Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (33 page)

The furniture was covered with old brocade
and over it was thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful
Spanish jackets and mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.

There were many gods as well, silver and gold
Buddhas of all sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and
Genesha along with the absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan
tribes.

In between, where ever there was a free space
on the wall, hung framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a
savage Goya, small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth
and assorted colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of
Cambodia and Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s
name and a dedication.

There was furniture of all styles from all
cultures, thickly populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending
bric-a-brac.

All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet
killed the polar bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He,
himself, caught the mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung
there in the net with its three rows of teeth. He took these
poisoned arrows and this spear from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu
priest gave him this foolish idol and this tall silver priest’s
clothes hanger.

Single handedly he stole this black
thunderstone out of the forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank
with his own lips out of this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother
ritual with the chief of the Toba Indians on the swampy banks of
the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword he gave his best hunting rifle
to a Malay sultan in North Borneo and for this other long
executioner’s sword he gave his little pocket chess game to the
Vice Regent of Shantung.

These wonderful Indian carpets were presented
to him by the Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during
an elephant hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with
the blood of animals and people, he had received from the High
Priest of the dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–

His life lay in these rooms, every mussel,
every colored rag, reminded him of long past memories. There lay
his opium pipes, over there the large mescal can that had been
hammered together out of Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the
small tightly locked container of snake venom from Ceylon and a
golden arm band–with two magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been
given to him by an eternally laughing child in Birma. He had paid
many kisses for them–

Scattered around on the floor, piled on top
of each other, stood and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them.
They contained his new treasures–none had been opened yet.

“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.

A long Persian spear stretched through the
air across the large double window. A very large, snow white
Cockatoo sat on it. It was a Macassar bird from South Africa with a
high flamingo red crest.

“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted
him.

“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.

He climbed solemnly over the spear and down
to his stand. From there he clambered onto a chair and down to the
floor, came with bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto
his shoulder, spread out his proud crest and flung his wings out
wide like the Prussian eagle.

“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.

The white bird stretched out his neck and
Frank Braun scratched it.

“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy
that I’m back again?”

Frank Braun climbed halfway down the
staircase, stepped out onto the large covered balcony where his
mother was drinking tea. Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut
trees glowed like candles, further back, in the monastery garden,
lay an ocean of brilliant snow-white flowers. Brown robed
Franciscans wandered under the laughing trees.

“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.

His mother put her glasses on and looked,
“No,” she answered. “That is Father Cyprian.”

A green amazon squatted on the iron railing
of the balcony and as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky
little parrot came rushing up to it. It looked comical enough,
walking sideways, like a shuffling Galatian peddler.

“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita
real di España e di Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”

He pecked at the large bird, which just
raised his crest and softly said, “cockatoo”.

“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun
asked.

“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his
mother. “Nothing is safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up
the entire house.”

She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and
gave it to the bird on a silver spoon.

“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.

“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks
his soft, “’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”

“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of
that,” he laughed.

His mother said, “No, but I understand my
green Phylax much better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all
the languages of the world–always something new. Sometimes I lock
him up in the closet, just to get a half hour of peace.”

She took the amazon, who was at that moment
strolling across the middle of the table and attacking the butter,
and set the struggling bird back up on the railing.

Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind
legs and rested its little head on her knee.

“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you
like some tea?”

She poured tea and milk into a little red
saucer, broke off some white bread and a piece of sugar, putting
them in it as well.

Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden.
Two round hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the
young shoots. They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought
them out of the forest, from a school picnic. The male was named
Wotan and the female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their
grandchildren or great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound
near the white, blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried
his black poodle. Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer
they would bloom with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now,
for spring, his mother had planted many colorful primroses
there.

Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high
walls of the house, all the way up to the roof. There, twittering
and making noise were the sparrows.

“The thrush has her nest over there, can you
see?” asked his mother.

She pointed down to the wooden trellis that
led from the courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay
half-hidden in ivy. He had to search before he finally found
it.

“It already has three little eggs,” he
said.

“No, there are four,” his mother corrected
him. “She laid the fourth one this morning.”

“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of
them. It is beautiful here mother.”

She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh
yes, my boy–it is beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the
time.”

“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many
visitors as you used to?”

She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many
young people. They look after this old lady. They come to tea and
to dinner. Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to
visit me. But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you
aren’t.”

“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the
subject, described the various curiosities that he had brought back
with him, asked her if she wanted to be there when he unpacked.

Then the girl came up bringing the mail that
had just arrived. He tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly
at them. He paused, looked at one more closely. It was a letter
from Legal Councilor Gontram that briefly communicated what had
happened at his uncle’s house. There was also a copy of the will
and his expressed wish that Frank Braun travel over as soon as
possible to put the affairs in order. He, the Legal Councilor, had
been court ordered to act as temporary executor. Now that he, Frank
Braun, was once more back in Europe he begged him to take up his
obligation.

