The Tobacconist Page 8

  Franz sat at an empty table. The girl came over, and he ordered a pint of lager. She brought the beer, silently placed a bowl of nuts in front of him as well, and disappeared again behind the bar. A few minutes passed, and then suddenly a spotlight went on, illuminating a tiny wooden stage at the far end of the room. A door opened and a small man in a tuxedo stepped into the light. He was skinny and wrinkled, but despite his age he sparkled with energy. He bowed, smiling, then immediately pitched himself forward, executed a breakneck somersault, stood bolt upright again a moment later and began to speak. He talked about conditions in his beloved city of Vienna, about this great big kindergarten where the Schuschnigg boy and his playmates loved to romp about but hadn’t been allowed to for ages now; about the little Nazis, who loved to scrap in the sandpit with the little Sozis, and about the little Catholics, who stood silently on the sidelines, shat their nappies, then went and confessed everything to the Greater German nannies. He spoke quickly, in a manic staccato, without even seeming to draw breath, but his smile never faltered. All at once a jolt passed through his body and he fell to his knees. With theatrical slowness he put his hands together, gazed up into the spotlight and began to pray:

  Dear God, please strike me dumb,

  so Dachau won’t be where I’ll come.

  Dear God, please strike me deaf,

  so I’ll think we’ve a future left.

  Dear God, please strike me blind,

  so I’ll believe we’re doing fine.

  When I’m deaf and blind and dumb,

  I’ll be Adolf’s favourite son . . .

  The men laughed, several clapped, one signalled to the waitress, one called after her with some well-intentioned ribaldry. Franz laughed, too, although secretly he wasn’t sure he’d really understood it all properly. But it was funny, anyway, to see this little man kneeling there on the bare boards and gazing up at the ceiling, full of humility. Just like the old women with their rosaries and prayer books in front of the altar of the chapel back in Nussdorf; like crows in their black headscarves, thought Franz, popping three nuts into his mouth. Up on stage, the show continued.

  The man catapulted himself back onto his feet, turned away and, with a few swift movements, adjusted his face. When he turned round again, a murmur ran through the audience. In the cone of the spotlight, surrounded by shimmering dust, stood Adolf Hitler. A couple of strands of hair, a bit of kohl around the eyes and a square stuck onto the upper lip were enough to transform a man in a tuxedo into the German chancellor. Hitler’s eyes gleamed like the dark molluscs Franz had plucked so often from the reeds and later cracked open to feed to cats or rub in girls’ hair. He snapped his heels together with a sharp click, yanked his arm up in the salute and stuck out his chin. Franz couldn’t help thinking of the professor, whose chin also always seemed slightly ahead of the rest of his body. Funny, he thought; perhaps he’d just identified a small thing that the two men, who were in fact otherwise very different, had in common. With an imperious gesture, Hitler called for the audience to be silent and began to give a speech. It was about the stupidity of the Orient, bravely opposed by the determination and resistance of the Aryan race; about saving Austria from the malevolence of the Balkans; about saving Europe from the voraciousness of Bolshevism; about saving the world from the insatiable greed of international Jewry, and so on. All of this had panache, and it sounded sort of reasonable, too. But as it went on he started talking himself into more and more of a frenzy, and soon the torrent of words, still comprehensible to begin with, became an inarticulate, staccato bellowing. The Chancellor of the Reich ranted and raved until spittle was flying everywhere. He drew his head down between his shoulders, ground his jaw and bared his teeth. At the same time he doubled up, leaning his upper body forwards and bending his knees, hunching his back as he did so and balling his hands into tightly clenched fists. A glittering thread of drool dangled from his lower lip and dripped onto the boards of the stage. He let himself fall forward, braced his knees and fists against the floor and stared out into the audience with a low growl. His rear end dropped; with a guttural sound he took a deep breath and tensed his muscles to spring. Suddenly the girl with scar was standing beside him. ‘Sit!’ she said, in a quiet voice, and he obeyed. He laid his head between his front paws with a little whine and looked up at her. She raised her hand and for a moment it looked as if she was going to hit him, a big slap right in the middle of his stupid doggy face. But then she smiled. ‘Good Adi, nice dog!’ she said, and scratched him lovingly behind his ear. She pulled a lead out of the pocket of her apron, put it round his neck and, with the animal at her heel and the audience applauding, walked towards the exit. Just before they reached the door Adi jumped up, ripped the little moustache off his lip and gave the waitress a smacking kiss on the cheek. The two of them bowed, and the master of ceremonies announced the next number.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen — or rather, lady-less gentlemen, I am delighted to be able to present to you an international sensation of the very highest order! Beyond the heat-shimmering deserts of the New World, amid the endless expanses of the prairie, in a place where the coyote howls, the eagle circles majestically and every evening the dust from mighty herds of bison darkens the crimson of the setting sun; in a place as remote as only Hell or Paradise can be, where the salmon leap straight into the greedy mouth of the bear and the treacherous snake rattles beneath the hot stone; in just such a place we found her, naked and defenceless in the tall grass, at the mercy of the powerful forces of Nature, a lonely child of man, her quaking heart shielded in the awakening body of a young woman, the last survivor of a lost world beyond our civilization, a world in which humankind still lives in the eternal freedom of Nature, entirely in the moment, without taboos, without guilt and without shame. My dear sirs, please welcome with me tonight, right here and now: N’Djina, the shy beauty from the land of the Indians!’

