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Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
Suddenly the landlady put her finger to her mouth and breathed: 'He's asleep, he's asleep!' Five of the men placed him carefully on a chair in the corner and shouted: 'Quiet there, stop the music, Fischerle must have his sleep out before his long journey!' The tissue paper folded over the comb fell silent. They all gathered together and began to discuss the perils of the journey to Japan. One of them battered on the table and said threateningly that in the desert of Takla Makan every second traveller died of thirst; it lay just in the middle between Constantinople and Japan. Even the erstwhile schoolmaster had heard of it and said: 'That's right.' The journey by sea was preferable. The dwarf could surely swim and even if he couldn't he would float on his hump, fat as it was. He would be unwise to land anywhere. He'd be passing India. Cobras he in wait all along the quay side. Half a bite and he'd be dead because he was only halfa man.
Fischerle wasn't asleep. He had remembered his capital and in his corner he was searching round to see where it had got to during the dancing. He found it again in its right place; he applauded his armpits, how splendidly they were made, with any other man the glorious treasure would long have slid down into his trousers or the floor would have eaten it up. He wasn't in the least tired, on the contrary he was listening and as those idiots talked of all sorts of foreign countries and cobras he was thinking of America and of his millionaire's palace.
Late in the evening, it was already dark, Passport Joe appeared from his little room waving a passport in each hand. All the men were silent; they respected his work because he paid generously for it. Softly he crept up to the dwarf, laid the passports before him on the table and woke him up with a shattering blow on the ear. Fischerle saw it coming but stayed still. He must pay something, that was evident, and he was only happy that nobody had suggested searching him. 'You must advertise me!' yelled Passport Joe, he was reeling and babbling. During the last few hours he had grown drunk on his Japanese fame. He stood the dwarf on the table and made him swear with both hands:
That he would use the passport, that he would pay nothing for it, that he would hold it under the noses of the Japs, that he would tell them that he, Rudoph Amsel, known as Passport Joe, was what — after his death — all of Europe would know, namely the greatest living painter. That he would talk of him daily. That he would give interviews about him. He could give the date and place of his birth and say that he had been unable to tolerate any art school; independent and on his own feet, without crutches and without idols, integrity incarnate, he had risen to the heights on which he now stood.
Fischerle swore and swore. Passport Joe forced him to repeat word for word every phrase which he uttered in his screaming voice. Last of all, Fischerle was solemnly to abjure Heaven and never more to cross the threshold ofthat haunt of criminals before his departure. 'Heaven is a filthy hole!' cried Fischerle, obsequious and hoarse. 'I'll take great care not to get mixed up with them and in Japan I'll found a sister firm for The Baboon! If I earn too much money I'll send it to you. But don't you go telling Heaven anything about my journey. Those jailbirds there are just the kind who'll put the police on me. To please you I'll take the false passport on my own hunchback and swear that you didn't force it on me. Heaven can go to hell!' After this he was allowed to sit down and sleep again in his same corner. He hopped down from the table and put the better passport in his pocket next to his miniature chessboard, which was the safest place for it. First he snored for fun so as to overhear them. But soon he was really asleep, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his fingertips in his armpits so that the very slightest attempt at robbery would wake him at once.
At four in the morning when they closed and when, now and again, the policeman's face swiftly fluttered across the window-panes, Fischerle was woken up. Quickly he sneezed the sleep out of his nose and was on the alert at once. They informed him of the decision they had taken in the meanwhile to nominate him an honorary member of The Baboon. He thanked them effusively. Many more guests had arrived and all now wished him luck on his journey. Cheers for the mighty game of chess grew loud. A thousand well-meant slaps on the back almost crushed him. Grinning so widely that it could be seen he bowed to this side and that, cried at the top of his voice: 'So long. See you all in Tokio at the New Baboon,' and left the café.
