly dressed young fellow walked in the gate of the yard. He drew a newspaper from his pocket, compared the number of the house once more, and strode up to me. "Is there a Cadillac for sale here?"
I nodded and gazed speechless at the yellow bamboo cane and the pigskin gloves.
"Can I see it then?" he went on without turning a hair.
"This is it here," said I; "but perhaps you would not mind waiting a moment, I still have something to do. Won't you sit down inside awhile?"
The young swell listened a moment to the humming of the engine, made at first a critical, then an appreciative face, and let me conduct him to the office.
"Idiot," I growled at him and hastened back to Blumenthal.
"If you had once driven the car, you would think differently about the price," said I. "You can gladly have it to try for as long as you like. Or I could call some evening and take you for a trial run perhaps, if that suits you better."
But the momentary excitement had already flown. Blumenthal was again standing there like a glee-club president in granite.
"Never mind," said he, "I must go now. If I should want to have a trial run, I can always telephone."
I saw there was nothing more to be done for the present. This fellow was not to be talked into anything.
"Very well," I declared, "but won't you give me your phone number, so that I can let you know if somebody else seems to be interested?"
Blumenthal looked at me significantly. "Interested is still a long way from sold."
He took out a cigar case and offered me one: He was smoking already—Corona-Coronas, by Jove! He must have money like hay. But that was nothing to me now. I took the cigar.
He gave me a friendly handshake and left. I watched him go, and cursed him softly but thoroughly. Then I went back into the workshop.
"Well?" I was greeted by the young toff, Gottfried Lenz. "How did I do? Saw you writhing about there, and thought I'd lend a hand. Lucky thing Otto changed here for the Income Tax. Saw. his good suit hanging there, leapt into it, out the window and back in again—a serious buyer. Pretty good, eh?"
"Damned silly," I replied. "The fellow is slier than both of us put together. See this cigar? One mark fifty apiece. You've chased away a millionaire."
Gottfried took the cigar out of my hand, smelled it and lit it. "I've saved you from a swindler. Millionaires don't smoke cigars like this. They smoke ones at twenty-four a shilling."
"Rot," I answered. "Swindlers don't call themselves Blumenthal. They, call themselves Count Blumenau or some such."
"He'll come back again," said Lenz, optimistic as ever, and blowing smoke from my own cigar into my face.
"Not he," said I with conviction. "But how did you come by the bamboo waddy and the gloves?"
"A loan. Over the way, from Benn and Co. I know the salesgirl there. I think I might even keep the stick. I like it."
Pleased with himself, he twirled the thick cane in the air.
"Gottfried," said I, "you're wasted here. D'you know what—you should go into vaudeville. That's where you belong."
'"They've been ringing up for you," said Frida, Frau Zalewski's squint-eyed housemaid, as I came in unexpectedly at lunchtime.
I swung round. "When?"
"About half an hour ago. A lady."
"What did she say, then?"
"She'd call up again in the evening. But I told her it wouldn't be much use, you were never home in the evening."
I stared at her. "What? You told her that? Herrgott, it's high time someone taught you how to use a telephone."
"I know how to use a telephone," announced Frida loftily. "And you are as good as never at home of an evening."
"That's none of your affair," I cursed. "Next time you'll be telling her I have holes in my socks."
"I could if you like," retorted Frida, looking at me malevolently with her red inflamed eyes. We were old enemies.
I should have liked to stick her into her soup pot, but controlled myself, felt in my pocket, pressed a mark into her hand and asked in a conciliatory tone? "Did the lady not say her name?"
"No," said Frida.
"What kind of voice had she then? Rather deep and as if she were a bit hoarse?"
"I don't know," declared Frida phlegmatically, as if I had never pressed a mark into her hand.
"A pretty ring you have there on your finger,", said I. "Quite charming; now just think if you can't remember."
"No," replied Frida and malicious triumph shone in her face.
"Then go hang yourself," said I and left her.
Sharp on six I was home again. As I opened the door I was met by an unusual picture. In the passage, surrounded by all the women of the boardiing house, stood Frau Bender. "Just come here," said Frau Zalewski.
The cause of the gathering was a ribbon-bedecked baby about six months old. Frau Bender had brought it in a pram from the orphanage. It was a perfectly normal child, but the ladies were bending over it with expressions of ridiculous enchantment, as if it were the first baby the world had produced. They uttered clucking noises, clipped their fingers before the eyes of the little creature, and pursed their lips. Even Erna Bönig, in her dragon kimono, joined in this orgy of platonic maternity.
