Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (11 page)

She stopped. Her gaze followed his eyes to
the Privy Councilor. “Him, over there?”

She sounded disappointed. “What would he be
wanting?”

“Lucy,” screamed the man at her table.

“I’m coming,” she answered. “Not tonight. We
can talk about it tomorrow if you want. Come back here around this
time.”

“Stupid woman,” he whispered.

“Don’t be angry. He will kill me if I don’t
go with him tonight. He’s always that way when he’s drunk. Come
tomorrow–do you hear me? And leave the old man–Come alone. You
won’t need to pay if you don’t like it.”

She left him standing and ran over to her
table.

Frank Braun saw how the dark gentleman with
the starched felt hat bitterly reproached her. Oh yes, she had to
remain true to him–for tonight. He went through the hall slowly
looking at the prostitutes but couldn’t find any that looked
corrupt enough. There was still a last residue of self-respect,
some instinctive certainty of belonging to some other class of
society.

No, there were none of the lowest of the low.
The pert and saucy ones that had their own way, that knew what they
wanted to be, whores. He could hardly define what it was that he
was looking for. It was a feeling. She must love what she does, he
thought, and want no other. She would not be like these others that
through some chance unfortunate coincidence had wound up here.

These upright little women would have been
workers, waitresses, secretaries or even telephone operators if
their lives had only been just a little bit different. They were
only prostitutes because the coarse greed of males made it that
way.

No, the one he was looking for should be a
prostitute. Not because she couldn’t be anything else, but because
every inch of her body screamed for new embraces. Because under the
caresses of one lover, her soul already longed for the kisses of
another. She needed to be a prostitute just like he–he hesitated.
What was he? Tired and resigned, he finished his thought, just like
he needed to be a dreamer.

He returned back to the table, “Come uncle.
She is not here. We will go some other place.”

The Privy Councilor protested but his nephew
wouldn’t listen.

“Come uncle,” he repeated. “I promised you
that I would find someone and I will find her.”

They stood up, paid, went across the street
and then further to the north.

“Where,” asked Dr. Petersen.

The attorney didn’t answer, just kept
walking, and looking at the big signs on the coffeehouses. Finally
he stopped.

“Café–Drinks–Gentlemen,” he murmured. “That
would be right.”

These dirty rooms were furnished in every
style imaginable. To be sure, the little white marble tables stood
here as well and plush red sofas were stuck against the walls. The
rooms were lit with the same electric bulbs and the same
flat-footed waiters shoved through the crowd in sticky suit
coats.

But there was no pretense. Everything
appeared just as it really was. The air was bad, smoky and stuffy,
but when you breathed it in you felt better and freer somehow.
There was no constraint and students sat at nearby tables drinking
their beer and talking dirty with the women. They were all
confident, sure of themselves, as mighty floods of filth flowed out
of their lips. One of them, small and fat with a face full of
dueling scars appeared inexhaustible and the women neighed and bent
over writhing with resounding laughter.

Pimps sat around on the walls playing cards
or sitting alone, staring at the drunken musicians and whistling
along while drinking their schnapps. Once in awhile a prostitute
would come in, go up to one of them, speak a few hurried words and
then disappear again.

“This will do!” Frank Braun said. He waved to
the waiter, ordered cherry water and told him to send a few women
over to the table. Four came but as they sat down he saw another
going out the door, a tall, strong woman in a white silk blouse
with luxurious fiery red hair springing out from under a little
hat. He leaped up and rushed out into the street after her.

She went up the road slowly, indolently,
lightly rocking her hips. She curved to the left and entered into a
doorway. Glowing red letters arched over it, “North Pole Dance
Hall”. He stepped across the dirty yard after her and entered into
the smoky hall almost the same time she did but she didn’t notice.
She stood standing out in front looking over the dancing crowd.

It was noisy with yells and shouts; men and
women whirled around moving their legs till the dust flew high as
the harsh words of the Rix Dorfer howled through the music. It was
rough, crude and wild as the dancers pushed through each other and
the crowd was certainly growing.

