“Of course I’m right. But just look what’s coming! Do you think that can be for us?”
It is for us. A roast chicken and asparagus. A meal for munitions makers. Eduard supervises the serving himself. He lets Freidank carve. “The breast for madame,” he commands.
“I’d rather have a leg,” Gerda says.
“A leg and a piece of the breast for madame,” Eduard directs gallantly.
“Go right ahead,” Gerda replies, “You are a cavalier, Herr Knobloch!” I knew you were!”
Eduard smirks with self-satisfaction. I cannot understand why he is putting on this act. I can’t believe he likes Gerda so much as to make her presents of this sort; more likely he is trying to snatch her away from me out of rage over our coupons. A retaliatory act of justice. “Freidank,” I say. “Take this skeleton off my plate. I don’t eat bones. Give me the other leg in return. Or is your chicken a one-legged victim of the war?”
Freidank looks at his master like a sheep dog. “That’s the tastiest of all,” Eduard explains. “The breast bones are very delicate to nibble.”
“I’m no nibbler. I’m an eater.”
Eduard shrugs his heavy shoulders and reluctantly gives me the other leg. “Wouldn’t you rather have some salad?” he asks. “Asparagus is very injurious to drunkards.”
“Give me the asparagus. I am a modern man with a strong tendency to self-destruction.”
Eduard floats off like a rubber rhinoceros. Suddenly I have an inspiration. “Knobloch!” I roar after him in the thunderous tones of Renée de la Tour.
He whirls around as though struck in the back by a lance. “What’s the meaning of that?” he asks me indignantly.
“What?”
“To roar like that.”
“Roar? Who’s roaring except you? Or don’t you want Miss Schneider to have some salad? If not, why offer it to her?”
Eduard’s eyes become enormous. One can see in them a monstrous suspicion growing into a certainty. “You—” he asks Gerda. “Was it you who called me?”
“If there is any salad, I’d like to have some,” Gerda answers, not knowing what it is all about. Eduard continues to stand beside our table. Now he firmly believes that Gerda is Renée de la Tour’s sister. I can see how he regrets that liver pâté, the chicken, and the asparagus. He feels that he has been horribly tricked. “It was Herr Bodmer,” says Freidank, who has crept up. “I saw him.”
But Freidank’s words make no impression on Eduard. “Speak when you’re spoken to, waiter,” I say to him carelessly. “You should have learned that from the Prussians! On your way now—go on spilling goulash sauce down the necks of unsuspecting guests. And you, Eduard, since you’re here, tell me whether this magnificant meal is a gift or are you going to want our coupons for it?”
Eduard looks as though he were about to have a stroke. “Hand over the coupons, you scoundrel,” he says dully.
I tear them out and lay the bits of paper on the table. “Who’s been playing the scoundrel here is open to question, you incapable Don Juan,” I say.
Eduard does not pick up the coupons himself. “Freidank,” he says, now almost voiceless with rage. “Throw this rubbish into the wastebasket.”
“Wait,” I say, reaching for the menu. “If we are going to pay, we are still entitled to dessert. What would you like, Gerda? Rote grütze or compote?”
“What do you recommend, Herr Knobloch?” asks Gerda, unaware of the drama going on inside Eduard.
Eduard makes a despairing gesture and departs. “Well then, compote!” I shout after him.
He jerks slightly and then goes on as though he were treading on eggs. Each second he expects to hear the drill sergeant’s voice again. I hesitate and then decide against it, as a more effective tactic. “What’s going on here all of a sudden?” Gerda asks.
“Nothing,” I reply, dividing the chicken bones between us. “Nothing but a small illustration of the great Clausewitz’s thesis on strategy: Attack when your opponent thinks he has won, and then at the point where he least expects it.”
Gerda nods uncomprehendingly and begins to eat the compote that Freidank has rudely slapped down in front of us. I look at her thoughtfully and decide never to bring her to the Walhalla again, but from now on to follow Georg’s iron rule: Never take a woman to a new place, then she won’t insist on going there and won’t run away from you.
It is night. I am leaning on the window sill of my room. The moon is shining, the heavy scent of lilacs drifts up from the garden. It’s an hour since I came home from the Altstädter Hof. A pair of lovers flits along the street in the shadow of the moon and disappears into our garden. I do nothing about it; when you are not thirsty yourself you are generous toward others—and now the nights are irresistible. Just to prevent accidents, I have put signs on the two precious memorial crosses with the inscription “Warning! May fall! Avoid broken toes!” For some reason or other the lovers seem to prefer the crosses when the ground is wet; no doubt because they can hold onto them more firmly, although you would think the medium-sized monuments would do equally well. I had the notion of putting up another sign recommending them, but I gave it up. Sometimes Frau Kroll rises early and, for all her tolerance, she would box my ears for frivolity before I could explain to her that before the war I was a prudish fellow—a characteristic that disappeared during the defense of our beloved fatherland.
Suddenly I see a square black figure coming along through the moonlight. I freeze. It is Watzek, the horse butcher. He disappears into his house two hours ahead of time. Perhaps he has run out of nags; horseflesh is much in demand these days. I watch the window. It lights up, and Watzek’s shadow wanders about. I wonder whether to tell Georg Kroll; but disturbing lovers is a thankless task and, besides, it may be that Watzek will go to sleep without noticing anything. That, however, does not seem to be happening. The butcher opens the window and stares right and left along the street. I hear him snort. He closes the shutters and after a while appears at the door with a chair in his hand, his butcher’s knife in the leg of his boot. He sits down on the chair as though to await Lisa’s return. I look at the clock; it is eleven thirty. The night is warm, and Watzek may sit there for hours. Lisa, on the other hand, has been with Georg for quite a while; the hoarse panting of love has already subsided. If she runs into the butcher’s arms she will no doubt find some plausible explanation and he no doubt will be taken in. Just the same, it would be better if nothing happened.
I creep down the stairs and tap out the beginning of the “Hohenfriedberger March” on Georg’s door. His bald head appears. I tell him what has happened. “Damn it,” he says, “Go and try to get him away.”
“At this hour?”
“Try it! Exercise your charm.”
I wander out, yawn, pause, and then stroll over to Watzek. “Nice evening,” I say.
“Nice evening, shit,” Watzek replies.
“Well, of course,” I concede.
“It won’t last much longer,” Watzek says suddenly and fiercely.
“What won’t?”
“What? You know exactly what! This filthiness! What else?”
“Filthiness?” I ask in alarm. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what do you think? Don’t you see it yourself?”
I glance at the knife in his boot and I already see Georg lying with throat cut among the monuments. Not Lisa, of course; that’s man’s old idiocy. “It depends on how you look at it,” I say diplomatically. I can’t understand why Watzek hasn’t already climbed through Georg’s window. It’s on the ground floor and open.
“All that will be atoned for,” Watzek declares grimly. “Blood will flow. The guilty will pay.”