The Chief Superintendent nodded, clacked his teeth, and made sure his officer was keeping pace in his note-taking with the hastily delivered statement. From time to time he raised his hand, made the Jewish bitch shut up and waited for a few moments before moving on to the next question.
When he had gathered more than enough information, the Superintendent raised both hands, and, without looking at the Jewess, said: Thank you for coming.
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Herr Gottlieb stood at his desk finishing the inventory of his daughter's trousseauâfamily jewels, imported fans, kid gloves, fine-quality brushes, bottles of perfume, expensive sponges, ornate sweet dishes. As her father paused between items, Sophie would say “Yes” or “It's here”, and he would murmur, “Correct” and resume going through the list.
As he closed the inventory book, Herr Gottlieb's face grew suddenly solemn. He placed his smoking pipe on the table, tugged on his waistcoat and stood to attention like a general about to embark on an important mission. He offered his daughter his hand, and led her along the chilly corridor. If Sophie were not mistaken they were going to her father's bedchamberâa
room she had not set foot in for years.
A strip of light from the window reached across the room to the opposite wallâthe rest was darkness. Herr Gottlieb walked slowly over to the vast mahogany wardrobe, pausing after each step. He turned the key twice, opened the heavy door and whispered his daughter's name three times. Then he thrust his arms into the wardrobe's depths and pulled out a trailing luminescence. Sophie recognised her deceased mother's wedding gown. It was a strangely ethereal garment. It appeared to be made of light. She studied the gown as her father handed it to herâthe smooth feel of the satin, the tiny band of organdy around the waist, the airy netting on the skirt. Placing the dress in his daughter's arms as one passing an invisible ballerina, Herr Gottlieb said: This was your mother's favourite shade of white, egg white, the purest white of all, that of innocent hearts. If only she were here to help us! My child, my child, will you make me a grandfather soon? It pains me that you barely knew your own grandparents. I don't wish the same on my grandchildren. But go, child, try it on. I need to see how the dress suits you.
A quarter of an hour later, Sophie reappeared in her father's bedchamber wearing the gown. As soon as she had stepped into it she knew it would fit her. The three pearl buttons were perhaps a little tight at the back. The gold ribbon on the neckline was perhaps a little lower than it should be. And yet it was undoubtedly her size. Elsa had helped her into the old-fashioned corset that sculpted her waist, pushed up her bust, rounding off her subtle décolletage. She had donned a pair of embroidered silk stockings and wore satin-lined slippers adorned with ribbons. Before stepping out into the corridor, she had studied her reflection in the glass and had felt a strange tingling sensation, like a needle running down her spine.
A quarter of an hour later, when Sophie reappeared in her
father's bedchamber wearing the gown, Herr Gottlieb said nothing. He said nothing at first and looked at her, he looked through her, squinting the way short-sighted people do, focusing like those who are sightless. He stood motionless, his mind elsewhere, until abruptly he opened his eyes, dilated his pupils, parted his lips and said at last: It is perfect, my love, perfect.
Sophie hadn't heard her father call her
my love
for a long time, not since she was a child.
Then Herr Gottlieb said: Come here, my child, my precious, come closer, my love.
Sophie walked over to her father. She stopped two steps away from him. She stood motionless and let him embrace her.
You have your mother's shoulders, her father said.
Sophie felt slightly faint. The room was airless. The wedding gown was pressing her stomach. As were her father's arms.
You have your mother's waist, her father said.
The whole length of the white dress was reflected in the wardrobe mirror.
And you have your mother's skin, her father said.
The airlessness, the gown, the mirror.
As though emerging from a well, Sophie pushed herself away with her arms.
But I'm not like my mother, she said.
Herr Gottlieb's lips disappeared behind his whiskers. His face fell. His pupils contracted.
How young you are, child, he said, how terribly young (don't say that, Father, Sophie replied, don't talk as though you were already old), oh, but I am (no, Father, she insisted), you see, it isn't just about age, my child, it is also about loss, you have so much youth left in you becauseâhow can I put this?âyou still have the feeling of being whole, the unmistakable belief that this wholeness will never end. When you lose that, whatever age you are, you are old, do you understand? And I love you
so very much.