In the street he offered friendly greetings to several policemen he ran into, always in little groups and very much on their guard. From today, he said to himself, I will be polite to the police. He avoided Heaven although it was quite near. Now that he was a doctor he decided to have nothing more to do with low dives. Moreover, he must not be seen. It was a pitch black night. Out of economy only every third street lamp was lit. In America they have arc lights. They shine continually day and night. They have so much money there all the people are extravagant and a bit mad. A man who was ashamed because his wife was nothing but an old tart needn't go home if he doesn't want to. He'd go to the Salvation Army; they have hotels with white beds; everyone is allowed two linen sheets for his personal use, even a Jew. Why don't people introduce this brilliant combination into Europe? He tapped on his right coat pocket; there he could feel his chessboard and his passport both together. No one in Heaven would ever have presented him with a passport. People there only thought about themselves and how they could make money. The Baboon was noble. He respected The Baboon. The Baboon had elected him to honorary membership. And that's no small honour because only first class criminals go there! In Heaven the swine lived on their girls, they might at least do some work themselves. He'd pay them back. The gigantic chess palace he was going to build in America should be called Baboon Palace. Not a soul would know it was called after a low dive back home.
Under a bridge he waited for day. Before sitting down he fetched himself a dry stone. In his thoughts he was already wearing a new suit, which fitted his hump like a glove; it was a black and white check, made to measure and costing two fortunes. A man who couldn't look after a suit like that was not worthy of America. So he avoided all violent motion in spite of the cold. He stretched out his legs as if his trousers had been pressed. From time to time he flicked off a little dust which he could see glimmering unprofitably through the darkness. For hours at a time a shoe cleaner knelt before the stone and polished for dear life. Fischerle took no notice of him. If you talked to these lads they worked badly, better leave them to their polishing. A smart felt hat protected Fischerle's coiffure from the wind, which tended'to get up towards morning; a sea breeze was its name. On the far side of the table sat Capablanca playing in gloves. 'You may think that I haven't any gloves,' said Fischerle, and drew a brand new pair out of his pocket. Capablanca turned pale; his own were worn. Fischerle flung the new gloves at his feet and shouted: 'I challenge you.' 'For my part,' said Capablanca, trembling with fear, 'I don t believe you're a doctor. I don't play with just anybody.' 'I am a doctor, Fischerle replied calmly, and held his passport under his nose, 'Read that if you can read!' Capablanca surrendered. He began to cry and was inconsolable. 'Nothing lasts for ever,' said Fischerle, and patted him on the shoulder. 'How many years have you been world champion; Other chaps want something out of life too. Just take a look at my new suit! You're not the only one in the world.' But Capablanca was a broken man, he looked old, his face was covered with wrinkles and his gloves were crumpled. 'Tell you what,' said Fischerle, the poor devil went to his heart, 'I'll give you a game.' The old man stood up, shook his head, gave Fischerle a visiting card of his very own and sobbed: 'You're a noble fellow. Come and call on me!' On the visiting card the whole address was printed in foreign letters; who could read that? Fischerle tormented himself, every stroke was different, you couldn't make out a word. 'You should learn to read !' shouted Capablanca, he had already disappeared, he could only be heard calling, and how loud he called, the doddering crook: 'You should learn to read!' Fischerle wanted the address, the address. 'But it's on the visiting card!' screamed die devil from far off. 'Maybe he doesn't know German,' sighed Fischerle and stood there twisting the visiting card round in his hands; he would have torn it up but the photograph on it interested him. It was a photograph of himself still in his old suit without a hat and with a hump. The visiting card was his passport, he himself was lying on a stone with the old bridge over him and instead of the sea breeze the daylight was already half showing.
He got up and solemnly cursed Capablanca. This was not playing fair, what he'd just done. True, you can take liberties in a dream, but dreams reveal a man's true character. Fischerle had offered to give him a game — and he'd done him down about his address! And where was he to get the miserable address now?
