Auto-da-fé (43 page)
Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
That was how it was when a remarkable man loved you. He had married. How could he have waited for her? She should have come back sooner. How he had folded her in his arms! Then suddenly he had taken fright. His new wife was in the shop. His wife had a fortune, he couldn't carry on like that. He was a respectable man. He knew what was done. He knew everything. He had embraced her in front and defended himself behind. So that his wife should hear, he had protested. Such a clever fellow! He had eyes! He had shoulders! He had a cheek! His wife was strong. She looked like somebody, but she never noticed a thing. Because of her bag, she had wanted to call in the police at once. That's the right sort of wife. That's just the sort of wife she would be herself; the thief wouldn't leave sooner, so she'd got there too late. The thief wasn't her fault? He kissed her hand. He had Ups! He had been waiting for her. First of all she was the only one he would take a fortune from. All of a sudden another turned up with the biggest fortune; women never let him alone, so he'd married her. He couldn't turn his back on all that beautiful money. But he loved her alone. He didn't love his new wife. When she came, everyone had to go on hands and knees looking for her bag. The door was a mass of eyes and all were staring after her. Why did she wear her new skirt? How happy she was! How lucky she'd kissed him after all. Who could say when she'd have another chance? The skirt suited her well, the petticoat too. The lace on it was expensive. She wasn't one of those. But she thought to herself, poor fellow, why shouldn't he have something of my hips? He thought them magnificent. Now he's had a look at them. Even a married man she didn't grudge his bit of fun.
Thérèse found her way home in a dream. She noticed neither street names nor impertinences. Her good luck was a charm against bad luck. Innumerable side-tracks opened up to her, but she followed the safe one which led her back to her own property. The starched apparition was received by pedestrians and traffic alike with awe. On every side she attracted loving attention. But she noticed nothing. A crowd of salesmen attended on her. The guard of honour was of india rubber, and with her every step she drew it with her. They all kissed her hand; the air was loud with kisses, hailstorms of them all about her, she caught every one. New wives, who looked like somebody, rang up the police. Therese's bags had been stolen. There were no more Tittle chiefs, they had vanished, they were no longer in their shops, only their names could still be read over the doors. Women in dozens, not one a day more than thirty, sank into the arms of Mr. Pudas, with lips, eyes, shoulders and cheeks. Blue starched skirts fell to the ground. Magnificent hips admired themselves in mirrors. Hands would not let go. Never would hands let go. Whole shopsful laughed with pride to see so much beauty. Housekeepers dropped their dusters in amazement. Thieves restored stolen goods, hanged themselves and let themselves be buried. In all the world there was only one fortune, all the others had flowed into it. It belonged to no one. It belonged to one person only'. You could keep it. Stealing was prohibited. No need to Keep watch. You had something better to do. You churned the milk. The pat of butter which came out was pure gold and the size of a child's head. Fat savings books were bursting. Trunks for trousseaux were bursting too. There was nothing but savings books inside them. Nobody wanted to take them away. There were two people in the world who knew how to manage. One of those people was a woman; everything belonged to her. The other one was called Puda, nothing belonged to him, but instead he was allowed to manage the woman. Mothers, God rest them, turned in their graves. They grudged you every little thing. Tips to caretakers were abolished; because they all had pensions. Whatever you said came true. You got hard cash for the papers a thief had left behind. Books too earned beautiful money. The flat was sold for hard cash. A more beautiful one cost nothing. The old one hadn't even windows.
Thérèse was almost at home. The elastic guard of honour, long since snapped, had evaporated. The air was quiet again. Instead, customary things were drawing near. They were very simple, less rich, but on the other hand she was sure of them, sure of finding them and having them. When she was on the threshold, Thérèse said: 'Excuse me, it's a bit of luck for me he's married. Now I've got it all for myself' Only now did she ask herself what sort of capital she could possibly have lent to Mr. Brute. You have to have it in black and white in an affair of this kind, and signed too. She'd a right to a handsome interest. And a partnership. Thieving's forbidden. A bit of luck it never came to that. How can people be so thoughtless to part with their money! You'd never see a penny of it again.
'What's the matter with the Professor?' Bellowing, the caretaker barred her path. Thérèse started back and said nothing. She tried to think of an answer. If she told him her husband had robbed her, he'd notify the police. She wanted to put off notifying the police. Else the police would find her housekeeping money and ask her to account for it. As if he hadn't given it to her....
'I haven't seen him for a week! Don't tell me he's dead?'
'Excuse me, dead indeed. He's alive and kicking. He wouldn't know how to be dead.'
