Auto-da-fé (52 page)
Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
A few streets further he was seized with grief at his heavy business losses. Not that he was ruined, but 2000 schillings are a fortune and precisely that sum had been left behind with the book racket. The police were as good as useless. They merely interrupted business affairs. What can a wretched state official, with his measly monthly pay and no capital, with nothing to do but to watch, know of the transactions undertaken by a really big firm? He, Fischerle, for instance, was not ashamed to crawl about on the floor and pick up the money which his client owed him and had thrown down in a fit of rage. Maybe he'd get a kick or two but he made nothing of that. He must watch out, how to shove a foot out of his way, two feet, four feet, all the feet, he the chief, in person: the money was dirty and crumpled, not fresh out of the bank, a non-professional might hesitate to touch it — but he took it. Not that he hadn't employees, four at a time, he could have taken on eight — not sixteen, though — of course he could have ordered them about! 'Pick up the filthy money, my men!' But he wouldn't take the risk. People think of nothing but stealing; their heads are full of stealing and not a man but thinks himself an artist if he can make away with a scrap of it. The chief is the chief because he relies on no one out himself. That's what you call taking a risk. So he picked up eighteen beautiful hundred schilling notes, only two were missing, he almost had them, he sweated and struggled, he told himself, what do I get out of all this; and then the police came at the wrong moment. He was terrified, he couldn't stand the police, he was fed up with them, miserable wretches; he pushed the money into his client's pocket, the money which this client owed to him, Fischerle, and ran away. What did the police doe Kept the money themselves. They might have left it with his client; perhaps better times would come and Fischerle could fetch it again, but no, they found the book racket non compos. A person like the book racket, they said, with so much money and so little brain, might be set on ana robbed; then there'd be trouble. We've got enough to do, so let's keep the money for ourselves, and sure enough they do. The police steal, and they expect you to keep yourself respectable.
In the midst of his rage, a policeman whom he happened to pass, fixed Fischerle with a penetrating state. When he had put a reasonable distance between them, he gave his hatred free rein. That was the last straw; these thieves would stop him going to America! He determined — even before his departure — to avenge himself on the police for the infringement of property rights which they had perpetrated against him. Most of all he would have liked to pinch the lot of them till they squealed. He was convinced they were sharing their ill-gotten gains among themselves. There are, let's say, two thousand police; each would get a whole schilling. Not one would say: 'No! I won't touch the money, because it is stolen goods!' as good policemen ought. Each was as guilty as his neighbour and not one of them would be allowed to get away without a pinch.
'Don't you go believing that it hurts them!' he said suddenly out loud. 'You're here and they're there. What do they know of your pinching:' Instead of taking action which he had thought out for his journey, he hobbled for hours through the town, aimless, exasperated, looking for some means to punish the police. Usually he would lût upon a goojd plan at once for the least intention; but here he could think of nothing and therefore began gradually to renounce his harsher intentions. He was ready even to forego the money if he could contrive some vengeance. He would sacrifice two thousand schillings net! He wouldn't touch them, not at a gift, but someone must take them away from the police!
It was long past noon, he couldn't eat for hate, when suddenly his eye fell on two large brass plates on a single house. One of them read: Dr. Ernest Flink, Gynaecologist. The other, immediately below, belonged to a Dr. Maximilian Bucher, Specialist in Nervous Diseases. 'A silly woman could have everything she wanted all at once,' he thought and suddenly remembered Kien's brother in Paris, who had made his fortune as a gynaecologist and then turned to psychiatry. He looked for the slip of paper on which he had written down the address of this famous Professor, and found it, sure enough, fully, 'when your telegram cost you 27 times as much!' He turns back, excuses himself effusively to the fat gentleman, he had misunderstood him, he hears badly, he's mad in his right ear. He says a bit more so as to draw closer, if only in thought, to the other's note case. At precisely the right moment he remembers his unhappy experiences of people in double fur coats. They keep you at a distance and before you can get anything from them they hand you over to the police. He pays nis penny, magnanimously says good-bye to all and makes off. He renounces the note case for his revenge is on the way.