  The men shifted on their chairs, downed the last of their beer and licked the foam from their lips. In the meantime the girl with the scar had pushed a trolley with a huge gramophone onto the stage. The master of ceremonies put on a record and tenderly lowered the pickup. A mysterious rustling issued from the depths of the horn, and then the music began. Franz held his breath. A single nut slipped from his mouth and fell back into the bowl. He had never heard anything like it. As it squeezed the notes out, the gramophone seemed to be in pain; the rhythm was slow and thudding, the melody mournful; only occasionally did a single high note break forth. Then came the singing. It was impossible to tell whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman. It was deep, raw and broken: a murmuring, sobbing and lamentation that had strayed into this smoky Prater grotto by some strange accident and seemed to tell of some far distant world. For a moment Franz felt as if an infinitely vast space were opening up deep inside him, filled with nothing but sadness. It was strange, he thought, closing his eyes, but for some reason this infinitely vast, sadness-filled space didn’t even feel that bad. Perhaps, he mused, you could let yourself fall into it, sink deeper and deeper into yourself and never come back to the surface. Just at that moment the pickup hopped across the record with a scratching sound, the voice stumbled, and Franz opened his eyes again. Directly in front of him, in the middle of the spotlight, stood the Indian woman. She was standing with her back to the audience, not moving. Her hair was pitch black and flowed in long, smooth strands over her shoulders and back. A feather was affixed to a leather headband. Her arms were naked, and she had propped her hands on her hips, where they rested on the waistband of a short, fringed, colourfully embroidered skirt. She was barefoot, and thin leather ribbons, glittering with tiny glass beads, were wound around her ankles. Her legs shone in the light. They were firm legs, smooth, rosy and plump. But it was mainly by the hollows in the backs of her knees that he recognized her. Not all that long ago he had buried his face in these hollows, had probed them, millimetre by millimetre, with his tongue, before embarking towards higher ground. These hollows were softer than anythi
ng Franz had ever known. Softer than the lake on a quiet late summer’s day, softer than the moss in the little wood on Nussdorf’s southern shore, softer even than his mother’s hand, which in days gone by had lain so often on his cheek, in comfort, as a reward, or for no particular reason — a brief touch, as if incidental, in passing.

