Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf (23 page)

The old man sighs. “Yes, you’re fifty years old and rheumatiz along with it. If you can put up a old front, old boy, you won’t be by yourself, hire a couple o’ youngsters, have to pay ‘em of course, they get half maybe, but you’ll have to mind the business, you can save your legs and your voice. You’ve gotta have connections and a good stand. When it rains, it’s wet. For business to be good you must have prize fights and changes in government. At Ebert’s death, they tell me, people grabbed the papers away from you. Don’t make such a face, old fellow, things are only half as bad as they look. Just watch that pile-driver over there, imagine that falling on your head, then what’s the use in worrying about all that?”

Attack aimed at the Tenants’ Protection Law. Discharge for Zörgiebel. I resign from the party of traitors to their principles. British censorship concerning Amanullah, India must be kept in the dark.

Opposite, in front of the little Web Radio Store-till further notice free charging of batteries-there stands a pale young woman, her hat pulled down over her face, she seems to be thinking intensely. The chauffeur of the big black and white taxi standing nearby thinks to himself: Is she wondering now whether she ought to take a taxi, and if she has enough with her or is she waiting for somebody. But what she does is to twist about in her velvet coat as if her body were being wrenched, then she starts up again, she’s unwell, that’s all, and has the cramps, as usual. She is about to take her teacher’s examination, today she would have liked to stay at home with a hot-water bottle, it’ll go better tonight anyway.

For a long while Nothing, Rest Hour, back to a normal Basis

On the evening of February 9, 1928, when the Labor government fell in Oslo, and it was the last night of the six-day bicycle races in Stuttgart - the winners were Van Kempen-Frankenstein with 726 points, 2440 kilometers - the situation in the Saar Valley appeared more criticaL on the evening of February 9, 1928, a Tuesday (one moment please, now you will see the mysterious face of the strange woman, the question asked by this beautiful woman concerns everybody, even you: do you smoke Garbaty Kalif?), that evening Franz Biberkopf stood on the Alexanderplatz before a poster column studying an invitation of the truck-gardeners of Treptow-Neukölln and Britz to a meeting of protest in Irmer’s Assembly Hall, order of the day, the arbitrary notices of dismissal. Underneath was the advertisement: the torture of asthma and masks for rent, large assortment for ladies and gentlemen. Suddenly little Meck stood beside him. Meck, why we know that fellow. Up he comes a-shaking, long steps he is taking.

“Well, well, Franz, old boy.” Meck was delighted, how delighted he was! “Franz, old fellow, who woulda thought it, seeing you again, you’ve been like a dead man. I’d ‘a’ sworn-” “Now what? Can imagine it all right-I’ve done something again. Nope, nope, old boy.” They shook hands, shook each other’s arms up to the shoulders, shook each other’s shoulders down to the ribs, slapped each other on the shoulder-blades till their bodies began to wobble.

“That’s the way it is, Gottlieb. We never see each other any more. Why, I’m in business around here.” “Here on the Alex, Franz, you don’t say, why, 1 should have run into you sometimes. Here 1 go past a fellow and don’t see him.” “That’s true, Gottlieb.”

And arm-in-arm they wander down the Prenzlauer Strasse. “Didn’cha once want to sell plaster heads, Franz?” “I ain’t got the brains for plaster heads. You need culture for plaster, 1 ain’t got that. I’m selling newspapers again. You can make a living out of that. And how about you, Gottlieb?” ‘Tm over there on Schbnhauserstrasse peddling men’s wear, leather jackets and pants.” “And where do you get those things?” “Still the same old Franz, always gotta ask where from. That’s what the girls ask when they want alimony.” Franz toddled silently along beside Meck with a gloomy expression on his face: “You fellows will keep on swindling till you get it in the neck.” “What do you mean get it in the neck, what do you mean by swindling, Franz, a fellow has to be a business man, he’s got to know something about buying.”

Franz did not want to walk along any farther, no, he didn’t want to, he was recalcitrant. But Meck wouldn’t give in, kept on gabbling and wouldn’t give in: “You come along with me to the cafe, Franz, you might meet the cattle dealers, you remember ‘em, don’t you, the ones with the law-suit going on who were Sitting with us at the table at the meeting when you got your membership card. They certainly got themselves in trouble with their suit. Now they’ve gotta take an oath and they’ve gotta get witnesses to take the oath. Boy, they’re gonna get a nice fall, but with their heads first.” “Nope, Gottlieb, I’d rather not come along.”

