I found Herr Adamowski’s guests even more disagreeable than I did the host himself. They were delighted with his faux clown act, wallowed in his sweat, so to speak. The graceless laughter of the men, and Theophila’s idiotic, vacuous enthusiasm were better suited to a fairgrounds sideshow than a kaffeeklatsch. In a word: I was in bad company, and, as usual, profited greatly from the experience.
For my own insights were immediately deepened and strengthened as he went on riding his hobbyhorse.
“Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, and I suddenly realized that his relentless holding forth was meant as a provocation for Aunt Paulette. “Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, you don’t realize how much of being a journalist is really about innate aptitude. Take, for example, our young colleague from the other school, so to speak: Herr Alexianu of the Vocea. This youthful firebrand has literally been dubbed a knight of the press, and by someone to whom we also have a certain connection …” Laughter. “The slap that Herr A. received from this person — there’s no need to mention any names — was an act of initiation, a rite of admission, so to speak. The vague inclinations that had merely seethed beneath the surface of this young man suddenly took shape after this painful introduction to manhood. As I say: we are not molded by ourselves alone, by the inner core of our being, but from the outside as well — for example, by the general quality of the times, isn’t that right? The true man is revealed to himself and all others first by his enemies. Only when his hatred has a tangible goal does he come into his own, does he find himself. In this connection it is interesting to think of the theory postulated by the well-known Herr Năstase — I will spare a commentary.” Laughter. “According to him there is among men a very definite, let us say, measuring stick, for ranking individual prestige. And widespread feelings of insecurity come from the fact that this — again, let us call it a measuring stick — is seen in its proper proportion where it pertains to others, but in our own case is almost always viewed from above, and so appears foreshortened. Only the condition of exaltation reverses this image, because the elevation to a horizontal plane brings one’s own expanded capacity to view, while the optical illusion ceases to play tricks with regard to the other when the focus is on the other. But precisely in this state one should not underestimate the other …” Groaning laughter. “I don’t wish to make this mistake. As a journalist I am duty-bound to be objective …” Enormous merriment. “Therefore I am full of admiration for the upright hatred exhibited by Herr A…. All joking aside, Ladies and Gentlemen, we cannot pay enough attention to our young colleague’s journalistic success. His holy excitement has made him the guardian spirit of the entire press. His paper, the Vocea, which had the keen sense to hire him, is not the only one that has experienced an unprecedented upswing. I’m sure you know how much our own circulation has risen thanks to him, ever since my friend Feuer’s response rekindled the general interest in reading newspapers …” Merriment. “Recently this stimulating effect has spread elsewhere as well. The newspaper of the Ukrainian minority, Narodny Dym, which you see lying here, has published an incisive piece examining the general legal state of minorities in light of the purge-concept propounded by Herr Ali — exactly what people want to read, my friends, a true example of the press as mouthpiece for the public …” Laughter. “Other ethnic groups won’t be far behind, either. So you can see that the spirit that has filled our young genius is one of general enlivenment. And so please bear in mind that being a journalist entails a lot more than curiosity for events, joy in expressing yourself, and a certain talent for writing. You have to be animated by a specific will to assert yourself, rather like a washerwoman using indelible ink to number items of especially fine and beautiful clothing — all to make sure they are returned to the rightful owner …”
“Wonderful, Adamchik,” groaned Theophila, “truly wonderful. Where does he come up with all of this?”
“And to think that this act of will can be conjured by a slap on the face!” Herr Adamowski continued, teeth bared and monocle flashing. “Yes, my dear friends, once we realize that true human relations occur as chemical reactions, outside all logic and even morality, then we land smack in the middle of alchemy. What spirit guided the hand that with one stroke made a hitherto chaste youth into a man, a human being full of the desire and distress of his hatred — with no apparent cause, mind you — it’s impossible to have any delusion in the matter, this is not about motives, but a metaphysical rite of initiation, the meaning of which we are able to discern with increasing clarity as it plays out. I tell you, we live in a magical hour, and so it is our human duty to ask, and with the greatest concern: How is the general health of the assembly?”
“Fabulous, Adamchik,” said Theophila. “Ready for print. Amazingly clever. You’re outdoing yourself lately.”
Disgust filled me with a restless despair. I was now looking openly at Aunt Paulette, no longer pretending that I was reading my book, and I knew at once that she was lost. I understood that what drew her here was a similar despair, although hers was far deeper and more relentless. Her self-contempt formed a bond of kinship with these people. The terrible act of exposure contained in Herr Adamowski’s words must have transformed this contempt into lust. I recalled one of Herr Tarangolian’s lines: “Because if you live in a world so full of disdain and contempt, armed with nothing but your own scorned existence …” and a terrible pronouncement of the smirking Kunzelmann: “Humor is when people laugh in spite of everything …”
At that moment the doorbell rang, and Herr Adamowski got up, saying, “Aha, she decided to come after all …” and rocked out of the room to open the door for a new guest.
It was Tamara Tildy.
She entered with a shy, apologetic smile, nodded to all present, and said, when I was introduced to her, “How is your sister?” She smiled as she explained: “I once wanted to give his little sister my necklace. If I had only done so — but I had mislaid it somewhere, back then. Now I no longer have it.”