North (8 page)

"Komm,
Ivan!
Komm!"

Can't he stop pussyfooting? . . . I want to talk to him . . . it bugs me his roaming around this way . . . here he is! . . .

"Ivan . . . the other guests?"

"All weg!
all gone!"

So that's why there was room for us!

"And the coffee?"

His wife must have some downstairs . . . I slip him another hundred marks . . . he'll be rich if this goes on . . . Ivan is willing . . . he goes down and comes back with a tray, three bowls, a coffeepot, powdered milk, and a pile of black bread . . . loaves and slices . . .

"Sugar, Ivan. . ."

The sugar comes out of his pocket . . . big lumps . . . two apiece . . . nothing to complain about . . .

"Ivan . . .
Künstler
. . . bright as a new ruble! . . . maybe they'll send you home . . . you deserve it. . . to Siberia! . . . you'll open a palace hotel! . . .
nach Siberia!"

"Ach! ach! ach!"

We may as well enjoy ourselves . . . we're not here to weep! . . . our morale at the Steinbock Hotel was tops! Proof: we drank all his phony coffee, with his bread, if you can call it bread, half sawdust . . . and his sugar . . . pure saccharine . . . and lukewarm! . . .

"Hey, Ferd! Look at this!"

I go look out his window, I lift the curtain . . . Schinderstrasse is waking up . . . people coining and going . . . mostly crews picking up the junk . . . stones, rabble . . . still falling! . . . gangs of old men and women . . . they pick the stuff up, they make new piles . . . neat and orderly . . . pretty soon there won't be any more sidewalk, too many piles, too high, too wide, pyramids . . . I've told you, the house fronts that are left wobble, float, sway and flake in the wind . . . the scavengers come out of their holes at dawn . . . day rats . . . they don't work fast, not much enthusiasm, but plenty of order . . . old hands, old bodies, rheumatic, haggard, twisted . . . wonder where they eat? are they Russians? . . . Baltics?. . . down-and-outers from here?. . . they're all wearing pants . . . well, practically . . . the ones in skirts look more like men . . . they all seem to be smoking . . . smoking what? . . . pretty soon there won't be anything left of the houses . . . nothing but dust and craters . . . the Steinbock can expect to be a mound before long . . . there are two stories on the sidewalk already . . . those gangs of old gravediggers are working for the future! They make Hamlet look like a smalltime punk, a spoiled dialectician . . . he should have gone to work on the Castle, demolished it stone by stone . . . done him a lot of good! there wouldn't have been so many
alas alases
out of him! I saw those old people toiling, they looked like ghosts, not very quick I'll admit but extra conscientious, piling up those tiles . . . till there wasn't one left lying around . . . even looking across the street, in the other piles that came from the Steinbock, that belonged to our ruin . . . really hardworking . . . none of your slapdash slobs . . . Those crews . . . when the world is all ashes . . . when the whole planet's reduced to neutron sludge . . . they'll make little piles of those chemical compounds, say three four piles to a capital . . . five piles for Brooklyn-Manhattan . . . of course I'm joking! . . . well see what happens . . . now we're on Schinderstrasse . . . two piles for Paris! . . . we've lost the thread . . . I'll get back! . . . we look out at the street . . . those people put order in everything . . . not just bricks . . . everything falls . . . chimneys . . . drain pipes, bathtubs . . . but us there . . . what about our Photomaton?

"Do you remember where it is?"

"Oh yes. . . sure!"

