Gunter Grass - The Flounder

stutter. Then the panther cap induced quarrelsome agitation — in everyone except Rapp. At first the remarks about the relationship between the Committee of Public Safety and the guillotine had been rather good-natured, but now national antagonisms erupted. Poland accused France of betrayal. Saxony called the Rhenish Confederation a shame and a disgrace. Since words could no longer be uttered and weapons were absent from the table, the patriots brandished bottles and the carving knife. Chairs fell backward. No sooner had the Saxon contemptuously spat out the words "fat slob," than the beefy Westphalian was at his throat. Aghast, Rapp moved out of the way but neglected to summon the watch. Nevertheless, he grabbed a heavy silver candlestick to defend himself with, for suddenly, after Le Gros had cut down one of the Polish uhlans with the carving knife, Count Wojczinski tore some ornamental cavalry sabers off the wall. The Westphalian released the strangled Zetsche and impaled himself on a saber Le Gros had picked up. Next the heroic colonel struck the second uhlan down. Then, staring into empty space, Le Gros and Wojczinski, their nervous systems shattered and their tongues paralyzed, dispatched each other — pierced and tattered, they lay clutching each other in a last convulsive embrace.

Only Rapp, with his candlestick, was still standing. The flames died down. Not the faintest stirring of life. The deadly amanita, which ordinarily takes effect the following day, would have no occasion to destroy any red blood corpuscles.

Then at last members of the house staff appeared, among them Sophie. The orderly officer summoned the watch. Rapp made a first report: six dead, including one civilian. By pure chance he himself had come off unharmed. What had started out as an innocent little quarrel among officers had ended tragically. Women, gambling debts, offended honor, especially the effrontery of the civilian, had lashed them — see for yourself — into a frenzy.

Then the governor tersely ordered a clean-up. The remains of the calf's head and stuffing were removed. The bodies were lined up and covered with cloths. Rapp left it to the orderly to supply the watch with further details. When Sophie's weeping threatened to look incriminating,

he led his cook to the open terrace overlooking the garden and put his uniformed arm over her shoulder. She let him, possibly giving him some happiness.

A moonless night lay over the besieged city. The crackle of sporadic musket fire could be heard from the direction of Schellmuhle. Just to annoy, the Prussian batteries were firing from Ohra, doing little damage. In the Old City, not far from Bucket Makers' Court, two houses were burning, throwing a side light on the Church of Saint John. Wind in the lindens, wind in the maples. The first leaves were falling. The garden smelled of autumn. Now Rapp, too, was in tears. While they were standing on the garden terrace, the governor of the Republic of Danzig, whose name is still borne by an avenue in Paris, advised his cook to take a few weeks off. The terrible scene, all that young blood, the lifeless rigidity of the twisted corpses, Wojczinski hacked to pieces — all that must have been a shock to her. An investigation was inevitable, and he didn't want her to be further tormented. Even if she, dear child, were innocent in a higher sense, they were likely to question her very severely. She could always count on his affection, even if she regarded him as an enemy and would not accept his love. Yes, he knew what had happened, and all things considered he was sorry he hadn't tried the calf's-head stuffing. A voice — Rapp wouldn't say from where — had forewarned him. Ah, if only he were her Fritz, imprisoned in the fortress. He hoped she, Sophie, would forgive him. He was only human. "Go now. I shall miss you."

And so it was that Sophie Rotzoll went underground. Pastor Blech knew a safe place for her. Soon the warehouses on Warehouse Island went up in flames. The blaze was believed to have been started not by enemy fire but by terrorist action. Rapp had few dinner guests after that.

Shout, shout in the woods. Mushrooms and fairy tales are overtaking us.

Every bulb sprouts new terror. Still under cover,

yet the funnels of fear round about are already full up.

Someone has always been here.

Demolished bed — was it me?

My predecessor left nothing intact.

We distinguish tasty, unpalatable, and poisonous mushrooms. Many connoisseurs of mushrooms die young, leaving well-filled notebooks behind them.

Milk caps morels destroying angels.

I gathered mushrooms with Sophie

before the emperor went to Russia.

I lost my spectacles

and used my thumb;

she kept finding and finding.

No single one of them could ever hold me. I had dealings with them all, even with Helga Paasch when she was still selling the vegetables she raises in Britz from a stand at the Berlin weekly market, and for a whole season I got my rutabaga and carrots for practically nothing. My affair with Ruth Simoneit turned out badly, but it's not true that she started swilling first cognac, then cheap vermouth, on my account. With Sieglinde Huntscha I can do it any time. It's an old established habit, and I never dream about it. But one day when we were young and absent-minded, Bettina von Car-now and I almost got engaged, because of a damp, cold autumn mood. Hardly anything happened between Therese Osslieb and me, though I can well imagine a lingering fried-potato relationship. My esteem for Ms. Schonherr hasn't diminished over the years, even if she doesn't care to remem-

ber that night in Bielefeld (or was it Kassel?): "You must be mistaking me for someone else. Men with the collector's instinct are always doing that." Of course Ilsebill's suspicions are exaggerated, but I admit I like it best with Ulla Witzlaff. She keeps me stable-warm. Nothing is missing. Everything is possible. Her laughter would make a stone calve. We're happiest sitting in the kitchen. I must have been out of my mind the other day when I started something new — or, worse, warmed up something old.

We got to talking during a recess in the trial. Yes, yes, it's the case of Sophie Rotzoll that brought us back together. We behaved as if there were a possibility of starting up again, as if it were not completely over and done with. A pharmacist by trade, she, too, is an associate judge at the Women's Tribunal. Though a few years older than Ilsebill (who's just a bit matronly), Griselde will be girlish for years to come. Two or three more wrinkles around the eyes, a touch of bitterness at the corners of the mouth; otherwise she has hardly changed.

We've known each other since the days before the Wall. (When I was still more or less going with Sibylle Miehlau.) Though she thought me too solid in a masculine kind of way and therefore insensitive, we got along nicely for a time. Her periodic speeches of dismissal ended with sound observations such as "You've always got to be protective, carry suitcases, light cigarettes, the fatherly act." Unfortunately she's drawn to weak, inhibited types. So she shook me off and heroically sacrificed herself for a punk who was only interested in her drugstore and bank account, and who dropped her soon afterward to study theology at government expense. Then my affair with Billy foundered. And something else, I forget what, went wrong at the same time. Anyway, the whole thing had receded into the dim past, all I remembered was a vague misunderstanding, and then suddenly, when the case of Sophie Rotzoll was taken up, something in me began to tick. And Ilsebill, who always had a good nose for these things — Witzlaff was the only one she failed to suspect — flew into a rage: "First Simoneit, then Huntscha, with me pregnant, and I mean pregnant! And