His mother observed him–she knew his smallest
gesture, the slightest movement of his smooth, sun tanned features.
She read in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that it
was something important.

“What is it?” she asked, and her voice
trembled.

“Nothing big,” he answered easily. “You know
of course that Uncle Jakob is dead.”

“Yes, I know that,” she said. “It was sad
enough.”

“Well then,” he nodded, “the Legal Councilor
has sent me a copy of the will. I am the executor and to become the
girl’s guardian as well. To do that I must go to Lendenich.”

“When will you leave?” she asked quickly.

“Well,” he said. “I think–this evening.”

“Don’t go,” she begged. “Don’t go! You’ve
only been back with me for three days and now you want to leave
again.”

“But mother,” he turned to face her. “It’s
only for a few days, just to put things in order.”

She said, “That’s what you always say, only a
few days–and then you stay away for years.”

“You must be able to see it, dear mother!” he
insisted. “Here is the will. Uncle has left you a right decent sum
of money and me as well–Something I certainly was not expecting
from him. We could certainly use it, both of us.”

She shook her head, “What should I do with
the money if you are not with me, my boy?”

He stood up and kissed her gray hair.

“Mother dear, by the end of the week I will
be back here with you. It is scarcely two hours by train.”

She sighed deeply, stroked his hands, “Two
hours–or two hundred hours, what is the difference?–You are gone
either way!”

“Adieu, dear mother,” he said, went upstairs,
packed only a small suitcase and came back out to the balcony.

“There, you see! Scarcely enough for two
days–Auf Wiedersehen!”

“Auf Wiedersehen, dear boy,” she said
quietly.

She heard how he bounded down the stairs,
heard the latch click as the door shut. She laid her hand on the
intelligent head of her little hound that looked at her with
faithful trusting eyes.

“Dear animal,” she spoke. “Now we are alone
again–Oh, only to go again, does he come here–when will we see him
again?”

Heavy tears fell from her gentle eyes, rolled
over the wrinkles on her cheeks, fell down onto the long brown ears
of the little hound. He licked at them with his red tongue.

Then down below she heard the bell, heard
voices and steps coming up the stairs. She quickly wiped the tears
out of her eyes, pushed her black lace scarf into place and
straightened out her hair. She stood up, leaned over the railing
and called down into the courtyard for the cook to prepare fresh
tea for the guests that had come.

Oh, it was good that so many came to visit
her, Ladies and Gentlemen–today and always. She could chat with
them, tell them about her boy.

Legal Councilor Gontram, whom he had wired
about his arrival, awaited him at the train station, took him with
to the garden terraces of the Royal Court, where he explained
everything to him that was important. He begged him to go at once
out to Lendenich, speak with the Fräulein and then early the next
morning come back into the office.

He couldn’t really say the Fräulein would
make trouble for him, but he had a strange, uncomfortable feeling
about her that made every meeting with her intolerable. It was
funny in a way, he had worked with so many criminals–murderers,
assassins, burglars, abortionists, and once he really got to know
them he always found that they were really pretty decent
people–with the exception of their crimes.

But with the Fräulein, whom you could not
reproach for anything, he always had the same feeling that other
people had toward the criminals he worked with. It must lie
completely in him–

Frank Braun requested that he telephone ahead
and announce his arrival to the Fräulein. Then he excused himself,
strolled through the park until he hit the road to Lendenich.

He walked through the old village, past the
statue of St. Nepomuk and nodded to him, stood in front of the Iron
Gate and rang, looking into the courtyard. There was a large gas
candelabra burning in the entrance where once a paltry little
lantern had glowed. That was the only change that he saw.

Above, from her window the Fräulein looked
down, searched the features of the stranger, and tried to recognize
him in the flickering light. She saw how Aloys sped up, how he put
the key in the lock more quickly than usual.

“Good evening young Master!” cried the
servant and the stranger shook hands with him, called him by name,
as if he had just come back to his own house after a little
trip.

“How goes it, Aloys?”

Then the old coachman hobbled over the stones
as quickly as his crippled leg would carry him.

“Young Master,” he crowed. “Young Master!
Welcome to Brinken!”

Frank Braun exclaimed, “Froitsheim! Still
here? Glad to see you again!”

He shook both hands vigorously. Then the cook
came and the wide hipped house keeper. With them came Paul, the
valet. The entire servants quarters emptied itself into the
courtyard. Two old maids pressed to the front, stretching their
hands out to him, but first, carefully wiping their hands on their
aprons.

“Jesus Christ be praised!” the gardener
greeted him and he laughed.

“In eternity, Amen!”

“The young Master is here!” cried the gray
haired cook and gave Frank Braun’s suitcase to the valet.

Everyone stood around him, everyone demanded
a personal greeting, a handshake, a friendly word, and the younger
ones, those that didn’t know him, stood nearby, staring at him with
open eyes and awkward smiles. Off to the side stood the chauffeur,
smoking his short pipe. Even his indolent features showed a
friendly smile.

Fräulein ten Brinken snapped her fingers.