The Eternal Philistine (12 page)

The doorwoman, a friendly elderly woman, led the two
gentlemen into the reception room, offered them seats and then asked them to wait just a few moments. The reception salon had been kept in the Louis XVI style, but it was by no means garish—more plain than anything. On the walls hung engravings à la Watteau and Fragonard, in which Schmitz immediately took a purely mechanical interest.

“Think it’s going to be really expensive?” Kobler asked warily. But Schmitz could not allay his fears because the madam had just walked into the salon.

The madam was an elderly lady with wonderfully white hair and expressive eyes, a noble figure. She had something regal about her and a natural charm. But there was also a hint of harshness around her mouth, this being necessary if she wanted to uphold the good reputation of her brothel.

“This is going to cost a lot,” thought Kobler worriedly as the madam tactfully addressed Schmitz, he being the elder of the two. She immediately greeted him in English, but Schmitz immediately cut her off, explaining that he wasn’t an American, nor was his friend, but rather quite the opposite. The madam seemed very pleased about this. She apologized repeatedly, smiled exceedingly courteously and was no longer reserved—more cocky than anything.

“Did you notice the change in tone?” whispered Schmitz to Kobler while they followed the madam into the bar. “Did you notice how hated Americans are in France? Nobody wants to become an American colony here either!”

“I don’t give a crap about that right now,” Kobler interrupted him anxiously. “Right now the only thing I’m worried about is that all of this is going to cost a pretty penny!”

“How much can it cost? We simply go into the bar, simply order ourselves two whisky and sodas, and simply leave it at that!”

So they entered the bar.

In the bar there was almost nothing but uniformed men, soldiers and sailors amusing themselves in a more or less vulgar manner with the half-naked girls. In one corner sat two patrons from India and in another three sports students from North America. The latter had crimson heads, but were putting on puritanical airs. There were also two gentlemen in whom the girls took no interest: one of them was a confirmed bachelor and the other had just come to give the madam some tips for the racetrack.

It was a lively operation. The pianist was very talented, playing partly sentimentally, partly unsentimentally. He looked like he sat on a governing council. The waiter looked like Adolf Menjou; he was very distinguished. The whole place was overwhelmingly fragranced, which of course was only necessary.

The whores were roused a bit when the madam stepped into the salon, because despite their relaxed bearing, an iron discipline reigned inside them. They immediately formed a regular semicircle around Schmitz and Kobler, stuck out their tongues, and, according to individual disposition, swayed either faster or slower. This was supposed to appear sensual and lewd.

“Alors!”
said the madam, but Schmitz explained to her that for the time being they were fine with just a drink, and, who knows, maybe it would stay at just that.

“Très bien!”
said the madam, whereupon the semicircle dissolved. The madam refused, however, to let up so easily, and inquired as to whether the two gentlemen might not perhaps desire a lady for discussion purposes. She also had, as she said, very intelligent ladies here with whom one could discuss problematic topics. Altogether her ladies
could speak fourteen languages. There was also a German lady among them whom she would be glad to direct to their table. This of course would cost absolutely nothing—provided, that is, that it remained just a discussion.

The madam left to fetch the German lady who had just gone missing. Just then a negress walked across the bar. She was wearing a bright-red turban and had a completely different gait from her white colleagues, which afforded Schmitz another opportunity to comment on the common note of all European women and to express, moreover, his regret that the typical notion of Europeanness had hitherto only been framed superficially. “Or could you shoot at these people here just because they aren’t German?”

Kobler answered in the negative.

And then Schmitz went on to say that among these people there were not just French women but Romanian, Danish, English, and Hungarian women as well. Then he asked triumphantly: “So, then, what do you think about this set-up now?”

“I must say, we Germans are still way behind in this area,” said Kobler.

The German lady walked up to their table. “Are the gentlemen from Germany?” she asked in German, and bent over Schmitz. “I’m also a German, ja. So who wants to go first?”

“There must be some mistake,” said Schmitz defensively. “We thought that you just wanted to drink to our health—nothing else!”