At home Fischerle kept a minute pocket diary. Every double page was devoted to a chess champion. Whenever a new genius appeared in the papers he would, if possible on the very same day discover everything about his life from the date of his birth down to his address, and set them down. Owing to the small size of the diary and his gigantic writing this was the work of more hours than altogether suited the habits of the Capitalist. She would ask him who he was writing to, what he was doing; he said not a word. In case of a disaster — with which as an inhabitant of Heaven he must always reckon —he hoped to find refuge and protection among his hated rivals in the profession. For twenty long years he had kept his list a deadly secret. The Capitalist suspected secret love affairs. The diary was hidden deep in a crack in the floor under the bed. His small fingers were alone able to reach it. Often he derided his fears, and said: 'Fischerle, what are you going to get out of that? The Capitalist will love you for ever!' But he only laid hands on the diary when a new champion was to go into it. There they all were, in black and white. Capablanca too. When the Capitalist went off to work, to-night, he'd fetch it.
The new day began with shopping. Doctors carry note cases, and those who go to buy a suit must have one to draw out, otherwise they get laughed at. Waiting for the shops to open, his hair went grey. He wanted the biggest possible note case, in check leather; but the price must be marked on the outside. He wouldn't be cheated. He compared the window displays of a dozen shops and selected a gigantic case, for which there was only room in his pocket because the lining was torn. When it came to paying, he turned away. Suspicious, the shop-assistants surrounded him. Two took up their stand at the door, to get a breath of fresh air. He clutched at his armpit and paid cash down.
Under the bridge he aired his capital, smoothed it out flat on the very stone on which he had slept, and placed the notes, unfolded, in his check leather note case. He could nave got in even more. One ought to be able to buy them ready filled, he sighed; then with his capital added, it would have been really fat. In any case, the tailor would notice what it contained. In a superior outfitter's, he asked to see the proprietor. He came and stared, astonished at this commanding customer. In spite of Fischerle's unusual deformity, the first thing he noticed was his shabby suit. Fischerle bowed, in his own way, by drawing himself up, and presented himself.
'I am Dr. Siegfried Fischer, the chess champion. You've recognized me, doubtless, from my photographs in the papers. What I need is a suit made-to-measure, ready by to-night. I'll pay top prices. Half immediately, the other half on receipt. I'm going on the night train to Paris, I'm expected at die tournament in New York. My entire Wardrobe has been stolen at my hotel. You will understand, my time is platinum. I wake up, and everything has gone. The burglars came at night. Only think of the shock to die management! How am I even to venture into the street? I am an abnormal shape, how can I help it; where are they to find a suit to fit me? No shirt, no socks, no shoes, for a man like me, to whom elegance is meat and drink? Take my measurements please; I won't delay you! By the merest chance they routed out a certain individual in a café, a hunchbacked cripple, you never saw such an object; he helped me out with his best suit. And what do you think his best suit was? This one! Such a deformity as this suit makes me, I am not by a long way, I assure you. In one of my English suits now, nobody would notice anything. Small, I grant you, can I help it? But English tailors are geniuses, all of diem, geniuses every one. Without a suit, I have a hump. I go to an English tailor, and no hump. A tailor of talent may make the hump look smaller, a genius tailors it right away. A tragedy —all my beautiful suits! Of course I'm insured. All the same, I must be grateful to the burglar. My new passport, issued yesterday, he left on the night-table. Everything else he took. There, have a look — you doubt my identity; tell you what, in this suit I often doubt it myself. I'd order three suits at once, but do I know what your work is like? In the autumn I'll be back again in Europe. If your suit's a success, you'll see things. I'll send all America to you ! Charge me a reasonable price, for goodwill. You must know, I count on winning the world championship. Do you play chess?'
Carefully they took his measurements. What the English could do, they could surely do as well. No need to be a professional chess player to know Dr. Siegfried Fischer by sight. The time was short, but twelve cutters and finishers were at his disposal, first class men every one of them, and he, the proprietor, would have the honour of assisting himself in the cutting, a thing he only did for exceptional customers. A keen player of draughts, he knew how to value the art of chess. Champions were champions, whether in tailoring or in chess. Without insisting upon it, he recommended him to order a second suit at once. Fittings at twelve o'clock sharp, both ready by eight sharp, finished and pressed. The night train did not leave till eleven. Until then Dr. Fischer could amuse himself. Whether he won the world championship or not, he was a client to be proud of. He would regret that second suit in the train. Might he humbly suggest, that he should advertise his suit in New York. He would make him a special price, a ridiculously special price! In fact he would make nothing on the first suit at all, he would work for pure love of the art, for such a customer, and what material did the gentleman prefer?