Shortly afterwards Rudi's servants knocked at the door. His berlin was waiting in Stag Street.
Is something the matter, my dear? Rudi asked, removing a speck of snuff from his velvet frock coat with one finger. No, replied Sophie, rousing herself, nothing, why do you ask? For no particular reason, Rudi said, giving off a whiff of lemon scent, or perhaps because I've spent ages trying to decide on the wedding menu with you and you've hardly said a word. Oh, she said, you know I'm not very bothered about that kind of thing, honestly, you decide. Not very bothered, he stipulated, or not bothered in the slightest? Well, she retorted, is there a difference? Driver! shouted Rudi, rapping three times on the roof. Stop here!
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Don't stop, she cried, or rather she thought. But Hans hesitated, as though he'd just remembered something. Something that removed him from the room, and, at the same time, allowed him to see it vividly. They were both there. He could see himself. She, too.
Lying across the bed, he on his side, legs hooked under hers, both were assailed by the same vision, the exact same one, without knowing it. They saw two L-shaped torsos submerged in water, as though they had discovered themselves fornicating with their own reflection, struggling to possess it and to be separate from it. As though, thrusting against each other, neither knew where one ended and the other began, and they were no longer sure if they were two or one. As though neither could decipher the other by contemplating him or her, by contemplating each other as they gave themselves to one another. When the frisson came and they cried out as one, the image disappeared. The water went still. The mirror dissolved. Their bodies grew cold.
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After leaving the mansion for his daily coach ride, Rudi saw
him, on the right-hand side of the pavement, a few yards from where King's Parade meets Border Street, strolling along. He saw him strolling along in his rabble-rouser's beret, his common frock coat, his sloppy cravat, walking with that irritatingly absent-minded yet insolent gait of his, partly nonchalant, partly self-conscious, much like his free-flowing hair, as though while behaving as he pleased he always knew he was being watched. Rudi saw him through the window, he felt his gorge rise and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself a little. He gave three short raps on the roof of the carriage, his body rocking with the rhythm of the braking vehicle, slid his buttocks along the length of velvet. He waited for the driver to open the coach door, gracefully thrust one hip forward and let his boot fall onto the folding steps. He descended them with a faint creak of patent leather, his bulky frame leaning back in order to compensate for the tilt of the carriage, and stepped onto the pavement without muddying his boots. He approached Hans from behind, marching in step with him for a few paces, took one long stride forward. He dug his pointed heel in the ground, steadied himself, and nimbly brought his ankles together. He stretched a gloved hand towards Hans, and prodded him on the shoulder. And when Hans wheeled round, without uttering a word, he gave him a resounding punch in the face.
Hans crumpled like a rag doll and lay sprawled over the pavement. He tried to get up. Rudi reached down, helped him to his feet and punched him again. Twice. Once with each fist. A fist for each cheek. Hans crashed to the ground once more. During this second fall, amid the shooting pain and the spray of blood from his face, he realised what was going on. As he lay on the ground he received six or seven swift, precise patent-leather kicks. He made no attempt to defend himself. It would have been futile in any case. Amid the hail of blows, he noticed Rudi wasn't trying to break his bonesâhe was aiming at the soft
parts, mainly his stomach, avoiding his ribs. The kicking was astonishingly forceful yet measured, as though he were drumming a signal. Hans's response to the punishment was to try not to choke or to cry out. When the battering was over, besides a feeling of panic, a sour taste on his tongue and a ring of fire in his head, Hans experienced a humiliating pang of sympathy.
Somewhat agitated, Rudi examined his gloves to make sure they weren't soiled. He congratulated himself on having avoided Hans's nose and mouthâsuch blows turn the defeated opponent into a blatant victim, besides being unnecessarily messy. He steadied his hands, adjusted his sleeves so that they were even, raised his chin to its normal height. He realised he was missing his buckle hat, stooped to pick it up from the floor bending at the waist, blew on it gingerly. He placed it on his head, turned round, walked back to his carriage. He caught sight of a mounted policeman, waited for him to approach, signalled to his driver.