To provide himself with a false passport, he sought out a café not far from the Stars of Heaven but much below. It was called The Baboon, and its bestial name alone indicated the kind of monsters who flocked thither. Not one but had done time. A person like the sewer-man with a steady job and a good record avoided The Baboon. His wife, as he used to say under the Stars of Heaven, would have divorced him if she'd smelt The Baboon about him. There was no Capitalist to patronize it, nor a chess champion who could beat everyone. Here, first one client might win, and then another. A head to command victory was wholly lacking. The place was in a cellar; you went down eight steps before finding the door. Part of the broken panes was pasted over with paper. On the wall hung pornographic women. The landlady of the Stars would never have tolerated that in her respectable café. The table tops were of wood; little by little all the marble had been stolen. The late proprietor had taken pains to attract people in regular work. For each better-class guest brought in by one of the ladies she got a black coffee for nothing. At that time he had a beautiful new signboard painted and called his café, 'For a Change'. His wife said the signboard applied to her too and changed lovers all the time, so that he died of grief because he had appendicitis and his business was going to pieces. Hardly was he dead than his wife asserted: 'I prefer a Baboon.' She put out the old signboard again and that was the end of the little bit of respectability the place had got. This woman abolished the free black coffee, and since then not a single lady with any self-respect crossed the threshold of the cellar. Who came then? Forgers, tramps, undesirables, and on-the-runs, low type Jews and, even dangerous riff-raff. Occasionally a policeman came into the Stars; here not one dared. For the arrest of a robber-and-murder case, who felt safe with the landlady of The Baboon, precisely eight detectives were detailed. That was how they did things here. An ordinary pimp wouldn't have felt safe. Only serious criminals were respected. A hunchback with an intellect, or a hunchback without, it was all one to them. Those kind of people see no difference, because they're stupid themselves. The Stars refused all intercourse with The Baboon. Once you allowed these people in, the best marble tops soon vanished. When the last wretch under the Stars had finished with the illustrated papers, they went to the landlady of The Baboon, not a moment sooner.
Fischerle was through with the Stars but compared to The Baboon it was Heaven indeed. As he came in several wanted men leapt towards him. From all sides they applauded him with satisfaction and demonstrated their joy at the unusual visitor. The landlady had just popped out for a minute, how pleased she will be. They assumed he had come straight from Heaven. That place, blessed by the presence of innumerable women, they were not allowed to enter. They asked after this lady and that; Fischerle lied as quickly as he could. He put on no side and behaved genially; he did not want to spend a penny too much on his forged passport. He hesitated with his request so as not to put the price up. After they had convinced themselves that it was really him, they clapped a little longer; one's own hands often strengthen conviction. He must take a seat, now he was there, he must stay. A fine little dwarf like him they wouldn't let go so soon. Had the Stars of Heaven fallen in yet? Catch any of them going under that dangerous roof. The police ought to see to it and get it mended! All those women who used to come there — where would they run to if the roof fell in?
While they tried to persuade Fischerle to do something about it, a piece of plaster fell into the black coffee which someone had set before him. He drank and expressed his regret that he had so little time to spare. He had come to say good-bye. The Chess League at Tokio had offered him a place as chess inspector. 'Tokio is in Japan. I go the day after to-morrow. The journey takes six months. For me, that is. I'm playing a match in every town. To cover my expenses. I shall get my passage money, but not till I get to Tokio. The Japs are suspicious. Look, they say, if we send the money first, he won't come. Not that I'd do that, but they've been caught that way. Once bit... In their letter it says: 'We entertain, most honourable champion, the utmost confidence in you. But did we steal our money? We did not!'