'Thought he might be ill, then. My respects to him and I'll come and call. I'm at his service any time.'
Thérèse lowered her head archly and asked: 'Maybe you know where he is? I want him urgently for the housekeeping money.'
The caretaker scented the cheat by means of his wife. So they were trying to do him out of his 'gratuity'. The Professor was hiding because he didn't want to give him anything. Anyway he wasn't a Professor. He — the caretaker — had given him the title, of his own free will. A couple of years ago he was plain Dr. Kien. So a title was worth nothing ! The trouble he'd taken to make everyone in the block call him Professor. You couldn't expect people to work for you for nothing. For services rendered you got a pension. He didn't want a present from that old stick, he wanted his gratuity. It was his pension. 'You allege,' he bellowed at Thérèse, 'your husband isn't at home?'
'But I ask you, no, not for a week. He said he was fed up. AU of a sudden he goes off and leaves me by myself. Housekeeping money, not a penny. It's not done! I'd like to know what time he goes to bed now. Respectable people go to bed at nine o'clock.'
'You are requested to inform the police!'
'But I ask you, when he goes off all on his own! He said he'd be back soon.'
'When?'
"When he felt like it, he said, he's always been like that, never thinks of anyone but himself, I ask you, other people have feelings too. It's not my fault is it?'
'Take care, sh— house, I'll come and have a look! If he's up there I'll beat you up proper. A hundred schillings that's what he owes me. Let the dirty swine look out! I'll show him what's what. I didn't used to be like that, but I'm bloody well going to be like that now!'
Thérèse was already walking along in front of him. She grasped the hatred of Kien which inspired his words. Up to now she had feared the caretaker as his only and invincible friend. Now she had her second stroke of luck that day. Once he saw that she was only telling the simple truth, he'd help her. Everyone was against the thief. Why was he a thief?
The caretaker slammed the door thunderously behind him. His steps, heavy with rage, terrified the tenants of the rooms below the library. For years they had been used to a deathly silence. The stairs were suddenly full of disputing people. Everyone thought it must be the caretaker. Up to now the Professor had been his Benjamin. The tenants hated Kien on account of the gratuity, which the caretaker on every possible occasion, cast in their teeth. Most probably the Professor was refusing to give him another penny. He was quite right of course, but deserved all he got. So far the caretaker had never let anyone off lightly. But it was a mystery to the tiptoe listeners, that they could hear no voices, only the well-known bellowing step.
For the rage of the caretaker was so great that he searched the flat in silence. He was saving up his anger. He was determined to make an example of Kien when he found him. Behind his grating teeth dozens of imprecations were accumulating. On his fists, the red hairs rose on end. He noticed it as he chucked aside the wardrobes in Therese's new bedroom. The sh— might be anywhere. Thérèse followed him with understanding. When he halted, she halted too, when he looked behind anything, she did likewise. He took little notice of her, after a minute or two he was as used to her as his shadow. She guessed he was holding in his mounting wrath. With his, her own grew too. Her husband wasn't only a thief, he'd gone ofFand abandoned her, a defenceless woman. She was silent, so as not to interrupt the caretaker; the closer they got to each odier, the less she feared him. Her bedroom she had allowed him to enter first. When she unbolted the other two closed rooms she went ahead of him. He glanced hastily over her old room next to the kitchen. He could only imagine Kien in a big room, however well hidden. In the kitchen he had a sudden impulse to smash all the crockery. But it would have been a shame to waste his fists; he spat on the stove and let things be. Now he stamped back into the study. On the way he stopped long to gaze at the coat stand. Kien was not suspended from it. He tossed over the huge writing desk. He needed both his fists for it and took awful vengeance for this humiliation. He grabbed at a bookshelf and flung several dozen volumes to the ground. Then he looked about him, to see if Kien would not suddenly appear. It was his last hope.
'Decamped!' he stated. His oaths had all forsaken him. He felt depressed by the loss of his ioo schillings. Together with his pension it secured him the gratification of his passion. He was a man of gigantic appetite. What would become of his spy-hole if he starved? He held out both his fists to Thérèse. The hairs were still all on end. 'Look at that!' he bellowed. 'In all my life I've never been in such a rage! Never!'
Thérèse looked at the books on the floor. He thought his fists were his apology and her compensation. She did feel compensated but not by his fists. 'But excuse me, he wasn't even a man!' she said.
'A bloody whore, that's what he was!' bellowed the injured party. 'A gangster! A wanted man! A murderer!'
