The End of the World in Breslau (26 page)

“Listen to me, Knüfer,” Mühlhaus said, no longer sleepy. “It’s one o’clock in the morning and your story is exhausting me like a market vendor’s yapping. You’ll get the money – I’ll send it
poste restante
. Every casino has a good postal counter. You’ll have it by tomorrow. You say these boys lost a lot. I tell you, if you’re lying to me, you’re not just going to lose a lot like them – you’re going to lose everything.”

Mühlhaus replaced the receiver and padded back to the bedroom. He lay down next to his wife and sensed that she was not asleep.

“Who was that? Jakob?” she asked anxiously.

“The dentist,” murmured Mühlhaus, and then a black, dull drowsiness deprived him of any desire to crack more equally apposite jokes.

WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 15TH, 1927 A QUARTER PAST ONE IN THE MORNING

Knüfer wiped the sweat from his brow, replaced the receiver and descended the marble stairs to the secret casino. As he went through the heavy oak door screened by a purple curtain, his head spun at the sight of naked, smiling women pushing columns of chips across the fiery-red silk that covered the tables. Knüfer had visited many a brothel in his time, some of them incredibly expensive and exclusive, in which he had celebrated the conclusion of various profitable and complex assignations, but he had never seen so many beautiful women at once. He noted moreover that it was not their naked bodies, but their smiles that made him so uneasy and excited. In their lips, parted to reveal moist pearls of teeth, lay encouragement and promise, to be bought with money and honour.

The men in the room threw down mountains of chips to reach the limit that would turn this promise into a reality, suggesting that the price they
paid was well worth it. Only von Stietencrott and the male employees distributing champagne and snacks played no part in this fight, but merely handed out cash and bills of exchange for chips. This he did now when Knüfer handed him a bill for the sum of two thousand marks. Inviting him to play, von Stietencrott indicated the table at which General Basedov and another dozen or so flushed addicts were gaming for the fair-haired beauty. Sophie was making mistakes, but no-one at the table held it against her. Besides, her errors were set right by a dark-haired croupier who was initiating her that evening into the mysteries of the profession. She differed from Sophie not only by the colour of her hair; she was not completely naked but wore a very short, white, starched apron, which highlighted her olive complexion.

Knüfer pushed his way through to Sophie’s new place of work and lit a cigarette, keenly observing what was happening at the table. He soon grasped that Sophie would be a bonus prize for the player who won five thousand marks. Every thousand marks was represented by a little elephant of green jade. General Basedov had three such elephants in front of him, the blond man with the goatee two, and the remaining players, none. All were playing in a very similar way, and rather safely. They would place one hundred marks on specific numbers and lose again and again. In this way they did not lose very much, and still kept open the option of playing
va banque
. This last move was played more often than not by those who had no elephants. When there was one pile of chips left in front of them, they would place it on red or black to win a second pile, and place single chips on specific numbers. This was rather boring but not enough to deform Sophie’s beautiful smile with yawns.

Knüfer made five small piles of chips worth three hundred marks each and shook his head when the dark-haired croupier offered to exchange them for elephants. At the command “
faites vos jeux
”, which Sophie pronounced with an impeccable accent, as if she had spent her entire life
in Monte Carlo, Knüfer placed everything on red. The move did not impress his fellow players, nor did it influence their own tactics. The ball rattled and the detective closed his eyes. When he opened them he saw Sophie’s smile. The new croupier was pushing towards him his five stacks along with five additional ones. Her heavy breasts swayed above the table and Knüfer could have sworn her nipples rubbed against the shiny silk. He stood up, nodded to the waiter and drank two glasses of champagne, one after the other.

“How much do you have to win for the bonus prize?” he asked the player next to him, who turned out to be the man with the goatee.

“Five,” was the reply. Knüfer put everything on black.

“Careful,” sang the dark-haired croupier. “You’re staking everything on a win, sir. Should this man win, gentlemen, the game at this table may come to an end – that is, if he decides to take the bonus prize immediately. Is that what you think will happen, Mr …”

“Knüfer. I don’t know what’s going to happen,” his voice was hoarse. “I’m not going to say anything in case I prevent it from happening.”