“However the gentlemen want to have me,” said the German lady, and sat down courteously, for she could also be mannerly.

It soon emerged that her name was Irmgard and she was
from Silesia. She had also lived in the capital of the Reich. You see, she had wanted to become a saleswoman there, but instead she became a factory worker, this being her destiny. The machines really got on her nerves because she was just a country girl. On Easter of 1929 she met a certain fellow by the name of Karl Zeschke. He and his machines were once again her destiny. It was not long before she lost her marbles: overnight she started drawing and painting, and nothing but hermaphrodites.

The madam was right: you really could have an amusing discussion with Irmgard. After a little while she had to take her leave because one of the uniformed gentlemen had asked for her. Visibly moved, Schmitz smiled: “You know, Irmgard, you’re all right! I’m a writer, you see, and if you could just work a typewriter you’d be the right gal for me.”

THE TWO GENTLEMEN LEFT MARSEILLE THAT same night and rode directly to Barcelona without making any stops, passing right by Tarascon, Sete, and the Spanish border Port Bou.

They were passing through Arles.

“Van Gogh painted here,” related Schmitz.

“Who was that?” asked Kobler.

“He was a great painter,” answered Schmitz, and then locked himself sorrowfully in the lavatory. “Hopefully now I’ll finally be able to make,” he muttered to himself. But he would soon discover that his hopes were in vain. “Jeez, what a blithering idiot!” he expressed furiously. “He’s never even
heard of my beloved Van Gogh! All right, let’s give it another shot!”

Locked and loaded, but he couldn’t manage to get anything out.

“Van Gogh, too, was misunderstood,” he said with resignation. “Pretty soon one man won’t understand the next. It’s really kind of lonely when every man is for himself.”

He sat like this for a while, staring pensively at the toilet paper. Then, suddenly, he opened up the window to help himself to concentrate on something else. The cool night air did him good. The reeds next to the railway embankment stood head-high and rustled in a romantically eerie way as the express train roared past.

“People sure got it nice here!” thought Schmitz desperately. “They’ve really got magnificent nights here! Somebody ought to compose a poem about the fall night in Southern France, only I’m not a lyricist. If I were only twenty years younger, then sure, but I’m a little too sensible for all that now.”

In Tarascon, the hometown of Tartarin and a sort of French Upper Bavaria, they had to wait for the Paris Express train because there were a lot of passengers on it who had to switch, some of whom were heading to Spain, some only to Nîmes. The Paris Express soon arrived and shortly thereafter a lady arrived at their compartment door. She was about to ask whether there was still a seat available for her when Schmitz cut her off, immediately exclaiming that all the seats were available! He promptly yanked her suitcase out of her hand, expertly stowed it in the luggage rack, and then relinquished his corner seat to her in a most solicitous manner.

It may be superfluous to point out that this lady was
very good looking, which means she was young, slim, yet still pleasantly curvaceous. And she had a pair of legs that seemed to be preoccupied with just that, and a strangely veiled expression, as if this were exactly what she was doing right now, and indeed, with great pleasure and still not quite enough. All the while she was emanating her scent with a certain modesty, which only made it all the more cunning: back and forth, up and down, and soon enough the entire compartment smelled of her, despite the two gentlemen. That is, she had that certain something about her that people commonly referred to as
sex appeal
.

After thanking Schmitz with a friendly—though nevertheless reserved—nod, the lady sat down in his former corner seat, and in such a voluptuous way that you would think she had something going on with that seat. Naturally this got Schmitz rather excited. Kobler was likewise spellbound. “Egypt!” flashed through his mind as he realized that everything this woman was wearing must be very expensive. And “I’ve always believed in providence!” flashed through his mind again. “And if this Schmitz doesn’t stop ogling like that, he’ll have me to reckon with—”

He faltered here in the midst of his calculations and turned pale. Now for the third time a thought flashed through his mind, this being pure contrition: “I can’t speak French, which means I can’t talk to her, and without talking things like this just don’t work,” was the thought that babbled inside him.