But Meck did not give in, he was his good old friend and the best of them all at that, except of course Herbert Wischow, but he was a pimp, and he didn’t want to have anything to do with him, nope, never again. And arm-in-arm, down Prenzlauer Strasse, the distillery, textile factories, candy, silk, silk, I recommend silk, something amazingly smart for the well-built woman!

When eight o’clock came around, Franz was sitting with Meck and another man who was mute and had to talk in signs, at a table in the corner of a cafe. And things went on in great style. Meck and the mute were astonished how completely Franz thawed out, with what joy he ate and drank, two pig’s feet, then baked beans, one mug of Engelhardt after the other, and he paying for it. The three of them propped their arms one against the other so that no one could come near the small table and disturb them; only the thin proprietress was allowed to clear the table off and get things straightened up and bring the new orders. At the table next to them sat three men who from time to time stroked each other’s bald heads. Franz, his cheeks bulging, smiled, the slits of his eyes roved towards the group. “What are they doing there, anyway?” The proprietress pushed the mustard towards him, his second pot: “Well, I guess they’re in love.” “Yep, I can believe that.” And they laughed and guffawed, smacking their lips and gulping away, the three of them. Again and again Franz announced: “Gotta fill yourself up. A man must eat to be strong. If your belly ain’t full, you can’t do anything.”

The animals come rolling along from the provinces, from East Prussia, Pomerania, West Prussia, Brandenburg. They moo and low as they run along the cattle gangway. The pigs grunt and sniff at the ground. In fog you walk. A pale young man takes a hatchet, bing, that was a great moment, it’s all over with.

At nine they unlocked their elbows, stuck their cigars in their fat mouths and started belching to give up the warm effluvia of their meal.

Then something began to happen. First a fresh youngster came into the cafe, hung his hat and overcoat on the wall and started to bang on the piano.

The place began to fill up. A few men were standing at the bar discussing things. Some sat down by Franz at the next table, elderly men with caps on, and a young man with a derby. Meck knew them, the conversation went back and forth. The younger man, who had black flashing eyes, a smart fellow from Hoppegarten, said:

“What they found when they got to Australia? First of all, sand and heather and fields and no trees and no grass and nothing. Just a desert of sand. And then millions and millions of yellow sheep. They grow wild there. Those are the ones the English lived off of at first. And they exported them too. To America.” “That’s where they
would
need sheep from Australia.” “South America, of course.” “That’s where they have so many jackasses. Why they don’t know what to do with ‘em all.” “But sheep, the wool. When there are so many Negroes in the country, and all of them freezing. Well, I guess the English know where to send their sheep, don’t they? You needn’t worry about the English. But what became of the sheep afterwards? Nowadays you can go to Australia, a fellow told me, as far as you can see, not a sheep. Everything smooth as a billiard ball. And why? Where are all the sheep?” “Wild animals.” Meck shook his head: “What d’y mean wild animals? Epidemics. That’s always the greatest misfortune for a country. They die off, and there you are.” I The youngster with the derby was not of the opinion that epidemics had been decisive. “It may have been epidemics. Where there are so many animals as that some of them die anyway, then they rot and diseases come. But that’s not the reason. Nope, they all trotted into the ocean at a gallop, when the English came. The sheep, all over the country were scared to death, when the English came and began to catch them and put them in freight cars, so the poor beasts ran away by the thousands, into the ocean.” Meek: “Let ‘em be. That’s all right. Let ‘em run. Of course there were ships waiting for ‘em. That’s how the English saved railroad expenses.” “Railroad expenses, that’s how much you know about it. It went on like that a long time till the English began to notice something. They naturally sticking to the interior and catching and driving them around and right into the freight cars, such a big country too, and no organization, it’s always like that in the beginning, and later on it’s too late, too late. The sheep, of course, all skedaddled to the ocean where they swilled that dirty salt.” “And then what?” “Whatcha mean, what? Suppose you’re thirsty and nothing to eat and then swill dirty salt yourself like them sheep.” “Drowned and dead as a doornail.” “Why sure. They say they were lying in that there ocean by the thousands, and stinking away, and off they go.” Franz agreed: “Animals are sensitive. With animals it’s sort o’ funny. A man’s gotta be able to deal with ‘em. If you don’t get ‘em right, better keep your hands off of ‘em.”

