Joseph Roth - Perlefter - The Story of A Bourgeois

But Perlefter had no interest in public performances of any kind. Everything he saw in the theatre irritated him because it meant nothing to him; he hated the cinema because it was so dark, and he found that he had to pay too much money for the pleasure of watching the agitated shadow-players. Music cut through him like a knife. He became insane with pain. He couldn’t even tolerate the harmless but detailed piano-playing of his daughter, even though her teacher insisted that she had talent. Perlefter wanted there to be absolute quiet. Music disturbed his thoughts, his plans for the hours ahead. It weakened his lust, his appetite, all his bodily desires, dazed him and tranquillized his critical thinking. The destinies of others, even if only theatrical representations, were of no importance to him; he was interested only in his own. He worried only about his own fate. There was no room for anything else. Everything else just cost money. With ordinary seats one could not be content. Perlefter had to buy box seats.

But even as great and numerous the pains with which the travelling Perlefter had to contend in purchasing his pleasure, the homecoming Perlefter thought only of the pleasures and no more of the sorrows. The happiness was wrapped in grief that became reduced in his memory like a shell of bittersweet taste around a core that remained more permanently. Perlefter forgot about the expenses, the theatre, the concerts, the operas and the cinema. He recalled only the blonde women and spoke only of them. And although it was practically always the same it seemed to him as if they were ever new, ever chance and mysterious encounters.

‘Suddenly’, he recounted to a few interested friends in the club, ‘who sits down at my table, right up against me, but a large blonde, a curly-haired blonde in a low-cut dress with a dazzling white neck, and of her bust I’d rather not say anything! She orders caviar rolls, and as she eats, I tell you, as she continues to look over at me, I realize how many drinks she’s downed. Well, I need not say more.’

Perlefter actually enjoyed his experiences less than the memories of his experiences. As he chewed them over and recounted them he spun a nostalgic gloss around the experiences, of the type one culls from memories and by which they are enrobed, and that was when he first became the bold adventurer, conqueror of women and heartbreaker. As soon as he returned home he delighted in his courage and his deeds. As he conquered his way through his pocket calendar he could already hear himself telling of his conquests, reliving his memories, and it was actually only from his memories that he created adventures. He was like a man who lives for his diary. Perlefter, however, kept no diary.

Yes, he liked to travel. He could not deny, though, that he had to overcome various fears along the way. Although he never admitted it to anyone — and when the occasion arose he freely mocked the superstitions of his wife, the cook and his daughters — he was himself superstitious. He feared a train collision, especially if the porter who took his baggage wore the number thirteen. When Perlefter ascended to his compartment his primary concern was just that there be no collision. Further, he would search with his eyes for the emergency brake. He usually inspected the locomotive before boarding. He knew nothing about the engines of steam trains. Thus he was pleased with the big powerful wheels, the lustrous letters and numbers, the levers, screws and valves, and he sought to fathom whether it was a machine of the latest style or the penultimate one. His investigation of the locomotive reassured him, but he was still far from being certain. Other trains could come, signals and switches could be wrong or the engineer could be drunk. Perlefter prayed silently, quickly, but intensely.

Then something extraordinary happened. As Perlefter was ordering his ticket one day the Society for the Advancement of Tourism explained to him that there was now an opportunity to fly on an aeroplane. Would Herr Perlefter wish to fly? It was a publicity flight and of extraordinary importance, if Perlefter would care to participate. Perlefter said yes immediately. Indeed, he had no idea how he got to the point where his own courage overtook him. A minute later he was so terrified, as if realizing he had just looked Death straight in the eyes. What had he done? Was he a pilot? How did he come to put his life in danger for an organization that did not really concern him? And yet he was afraid to back out. He would become a hero out of fear. I have been told that such was the case for many a hero.

That afternoon I came by looking for Perlefter. It was past four o’clock. He had been expected there by three o’clock. He arrived at five. He was unrecognizable. On his head he wore a brown leather cap. A large green pair of goggles with square lenses lay on his forehead. He came in smiling, into the room in which everyone was sitting at the table drinking chocolate. Everyone stood up, shocked. I had never seen Herr Perlefter like this before.

He sat down at once, talked loudly, ate and drank more than usual and told of his flight.

‘I simply must. I can’t help it!’ he said. ‘This is the consequence of honorary appointments. I’ll never accept another. But if I turn down such an honour with which mortal danger is associated! It’s a publicity flight. Three aeroplanes will take off. I will sit in the first. It is to be hoped that nothing will happen.’

Frau Perlefter began to sob gently. She wanted to call it off. The children did not allow her near the telephone. During the evening they rang up all the near and far relatives of the family and reported to them in detail about Perlefter’s undertaking. Frau Perlefter secretly summoned the family doctor to come. Perlefter was still being examined at nine o’clock. The doctor said, ‘Not too much to eat and not too little. The heart is fine. Don’t look out the window, so that you won’t suffer from motion sickness.’

There was a young engineer in the family, a nice young man who understood nothing of aeroplanes as he had interest only in architecture. Nevertheless he was expected to intervene in all technological matters in Perlefter’s house. He was forced to repair clocks, electric lights and telephones and to check the drains. Perlefter had, in fact, once helped this young man out. The young man’s outstanding virtue was his thanks.

He came over on this occasion. He was given a cup of chocolate. In exchange he gave a lecture on aircraft. He had intended to join the air force during the war. But before he could be trained world peace was achieved. The young man recounted anecdotes of the air officers. It calmed the Perlefter family to see a young man, still alive, healthy and unscathed, drinking chocolate, despite having almost been a pilot.

The family lawyer was also consulted, a walrus-moustached attorney named Dr Nagl who had a fondness for servant girls and thus always entered through the kitchen. He came, explained the airline’s liability provisions and advised — cold and heartless as lawyers are prone to be — that a last will and testament be drawn up. Perlefter’s wife began to sob once again.

Another relative showed up, one who had not been invited, the poor seamstress who had married her carpenter. She dared not ask the reason for all the excitement. Although everyone else was drinking chocolate she was given tea, and they pretended to look for a lemon. But on this evening the lemons were all gone. She drank it all the same, an old stale tea with beads of glistening foam on the rim of the cup.

They paid no attention to the seamstress. Herr Perlefter lay down on the sofa and smoked. He let his ashes fall lustily on to the carpet, and his wife indulged him. Perhaps, she thought, this would be the last time he could recline so comfortably on the sofa.