Seething with rage, he looked over at the happy Schmitz. He was poised for victory and would not let her out of his sight.

“Now he’s going to schmooze with her awhile, and I’ll just sit there like a deaf and dumb monkey! You’ll never see
your Pan-Europe as long as there are so many languages in this world, you bastard!” And so he fixed a fierce gaze on his Pan-European rival.

But the Egyptian woman did not seem to want to have anything to do with Schmitz; she did not respond to him in the slightest. His stereotypical smile even suddenly started to make her feel awkward. She jumped up and went to the toilet.

“A thoroughbred Parisian woman!” Schmitz whispered hastily to him, acting rather excited. “I can recognize that by the way she moves!”

“Oh, go ahead and kiss my ass!” thought Kobler angrily.

“I’m going to address her as soon as she gets back from the toilet!” Schmitz went on, hurriedly combing his hair. “Sadly you won’t be able to speak to her,” he added gloatingly.

Kobler thought the same thing again.

As soon as the thoroughbred Parisian woman had returned to her seat opposite Schmitz, he mustered all of his charm and addressed her, and in perfect French, too. She listened with a smile and then explained softly that she could only speak broken French at most.

“You speak English?”
asked Schmitz.

“No,
Allemagne
,” said the thoroughbred Parisian.

This gave Kobler quite a jolt, whereas Schmitz was left feeling strangely unsure of himself.

“So there is indeed providence!” thought Kobler triumphantly. Schmitz became very small and hideous.

“Although I was born in Cologne,” said
Allemagne
, “I often live abroad. Last summer I was in Biarritz and last winter in St. Moritz.”

“An Egyptian par excellence!” thought Kobler, and Schmitz pulled himself together again.

“Cologne is a glorious city!” he shouted. “An ancient city!”

“Oh, but we’ve also got beautiful, new quarters!” the Egyptian defended her hometown.

This touched Schmitz in a most agreeable manner. He took the view that stupid women possessed an acrobatic sensuality, and after all, what he loved most about women was their physical sensuality, especially as he had once had a soul mate. You see, that was a rather unhappy love affair that had started very metaphysically, but ended in forgery on the part of the woman. He took it easy on her up until the last moment, but he stopped taking it easy on her when she asked him for a lavish allowance. And when she was denied probation, he said: “I’m just a child of the night!”

It is of course only understandable that he now painstakingly avoided all such trauma, by no means out of convenience, but rather as a result of a heightened sensibility and a sexual neurasthenia. He only wanted to get them in the sack and would often catch himself regretting that women were human beings too, and even had so-called souls. But despite this, he could only get them in the sack by means of his mind, either directly or by first translating his mind into money. He simply had no
sex appeal
. In other words, he only got them in the sack with his mind, and such a thing is of course downright tragic.

And so now he was trying to impress this Rhineland woman with his intellect. He listed to her the names of twenty good friends, these being nothing but prominent people, one more prominent than the next. She was already starting to make a very meek face—

“And now it’s high time,” thought Kobler, and he interrupted Schmitz violently. “Ever been to Marseille?” he
asked rashly, causing her to look at him aghast. But after taking a closer look at him, she did not find him altogether unpleasant.

“No.” She smiled, and this really encouraged Kobler.

“But my dear lady, you absolutely must go there!” he said excitedly.

“I bet it’s pretty terrific there,” said the dear lady.

“But, that’s nothing! My dear lady, I saw films in a house of ill repute there that ought to be prohibited!”

“Please, do tell!” the dear lady said quickly, and then gazed at him silently, giving Schmitz and his prominent acquaintances the cold shoulder.

And so Kobler recounted how first he and Schmitz were taken up to a spacious room on the fourth floor where a white screen stood outstretched. There were approximately ten chairs, nothing else. They were left there all by their lonesome and reassured that the operator would show up any second and then the show would begin immediately. But a good while passed and there was still no living soul to be seen, which gave them the heebie-jeebies because, after all, how can you ever really know whether you’re going to be, say, killed or made the victim of a lust murder or something like that—