Erich Remarque - The Black Obelisk

Suddenly I am standing beside Ema. Her cavalier, at the hat-check counter, is wrestling with his long arms to get her coat. Erna measures me icily. “I would catch you here! That’s something you probably didn’t expect!”

“You catch me?” I say, taken aback. “I’ve caught you!”

“And in what company!” she goes on as though I had not spoken. “With dance-hall girls! Don’t touch me! Who knows what you’ve caught already!”

I have made no move to touch her. “I’m here on business.” I say. “And you? How do you come to be here?”

“On business!” she laughs cuttingly. “Business here? Who’s dead?”

“The backbone of the state, the man with small savings,” I reply, considering myself witty. “He gets buried daily, but his memorial is not a cross—it’s a mausoleum called the Stock Exchange.”

“To think that I trusted such a worthless loafer!” she says as though I had made no reply. “It’s all over between us, Herr Bodmer!”

Georg and Riesenfeld are at the counter fighting for their hats. I realize that I have been tricked into defending myself. “Listen,” I hiss. “Who told me this very afternoon that she could not go out because she had a raging headache? And who is hopping around here with a fat profiteer?”

Erna gets white around the nose. “Vulgar poetaster!” she whispers as though spewing vitriol. “You probably think you’re superior because you can copy dead men’s poems, don’t you? Why don’t you learn instead to make enough money to take a lady out in proper style! You with your walks in the country! To the silken banners of May! Don’t make me sob with pity!”

The silken banners are from the poem I sent her this afternoon. I reel inwardly; outwardly I grin. “Let’s stick to the subject,” I say. “Who is leaving here with two honest businessmen? And who with a cavalier?”

Erna looks at me big-eyed. “You expect me to go out on the streets at night by myself like a bar whore? What do you take me for? Do you think I intend to allow myself to be accosted by any loafer? What are you thinking of anyway?”

“You oughtn’t to have come here at all in the first place!”

“Indeed? Just listen to that! Giving orders already! Forbidden to leave the house while the gentleman goes gallivanting! Any more commands? Shall I darn your socks?” She laughs cuttingly. “The gentleman drinks champagne, but seltzer and beer were good enough for me, or a cheap wine of no vintage!”

“I didn’t order the champagne! That was Riesenfeld!”

“Of course! Always the innocent, you miserable failure of a schoolteacher. Why are you still standing here? I’ll have nothing more to do with you! Stop molesting me!”

I can hardly speak for rage. Georg comes up and hands me my hat. Erna’s profiteer also appears. They go off together. “Did you hear?” I ask Georg.

“Part of it. Why are you fighting with a woman?”

“I didn’t intend to get into a fight.”

Georg laughs. He is never entirely drunk, even after pouring it down by the bucket. “Never let them get you into it. You always lose. Why do you want to be right?”

“Yes,” I say. “Why? Probably because I’m a son of the German soil. Don’t you ever get into arguments with women?”

“Of course. But that doesn’t keep me from giving good advice to my friends.”

The cool air hits Riesenfeld like a hammer tap. “Let’s call each other du ,” he says to me. “After all, we’re brothers. Exploiters of death.” His laugh is like the barking of a fox. “My name is Alex.”

“Rolf,” I reply. I wouldn’t dream of using my real first name for this drunken, one-night brotherhood. Rolf is good enough for Alex.

“Rolf?” Riesenfeld says. “What a silly name! Have you always had it?”

“Since my military service I’ve had the right to use it on leap years. Besides, Alex is nothing special.”

Riesenfeld staggers a bit. “It doesn’t matter,” he says generously. “Children, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt so fine! Could we get some coffee at your place?”

“Of course,” Georg says. “Rolf is a first-class coffee cook.”

We wobble through the shadows of St. Mary’s to Hacken-strasse. In front of us paces a lonely wanderer with a storklike gait. He turns in at our gateway. It is Sergeant Major Knopf, just returning from his tour of inspection of the inns. We follow him and catch up just as he is urinating against the black obelisk beside the door. “Herr Knopf,” I say, “that’s improper conduct!”

“At ease,” Knopf mutters, without turning his head.

“Sergeant Major,” I repeat, “that’s improper conduct! It’s disgusting! Why don’t you do it in your own house?”

He turns his head briefly. “You want me to piss in my parlor? Are you crazy?”

“Not in your parlor! You have a perfectly good toilet in your house. Use it! It’s only about ten yards from here.”

“Drivel!” Knopf replies.

“You’re soiling the trade-mark of our firm. Besides, you’re committing sacrilege. That’s a tombstone. A holy object.”

“Not till it’s put in the cemetery,” Knopf says and stalks off to the door of his house. “Good night to all of you, gentlemen.”

He makes a half-bow at random, striking his forehead against the doorpost. Growling, he disappears. “Who was that?” Riesenfeld asks me, while I look for the coffee.

“Your opposite. An abstract drinker. He drinks without imagination. He needs no help at all from outside. No wishful fantasies.”

“That’s something too!” Riesenfeld takes his place at the window. “Just a hogshead for alcohol then. Man lives by dreams. Haven’t you found that out yet?”

“No. I’m too young.”

“You’re not too young. You’re just a product of the war—emotionally immature and with too much experience in murder.”

“ Merci ,” I say. “How’s the coffee?”

Apparently the fumes have cleared. We are now back to formal terms of address. “Do you think the lady over there is already home?” Riesenfeld asks Georg.

“Probably. It’s all dark.”

“That could be because she hasn’t come back yet. We can wait a few minutes, can’t we?”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps we can get our business out of the way in the meantime,” I say. “All that’s needed is a signature to the contract. Meanwhile I’ll get some fresh coffee from the kitchen.”

I go out, giving Georg time to work on Riesenfeld. This sort of thing goes better without witnesses. I sit down on the steps outside. From Wilke’s carpenter shop come peaceful snores. Heinrich Kroll must still be there, for Wilke lives elsewhere. The national businessman will get a fine shock when he wakes up in a coffin. I debate whether to wake him up, but I’m too tired and it’s already getting light—let the shock serve that fearless warrior as an icy bath to strengthen him and reveal to him the end result and aim of any war. I look at my watch, waiting for Georg’s signal, and then stare into the garden. Morning is rising silently from the blossoming trees as though from a soft bed. In the lighted second-story window of the house opposite stands Sergeant Major Knopf in his nightgown taking a last gulp from the bottle. The cat rubs against my legs. Thank God, I say to myself, Sunday is over.

A woman in mourning slips unobstrusively through the gate and stands irresolute in the courtyard. I go out. Someone shopping for a small tombstone, I think, and ask: “Would you like to look at our exhibition?”

She nods, but then says immediately: “No, no, that’s not really necessary.”

“You can look around at leisure. You don’t have to buy. If you like I’ll leave you alone.”