  The voice from the gramophone gave a raw, strangled sob, and at that moment Anezka began to move. At first it was just the tapping of a foot; then her legs started to twitch, and a moment later her bottom was swaying gently up and down. She raised her arms and waved them slowly above her head. The drumbeats from the gramophone seemed to strike her body directly, another little impact with every bar. Suddenly she turned around. Her face was painted with yellow and red stripes. She was staring into the distance, her gaze lost somewhere above the men’s heads. Her hair completely covered her breasts. She threw her head back, laughed up at the spotlight and spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the light itself. Then she started stamping to the languid rhythm of the music. The glass beads on her feet clicked and the feather on her head bounced in time. Franz saw a single bead of sweat slip out from beneath her hairline, run down her forehead and catch on one of the pitch-black, painted eyebrows. The spectators were growing increasingly restless; one man began to slap his thighs with both hands, and there was a hoarse cough from the semi-darkness of an alcove. Anezka stamped on the wooden floor until dust swirled up in little clouds, but a moment later her body had calmed again and was gently swaying and rocking back and forth. Suddenly she grabbed her hair with both hands, parted it and let it fall back on either side over her shoulders. It was a simple movement, as casual as the opening of a curtain, but it had a tremendous effect. Some men smiled like imbeciles. Others froze. One gave a high-pitched laugh. Another fell back in his chair as if relieved of a heavy burden. Franz stared at Anezka’s breasts. Just a little while ago he had lain with his face between them, had snuffled happily into this infinitely soft valley and felt strangely at home. Now her bosom was on display for all to see. Common property. A tourist attraction. The worst thing, though, was that she seemed to be enjoying it. She writhed in the light and shook her breasts as if it were only pleasant and natural. Perhaps it was. With a coquettish laugh she threw back her head again, turned round, grabbed her fringed skirt and slowly raised it. It was like the rising of the moon, greeted with murmurs or silent, staring wonder from the figures at their tables and in the safety of their dark alcoves. Franz felt his heart contract into a knot. He took his beer, pressed the cool glass to his temple, set it down again, put a bank note on the table and left the grotto without another glance at the stage.

  Outside it was unexpectedly warm. Soon it would be spring. The courtyard smelled of damp walls and refuse. Franz sat on one of the dustbins, staring up at the dirty light bulb. A little moth was fluttering madly round it. Sometimes its wings hit the socket or the wire, making an odd, papery sound. Then it touched the hot glass, and for a moment it looked as if its wings were glowing. It fell to earth like a little shadow falling from Heaven.

  The grotto was slow to empty. One man after another came outside and staggered off between the wooden fences that enclosed the narrow alley, pursuing their alcohol-shrouded fantasies. No one seemed to notice Franz, not even the lizard or the girl with the scar, who left the establishment in quick succession. The last to emerge were Anezka and the master of ceremonies. He locked up, put his hand on her cheek, stroked her briefly under her eye with his thumb, and said something. She laughed quietly and lit herself a cigarette. Just then Franz leaped down from the bin. Quick as a flash the man bent over, reached under his trouser leg and pulled a thin knife from a leather sheath strapped to his calf.

  ‘Stand still,’ he said calmly, ‘or I’ll slit you open from belt to chin and back again!’

  The blade shimmered dully in the light from the bulb. For a while there was silence in the courtyard. The only sound was a quiet rustling in one of the dustbins.

  ‘Put it away, Heinzi,’ said Anezka. ‘I know him.’

  The master of ceremonies hesitated for a second, then hid the knife under his trouser leg again.

  ‘Is okay, Heinzi,’ she said. ‘I must to speak with him!’

  He seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally he stepped right up to Franz and looked him straight in the eyes. A polished stone glittered in his left earlobe; it seemed to be lit from within by a tiny blue flame. His aftershave smelled of lavender.

  ‘Well, I don’t know you,’ he said quietly. ‘And it’s better we never have reason to know each other. Understand?’ Franz nodded. ‘All right, then,’ said Heinzi. He glanced quickly at Anezka, then walked away down the alley.

  Anezka opened her mouth, slowly letting the cigarette smoke escape. For a few seconds her face disappeared behind a bluish veil.

  ‘What you doing here, sonny boy?’

  Franz shrugged his shoulders. ‘I saw the show.’

  ‘Was nice?’

  ‘It was okay. Is the feather real?’

  ‘As real as hair.’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Monsieur de Caballé.’

  ‘I thought he was called Heinzi!’