Fischerle pulled out his very own note case and said: 'Just like this. Checks, in the same colours, it looks best at a tournament. Black and white checks would be the best, like a chessboard, but you tailors don't have any like that. No, I'll stick to
one
suit! If I'm satisfied, I'll telegraph from New York for another. On my word. A famous man keeps his promises. This linen! This linen! I have to put up with the filth! I borrowed the linen from him too. Now tell me this, why does a deformity like him give up washing? Does it hurt? Does soap injure him? It doesn't, injure me!'
The rest of the morning was passed in equally weighty affairs. Bright yellow shoes, he bought, and a black hat. Expensive linen glistened bright, wherever gaps in his suit allowed it to. What a pity so much of it was hidden. Suits should be made transparent, like women's dresses; why shouldn't a man show off his points too? In the nearest public lavatory Fischerle changed his linen. He gave the woman a tip and asked her what she took him for. 'For a hunchback,' she said with an ugly leer, the kind they have in her job. 'You mean because of my hump,' said Fischerle, hurt. 'It'll go again. Think I was born that way? A swelling, an illness, what have you; six months and I'll be straight again; no, let's say five. What do you think of my shoes?' A new client had come in; she left him short of an answer; he had already paid her. 'Who cares?' he said to himself, 'What do I want with the old whore! I'll go and have a bath.'
In a high-class establishment he asked for a luxury cubicle with a long mirror. As he had paid, he really did take a bath; why should he waste his money. He spent a full hour before the glass. From shoes to hat, he stood there immaculate, his old suit lay on the luxury divan; who'd bother with those rags? His shirt, on the other hand, was starched and blue, a delicate colour, suitable and spacious, a pity that it recalled Heaven; why? The sea is just as blue. Pants were only stocked in white; he would have preferred rose pink. He tweaked his sock suspenders, how firmly twanged the elastic! Fischerle too, had calves, none too crooked either, and the suspenders were bound with silk, guaranteed. In the cubicle there was a little table of plaited cane. Palms in pots, the kind you have in. high-class interiors, should be put on it. Here, the little table was thrown in with the bath. The rich lessor pushed it in front of the mirror, pulled his chessboard out of the pocket of the despised suit, took his place with easy assurance and won a lightning game against himself. 'If you were Capablanca,' he shouted violently in his own face, Td have beaten you six times in the time! At home in Europe we call this galloping chess! Go and boil your head! You think I'm afraid. One, two, and you're finished. You American! You paralytic! Do you know who I am? I'm Dr. Fischer! I've studied! You need an intellect to play chess. You, a world champion!'
