The Other Side (7 page)

And now to the population. It was recruited from well defined psychological types. The upper classes were creatures of excessive sensibility. People with
idées fixes
which had not yet quite got out of hand–a mania for collecting, reading, gambling, religion or any of the thousands of other more refined forms of neurasthenia–were as if made for the Dream Realm. Among women the hysteric was the type most commonly encountered. The masses, too, had been selected with abnormality or one-sided development in mind. There were splendid drunkards, poor wretches who were out of sorts with themselves and the world, hypochondriacs, spiritualists, wild hotheads always ready for a fight, some looking for excitement to stir their jaded appetites, others looking for rest from a life of philandering, conjurers, acrobats, political refugees. Even some murderers, counterfeiters, thieves and the like, who were wanted in other countries, found favour in the eyes of our Lord. Sometimes mere possession of a striking physical feature was sufficient for a person to be called to the Dream Realm. That explained the many king-size goitres, overgrown bulbous noses and gigantic hunchbacks. Finally there were a number of people living here whose nature had been strangely twisted by some dark fate. Only gradually did I develop an eye for the various character types that could often lurk beneath the most innocent-looking exterior.

The average number of inhabitants fluctuated between twenty and twenty-four thousand, the population being replenished by new arrivals. The increase through births was minimal. Children were not particularly welcome; their value, it was claimed, did not match the inconvenience they caused. The general opinion was that they only cost money, often until well after they were grown-up, rarely paid anything back, and then with poor grace, and were almost never grateful to their parents for the gift of life, on the contrary often regarding it as something that had been wished upon them against their will. The patter of tiny feet always heralded the approach of big worries. Children are droll and naive, true, you can tell that from the available examples, but that’s not sufficient reason to start a brood of your own. People here lived for the eventful present, not for some uncertain future, which none of the existing generation get anything out of anyway. We didn’t want to make our nerves even worse–and our wives even older–by having children. One was usually the most people acquired by way of offspring, families with more had almost invariably brought the others with them from outside. There was one family with nine which I will mention later precisely because of its rarity. Moreover, the vast majority of Dreamlanders were totally unsuited to parenthood.

There remain various aspects to mention without which a state is not really a state. A small army, which pursued its profession with enthusiasm, was maintained, a really excellent police force, whose principal activity was focused on the French Quarter, and the aforementioned customs authorities. All these institutions were directed from the Archive, an enormous, low building, the one that struck me when we first arrived. Yellowish-grey, drowsy and dusty, people’s immediate reaction to it was a huge yawn. It was situated in the Great Square and was the
official
seat of the government. A single-track railway connected all the smaller villages, and practicable if overgrown tracks led into even the most distant valleys.

By far the largest proportion of the Dreamers were former Germans. With that language one could get by in the town and with the country folk. No other nationality managed to assert itself.

With that I think I have dealt with everything that belongs in this chapter, which is only intended to provide a brief sketch of the background necessary for the real story.

I

The first thing to strike us was the Dreamlanders’ dress. It was so far behind the times, it was a hoot! This was particularly noticeable among the so-called ‘better classes’.

‘These people are all wearing their parents’ or grandparents’ clothes’, I said to my wife in amusement. Antiquated curved top-hats, colourful frock-coats and Inverness capes were what the men wore, while the ladies minced along in crinolines with bonnet and shawl and strange, old-fashioned hair-styles. They all looked as if they were going to a fancydress ball!

But we were the ones who caused a stir and after only a few days we were compelled to adapt. My wife allowed herself to be persuaded to wear a little semi-crinoline while I looked the part in frock coat, deep-cut embroidered waistcoat and choker à la 1860. Further concessions I refused to countenance. Indignantly I declined the narrow, pointed shoes they tried to inflict on me. We became accustomed to these changes in people’s outward appearance more quickly than you would think. It wasn’t long before I, too, was staring in amazement at the bizarre dress of the new arrivals.

On that first day my greatest concern was to find a suitable apartment as soon as possible. Following my wife’s desire to be as far away as we could be from the eerie palace, we looked for something more on the periphery of the town. Unfortunately, one of the charming villas in the Garden City was beyond our means. We were already trudging up and down Long Street for the third time when a medium-sized, two-storey apartment block with oriel windows attracted my attention. I felt I had known it since my childhood days. ‘This is what we’re looking for’ I cried. ‘We’ll find something on the second floor.’ My wife was rather puzzled at my confidence. ‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked with a slightly mocking smile. I could give no reason, it just seemed so obvious. And, the Lord be praised, I was right! There really was an apartment with three rooms and a kitchen to let. A hairdresser who had his shop on the ground floor and at the same time managed the building showed us round. The rooms looked invitingly comfortable, they were prettily furnished and the price was reasonable. We moved in that very afternoon.

The house belonged to a certain Dr. Lampenbogen.

II

Now we were genuine Dreamlanders. Countless times each day, at least during the first months, I had to withdraw my unspoken suspicion that everything here would be just the same as at home. Later on I forgot the land I had come from completely. In the Dream Realm you became so accustomed to even the most unlikely scenes that nothing surprised you any more.

