H. Adler - The Wall

I wasn’t having any of it, however, for I would have run off the moment the Professor entered the tower. But he didn’t provide me with this pleasure, no matter how much he praised the installation, but instead confessed that he felt even dizzier than I did. While I felt unsure on my feet, he said he was completely dizzy, and I considered what to do, for I didn’t wish to disturb his well-being by making him ill. That’s why I recommended that we continue on with our survey of the fair, but at that moment the director of the institute recognized me and rushed over to me with a broad smile.

“You have finally arrived, Herr Doctor, and in such fine fashion. That pleases me no end. You can pass in and out of our tower at no cost from now on.”

“That’s much too nice of you. I realize how extraordinary that is.”

I chatted for a little while with this gentleman and his co-workers, during which time I saw someone have his passport stamped in order to start the journey. He then whisked down from above, myself first paying attention to him once he arrived below, somewhat lightheaded but happy, for he was flattered that Kratzenstein had tugged on my arm in order to point out the sight. I looked more closely, for by now the rider had lifted himself up from the mattress he had landed on and walked over toward me shaking with joy. It was Otto Schallinger, who greeted me with a wide grin.

“So I end up meeting you at the Sociology Conference — that’s terrific! How long has it been since I saw you? Prenzel only has to turn up, ha ha, for this miracle to happen! But it’s quite a party. I’ve already spoken to Herr Birch and Fräulein Bergmann, Kauders, and Dr. Haarburger.”

“So they are all here?”

“Haven’t you seen them?”

“Yes, Birch and Fräulein Bergmann, but not the others.”

“They’ll soon find you. They’re all just crazy about you. Arthur Landau is the buzzword of the day.”

“Tell me, Otto, are you also now a sociologist?”

“Me? No. Or only a bit of one. I am only a fan, but one totally smitten, for I’m interested by it all. If you want to observe people and want to know what makes them tick, then you have to be half a sociologist these days.”

Schallinger had a camera in a case dangling around his neck. It surprised me that he had gone down the slide with such an expensive piece of gear. Now he pulled out his apparatus and told me that he had already snapped shots of Johanna and all the children, including Michael, though he had to outsmart him. Otto also wanted to waste a shot on me, and since Kratzenstein was eager to have him do so, I had to be patient while Otto took pictures of us together and alone, the tower of the esoteric scientists always in the background.

“These are just the first unofficial snapshots,” explained Otto. “The official group portrait with you and all the important conference participants will happen later. I’m hoping to make a name for myself with it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Very simple. I’ll offer it to the illustrated weeklies and the daily newspapers. It’ll fly out of my hands.”

“Otto is right about that” was Kratzenstein’s opinion.

Otto danced about me and made himself look important. Suddenly he suggested that we both make use of the tower. He recommended that we sit double on a mat, though he laughed at his former middle-school classmate when I said that I didn’t want anything to do with any of it. Schallinger had to give up the idea of me accompanying him, but not on taking a second ride alone, and so he said goodbye with a mixture of sadness and cheerfulness before running into the tower once more. I didn’t wait for him to come out and decided to look for Roy Rogers. On the way there, I passed the wagon of the Gypsy Fortunata, which I didn’t expect to find here.

“This lady is also here?” I asked the Professor, amazed. “I wouldn’t have dreamed that she would be involved with such serious scholarship.”

“And how! This year we swayed between making you or Fortunata an honorary member. Of course, the choice fell to you unanimously. But something will have to go awfully wrong for Fortunata not to be in line for it next year.”

“What does fortune-telling have to do with sociology?”

“You’re actually asking that? You can’t be serious! Without fortune-telling, scholarship would relinquish its reason for existing.”

“I see, I see. That never occurred to me.”

“But, dear Landau, don’t feel ashamed. You cannot say in all honesty that you yourself didn’t try to build a scholarly relationship with this lady. With that, you showed how useful it is for oppressed people.”

“How do you know my secret?”

“We know everything about you. If we didn’t know it, how could we make you an honorary member? The candidate always has to be examined from head to toe, the entire life story. For that, we have our own esoteric scientists.”

During this explanation the door of Fortunata’s wagon opened, and the Gypsy woman, all decked out and with a magnifying glass and a bundle of playing cards in her hand, stepped out smiling. She nodded to me in a vigorous manner to come closer, which I had no desire to do. Since Kratzenstein encouraged me with talk and gestures, I finally gave in and took some steps toward the fortune-teller. Fortunata smiled graciously, proudly walked down the three steps, and came over to me. I indeed wished to stretch out a hand to her, when I was struck by the appearance of a second figure, who happened to be dressed almost as gaudily as the Gypsy woman, standing in the door of the wagon and waving at me. This lady was exceedingly made-up, myself uncertain who the learned woman was, but Fortunata the All-Knowing took in my surprise with tireless grace.

“That is my friend Eusemia, whom you have to thank for your career. I have made this adept one my assistant and closest colleague in the institute for pansociological and metasociological deep research that I established. Does that surprise you?”

I was not only surprised; I was horrified. This development on the part of Resi Knispel I had not thought possible. I didn’t answer the Gypsy woman, but instead looked around uncertainly at Kratzenstein.

“Herr Professor, is this really for real?”

“But of course, my friend! How could you doubt it? Everything that we do is serious.”

Resi Knispel approached me without any hesitation and proudly handed me a prospectus for the journal Eusemia .

“Good day, Landau. Look, I managed to pull it off, you old toad. Eusemia is blossoming. You should have joined us right then and there. Eusemia is off and swimming like a turtle in water and is paying princely honorariums. I hope that at least you’ll now decide to submit your precious articles to Eusemia . If you have something that’s finished already, then give me a call and I’ll send Eberhard to you to pick it up.”

“What do you mean.… Is he there as well?”

“Settle down, he’s not there. We know how you feel about him. But he’s good enough for errands, and he finally gave us some names. Now all we need is for you to make a call. Agreed?”

“I’ll have to think about that a bit more.”

“My dear friend,” the Professor reminded me quietly, “there’s nothing to think about. We are all working together. An honor, a duty. Eusemia will be financed by America. Singule threw in some millions. Eusemia is for humanity, against nuclear war and moral disarmament, for bridging the collective isolation of mechanized existence. It is wonderful and necessary. Only then will the walls be torn down, misery will be averted, no one will have to suffer anymore. That is exactly what you want to have happen with your own oppression. In addition, Eusemia is the house organ of the International Society of Sociologists.”