Then he packed up quickly. He left the little table behind. At Baboon Palace he would have dozens of them. In the street again he didn't know what else to buy. The package with the old things under his arm looked like a paper parcel. First class passengers have luggage. He bought a smart leather suitcase. In it floated lonely what he had until recently worn on his body. At the cloakroom for hand luggage he gave it in. The official asked: 'Empty?' Fischerle looked haughtily up at him from below. 'You'd be glad if you had its contents!' He studied the time-tables. Two night trains went to Paris. One of them he could read about, the other was too high for him. A lady informed him of it. She was not specially elegant. She said: 'You'll dislocate your neck, little man. What train do you want?' 'Dr. Fischer, if you please,' he answered, with condescension; she wondered how he managed it. 'I'm going to Paris. I usually take the 1.5, you see, this one here. But I understand there is an earlier one.' As she was only a woman, he said nothing about America, the tournament and his profession. 'You mean the one at eleven, you see, this one!' said the lady. 'Thank you, madam.' He turned solemnly away. She was ashamed of herself. She knew the whole gamut of compassion, but had struck the wrong note. He noticed her submissiveness, she came from some Heaven or other; he would gladly have thrown a rude word at her. Then he heard the thunder of an engine coming in and remembered the station. The clock showed twelve. He was wasting valuable time with women. In thirteen hours he would be on his way to America. On account of his diary — which in spite of all the novelties he hadn't forgotten — he decided on the later train. For the sake of his new suit he took a taxi. 'My tailor's expecting me,' he said to the chauffeur during the drive, 'to-night I must go to Paris and early to-morrow morning to Japan. Incredible how little time a doctor has!' The chauffeur found his fare unsatisfactory. He had a feeling that dwarfs didn't tip, and revenged himself in advance. 'You're no doctor, sir, you're a quack!' There were chauffeurs for the asking under the Stars of Heaven. They played a rotten game if they played at all. I'll make him a present of his slander, because he can't play chess, thought Fischerle to himself. Really he was glad, because this way he saved himself the tip.
At his fitting his hump shrank. First of all the dwarf refused to believe the mirror and went right up to it to see if it were really flat. The tailor looked discreedy away. "Tell you what!' cried Fischerle, 'You were born in England! If you like I'll bet on it. You were bom in England?' The tailor half admitted it; he knew London well, he hadn't exactly been born in London; on bis honeymoon he'd almost decided to stay there, but there was so much competition ... 'This is only the fitting. It'll be gone by to-night,' said Fischerle and struck his hump. 'How do you like my hat?' The tailor was enthusiastic. The price he thought exorbitant, the style the most modern, and he strongly advised Fischerle to buy a coat to go with it. 'You only live once,' he said. Fischerle agreed. He chose a colour which reconciled the yellow of his shoes to the black of his hat, a bright blue. 'Moreover, it's just the same shade as my shirt.' The tailor bowed to so much good taste. 'I take it, Dr. Fischer, that you wear all your shirts of the same cut and colour,' and he turned to several assistants obsequiously standing about and informed them of the peculiarity of this famous man. 'In this very manner unmasks itself the glorious phoenix of the east. Rare indeed are characters of such integrity. In my humble opinion games of skill confirm the conservative in man. Be it chess or draughts it all tones in. It is the deepest conviction of a business man that it suits him. He elevates himself to the personification of tranquillity. A quiet evening at the close of day ensures a night's rest. The most devoted family has its limitations in life. Our Father in Heaven turns a blind eye to a dignified evening at the Rotary. From any other customer I would ask a deposit for the coat. But your character does not permit me to wish to insult you.'
'Yes, yes,' said Fischerle, 'my future wife lives in America. I have not seen her for a year. My profession, my miserable profession! Tournaments are a madness. Here I play a drawn game, there I win, usually I win, in fact always, and my future wife is pining away. Take her with you, you may say. It's easy enough to say. She comes of a millionaire's family. "Either you marry" say her parents "or you stay at home! Otherwise he'll let you down and we shall look fools." I've nothing against marriage, for her vast dowry she's going to be given a whole stuffed castle, but not until I'm world champion, not a moment sooner. She's marrying my name, I'm marrying her money. I don't want just the money. Well, good-bye till eight o'clock!'