Thérèse wanted to say 'a beggar' but he had already got as far as 'gangster'. And while she was thinking of'thief, his 'murderer' made any further bid impossible. He wasted little time swearing. Very soon he was mellowed again and began to pick up the books. Easily as he had thrown them down, they were hard to put back. Thérèse fetched the steps and climbed up herself. Her successful day moved her to sway her hips. With one hand the caretaker handed her the books, with the other he went for her and pinched her violently in the thigh. Her mouth watered. She was the first woman whom he had won by his method of wooing. All the others he had simply assaulted. Thérèse breathed to herself: There's a man! Again please. Aloud she said, bashfully: 'More!' He gave her a second pile of books and pinched her with equal violence on the left. Her mouth overflowed. Then it occurred to her that such things aren't done. She screamed and threw herself off the steps into his arms. He simply let her fall to the ground, broke open the starched skirt and had her.
When he got up, he said: 'That'll learn him, the old skeleton!' Thérèse sobbed: 'Excuse me, I belong to you now!' She had found a man. She had no intention of letting him go. He answered 'Shurrup!' and that very night moved into the flat. During the day he stayed at his post. At night he advised her, in bed. Litde by little he learnt what had really happened, and ordered her unobtrusively to pawn the books before her husband came back. He would keep half the proceeds as his due. He put the fear of God into her about her legal position. But he was an ex-policeman and would help her. For this reason too she obeyed him, unquestioning. Every third or fourth day they set off, heavily laden, for the Theresianum.
CHAPTER VIII
THE THIEF
The caretaker recognized what used to be his Professor at the first glance. His new post as adviser to Thérèse suited him better; first and foremost it brougnt him in more than his old gratuity. It was not in his interest to avenge himself. That's why he wasn't resentful and carefully looked in the other direction. The Professor stood on his right. The parcel had meanwhile been flicked on to his left arm. He tested its weight for a moment and became conveniently absorbed in this examination. Thérèse had by now acquired the habit of doing everything he did. With a vehement motion she gave the thief a cold shoulder and clutched with passion at her beautiful, large parcel. The caretaker had already passed by. But that man suddenly barred her path. She pushed him dumbly to one side. Dumbly he laid his hand on the parcel. She pulled at it, he held it fast. The caretaker heard a rusding. Without looking round, he went up the stairs. He wanted this meeting to pass off quietly and told himself she had only brushed her parcel against the banisters. Now Kien too tugged at the parcel. Her resistance grew. She turned her face to him, he closed his eyes. This bewildered her. The man higher up the stairs did not come to her help. Then she remembered the police and the crime she was committing. If she got herself put away the thief would get hold of the flat again, that's what he was like, he wouldn't think twice about it. Hardly had she lost her flat, than her strength deserted her. Kien got hold of the major weight of the parcel on his side. The books gave him strength and he said: 'Whither are you taking them?' He must have seen the books. The paper was not torn anywhere. She saw him as the master of the house. The eight long years of her service flashed through her mind in the fraction of a second. It was all over with her self-possession. But she had one comfort. She called the police to her help. She screamed: 'He's insulted me!'
Ten steps higher up the stairs a disappointed man came to a halt. If the sh— house had stopped them on their way out, well and good; but now, before they had cashed their goods! He managed to choke back the bellow rising in his throat and beckoned Thérèse with his hand. She was too busy and took no notice. While she screamed twice more 'He's insulting me!' she sized up the thief curiously. According to her ideas, he should have been in rags, shameless, holding out a hollowed hand to everyone, the way beggars do, and, when he saw something easy, just stealing it. In fact, he looked much better than he did at home. She couldn't explain it. Suddenly she noticed that his coat, to the right of his chest, had swollen. In the old days he never carried money about. His wallet was almost empty. Now it looked fat. She knew all. He had the bankbook. He had cashed his money. Instead of hiding it at home he carried it round with him. The caretaker knew of every detail, even of her post-office book. Whatever there was, he found it, or he pinched it out of her. But her dream of the bankbook in a secret crevice, that she had kept to herself. Without this to fall back on life would have held no more pleasures for her. In a flood of clumsy satisfaction at the secret which she had kept from him for so many weeks, she called out now — a moment after her plaintive 'He's insulting me' — 'I ask you, he's a thief!' Her voice rang out, indignant and delighted at once, as is usual when people are handing over a thief to the police. Only that melancholy undertone which some women's voices assume on such occasions when the culprit happens to be a man, was absent from hers, for was she not handing over her first man to her second? And this one was a policeman.