He liked the Croquette and the Likette that
they danced over on the Montmartre and in the Latin Quarter on the
other side of the Seine and fell into them easily. They were
lighter, more grand and full of charm. There was none of that in
this shoving, seething mass, not the slightest twinge of what the
French girls called “focus”.

But a hot blood screamed out of the Rix
Dorfer, a wild passion was driving the dancers crazy throughout the
dance hall. The music stopped and the dance master collected money
in his dirty sweaty hands from the women, not from the men. Then he
bowed to the audience and gestured grandly for the band in the
gallery to start a new dance.

But the crowd didn’t want the Rhinelander.
They screamed at the conductor, yelling at him to stop but the
orchestra played on battling against the will of the dance hall,
secure high above and behind their balustrade.

Then the Maitre pressed out onto the floor.
He knew his women and his fellows, held them solidly in his hand
and would not be intimidated by drunken yells or threatening raised
fists. But he also knew when he had to give in.

“Play the Emil,” he called up. “Play
Emil!”

A fat female in a huge hat wound her arm
around the dance master’s dusty suit coat.

“Bravo, Justav. That was well done!”

His influence spread like oil over the raging
crowd. They laughed, pressed onto the dance floor, cried “Bravo”,
and slapped him whole heartedly on the back or playfully punched
him in the belly. Then, as the waltz began he broke out in song,
screaming and hoarse:

“
Emil, you are a plant,

You climb all over me!

Are always quick to kiss

And that’s why I love you!”

“Alma,” cried out someone in the middle of
the room. “There’s Alma!”

He left his partner standing, sprang up and
grabbed the red haired prostitute by the arm. He was a short dark
fellow with smooth hair curling tight against his forehead and
bright piercing eyes.

“Come,” he cried, grabbing her tightly around
the waist.

The prostitute danced. More daring than the
others, she pranced the waltz letting her partner whirl her quickly
around. After a few beats she was completely into the dance,
throwing her hips around, bending forward and backward, pressing
her body up against her partner in constant contact. It was
shameless, vulgar and brutally sensual.

Frank Braun heard a voice near him, saw the
dance master watching the prostitute with keen appreciation.

“Damn, that whore can swing her ass!”

Oh yes, she could swing her ass! She swung it
high and cheeky like a flag, like a storm filled banner of naked
lust, like the Baroness Gudel de Gudelfeld swung hers for the
applause of the Crown Prince.

She doesn’t need any ornaments thought Frank
Braun as his eyes followed her down the hall and back. He quickly
stepped up to her as the music stopped and laid his hand on her
arm.

“Pay first,” the dark haired man laughed at
him.

He gave the man a coin. The prostitute looked
him over with a quick look, examining him from top to bottom.

“I live nearby,” she said. “Scarcely three
minutes in the–”

He interrupted her, “It doesn’t matter where
you live, come with me.”

In the meantime back in the café the Privy
Councilor offered the women something to drink. They wanted sherry
brandy and asked if he could possibly pay their other tab, two
beers, pancakes and a cup of coffee. The Privy Councilor paid, then
tried his luck. He had a proposal to make and they might be
interested he said. But only one of them could accept his very
profitable offer and they would have to throw dice to see who got
it.

Thin Jenny laid her arm on his shoulder. “We
better roll those dice quick old man, that’s for sure! The ladies
and I–we want to know what an old goat like you can teach us in bed
that we don’t already know!”

Elly, a petite doll headed blonde seconded
her.

“What my friend means is don’t waste our
time. Bring on the money!”

She sprang up and got some dice. “Now
children, let’s find out who gets to accept the old man’s
proposal.”

But fat Anna, the one they called “The Hen”,
protested.

“I always lose at dice,” she said. “Won’t you
pay some consolation money, uncle, for the ones that don’t
win?”

“Certainly,” said the Privy Councilor. “Five
marks for each of you.”

He laid three fat pieces of silver on the
table.