The Chief Superintendent looked at him with languid curiosity, as though the sight of Hans's wounds had woken him from a nap. His jaw dropped and his lips formed into something resembling a smile. Before he began to speak, his teeth clacked, emitting a sound of toppling dominos. The policeman who had arrested Hans stood in the doorway gazing at the ceiling. On it he counted six cracks, four candle stubs and three spiders spinning.
You, here again? clacked the Chief Superintendent. That was quick, you like a bit of fun.
The Chief Superintendent questioned him for half-an-hour. Hans went from being addressed politely as “
you
” to being called
“foreigner”
. When he mentioned Rudi, Hans was told no charges would be pressed because he had been defending his honour. He, on the other hand, would remain in custody for a few hours in order to make a statement about the incident and about his relationship to the offended party. The offended
party? Hans said in astonishment. The Chief Superintendent, realising he was refusing to collaborate, ordered the foreigner to be thrown into the cells for the night in order to help him to collect his thoughts.
The cell itself was innocuousâit was more ugly than intimidating. A simple square plunged into darkness. It was no filthier than the organ grinder's den. It was, of course, cold. And above all damp, as if the walls had been smeared with a mixture of steam and urine. The pallet wasn't the worst he'd slept on either, although to be on the safe side, Hans decided to remove the mattress. The jailer guarding his cell was given to belching and had a queer sense of humour. He didn't seem concerned with the arrests or what went on in the police station. He only opened and closed the cell door. All the rest, he affirmed, was none of his business, nor did they pay him enough for him to worry about it. When Hans asked whether he might use the bucket as a seat, he replied shrugging his shoulders: Masturbate into it if you want. Then he added: That's what most people use it for. Hans let go of the bucket instantaneously and crouched as best he could.
To begin with Hans was surprised that the jailer insisted on bringing him supper. He even found his cruel jokes amusing. (If a man's to be condemned to death, he had said, it might as well be on a full stomach.) Hans wolfed down the salted bread, the slice of bacon and the sausage. Afterwards, he was surprised when the man diligently offered him a second loaf. He quickly understood the reason for all this generosityâthe jailer had been ordered not to give him any water. Don't take this personally, he said, and don't complain, it could be worse. Did you really think we'd tie you up? Beat you? Hang you upside down by your feet? Don't be a fool. We save our strength here. Go thirsty for a day. Or sign the declaration and leave.
At midnight a bailiff woke him up tapping on the bars with a truncheon. In between gulps of water, which he made a point
of spilling on purpose, the bailiff tried to persuade Hans to sign a declaration admitting to provocation and disturbing the peace in exchange for his immediate release. Each time Hans refused, the bailiff turned to the jailer and exclaimed: “Will you listen to that?”; “Well I never!”; “What's to be done?” To which the jailer replied: “They say he studied at Jena”; “A real scholar”, and other such remarks. If Hans invoked justice or demanded a lawyer, the bailiff would guffaw: “A lawyer!” and the jailer would add: “Whatever next!”
Before leaving, annoyed at the stubbornness of the prisoner (who, deep down, was beginning to lose his nerve), the bailiff said: The law, you talk to me about justice? Let me remind you how justice works. Fritz Reuter spent two years in prison for waving a black, red and yellow flag. Arnold Ruge was sentenced to fifteen years on suspicion of belonging to subversive organisations. Several of your comrades took their own lives in prison. Others ask to do hard labour just so they can drink water or see the sun. In the Harz region mutilation is legal. It isn't the only place. And for your information, in this principality, the death penalty can be carried out with an axe. Peasants who steal are beheaded. People pay eight groats to watch. They're right. Some things are educational. Have I made myself understood? There's justice for you. Real justice, you son of a bitch. Have a good night.