  ‘On stage called Monsieur de Caballé. Outside called Heinzi. So is showbusiness, sonny boy!’

  ‘Aha. And what exactly does he do?’

  ‘You see already. He do compère.’

  ‘Compère?’

  ‘Compère and fun and cabaret.’

  ‘And what else?’

  ‘What you mean, what else?’

  ‘What does he do after the performance? More compèring and fun and cabaret — with you, perhaps?’

  Anezka shrugged, briefly feeling around her mouth with her tongue before spitting a light-brown flake of tobacco onto the pavement.

  ‘Is colleague, you understand.’

  ‘Of course I understand!’ cried Franz. ‘In fact I understand very well! I saw how you two lovebirds came fluttering out of your nest!’

  ‘Fluttering?’

  ‘Fluttering! Anyway, one thing’s quite clear: Herr de Caballé has more than just a knife in his trousers, right?’

  ‘Some have something in trousers, some no.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Ask stupid question, sonny boy, get stupid answer!’

  ‘My name’s not “sonny boy”, my name’s Franz!’ yelled Franz, kicking a dustbin with such fury that it toppled over with a crash and rumbled across the courtyard in a wide arc, coming to a standstill only just before the wall on the opposite side.

  ‘Get lost, Heinzi!’ said Anezka, unperturbed. She was looking at the end of the alley, where the shadow of the master of ceremonies had materialized for a moment and now slowly retreated again. Franz stared at the stinking trail of filth left by the bin.

  ‘Do you belong to him?’ he asked gloomily.

  ‘I no belong anyone. Not even myself!’

  Franz looked down at his shoes. The leather was worn and cracked, and the seams at the toes were starting to come undone. Suddenly he felt a malicious demon rising up somewhere inside him; it forced itself forward, overriding his despair.

  ‘I’ll give you five schillings if you show me your bum again!’ he said. ‘I bet it doesn’t look bad under a light bulb, either.’

  The sentence was scarcely out of his mouth before he felt like an idiot — a stupid country boy, a ridiculous tobacconist’s apprentice who was already starting to fall apart at the seams.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Is okay, sonny boy.’ Anezka held her cigarette up to the light and followed the smoke with her eyes; it rose vertically like a trembling thread, curling into nothingness somewhere level with the gutters.

  ‘My name’s not “sonny boy”,’ said Franz in an empty voice. Anezka flicked her cigarette away and came and stood right in front of him. Her breath smelled of peppermint and cigarette smoke. A long, dark
hair clung to the collar of her coat. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the forehead. Then she turned and walked off. For a while he heard her footsteps clacking down the alley, gradually fading away. On the ground, directly beneath the light bulb, lay the dead moth. Franz bent down, picked it up off the ground with the tips of his fingers, and wrapped it gently in a handkerchief.

  Card with confusion of splendid roses in full bloom and three snow-white doves in the Stadtpark.

  Dear Mama,

  Yesterday, for certain reasons, I couldn’t bear it any more and I went to West Station for a one-way ticket to Timelkam. The woman behind the counter said two schillings please and went on varnishing her nails. And then something funny happened — this woman’s attitude, the way she just couldn’t care less, provoked my stubbornness. So I told her she could stick her ticket you know where and I went away again. Because I thought to myself, you can’t have everyone behaving like that. And anyway, what would happen to the tobacconist’s? And to Otto Trsnyek? And the professor? I have responsibilities now, don’t I?

  Your Franz

  Card with family of ducks in foreground and Schafberg in background in rosy morning sunshine.

  Dear Franzl,

  I think I’m quite familiar with your ‘certain reasons’. But let me tell you something: today’s reasons are already yesterday’s tomorrow, and by the day after tomorrow, if not before, they’re forgotten. If you’d suddenly appeared at the kitchen window I would probably have had a heart attack for sheer joy. Nonetheless, I’m proud of you that you didn’t come. Yes, you have responsibilities! To your own conscience, above all. And you’ll be coming home soon enough. Sending you a big hug and squeezing you as hard as I can,