“Come on upstairs. My room’s untidy, but I can make coffee for you there. If you like, you can play the piano while the water’s boiling.”
Riesenfeld dismisses the idea. “I’ll stay here. This combination of midsummer, early morning, and tombstones pleases me. Makes me hungry and full of zest for life. Besides, the schnaps is here.”
“I have much better schnaps upstairs.”
“This is good enough for me.”
“All right, Herr Riesenfeld, just as you like!”
“Why are you shouting so?” Riesenfeld asks. “I haven’t grown deaf since you saw me.”
“It’s the joy of seeing you, Herr Riesenfeld,” I reply even louder, laughing noisily.
I can’t very well explain that I am trying to waken Georg by my shouting and alert him to what has happened. To the best of my knowledge, the butcher, Watzek, went off last evening to a meeting of the National Socialists, and Lisa has profited by the occasion to come over and, for once, spend the whole night in her lover’s arms. Without knowing it, Riesenfeld sits as guardian at the chamber door. The only way out for Lisa is through the window.
“All right then, I’ll bring the coffee down,” I say, running up the stairs. I take the Critique of Pure Reason, wrap a string around it, let it down through my window, and swing it back and forth in front of Georg’s window. Meanwhile, with a colored crayon I write a warning on a sheet of paper: “Riesenfeld in the office,” make a hole in the paper and let it flutter down the string and come to rest on the volume of Kant. Kant knocks a couple of times, then I see Georg’s bald head. He makes a sign to me. We carry on a short pantomime in which I make it clear to him in sign language that I can’t get rid of Riesenfeld. It’s impossible to throw him out: he is much too important for our daily bread.
I pull the Critique of Pure Reason up again and lower my bottle of schnaps. A beautifully molded arm seizes it before Georg can reach it and pulls it inside. Who knows when Riesenfeld will leave? Meanwhile, the lovers will be faced by the sharp pangs of morning hunger after a wakeful night. I lower my bread and butter and a piece of liverwurst.
The string comes back with a lipstick smear on the end. I hear a sighing sound as the cork is drawn from the bottle. Romeo and Juliet had been rescued for the time being.... I am serving Riesenfeld his coffee when I see Heinrich Kroll coming across the courtyard. That national businessman, in addition to his other repulsive qualities, is an early riser. He calls that opening his breast to God’s great outdoors. By God, of course, he understands not a kindly legendary figure with a long beard, but a Prussian field marshal.
He gives Riesenfeld a hearty handshake. Riesenfeld is not overjoyed. “I wouldn’t in the world keep you from anything,” he declares. “I’m just drinking my coffee here, and then I’ll doze a bit until it’s time for business.”
“Nothing could take me away from such a valued guest and one we see so seldom!” Heinrich turns to me. “Haven’t we any fresh rolls for Herr Riesenfeld?”
“We’ll have to ask the widow of the baker Niebuhr or your mother,” I reply. “Apparently no baking goes on in the republic on Sundays. Reprehensible slackness! It was different in imperial Germany.”
Heinrich shoots me an evil glance. “Where is Georg?” he asks abruptly.
“I am not your brother’s keeper, Herr Kroll!” I reply Biblically and loudly to let Georg know about this new danger.
“No, but you’re an employee of my firm! I must insist that you speak respectfully.”
“This is Sunday. Sundays I am not an employee. I came down at this hour of my own free will and out of love for my profession and a friendly regard for the manager of the Odenwald Granite Works. Unshaven, as perhaps you have noticed, Herr Kroll.”
“There you see,” Heinrich says bitterly to Riesenfeld. “That’s why we lost the war. Because of the slackness of the intellectuals and because of the Jews.”
“And the bicyclists,” Riesenfeld replies.
“What do you mean the bicyclists?” Heinrich asks in amazement.
“What do you mean the Jews?” Riesenfeld asks in return.
Heinrich is puzzled. “Oh, I see,” he says presently, displeased. “A joke. I’ll wake up Georg.”
“I wouldn’t do that, Herr Kroll,” I remark loudly.
“Kindly spare me your advice!”
Heinrich approaches the door. I do nothing to stop him. If Georg has not locked it, it must be because he is dead.
“Let him sleep,” Riesenfeld says. “I have no desire for serious conversation at this hour.”
Heinrich stops. “Why don’t you take Herr Riesenfeld for a walk to see God’s great outdoors?” I ask. “When you get back, the household will be up, eggs and bacon will be sputtering on the stove, rolls will have been baked especially for you, a vase of freshly picked gladioli will be here to relieve the dark paraphernalia of death, and Georg will be shaved and smelling of cologne.”
“God forbid,” Riesenfeld mutters. “I’ll stay here and sleep.”
I shrug my shoulders in perplexity. There’s nothing I can do to get him out of the room. “All right,” I say. “In the meantime, then, I’ll go and praise God.”
Riesenfeld yawns. “I had no idea people paid so much attention to religion here. You toss God’s name around like a pebble.”
“That’s our misfortune! We have all become too intimate with Him. Formerly God was the familiar of emperors, generals, and politicians. At that time we were not supposed to so much as mention His name. But I’m not going to pray. Just to play the organ. Come with me!”
Riesenfeld declines. Now there is nothing more I can do. Georg must help himself. All I can do is leave—then perhaps the others will go too. I’m not worried about Heinrich; Riesenfeld will know how to get rid of him.
The city is fresh with dew. I still have more than two hours before mass. Slowly I walk through the streets. It is an unfamiliar experience. The breeze is mild and as soft as though the dollar had fallen two hundred and fifty thousand marks yesterday instead of rising that much. For a time I stare at the peaceful river, then into the show window of Bock and Sons, producers of mustard which they package in miniature casks.
A slap on the shoulder wakes me up. Behind me stands a tall thin man with watery eyes. It is the town pest, Herbert Scherz. I look at him with distaste. “Shall I say good morning or good evening?” I ask. “Is this before or after your night’s rest?”
Herbert belches noisily. A stinging exhalation almost brings tears to my eyes. “All right, so it’s before your rest,” I say. “Aren’t you ashamed? What was the occasion? Gaiety, solemnity, irony, or just desperation?”
“A founders’ day,” Herbert says. “Yes, a founders’ day celebration,” he repeats complacently. “My induction into a club. I had to entertain the executive committee.” He looks at me for a while and then bursts out triumphantly: “The Veteran Riflemen’s Association! You understand?”
I understand. Herbert Scherz is a collector of clubs. Other people collect postage stamps or war mementos—Herbert collects clubs. He is already a member of more than a dozen—not because he needs so much entertainment but because he is passionately interested in death and in elegant funerals. It is his ambition to have, some day, the most stylish funeral in the city. Since he cannot leave enough money for that, and no one else would pay for it, he has hit on the idea of joining every possible club. He knows that when a member dies the club provides a ribboned wreath, and that’s his first goal. Besides, a delegation always follows the hearse with the club’s flag, and he counts on that likewise, He has figured that with his present memberships he is already sure of two cars full of wreaths, and that’s not by any means all. He is just sixty and his plenty of time to join more clubs. Of course he is a member of Bobo Ledderhose’s singing club, without ever having sung a note. He is an interested inactive member of it, just as he is of the Springerheil Chess Club, the All-Nine Bowling Club, and the Aquatic and Terrestrial Pterophyllum Scalare Club. I introduced him to the Aquatic Club because I thought he would give us an advance order for his tombstone in return. He did not So now he has managed to get into a riflemen’s club. “Were you ever a soldier?” I ask.