They all drank in their amazement, exchanging observations about wasted capital and the way things happen, how even in America they let the whole wheat harvest rot, all sorts of things can happen. “Nope,” explained the man from Hoppegarten, the fellow with the black eyes, “there’s nothing in the papers about it, and they don’t write anything, can’t say why, perhaps on account of the immigration, otherwise nobody’d go there, maybe. They say they got a kind of lizard, a regular antediluvian kind of lizard, several yards long, they won’t even show it in the Zoo, the English wouldn’t allow it. One of ‘em was caught, by some sailors, they’ve been showing it around in Hamburg, but it was prohibited right away. Nothing doing. They live in pools, in stagnant water, no one knows what they live on. Once a whole automobile caravan sank, they didn’t even dig for them, to see where they got to. Nothing. Nobody would dare go near ‘em. Yep.” “I’ll be jiggered,” observed Meek. “And how about gas?” The youngster reflected: “Might try that. Trying don’t hurt.” That seemed clear enough.

An elderly man sat down behind Meck, his elbows on Meck’s chair, a short, under-sized fellow, fat face, red as a lobster, protuberant big eyes shiftily glancing here and there. They made room for him. And soon Meck and he started whispering together. He wore high shiny boots, carried a linen duster over his arm, and seemed to be a cattle dealer. Franz was talking across the table with the youngster from Hoppegarten, whom he liked. At that moment Meck tapped him on the shoulder, signaled to him with his head, they got up, the small cattle dealer, who was laughing good-naturedly, went along with them. The three of them stood away from the others near the iron stove. Franz thought it was on account of the two cattle dealers and their law-suit. He’d certainly like to keep out of that. But it was quite pointless really, their standing around like that. The small fellow only wanted to shake hands with him and know what business he was in. Franz tapped his newspaper case. Well, maybe he might occasionally want to do something in fruit; his name is Pums, he says, fruit dealer, and sometimes he might need a man to peddle with a wagon. Franz answered by shrugging his shoulders: “Depends on the profits.” Whereupon they sat down. Franz thought how cleverly that smallman talks: to be used with caution, shake after using.

The conversation continued, with Hoppegarten, as usual, in the lead; they were in America now. The Hoppegarten lad had his hat between his knees: “Well, that guy marries a woman in America and don’t think much about it. And it’s a Negress. ‘What’ says he, ‘you’re a Negress?’ Bang, out she goes. Then the woman had to undress herself before the judge. In a bathing suit. Of course she don’t want to at first, but they tell her to stop that bunk. Her skin was all white. Because she was a mestizo. The man says: ‘She’s a Negress, I’m telling you.’ And why? Because her finger-tips are tinted brown instead of white. She was a mestizo, ye see.” “Well, and what did she want? Divorce?” “Nope, damages. After all, he married her, and perhaps she lost her position. Nobody wants a divorced woman, anyway. She was snow-white, that woman, pretty as a picture. Descended from Negroes, maybe from the seventeenth century. Damages.”

A fight was going on around the bar. The proprietress was hollering at an excited chauffeur. He was contradicting her: ‘Td never take the liberty of monkeying with food.” The fruit dealer yelled: “Keep quiet there.” Whereupon the chauffeur turned around angrily, and looked at the stout chap, the latter smiled him out of countenance, however, and there followed a vicious silence around the bar.

Meck whispered to Franz: “The cattle dealers are not coming today. Got everything fixed up. They’re all set for the next session. Take a look at that yellow chap, he’s a big boy around here.”

All evening Franz had been watching the yellow-faced man whom Meck had pointed out to him. Franz felt tremendously attracted by him. He was slim, wore a shabby army coat-wonder if he’s a communist-and had a long, thin, yellowish face; what struck you most about him were the deep wrinkles on his forehead. Surely the man was only in his early thirties, but he nevertheless had gaping hollows on both sides of
his
face, from his nose to his mouth. Franz kept on looking intently at the man’s nose; it was short, blunt, and planted in a very business-like way. His head was leaning on his left hand in which he held a burning pipe. He had high, black, upstanding hair. When he went over to the bar later on-he dragged his legs behind him as if his feet were sticking to something Franz noticed that he wore miserable yellow shoes, and his thick gray socks were hanging overboard. Wonder if that fellow’s a consumptive? He ought to be put in a hospital, Beelitz or somewhere, to think they let him run around like that. What’s he doing anyway? The man came ambling along, his pipe in his mouth, in one hand a cup of coffee, in the other a lemonade with a big tin spoon. Then he sat down at the table, took one swallow of coffee and then of lemonade. Franz couldn’t take his eyes off him. What sad eyes the fellow has! Probably been doing time. Say, look here, he probably thinks I’ve been doing time, too. So I did, TegeL four years, now you know it, what about it?