By thus revealing his marriage plans Fischerle concealed the deep impression the tailor's sketch of his character had made on him. Until this moment he had not known that there were men who possessed more than one shirt at a time. His ex-wife the Capitalist had three chemises, but that was only a recent development. The gentleman who came once a week did not like seeing her always in the same. One Monday he had asserted that he was fed up, that eternal red got on his nerves. This was a fine beginning for the week, things were getting him down, business was bad. At least he had a right to expect something decent for his money. It wasn't as if he hadn't a wife as well. Just because she was thin, she was a woman after all. Not a word against his wife. The mother of his children. He repeated: if when he came next Monday he saw nothing but that eternal chemise, he would simply renounce the pleasure. Regular gentlemen don't grow on trees. Finally it worked. An hour later he was mollified. But before leaving he complained again. When Fischerle came home there was his wife standing stark naked in the middle of their little room. Her red chemise lay crumpled up in a corner. He asked what was she doing there. 'I'm crying,' said the comical fat lump; 'he's not coming any more.' 'What does he want?' asked Fischerle, 'I'll run after him.' 'He doesn't like my chemise,' whimpered the plump scarecrow, 'he wants a new one.' 'And you didn't promise it him!' screeched Fischerle. 'What have you got a mouth for!' Like a mad thing he hurled himself down the stairs. 'Sir!' he screamed down the street. 'Sir!' nobody knew the gentleman's name. He ran on at random and bumped into a lamp-post. It was the very one against which the gentleman was performing a function he had forgotten upstairs. Fischerle waited until he had finished. He didn't embrace him, although he had found him, but said: 'There will be a new chemise for you every Monday. On
my
guarantee! She's my wife. I can do what I like with her. Pray honour us with your company next Monday!' 'I'll see what I can do for you,' said the gentleman, and yawned. So that no one should recognize him, he had a very long way to go. On the very next Tuesday the Capitalist bought herself two new chemises, one green, the other lilac. On Monday the gentleman came. He looked at her chemise at once. She was wearing the green one. First of all he asked crossly, was it the red one dyed, you couldn't play tricks on him, he knew his way about. She showed him the others and he was gratified. He preferred the lilac one, but the red one was his favourite because it reminded him of their first times. And so Fischerle's efficiency had saved his wife from disaster; she might easily have starved in those difficult times.
While he was thinking of the little room and his much too big wife, he decided to forget his diary. He might run into his wife if he went home. She loved him dearly. Maybe she wouldn't let him go. If she said no, she screamed and threw herself in front of the door. There'd be no creeping under her, there'd be no pushing her aside, she was fatter than die door. Even her head was fat; when she took something into it she forgot business and stayed at home all night. Then he'd miss his train and get to America too late. He'd be able to find out Capablanca's address just as well in Paris. If no one knew it there, he'd ask in America. Millonaires knew everything. Fischerle would not go back to the little room. He'd have liked to creep under the bed once more in farewell; that was the cradle of his future career. There he used to lay traps and defeat champions storming like lightning from one square to another; he'd found in it a peace unknown in any café, his opponents played worthily for he was himself his own opponent. In Baboon Palace he would build a little room just like it with another bed for thinking up clever moves, and he alone would be allowed to creep under it. But he'd forego the farewell visit. Too much feeling was superfluous. A bed was only a bed. He could remember it perfectly well without. Instead he d buy eleven more shirts, all blue. Anyone who could tell them apart would win a prize. The tailor knew something about character; but he could shut up about draughts. Only duds played that.
Complete with his parcel he returned to die station, opened his smart suitcase and placed the shirts one by one inside it. The contempt of the cloakroom man changed into respect. 'One more dozen,' thought their proprietor, 'and he'll go right out of his mind.' Once he held his packed case in his hand/it nearly pushed him into a train which was standing ready. But the cloakroom attendant removed the temptation. At a special counter where an office had been opened for foreigners Fischerle asked in broken German for a first class ticket to Paris. They chased him away. He clenched his fist and croaked: 'Just to teach you I'll travel 2nd and your railway will have to stand the difference! You wait till I come in my new suit!' But he was not really angry. He didn't really look in the least like a foreigner. In front of the station-he ate quickly a couple of hot sausages. 'I could go to a restaurant with separate tables,' he told the sausage man, 'and put down a king's ransom on the white tablecloth, I've got it in my note case,' he heldit out under the nose of the unbeliever. 'But I'm not one for my stomach, I've got an intellect!' 'With a head like yours, I believe you! answered the other. He had a little child's head on a lumpish body, and was jealous of everyone who had a larger one. "What do you think I've got in it!' said Fischerle, and paid. 'All my years of study and languages, approximately six!'