The others wanted to see the letter. Fischerle excused himself. The police had it. They'd promised him a passport in spite of his many in his coat pocket. The letter of recommendation had to go to Paris — that was too far, and while he was getting there the police would have blued all the money. If he wrote a letter himself and signed it with his name, the grand gentleman would ask himself: 'Fischerle! Who's Fischerle?' and nothing would come of it. For he had amassed a fortune and was shockingly proud. A Professor and a fortune in one, you needed subtlety to handle that. It wasn't like life, it was like chess. If he knew for certain whether the Professor was interested in chess he could sign 'Fischerle, World Chess Champion'. But a man like that was quite capable of not believing it. In two months, when Fischerle had knocked Capablanca into a cocked hat, annihilated and smashed him like a beaten dog, then he would send a telegram to all the outstanding people in the world: 'Have the honour respectfully to introduce myself, the new World Chess Champion, Siegfried Fischer.' Then there'd be no room for doubt, then everyone would know, all the people would bow to him, even wealthy Professors, whoever doubted it would be brought to court for defamation; and sending a real telegram, that was a thing all his life he'd wanted to do.
And so his revenge took shape. He stepped into the next post office and asked for three telegraph forms, quickly please, it's urgent. He knew all about forms. He had often bought a handful, they were cheap; and in his gigantic letters had written derisive challenges to whoever was world champion at the time. Grandiose phrases like: 'I despise you. A cripple,' or 'Take me on, if you dare, you abortion!' he would read aloud under the Stars of Heaven and complain of the cowardice of world champions, from whom not a single answer had ever been received. Though his audience believed a lot, they did not believe in the telegrams; he hadn't enough money to send off even one; so they teased him about the address, which he must have left out or copied down wrong. A good old Catholic promised him to throw down the letters which St. Peter would be keeping for him as soon as he had reached the real heaven above. 'If they knew what a genuine telegram I'm sending now!' thought Fischerle and smiled over the jokes which the poor wretches had permitted themselves with him. What had he been then? A daily visitor to that wretched hole, the Stars of Heaven. And what is he now? A person who sends a telegram to a Professor. The only question is, what are the right sort of words? Better suppress his own name. Let's put: 'Brother gone crackers. A friend of the family.' The first form looks well, filled in; the question is, will 'crackers' make the right impression on a psychiatrist? They experience such things daily, and may think: 'It can't be bad', and wait until the friend of the family telegraphs again. But Fischerle can't waste money that way, secondly he hasn't stolen it, thirdly it'd take too long. He eliminates the 'friend of the family', it sounds too devoted, raises too many expectations; and he strengthens 'crackers' with 'completely'. On the second form appears: 'Brother gone completely crackers. But who is to sign it? No one in a settled position would bother about a telegram without a signature. There are ibels, blackmail and similar professions; a retired gynaecologist mows the seamy side. Fischerle has one form left; annoyed at the two spoiled ones he scratches, deep in thought, on the third: 'Am completely crackers.' He reads it over and is delighted. If a person writes that of himself, you've got to believe him, because who'd write that of himself? He signs 'Your brother' and runs, with the successful form, to the counter.
The official, carved in dry wood, shakes his head. This can't be serious and he has no time for jokes. 'You've got to take it!' Fischerle insists. 'Are
you
paid to take it, or am I?' Suddenly he is afraid that people with a record mayn't hand in telegrams. But how does the official know him? Certainly not from Heaven, and he never used to get his forms here.
'It doesn't make sense!' says the man and hands the telegram back. The other's deformity gives him courage. 'A normal person wouldn't write that.'
'That's right!' shrieks Fischerle, 'that's why I'm sending my brother a telegram. He's to come and fetch me! I'm mad!'
'Be off with you and quick now!' the official flares up; he was almost spitting.
A fat person in two fur coats, one natural, one artificial, waiting behind Fischerle, finds the waste of time enraging, hurls the dwarf to one side, threatens the official with a complaint and closes his speech — the weight of a bulging note case behind each word — with the sentence: 'You have no right to refuse a telegram, understand? Who are you?'
The official is silenced, swallows his right to understand and does his duty. Fischerle does him out of a penny. The fat gentleman, who had helped the dwarf on principle and not because he was in a hurry, draws his attention to the error. 'You've a nerve!' says Fischerle and escapes. Outside he thinks they may hold up his telegram as a punishment for his cheating. 'For a penny, Fischerle,' he thinks reproach-previous convictions. His homeland was proud of the fame which he'd carry out to Japan on his chessboard.
