Филип Керр - Metropolis

‘I assume one or two of them are decent people. But most are probably thieves and rapists and murderers and therefore Russians in all but name. And every bit as illegal. It’s only Jews and Jews’ poodles who care about these people.’

The Volga Germans were ethnic Germans, largely descended from Bavarians and Rhinelanders and Hessians who were invited in 1762 by the Empress Catherine the Great — herself a Pomeranian native of Stettin — to come and farm Russian land. They’d helped to modernize backward Russian farming and, being German, had thrived, at least until the Bolshevik revolution, when their lands had been confiscated by the communists and they’d been forced to return to the Fatherland. It goes without saying that they were not welcomed back with joy.

‘So the way I look at it is this: Fifty dead Volga Germans in Berlin is fifty damned Russians we won’t have to send back to the eastern swamps when finally we elect a proper government that believes in protecting our borders.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘No, I think we’ve covered it.’

‘It’s not too late, you know,’ said Jachode. ‘For you, I mean. Personally. You could always join us. In the Stahlhelm. In making the new Germany.’

‘Yes, well, I’m afraid it’s the always part I don’t care for.’

‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’

Most of the time I’m very proud to be a cop. I think there’s nothing wrong with being a cop — unless there’s something wrong with the cop, of course. But sometimes it took a great deal of courage to see the Berlin police force with all its faults and still love it.

The Neues Theater was a tall neo-Baroque building with a high mansard roof and a bell tower. It was under the management and direction of Max Reinhardt and it frequently staged operettas and musicals. I never much liked musicals. It’s the music I don’t care for, but as well, it’s the relentlessly jolly theatre folk who cavort across the stage — I hate them. But mostly it’s the idea that when the nearly always tenuous story reaches its greatest dramatic intensity, someone sings or dances, or sings and dances, and for no discernible reason. Speaking as someone who doesn’t much care to be entertained, I always prefer dialogue to song because it takes half the time to get through and brings the sanctuary of the bar, or even home, just that little bit closer. I never yet saw a musical I didn’t think could be improved by a deeper pit for the orchestra, and a bottomless chasm for the cast.

They were rehearsing a new opera when I showed up at the stage door and from the sound of it I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy The Threepenny Opera any more than I’d enjoyed The Cheerful Vineyard , which was the last musical I’d seen at the Neues Theater some three years before. The band sounded desperately out of tune, like a waterlogged barrel organ, while the mezzo-soprano could hold a note no better than I could hang on to a hot poker. She was plain, too — I caught a glimpse of her onstage as I made my way up to one of the dressing rooms — one of those thin, pale-faced, red-haired Berlin girls who reminded me of a safety match.

By contrast, Brigitte Mölbling was an Amazonian blonde whose perfectly proportioned windswept head looked like the mascot on the hood of a fast car. She had a cool smile, a strong nose and eyebrows that were so perfectly drawn they might have been put there by Raphael or Titian. She wore a plain black dress, more bracelets than Cleopatra’s pawnbroker, a long gold necklace, a big ring on almost every finger and an enormous single earring, on the end of which was a little frame containing a laughing Buddha. I figured the Buddha was laughing at me for playing along with Weiss’s crazy idea. He was probably trying to work out what kind of animal I was going to be in the next life: a rat or a louse, or just another cop.

There was a black cigarette burning in the ashtray and a glass of something cold in her hand. She put the glass down and then rose from her armchair, before sitting again, this time on the edge of a big table that was covered with pots and bottles, a finished game of solitaire, and some ice in a bowl that matched the ice in her glass. ‘So you’re the policeman who thinks he can play a klutz ,’ she said, sizing me up through narrowed eyes.

‘I know what you’re thinking: He’s more leading man than character actor, but that’s the part I’ve been assigned, yes.’

She nodded, reclaimed the cigarette, and did some more sizing-up.

‘It’s not going to be easy. For one thing, you’re in good shape. Too healthy to have been living on the street. Your hair is wrong and so’s your skin.’

‘That’s what all the magazines are saying.’

‘We can fix that, I suppose.’

‘That’s why I’m here, doc.’

‘And as for your teeth, they could use a bit more yellow. Right now they look like you chew tree bark. But we can fix that, too.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘No, they’re fine. A little clean maybe. It’s the rest of you that needs some close attention.’

‘My mother would be pleased to hear it. She always said that in the final analysis it all comes down to clean ears and clean underwear.’

‘Your mother sounds very sensible.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t take after her. If I did I wouldn’t be a cop and I wouldn’t have volunteered to play the klutz .’

‘So what you’re doing, is it dangerous?’

‘Could be.’

‘Yes. I suppose there’s always the possibility that Dr Gnadenschuss might shoot you, too. That’s what Bernhard Weiss said this was about, anyway. The crazy who’s been shooting disabled veterans: I suppose he’s more important than Winnetou. Isn’t that just the thing? You murder a girl in this town and no one gives a damn. You murder a disabled war vet, they ask questions in the Reichstag. But you’re taking a risk, surely.’

‘There’s a risk, yes. But now that I’m here talking to you, it seems like a risk worth running.’

‘Smooth, aren’t you? For a cop, that is. Most of the ones I’ve met were bullies in bad suits with ugly cigars and beer guts.’

‘You forgot the flat feet. But I seem to remember you didn’t like my skin or my hair.’

‘No, your skin is good. That’s why I don’t like it. At least for what you’ve got in mind. But as I said, we can fix that. We can even fix your hair.’

‘I imagine there’s not a lot you can’t fix when you put your mind to it. Like some refreshment, perhaps. Is that a drink you’re drinking?’

‘I’m sorry. Would you like one?’

‘Let’s just say one will do for now.’

She opened a bottle of Scotch and poured a generous measure on top of a piece of ice. Meanwhile, all her gold jewellery shifted in a vain attempt to distract my eyes from her breasts. She handed me the drink and I toasted her. Apart from the medicine I was holding, she was just what I’d have told the doctor to order.

‘Here’s to you and the opera. Whatever it is. From what I’ve seen on the poster outside, it looks as if I might actually be able to afford a ticket.’

‘You remind me of a comedian I used to know. He thought he was funny, too.’

‘Only you didn’t.’

‘Not only me. Lots of other girls didn’t think he was funny, either.’

‘I’ve had no complaints so far.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘I’m working on that.’

‘Save your breath. Didn’t you know? There are no surprises in the theatre. That’s why we have rehearsals.’

‘Is that what’s happening onstage?’

‘It is. That’s Lotte singing. She’s married to the show’s composer, Kurt.’

‘I guess that explains a lot.’