That's good . . . right near the "Basler" . . . where they threw us out . . . Zip! A burst of energy! don't want the police looking for us! quick, our pictures! even if they are unrecognizable! I call Ivan . . . here he comes . . . I tell him not to touch anything . . . we're reporting to the police . . . won't be five minutes . . . no window-shopping! . . . Out there in the street I see that I really need a cane . . . I was picking myself up every three steps . . . I'm like the houses . . . wobbly . . . we pass through streets . . . probably the same . . . as full of old wrecks as ours . . . picking things up, piling . . . they're smoking too, anything they can lay hands on . . . dressed the same, rags and strings, semi-skirts and tag ends of pants . . . they talk about poverty in Shanghai, there's plenty of that wherever you go . . . ah, here's our Photomaton! . . . no trouble finding it! but what a mob! . . . I'm entitled to double priority . . . war invalid and doctor . . . my armband . . . "Bezons Passive Defense" . . . I put it on . . . fuck those other people, I go right in, so do Lili, Le Vig, and Bébert . . . mutterings! . . . I show them my red cross . . . they look . . . I proclaim in a loud voice . . . "Foreign Affairs!" . . . I'd tell them anything . . . that we're Beelzebub and his court . . . to get in to the young lady and not be thrown out for being late . . . the chick doesn't ask me any questions, she sits us down . . . each in front of a big glass eye . . . Le Vig wants time to think . . . a second . . . just long enough to pretty up . . . no soap! . . .
click! click! click!!
. . . we're taken . . . the technician can't wait. . . she shows us all the people outside . . . in half a second our three stools are occupied! . . . and us back on our feet . . . they develop them in the cubbyhole . . . two minutes . . . here they are! . . . I pay . . . we'll look at our mugs outside . . . plenty of time . . . we look . . . and look again . . . Lili, me, and Le Vig. . . we've changed! . . . the cop at the
Polizei
was right . . . I don't worry about my face very much, but this was rich! . . . those bulging eyes, case of "Basedow" pretty near . . . no cheeks! . . . flabby mouths, like drowned people . . . all three of us! . . . really horrible! three monsters! can't deny it! . . . how did we get to be monsters? . . . same as with the canes, just like that, all of a sudden'. . . my staggers started in Baden-Baden . . . we must have got those pop-eyed murderers' mugs at the Simplon . . . from shock? . . . we're real cute! . . . especially Le Vigan . . . comical . . . the charm boy, as entrancing in real life as on the stage or screen . . . the women all mad about him! he's just as goofy as we are in these "photomatons" . . . hunted, desperate . . . Lili too, so pretty, regular features, absolutely nothing criminal about her, here she's the murderous stepmother, her hair's a Sabbath tornado, a wicked old witch, when she's not twenty yet. . .

"Germany doesn't agree with us . . ."

So it seems . . .

"The cop'll say it's not us!"

You can say that again!. . . I foresee complications . . . better not go . . . come what may . . .

Hang around the streets? . . . not advisable . . . I wasn't accustomed yet to being identically myself but unrecognizable . . . Later on I got used to it . . . oh, thoroughly . . . to dragging a double around with me, a kind of dead man, a stiff with canes and worries . . . suppose some villain bumped you off . . . he'd only be sending you back to the cemetery you should never have left . . . me since 1914, not just in '44! . . . I've never voted and I know why, it's because they're waiting for me . . . the cemetery-keepers know who's who . . . pretty good idea of shapes and colors and memories . . . but what memories? flogging your brains won't help . . . they recognize you! . . . get back in that ditch! . . . in our case those pictures were no joke . . . the police would never accept them! . . . no use submitting them . . . I suggest . . . we're back at the Steinbock . . .

"We could try them on Ivan . . ."

Can't do any harm . . . he was right outside . . . I ask him what he thinks of our pictures . . . he takes them, turns them front and back . . . upside-down . . . doesn't know who it is . . . we've gone Picasso . . . shit creek! . . . they know you in court all right, well enough to send you up . . . or when they want to walk off with your furniture . . . then they make no mistake . . . Berlin was only a beginning, when you're an outlaw, anything can happen . . . I had no idea . . . never mind, well see . . . I order three more messkits and that little something for Bébert . . . when you've got pictures like that you may as well be generous . . . I fork out two more hundred mark notes . . . I don't know where Ivan stands on politics . . . but one sure thing: he can't say I'm stingy . . . I'm pretty certain there's nobody but us three at the Steinbock Hotel . . . that our two rooms are the only ones occupied. . . but even so they've still got a phone . . . I hear it ringing . . . pretty often actually . . . where can it be? . . . in the court, in his one-story shack? or in one of the craters? but who can be calling him? . . . Le Vigan is curious too . . . we can't very well ask him . . . well talk it over . . . We're expert at getting into Le Vig's room now . . . through his bricks . . . there's the street again, Schinderstrasse, the old men coming and going, scraping, sorting, piling . . . if the war lasts another ten years . . . with all those tiles and bricks . . . they'll make another street. . . here's Ivan with red cabbage and cream and the chunk of pale meat for Bébert . . . Lili calls my attention to something . . . across the street a house . . . one floor . . . seems to be hanging between the comerposts . . . like a hammock . . . the floors above and below are gone . . . blasted away! . . . and this floor like a shop window . . . a florist's shop in mid-air . . . roses, hydrangeas, clematis . . . slung like a hammock between two comerposts . . . all that's left of the building . . . this aerial mezzanine . . . and the main staircase . . . the only inhabited floor, I think, on the whole of Schinderstrasse . . . except our own plaster walls . . . our pads at the Steinbock Hotel. . .