Basedov and the man with the goatee, apparently the only players who could afford it, bet – on red and black, odd and even – a sum that, if they won, would give them six thousand marks each. Knüfer closed his eyes and tried to numb his sense of hearing. He could not, however, do so entirely; the tremendous applause that broke out at the table was still audible. He opened his eyes and got his reward: the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his life. Unfortunately, a similar smile was bestowed on the man with the goatee. Knüfer looked at the ball. It rested in the pocket two black.

“Mr Knüfer and Mr Wlossok have won six thousand marks each as Mr Knüfer bet on black and Mr Wlossok on even,” roared the voice of von Stietencrott, who had appeared at Sophie’s table along with most of the guests in the secret casino. “Only these two gentlemen may continue to
play on, and whoever has the advantage – be it only one mark – is entitled to the bonus prize in the form of Madame Lebetseyder’s favours.”

Knüfer, thinking of Sophie’s hardened nipples on the purple silk, placed everything on red. Wlossok also bet six thousand marks on even. Knüfer closed his eyes once more and a moment later heard applause. Sophie was smiling radiantly. At Wlossok.

WIESBADEN, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16TH, 1927 HALF PAST SEVEN IN THE EVENING

Knüfer suppressed a yawn and scratched his head, which was heavy with nicotine. Although he had slept for more than thirteen hours, with only brief periods of wakefulness, he felt short of sleep, haggard and over-full after the meal he had just eaten, after yesterday’s champagne, after the furiously erotic dream he had had and the strong sense of frustration that had been eating away at him ever since Wlossok had won Sophie and left the secret casino with her at five in the morning, his pockets full of chips. Knüfer had then drunk a bottle of champagne and dragged himself to his room at Hotel Nassauer Hof, supported under the arm by the caring Richter. He now glanced at his watch and established that the allocated fourteen hours that Wlossok spent with Sophie, which he himself had been denied by the “roulette goddess”, had passed. Knüfer stood in front of the small hanging mirror behind the folding screen, washed his face in a basin of cold water and slicked down his hair, which stuck out here and there. He then shaved, put on a shirt-front and dinner jacket and, sucking the finger he had pricked on a cufflink, went down to the casino in order to cash the money from Mühlhaus.

He collected two thousand marks from the postal counter and entered the main hall, showing the doorman his invitation from the day before.

“I’m for the secret casino,” he whispered.

“Very good, sir.” The uniformed official pulled back the plush curtain behind which lay the entrance to hell.

Knüfer raised his hand in greeting and descended the broad, winding stairs. A moment later, he found himself within windowless walls, amongst tables of purple silk and extremely beautiful, naked sirens who lured him with their shaking hips, swaying breasts and French refrain. But the one he could not stop thinking about was not among them. Knüfer lit a cigar and waited. Then he heard Mühlhaus’ voice ringing in his heavy head:
I tell you, if you’re lying to me, you’re not just going to lose a lot like them – you’re going to lose everything
.

Like all gamblers, Knüfer was superstitious. He took Sophie’s absence at the table and Mühlhaus’ voice booming in his skull as warnings. He should not repeat the game with the money he had just received from Mühlhaus because he had lost that sum once already, the day before, and had written out a bill of exchange for it. So he would have to give it back to von Stietencrott, rent a room in Wiesbaden, and not leave town for two months so that he could keep a discreet eye on Sophie. Thanks to a fortunate coincidence, Mühlhaus’ instructions had been obeyed and von Stietencrott had effectively “isolated” Sophie for two months. Fate had done Knüfer’s work for him and he should have been jumping for joy to be able to spend his winter holiday peacefully and happily in Wiesbaden, but this momentary joy was wrecked by a grating voice that kept repeating:
I tell you, if you’re lying to me, you’re not just going to lose a lot like them – you’re going to lose everything
.