“You are swell!” Jenny praised him and
confirmed it by ordering another round of Sherry-Brandy. She was
also the winner. She took the three pieces of money and handed them
to the others.

“There, you have your consolation money. Now
open up you old rascal and tell me all of the shameful things that
you want me to do. I am prepared.”

“Then listen dear child,” began the Privy
Councilor. “It concerns some very unusual things–”

“You are a man, aren’t you?” the prostitute
interrupted him. “I’m not a virgin anymore and haven’t been one for
a long time. Our dear God has some strange beasts running around in
his zoo and I’ve picked up a few things along the way. It will be
hard to show me something new.”

“But you don’t understand me at all, dear
Jenny,” said the Professor. “I demand nothing like that of you at
all. I want you to take part in a scientific experiment.”

“I knew it,” Jenny blurted out. “I knew
it–You are a Doctor aren’t you old man?–I had a Doctor once that
always began with scientific experiments–He was the greatest pig of
them all!–Now Prosit, uncle. That’s fine with me. I will fulfill
all of your delightful fantasies.”

The Privy Councilor toasted and drank to
her.

“We shall see soon enough how free from
prejudice you really are–To make it short, this concerns an
experiment with artificial insemination.”

“A what?” the girl started.
“Artificial–insemination? What’s the need for that?–The common way
seems to work well enough!”

The dark haired Clara grinned.

“I think it would be better to have an
experiment to prevent pregnancy.”

Dr. Petersen came to his master’s aid.

“Will you permit me to try and explain to
them?”

When the Privy Councilor nodded he gave a
little lecture about the basic concept, the results that had been
obtained so far and the possibilities for the future. He stressed
sharply that the procedure was completely painless and that all the
animals they had worked with up to now had remained completely
healthy.

“What kind of animals?” Jenny asked.

The assistant doctor answered, “Up until now
only rats, monkeys and guinea-pigs – ”

That set her off, “Guinea-pigs!–I might be a
pig–I’ve been called an old sow! But no one has ever called me a
Guinea pig! And you, you fat headed old hedgehog, want me to allow
you to treat me like a Guinea pig?–Never, do you understand! That
is something Jenny Lehman will not do!”

The Privy Councilor tried to calm her down,
gave her another schnapps.

“You don’t understand dear child–” he
began.

But she wouldn’t let him finish.

“I understand well enough,” she said. “I
should give myself up to some greasy beast–or be inoculated with
some filthy serum–or germ–I might even end up on your vivisection
table.”

She was getting into it now, becoming
overcome with anger and passion.

“Or I should bring some monster into this
world that you can show at the circus! A child with two heads and a
rat’s tail or one that looks half Guinea pig–I know where they
abort such monstrous things–and you want to breed them. I should
give myself up for that? Let you artificially inseminate me?–Look
out old pig–here is what I think of your artificial
insemination.”

She sprang up, bent over the table and spit
into the Privy Councilor’s face. Then she raised the little glass,
quietly drank it, turned quickly around and proudly walked
away.

At the same moment Frank Braun appeared in
the door and waved for them to come outside.

“Come here Herr Doctor, come here quick!” Dr.
Petersen called out to him as he was trying to wipe the Privy
Councilor clean.

“Now what’s going on?” the attorney asked as
he stepped up to the table.

The professor squinted at him. He appeared to
be bitter and angry. The three prostitutes were shouting in
confusion as Dr. Petersen explained what had happened.

“What should we do now?” he finished.

Frank Braun shrugged his shoulders, “Do?
Nothing at all. Pay and go–nothing else–By the way, I’ve found what
we need.”

They went out. The red haired prostitute
stood in front of the door waving down a taxi with her parasol.
Frank Braun pushed her inside, then let the Privy Councilor and his
assistant climb in. He called out the address to the coachman and
climbed in with the others.

“Permit me to make introductions,” he cried.
“Miss Alma–his Excellency Privy Councilor ten Brinken–and the good
doctor Herr Karl Petersen.”

“Are you crazy?” The professor began.