Although it was not at all my intention, I very quickly obtained regular employment. I was simply steamrollered into it. It happened in the following way. We had only been here three days when a small, extremely brisk gentleman came to see me. ‘Publisher and editor of the
Dream Mirror
‘, he introduced himself, ‘best-known illustrated paper here. With our own printing press’, he went on, the words just pouring out. ‘It’s good you’ve come, we’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time. Unfortunately our leading artist, Castringius, has rather run out of steam and now we have to get our illustrations by buying up all the old woodblocks in Pearl and printing from them. Just look at the last number.’ He took out a newspaper. ‘Cochem on the Moselle–the Austro-Hungarian Minister-President Count Beust with his family–Indians in their war-paint! I ask you, is that artistic? Is that Dreamish? Is that even interesting?’ he demanded, waving the paper around under my nose. ‘No, my dear sir, it is not!’ He thought for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow. Suddenly he pulled out a contract, fully drawn up in a neat hand. All I had to do was sign: four hundred crowns a month, throughout the year, whatever I delivered, a lot of pictures or nothing at all. It was fantastic, I had never seen an agreement like it before and naturally I immediately appended my signature. In the Dream Realm we made up our minds just like that, no one spent a long time thinking things over. All business affairs were very uncertain, anyway. But now I had a permanent position. I was the illustrator for a highly respected journal, I could
make a show
. And that’s what counted in the Dream Realm,
to make a show of being something
, anything, even a rogue or a pickpocket or whatever.

With a jovial gesture my editor unscrewed his walking stick. It was hollow. The handle contained a glass and from the cane he poured me a good-sized schnapps. ‘More power to your elbow’, he said with a suggestive wink. ‘And make your pictures as lurid and gruesome as possible. I want to raise the tone of the paper, you see’, he said with an optimistic smile. He pocketed the contract with a sigh of satisfaction, said goodbye and sailed out in his black-and-white check suit.

III

When people first arrived in the Dream Realm they did not really notice the all-pervading fraudulence. To the casual glance, buying and bargaining went on here according to the same customs as everywhere. That, however, was mere pretence, a grotesque sham. The whole of the money economy was ‘symbolic’. You never knew how much you had. Money came and went, it was handed out and taken in; everyone practised a certain amount of sleight of hand and I myself very quickly picked up a few neat ploys. The trick was to sound plausible, to pull the wool over your adversary’s eyes.

Initially f was horrified at how susceptible the Dreamlanders were to suggestion, but I had to accept it, like it or not, and gradually I became more and more immersed in fantasies, my own and others’. The change from fortune to misfortune, from poverty to riches was was much swifter than in the rest of the world. One event was constantly being overtaken by the next. But in the midst of all this confusion, you still felt the presence of a
strong hand
. You could sense its power behind apparently incomprehensible situations. It was the reason, the hidden reason, why everything did not fall apart and come tumbling down. It was an immense force, which reached into the most secret recesses and dispensed justice, balancing out the effects of each and every event. If anyone was in despair and didn’t know where to turn, that was where they directed their prayers. This boundless power, full of a terrible curiosity, this eye that saw into the darkest corners, was everywhere present, nothing escaped it. It was the only thing that was taken seriously in the Dream Realm, everything else was ephemeral.

IV

I will give a couple of examples to illustrate the way business was conducted. On one of our first days in Pearl I wanted buy a street-map. I went to one of the largest stores selling bric-a-brac, Max Blumenstich’s next door to us, I think it was.

‘A street-map? The new ones haven’t arrived yet, a copy of the old edition will do just as well, I suppose?’ They looked high and low, rummaged around among mounted antlers, candelabra and old caskets, but nowhere was one to be found. Finally the assistant brought out a horrible ink-well cast in bronze.

‘Take this, I’m sure you have a use for it. You simply
must
have it, it’s an absolute necessity. Only seventy-two crowns!’ His voice took on melting tones as he summoned up all his powers of persuasion. I gave him one crown and he threw in a pair of nail-scissors as well.

New arrivals tried to exploit this to their advantage, but soon discovered they had been counting their chickens before they were hatched. The Dream fate was implacable: the wealth they had accumulated simply vanished into thin air. These smart Alecks found themselves paying exorbitant prices for the most basic necessities or they were inundated with parcels ‘to be paid for on delivery’. If they did not accept them, then much worse troubles came, for example illnesses and the doctors charged extortionate fees. Creditors who had never lent them anything would appear, demanding their money. And it was no use protesting, they brought their witnesses with them. Thus everything balanced out and in the end no one emerged with either gain or loss. There was no bargaining with the invisible bookkeeper who kept the accounts. As soon as I had grasped this strange state of affairs, everything was fine.

Only a fortnight after we had arrived a servant in livery turned up on our doorstep. His master–he mentioned some fine-sounding name–was waiting most impatiently for the drawings he had paid for, he said, and he had come to collect them. What could I do? I wrapped up five of my best pieces and wrote a polite letter of excuse into the bargain. What happened to the things I have no idea.

Every day I went to the coffee house diagonally opposite. When I came back one day my wife showed me a huge basket full of magnificent vegetables, asparagus, cauliflower, fine fruits; there were even two partridges in it.

‘All this came from the market. Guess what it cost’, she said jubilantly.

‘How much?’

‘Only twenty kreuzers for the lot.’

At that I confessed that I had had to pay five crowns for a box of matches in the café.

Sometimes you had hundreds in your pocket, at others nothing. And we managed perfectly well without money. You just had to
pretend
you were handing something over. Occasionally you could even risk taking something for nothing. It always amounted to the same in the end.

Here fantasies were simply reality. The incredible thing was the way the same illusion would appear in several minds at once. The people talked themselves into believing the things they imagined.