"Isn't he a charming little thing?" asked Frau Zalewski with swimming eyes.
"One will be able to tell that better in twenty or thirty years' time," said I with a sidelong glance toward the telephone. Let's hope a call wouldn't come just now while they were all assembled here.
"But take a good look at it," Frau Hasse insisted.
I looked. It was a baby like any other. I could discover nothing remarkable about it. At most it had terribly small hands, and it was extraordinary to think one had been just so tiny oneself once.
"Poor worm," said I, "little does he guess what is ahead of him. What sort of war has he arrived just in time for, I wonder."
"Don't be horrid," replied Frau Zalewski. "Have you no feeling?"
"Much too much," I explained, "or I wouldn't hit on such ideas." And so withdrew to my room.
Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. I heard my name and went out. Sure enough the whole gang was still there! They did not lower their voices even when I had the receiver to my ear and detected the voice of Patricia Hollmann, thanking me for the flowers. On the contrary, the baby, who was apparently the most sensible of them all and had had enough of the monkey business, suddenly started to howl.
"Pardon me," said I desperately into the telephone. "I can't catch what you say, there is a baby here having a fit; it's not mine though."
The ladies were hissing like a nest of cobra's to quiet the shrieking creature. They succeeded promptly in setting it off even louder. Now I did begin to perceive that it really was a remarkable child; its lungs must reach down to its knees, otherwise this shattering voice was not to be explained. I was in a difficult situation; while with my eyes I. was shooting angry glances at the mother complex before me, with my lips I was endeavouring to speak friendly words into the mouthpiece; from the crown of my head to the tip of my nose I was a thunderstorm incarnate, from the nose to the chin a sunny spring landscape; it is a mystery to me that in spite of everything I did contrive to fix an appointment for the next evening.
"You ought to install a soundproof telephone box," said I to Frau Zalewski.
But she was ready for me. "Why so?" she flashed back. "Have you so much to conceal?"
I said no more and made off. It is no use quarrelling with excited maternal instincts. They have the moral support of the entire world behind them.
We were to forgather that evening at Gottfried's. I had supper at a small pub and then went along. En route, by way of celebration, I bought myself a magnificent new tie at a smart outfitter's. I could not get over my susprise about how smoothly it had all gone, and I warned myself that to-morrow I must be as serious as the managing director of a burial club.
Gottfried's digs were a sight worth seeing. They were hung with souvenirs that he had brought back from South America. Gay raffia mats on the walls, several masks, a dried human head, grotesque pots, spears and, as pièce de résistance, an enormous collection of photographs that occupied one entire wall: Indian girls and Creoles—lovely, brown, lithe creatures of incredible grace and nonchalance.
Besides Lenz and Köster there were Braumüller and Grau. Oscar Braumüller, with sunburnt, copper head, was squatting on the arm of the sofa enthusiastically examining Gottfried's photographs. He was racer for a firm of car manufacturers, and had long been friends with Köster. He was driving in the race on the sixth, for which Otto had entered Karl. Massive, bloated and already fairly drunk, Ferdinand Grau was sitting at the table. As he caught sight of me he reached out his great paw.
"Bob," said he in a thick voice, "what do you want here among the damned? There is nothing here for you. Go away. Save yourself. While there is time."
I glanced across at Lenz. He winked at me. "Ferdinand is in high form. For two days now he has been drinking to the beloved dead. He has sold a portrait and got the money."
Ferdinand was a painter. And he would have starved long since, had he not had a specialty. He painted after photographs marvellously lifelike portraits of deceased persons, for pious relatives. He lived by it—quite well, in fact. His landscapes, which were excellent, nobody bought. This gave to his conversation a somewhat pessimistic tone.
"A licensed victualler this time, Bob," said he; "a pub keeper with a rich deceased aunt in vinegar and oil." He shuddered. "Horrible."
"Look here, Ferdinand," protested Lenz, "you oughtn't to use those harsh expressions. You live off one of the most beautiful of human traits, off piety."
"Nonsense," declared Ferdinand, "I live off the sense of guilt. What's piety but the sense of guilt? People want to square off all the things they have wished and done to the beloved dead while they were alive." He passed his hand slowly over his burning brow. "Just think how often my licensed victualler has wished his aunt in her grave! To make up, he now has her painted in the finest colours and hung above his sofa. He likes her better that way. Piety I Mankind remembers its few meagre good qualities only when it is too late. And then he comforts himself by thinking how very nasty he could have been, and counts it for righteousness. Virtue, kindliness, generosity—he desires that in others so that he can impose on them."