“You’re going to lose everything if you lose sight of Sophie even for a second,” added Knüfer, and abandoned the secret casino and its naked croupiers’ siren song.

WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 16TH, 1927 NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

Von Stietencrott struggled to contain his mounting rage. With furious, bloodshot eyes he glared at Markus Wielandt, who was smiling ironically as he exhaled columns of cigarette smoke through his nostrils, and forced himself to adopt a polite tone:

“My dear Mr Wielandt, you have already explained it to me. You’re a writer and you want to describe Miss Lebetseyder’s mental state the day after – as you put it – ‘she was consumed as an additional reward in erotic roulette’. I’m pleased you approach your work so seriously, but Miss Lebetseyder is indisposed just at the moment and doesn’t wish to see anyone.”

“They must really have been at it,” Wielandt remarked, “if she can’t stand at a table twenty-four hours later.”

Von Stietencrott was spared an attack of apoplexy by the ringing of the telephone. The casino manager picked up the receiver, listened for a moment and yelled:

“Bring me that receptionist!”

The door opened and into the room filled with Biedermeier furniture, ferns and palms burst three powerfully built doormen and a short receptionist wearing the Hotel Nassauer Hof uniform.

“Name?” von Stietencrott shouted, aiming his fat index finger at the receptionist’s chest.

“Zeissmann, Helmut Zeissmann,” said the man, trying not to look his boss in the eye. He was clearly suffering from Parkinson’s disease.

“Tell me, Zeissmann.” The manager grabbed the receptionist by his frail shoulders. “Tell me everything.”

“Mr Knüfer came to see me half an hour ago,” Zeissmann said, immobilized by the vice of his boss’ hands and burned by the sparks fired from behind the monocle, “and asked whether Mr Wlossok was in his room. I
told him the truth, that he had just returned. Mr Knüfer then went up, and he’s still there.”

“You know that I’m looking for Knüfer for not redeeming a bill of exchange?”

“Yes, I do.” Zeissmann finally found the courage to raise his shaking head and watery eyes to von Stietencrott’s face, which was purple with anger. “I was told that five minutes ago. That’s why I immediately called the doormen. Two of them are standing outside Wlossok’s door right now.”

“You act with lightning speed, Zeissmann,” the monocle flashed with satisfaction. “You’ll receive an appropriate bonus. And now tell me everything about Madame Lebetseyder and Wlossok. How many times have you seen her today?”

“Two,” Zeissmann said, relaxing, and he patted his trouser pockets with his hands as if looking for something. Wielandt the writer handed him a cigarette. “Twice. Once at about five in the morning. She went into her room with Mr Wlossok. At about twelve, Mr Wlossok phoned and asked me to check the times of trains to Breslau. I looked them up and called him back. Three hours later, at about three o’clock, Madame Lebetseyder left the hotel. She seemed to be going for a walk in the park. At about five, Mr Wlossok called for some dinner, which I took up to him personally.”

“Couldn’t a more junior member of staff have done that?” There was no irony in von Stietencrott’s voice.

“Do you know, sir,” Zeissmann smiled from ear to ear, “I preferred to do so myself, to emphasize our respect for guests who make large winnings.”

“You were more concerned to get a tip,” muttered von Stietencrott. “Go on, go on.”

“I brought him dinner at five. He was alone. He didn’t go out after
that. Half an hour ago, Knüfer went up to see him. Shortly after that, Mr Wlossok called and asked for some cigarettes. Again I saw to the request myself. Mr Wlossok was in a heated discussion with Mr Knüfer about something. I then returned to reception and the casino steward, Mr Hechs, called me to say that Mr Knüfer was wanted by the manager. I immediately informed the guards and since then they’ve been standing outside Wlossok’s room awaiting further instructions.”

“Thank you, Zeissmann.” Von Stietencrott revealed a set of teeth that were about as authentic as the “von” in front of his name. “I won’t forget this. And now, everyone apart from Mr Wielandt – out!”

When the office was empty, the manager collapsed into his armchair and raised his eyebrows.

“Any questions, my dear Mr Wielandt?”