The tone of command has its effect. Knopf comes to attention, his hand at the seams of his trousers. The moon is reflected in his wide-open eyes. “Knopf,” I say in ghostly tones, “you will be degraded to second-class private if I catch you at it again! You blot on the honor of the German soldier and the United Association of Retired Sergeants Major.”
Knopf listens, his head extended sidewise, like a moonstruck hound. “The Kaiser?” he whispers.
“Button up your pants and vanish!” I whisper hollowly. “And mark you this! Indulge in your nastiness just once more and you will be degraded and castrated. Castrated, I say! And now off with you, you slovenly civilian! Forward march!”
In consternation Knopf stumbles toward the door of his house. Immediately thereafter the pair of lovers start up out of the garden like two startled does and rush into the street. That, of course, was no part of my plan.
Chapter Fourteen
The Poets’ Club is meeting at Eduard’s. The expedition to the bordello has been decided on. Otto Bambuss hopes to achieve a blood transfusion for his verse; Hans Hungermann wants to gain inspiration for his “Casanova” and for a free-verse cycle to be called “The Demon Woman”—and even Mathias Grand, the author of the “Book of Death,” thinks he can pick up a few racy details for the final delirium of a paranoiac. “Why don’t you come along, Eduard?” I ask.
“Don’t need to,” he announces in a superior fashion. “I’m well taken care of as it is.”
“Really? Are you?” I know what he is trying to convey and I know it is a lie.
“He sleeps with all the chambermaids in his hotel,” Hungermann explains. “If they refuse he dismisses them. He is a true friend of the people.”
“Chambermaids! That’s your style! Free verse, free love! Not I! Never in my own house! That’s an old axiom.” “What about guests?”
“Guests.” Eduard turns his eyes toward heaven. “There, of course, you often can’t help yourself. The Countess von Bell-Armin, for example—” “For example of what?” I ask as he falls silent Eduard demurs. “A cavalier is discreet.” Hungermann is overcome by an attack of coughing. “A fine discretion! How old is she? Eighty?”
Eduard smiles scornfully—but the next moment his smile drops from his face like a mask with a broken cord: Valentin Busch has entered. He, to be sure, is no man of letters, but nevertheless he has decided to come with us. He wants to be present when Otto Bambuss loses his virginity. “How goes it, Eduard?” he asks. “Nice that you’re still alive, eh? Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to enjoy that affair with the countess.”
“How do you know about it?” I ask in surprise. “I overheard you outside in the hall. You’re talking pretty loud. No doubt you’ve had quite a bit to drink. However, I do not begrudge Eduard the countess. I’m just happy that it was I who could rescue him for that.”
“It was long before the war,” Eduard declares quickly. He scents a new attack on his wine cellar.
“All right, all right,” Valentin replies agreeably. “Since the war you’ve no doubt had some fine experiences too.” “In times like these?”
“Especially in times like these! When a person is desperate he is more open to adventure. And countesses, princesses, and duchesses are especially desperate just now. Inflation, the republic, no more imperial army, that’s enough to break an aristocratic heart! How about a good bottle, Eduard?”
“I haven’t time just now,” Eduard replies with presence of mind. “Sorry, Valentin, but it won’t do tonight. The club is making an expedition.”
“Are you going along?” I ask.
“Of course! As treasurer! I have to, after all! Just didn’t think of it a moment ago! Duty is duty.”
I laugh. Valentin winks at me and says nothing about coming with us. Eduard smiles because he thinks he has saved himself a bottle. Thus everything is in complete harmony.
We get up and leave. It is a splendid evening. We are going to No. 12 Bahnstrasse. The city has two cat houses, but the one in Bahnstrasse is the more elegant. Situated outside the city, it is a small house surrounded by poplar trees. I know it well; I spent part of my youth there without knowing what it was. On afternoons when we had no school we used to go out of the city to fish and look for salamanders in the streams and ponds and butterflies and beetles in the fields. On one particularly hot day, in search of an inn where we could get lemonade, we arrived at No. 12 Bahnstrasse. The big taproom on the ground floor looked like any other taproom. It was cool, and when we asked for soft drinks we got them. After a while a number of women in morning gowns or flowery clothes came in too. They asked us what we were doing and what class we were in at school. We paid for our drinks and came back again on the next hot day, this time with the books we had taken with us to study outdoors beside a stream. The kindly women were there again and took a motherly interest in us. We found the place cool and agreeable, and since no one but us was there in the afternoons, we stayed and began to do our lessons. The women looked over our shoulders and helped us as though they were our teachers. They saw to it that we did our written exercises, they checked up on our marks, they listened to us recite what we had to learn by heart, and gave us chocolate when we were good or, on occasion, a gentle cuff on the ear when we were lazy. We thought nothing of it; we were still at that happy age when women mean nothing. After a short time, these ladies, smelling of violets and roses, assumed the roles of mother and teacher; they were very much interested in us, and the moment we appeared at the door one of these goddesses was likely to ask excitedly: “How did the geography class go? All right?” At that time my mother was in the hospital a great deal, and so it happened that I got part of my education in the Werdenbrück cat house, and I can only say that it was stricter than if I had got it at home. We went there for two summers, then we began to take long hikes and so had less time, and my family moved to another part of the city.
After that I was in Bahnstrasse on one other occasion, during the war. It was the day before we were to go to the front. We were just eighteen, some of us not quite eighteen, and most of us had never been with a woman. But we didn’t want to be shot without knowing something about it and therefore we went, five in number, to Bahnstrasse, which we already knew from that earlier time. Business was brisk there and we were served with schnaps and beer. After we had drunk enough to feel courageous we decided to make our bid for happiness. Willy, more enterprising than the rest of us, was the first. He stopped Fritzi, the most seductive of the ladies present. “Darling, how about it?”
“Sure,” Frizi replied through the noise and smoke, without really looking at him. “Have you the money?”
“More than enough.” Willy showed her his pay and the money his mother had given him to have a mass said for his safe return from the war.
“Well then! Long live the fatherland!” Fritzi said somewhat absently, looking in the direction of the beer bar. “Come upstairs!”
Willy got up and put his cap on the table. Fritzi stared at his fiery red hair. It was of a unique brilliance and, of course, she recognized it at once even after seven years. “Just a minute,” she said. “Isn’t your name Willy?”
“Absolutely!” Willy declared beaming.
“And didn’t you use to do your schoolwork here?”
“Right!”
“So—and now you want to come up to my room with me?”