Lenz grinned. "You are attacking the pillars of human society, Ferdinand."
"The pillars of human society are covetousness, fear, and corruption," retorted Grau. "Man is evil, but loves the good—when others do it." He held out his glass to Lenz.
"So, and now pour me one and don't talk the whole evening. Let someone else get a word in."
I climbed over the sofa to where Köster was standing. An idea had suddenly occurred to me. "Otto, I want you to do me a favour. I want the Cadillac for to-morrow evening."
Braumüller interrupted his intensive study of a scantily clad Creole dancer.
"Can you take corners now, then?" he enquired. "I thought you could only drive straight ahead as yet, when someone else steered for you."
"Don't you worry, Oscar," I replied, "we're going to make mincemeat of you in the race on the sixth."
Braumüller almost choked with laughing.
"Well, what about it, Otto?" I asked eagerly.
"The car isn't insured, Bob," said Köster.
"I'll crawl like a snake and hoot like a bus. Only a few kilometres into the country."
Otto closed his eyes until they were narrow slits and smiled. "It's all right by me, Bob."
"You want the car, I suppose, to go with your new tie?" asked Lenz, who had come over. '"You shut up," said I, pushing him aside.
But he was not to be eluded.
"Show us, baby!" He felt the silk between his fingers. "Fine. Our boy as a gigolo. Strikes me he's going to a bride show."
"You haven't anything on me to-day, you quick-change artist," I replied.
"Bride show?" Ferdinand Grau lifted his head. "And why shouldn't he go to a bride show?" He became livelier and turned to me. "You do, Bob. You have the requirements for it. A certain simplicity is necessary for love. You have it. Keep it. It is a gift of God. Never to be gotten again once it is lost."
"Don't take it to heart too much, though, baby," said Lenz with a grin. "It's no shame to be born stupid. Only to die stupid."
"Now you be quiet, Gottfried." With one movement of his powerful paw Grau wiped him aside. "You don't come into it, you back-area romanticist. It's no pity about you."
"You just say your say, Ferdinand," said Lenz. "Expression always eases the soul."
"You, you are a malingerer," declared Grau. "A miserable escapist, that's what you are."
"So are we all," grinned Lenz. "We live only on, illusions and credits."
"Yes, indeed," said Grau surveying us from under his bushy eyebrows. "On illusions out of the past, and credits on the future." Then he turned to me again. " 'Simplicity,' I said, Bob. Only envious people call it stupidity. Don't you worry on that score. It's not a weakness; it's a gift."
Lenz wanted to interrupt. But Ferdinand went on. "You know what I mean. A simple courage, not yet eaten away by skepticism and over-intelligence. Parsifal was stupid. If he had been bright, he would never have conquered the Holy Grail. Only the stupid conquer in life; the other man foresees too many obstacles and becomes uncertain before he starts. In difficult times simplicity is the most priceless gift—a magic cloak that conceals dangers into which the super-intelligent run headlong as if hypnotized."
He drank a great gulp and looked at me with his immense, blue eyes, that sat in his lined face like a piece of the sky. "Never want to know too much, Bob. The less a man knows the simpler it is to live. Knowledge maketh free —but unhappy. Come, drink with me to simplicity, to stupidity and to the things that belong to it—to love, to faith in the future, to the dream of happiness; to magnificent stupidity, to the paradise lost. . . ."
He sat there, heavy and massive, suddenly sunk back into himself and his drunkenness, like a lonely hill of unassailable melancholy. His life had gone to pieces, and he knew that he would never assemble it again. He lived in his big studio and had a relationship with his housekeeper. The woman was tough and coarse; Grau, on the other hand, despite his great body, was sensitive and unstable. He could not get away from her and he probably did not care. He was forty-two years of age.
Though I knew he was only drunk, I felt a slight shudder to see him so. He did not come often; he generally drank alone in his studio. That soon gets one down.
A smile passed over his face. He pressed a glass into my hand.
"Drink, Bob. And save yourself. Think on what I've said to you."
"Right, Ferdinand."
Lenz opened the gramophone. He had a pile of Negro records and played several—about the Mississippi, cotton picking, and sultry nights on the blue, tropical rivers.
e newspaperman’s fascination that prevailed—or at least predominated—and left me dissatisfied with every analysis of Nazism. I wanted to see this monstrous man, the Nazi. I wanted to talk to him and to listen to him. I wanted to try to understand him. We were both men, he and I. In rejecting the Nazi doctrine of racial superiority, I had to concede that what he had been I might be; what led him along the course he took might lead me.