"Ivan," I ask him . . . "Over there?"

I point across the street. . . the hanging shop . . .

"Da? da? blumen? geschäft?
. . . florist?"

"Nein!. . . nein! doktor
Faustus!"

Faustus? Well, if he says so . . . that mezzanine must be for weddings and funerals . . . bouquets and wreaths . . . we haven't seen any yet, but they must happen . . . why wouldn't they . . . we'd be glad to buy some flowers ourselves . . . to beautify our pads . . . in pots! . . . better homes! . . . geraniums . . . Lill wanted clematis . . . we talked it over . . . interior decoration, flowers . . . and grass for Bébert . . . Faustus, must have some . . . hm, Faustus! . . . first finish our messkits . . . and we started wondering some more . . . red cabbage with cream . . . where did whiskers get that cream? . . . pretty shrewd article with that hay-pitching look . . . or the red cabbage for that matter? . . . kidding aside . . . Now that we've finished eating suppose we take a look across the street . . . what have we got to lose? first to see if this Dr. Faustus really exists . . . and buy a couple of geraniums . . . truth or fiction . . . The sidewalk across the street is full of junkies . . . how dowe get up to that hanging garden? . . . well see . . . we go down . . . we cross the street . . . between two piles of bricks . . . we ask the way to the stairs . . . over there! . . . I see three flights of rope ladders . . . and then down again to the mezzanine! . . . some contraption! . . . rough going with my canes under my arm . . . must be quite a sight for our friend up there when his customers do a nose-dive . . . which is bound to happen now and then . . . ah, here we are . . . "Doktor Faustus". . . that's really his name . . . engraved on a copper plate . . . hanging on a wire . . . they're all
doktors
in Germany . . . doctor of floriculture? . . . hey, here he is . . . saw us coming . . . right off the bat he asks us in French:

"Whom have I the honor . . . ?"

"My wife . . . Monsieur Coquillaud ° . . . and myself . . ."

That's all I tell him . . . it's plenty . . . at first sight he's neither a vulgarian nor a brute . . . on the stout side . . . about fifty . . . with glasses . . .

"Follow me if you please . . ."

He goes ahead, he has a slight limp . . .

"I beg your pardon . . . I overheard you . . . the echoes in this empty building . . . I'm not a florist . . . I'm sorry . . . very sorry, Madame . . . a doctor, yes . . . but a doctor of law . . . an attorney. . ."

"Do forgive us, sir . . . a silly mistake . . . Ivan across the street should have told us . . ."

"The person you call Ivan knows nothing . . . his name is Petrov . . . he's stupid like all these Russians . . . a stupid, lying drunkard . . . all those people from the East . . . when they come here, you see, our mild manners bewilder them . . . they can't see straight, they can't hear straight, they don't know what they are . . . in their country they get flogged every day . . . when the beatings stop, they get delirious . . . that's what happened to this Petrov, whom you call Ivan . . . he takes me for a florist! . . . yes, I have flowers . . . but to adorn my apartment, not to sell . . . he drops in now and then . . . to sell me his cream . . . I've told him a hundred times: I'm a lawyer, Petrov!' . . . To make him remember, I should have to beat him black and blue . . . force of habit. . ." 

"Oh, certainly, sir, you're so right. . . so right!" 

"I adore flowers, in Breslau I had a whole garden of tropical flowers . . . two greenhouses . . ." 

"Ah, you're from Breslau?"

"Yes, Monsieur, and I believe I may say that my office wasthe biggest, the most important from Upper Silesia . . . to Vienna! . . . criminal and civil. . ."

"I take it, sir, that you've spent many years in France?"

"Yes, indeed . . . At Toulouse University I even did a thesis in French . . . about Cujas . . ."

"One need only hear you speak, sir . . . the very first words!"

"Then you'd say I spoke French fairly well?"

"Well? . . . Well? . . . better is inconceivable, sir . . . as no one in France speaks it today . . . except perhaps for a fewgreat writers . . . Duhamel, Delly, Mauriac . . . and perhaps . . ."

"Indeed? you really think so? . . . you give me great pleasure . . . do be seated . . . make yourselves at home . . . here, Madame . . . I believe this divan is more comfortable than my chairs, all secondhand, as you can imagine . . . I saved nothing from Breslau, not a single dossier! . . . and yourselves . . . if I may ask . . . are you here in Berlin as tourists? . . . do you know the city? . . ." "