The Eternal Philistine (20 page)

This friendly gentleman was a regular and repeated himself frequently. He also loved to debate with the granny and knew no limits. And so he told her that the first caveman to draw an ox on the cave wall had been worshipped by all
the other cavemen as a mysterious magician, and this was precisely how every artist should be worshipped today. (He was, you see, a talented pianist.)

Then he would argue with the granny about whether the five-pfennig mark was called Schiller or Goethe (he collected stamps to boot), whereupon in most cases the granny would retort that the forty-pfennig mark was at any rate the great philosopher who had made a poor critique of reason, and the fifty-pfennig mark was a genius who wanted to lead mankind to noble aims, and she really couldn’t imagine how one would begin such an endeavor, whereupon he would say that pretty much every beginning was difficult, and then he would add that the thirty-pfennig mark had introduced the age of individual consciousness. Then the granny would fall silent and think that this dogmatic guy had better go and play a nice old waltz.

WHEN HERR REITHOFER HEARD ABOUT THE JOB for the young lady, he could not help but think of that shithead from earlier who had suckered him into going into that stupid movie theater. He said to himself that, of all jobs, this one could really be her salvation. After all, she told him that she was actually a seamstress and had only just started being one of those types. Maybe it would cost him but a word now and tomorrow she wouldn’t be the other thing anymore, as if he were the Emperor of China. “Only I’m not the Emperor of China,” he said to himself, “and she’s just a shithead!”

The older gentleman got up to grab the new illustrated
magazine. “He’s a strange character,” said the granny ironically. Herr Reithofer thought, “This strange character is probably also a shithead!”

“But it’s really nice of him to want to help Herr Reithofer,” said Swoboda softly, and flipped vacantly through a magazine.

“Sure it’s nice,” smirked Herr Reithofer, and suddenly a thought crossed his mind: “He’s got no idea whether or not I’ll also turn out to be a shithead! My goodness, I really am one!” And he kept thinking, which made him feel well in a melancholy way: “If all the shitheads went and helped each other out, then every shithead would be better off. Yeah, shitheads should help each other out more often—it’s just downright indecent not to help somebody when you can.”

“That man’s lying!” said the granny.

“No, he’s not!” Swoboda defended him, and grew fierce.

“We’ll see about that right now!” said Herr Reithofer and turned toward the strange character was once again walking up to the table with his magazine. “So listen, sir. I’m afraid I can’t turn into a woman, but I do know of one for your Councilor of Commerce, and a first-class seamstress at that! You’d be doing me personally a huge favor,” he stressed, and this was a lie.

Now, then, it’d be no trouble at all, the strange character cut him off. It would only cost him a phone call, given that the Councilor of Commerce just happened to be in Munich as of yesterday. And he rushed over to the telephone.

“Well, now, that’s one touching shithead,” thought Herr Reithofer, and Swoboda thought, reverently: “That’s an uncommon man and an even more uncommon artist.” But the granny said: “He’s lying.”

However, the granny turned out to be wrong. The
uncommon man reappeared just a few minutes later, looking like he had won the World War. That stuff about the Councilor of Commerce was absolutely true, and in his flush of victory he found it hard to return to his seat straightaway. He was walking around the table and explaining to Herr Reithofer that his young lady could take up the post immediately, only thing was she’d have to report in at the hotel German Emperor at exactly seven thirty tomorrow morning. All she’d have to do would be to ask for the Herr Councilor of Commerce from Ulm and he’d bring her along. That is, he was going to return to his Ulm at eight o’clock.

And Herr Reithofer asked him how he could thank him, but the uncommon man just smiled: one hand basically washed the other, and perhaps someday Herr Reithofer would be in the position to procure him a job, were he only a masseuse and not a salesman. And he wouldn’t let him pay for the telephone call either. “It’s nice to make a phone call for someone else every once in a while,” he said.

“I don’t know how to sew,” Swoboda muttered, “I’ve pretty much forgotten how to do everything.” Even the granny was moved, but the most moved of all was the uncommon man himself.

IT WAS ALREADY PAST CURFEW, AND THE Holzstrasse stood next to the livelier Müllerstrasse in silent serenity. That shithead would probably be wandering around here somewhere, thought Herr Reithofer. He was thinking logically.

He had been frantically searching for her for a while now, and it was almost one thirty. And then finally there she was, standing on the corner. She was conversing with a chauffeur who had a powerful effect on women. You could tell this just by looking at him, which is why Herr Reithofer waited until they had finished speaking.

And then he slowly approached her from behind, feeling so noble and good that it hurt him.

“Good evening, Fräulein!” he greeted her unexpectedly.

Anna looked back, recognized him and was so startled that she couldn’t utter a peep. Her reaction was, however, unwarranted, because he merely told her that he had found a respectable employment opportunity for her, the only thing was she’d have to take a ride to Ulm on the Danube tomorrow morning at eight with a real Councilor of Commerce, which would be a real lifesaver for her.

She was staring at him, and he had to repeat himself because she could not understand him. But then she cut him off touchily, saying he should go find somebody else to tell his mean jokes to; that she refused to tolerate this crude teasing and all this mockery.

But he would not let her out of his sight. Now he really felt bad for this shithead for not believing in the Councilor of Commerce.

She was muttering something about crudeness when suddenly she started to cry. He should just leave her in peace and quiet, she cried, she already had it bad enough as it is. And after all, nobody on earth would chase after her with a lifesaver after having just been taken advantage of. But Herr Reithofer kept silent. And now the shithead, too, stopped talking.

She had, you see, already started to believe that there
was only evil in this world, but now she was experiencing an instance of the contrary, this being admittedly only a small instance, but nonetheless an indication of the possibility of human culture and civilization. Her face wore a different expression and she stopped crying.

“I’d never have thought it.” She smiled, and it hurt her to do so.

“You see, Fräulein,” said Herr Reithofer, “it’s possible to do things without being in love, basically out of human solidarity.”

Then he walked off.

And he had a pleasant feeling doing it, for now he could to some extent attest to the fact that he had helped out a shithead. Something along these lines:

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