The man who has caused all this is called Valentin Busch. Together with Georg and me he makes the third pest in Eduard’s existence, and more than that—he is pest, cholera, and paratyphus all in one. “You look blooming, my boy,” Valentin declares cheerfully.
Eduard laughs hollowly. “Appearances are deceptive. I’m consumed by cares, taxes, rents, and thieves—”
He is lying. Rents and taxes mean nothing in the inflation; you pay them after a year, that amounts to not paying at all.
The sums have long since lost all value. And the only thief Eduard knows is himself.
“At least there’s something to eat on your bones,” Valentin replies, smiling pitilessly. “That’s what the worms in Flanders thought when they scurried out to get you.”
Eduard squirms. “What’s it to be, Valentin?” he asks. “A beer? Beer is the best thing in this heat.”
“I don’t think it’s too warm. But the best is just good enough to celebrate the fact that you’re alive, you’re right there. Give me a bottle of Johannisberger Langenberg, from the Mumm estate, Eduard.”
“That’s sold out.”
“It is not sold out. I have Just inquired from your wine waiter. You have more than a hundred bottles left. What luck that it’s my favorite!”
I laugh. “What are you laughing at?” Eduard screams in rage. “You’re a fine one to laugh! Bloodsucker! You’re all bloodsuckers! You bleed me white! You, your bon vivant of a tombstone dealer friend, and you, Valentin! You bleed me white! A trio of parasites!”
Valentin winks at me and goes on solemnly, “So that’s your thanks, Eduard! And that’s the way you keep your word! If I had but known at that time—”
He rolls back his sleeve and stares at a long, jagged scar. In 1917 he saved Eduard’s life. Eduard, the K.P. noncom, had been transferred at that time and sent to the front. On one of his first days there a shot caught him in the calf of the leg while he was on patrol in no man’s land. Shortly after, he was hit again and was losing blood fast. Valentin found him, tied him up, and dragged him back to the trenches. In doing so he got a shell fragment in his arm. But he saved Eduard’s life, who otherwise would certainly have bled to death. Eduard, overflowing with gratitude, offered Valentin as reward the right to eat and drink whatever he liked in the Walhalla as long as he lived. Valentin, with his uninjured left hand, shook with Eduard in agreement. Georg Kroll and I were witnesses.
That all seemed harmless enough in 1917. Werdenbrück was far away, the war was near, and who knew whether Valentin and Eduard would ever return to the Walhalla? They did return; Valentin after being wounded twice more, Eduard round, fat, and reinstated as mess boss. At first Eduard was really grateful, and when Valentin came to visit him he occasionally even went so far as to serve flat German champagne. But the years began to wear on him. The trouble was, Valentin established in himself Werdenbrück. Formerly he had lived in another city; now he moved into a little room near the Walhalla and appeared punctually at Eduard’s for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The latter soon bitterly regretted his ill-considered promise. Valentin was a hearty eater, especially now that he had no more cares. Perhaps Eduard would have been able to console himself to some extent for the food; but Valentin drank too, and gradually he developed a connoisseurship in wine. Formerly he had drunk beer; now he drank only the finest vintages and thereby contributed to Eduard’s desperation far more than we did with our miserable coupons.
“Oh, all right,” Eduard says in despair as Valentin holds out the scar for his inspection. “But eating and drinking means drinking at meals, not between times. Drinking between meals is something I did not promise.”
“Just look at this miserable shopkeeper,” Valentin replies, nudging me. “In 1917 he didn’t think that way. Then it was: Valentin, dearest Valentin, rescue me and I’ll give you everything I have!”
“That’s not true! I never said that!” Eduard screams in falsetto.
“How do you know? You were half crazy with fear and half dead from loss of blood when I dragged you back.”
“I couldn’t have said that! Not that! Even if it had meant Instant death. It’s not in my character.”
“That’s right,” I say. “That skinflint would rather have died.”
“That’s what I mean,” Eduard explains, sighing with relief at finding aid. He wipes his forehead. His locks are wet from alarm at Valentin’s last threat. He is already picturing the Walhalla up for sale. “Very well, for this one time,” he says quickly so as not to be pushed further. “Waiter, a half-bottle of Moselle.”
“Johannisberger Langenberg, a whole bottle,” Valentin corrects him. And, turning to me, “May I invite you to have a glass?”
“And how!” I reply.
“Stop!!” Eduard says. “That was definitely not in the agreement! It was for Valentin alone! As it is, Ludwig costs me a lot of money every day, that bloodsucker with his worthless coupons!”
“Quiet, you prisoner,” I reply. “This is the working out of karma. You open fire on me with sonnets, and so I bathe my wounds in your Rhine wine. Would you like me to send a certain lady a twelve-line poem in the manner of Aretino about this situation, you defrauder of the man who saved your life?”
Eduard swallows the wrong way. “I need fresh air,” he mutters in a rage. “Extortioner! Pimp! Have you no sense of shame?”
“We save our shame for more serious matters, you harmless dealer in millions.” Valentin and I touch glasses. The wine is splendid.
“How about our visit to the house of sin?” Otto Bambuss asks, sideling up timidly.
“We’ll go without fail, Otto. We owe that much to art.”
“Why is it more fun to drink in the rain?” Valentin asks, refilling his glass. “It really ought to be the other way around.”
“Do you have to have an explanation for everything?” I say.
“Of course not. What would become of conversation then? It just occurred to me.”
“Perhaps it’s just herd instinct, Valentin. Liquids to liquids.”
“Maybe so. But I piss more too, on days when it’s raining. That at least is strange.”
“You piss more because you drink more. What’s strange about that?”
“You’re right.” Valentin nods in relief. “I’d never thought of it. Are there more wars, too, because more people are born?”
Chapter Twelve
Bodendiek swoops through the mist like a big, black crow. “Well,” he asks jovially, “are you still busy improving the world?”
“I’m observing it,” I reply. “Ah ha! The philosopher! And what have you found out?”
I look into his cheerful face, red and shiny under the broad-brimmed hat. “I’ve found out that Christianity hasn’t substantially improved the world in two thousand years,” I reply.
For an instant the benevolent superiority of his mien is altered, then it is restored. “Don’t you think you’re a trifle young for judgments like that?”
“Yes—but don’t you think that blaming someone for his youth is a poor argument? Can’t you think of anything better?”
“I can think of a great deal. But not to confute absurdities like that Don’t you know that all generalization is a sign of superficiality?”
“Yes,” I reply wearily. “I only said that because it’s raining. Besides, there’s something in it. I’ve been studying history the last few weeks when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Why? Also because of the rain?”
I ignore this harmless quip. “Because I want to guard myself against premature cynicism and provincial despair. Simple faith in the Trinity can’t blind everyone to the fact that we’re busily preparing for another war—after just losing one, which you people and your reverend colleagues of the various Protestant denominations blessed and consecrated in the name of God and love of one’s neighbor—you, I must admit, with some reserve and embarrassment, but your colleagues more cheerfully, in uniforms, rattling the cross and shouting for victory.”