The Other Side Page 15

  One of the few good things about those difficult days was the fact that it was easy to come by a tasty roast and other rare titbits.

  During this time old Professor Korntheuer enjoyed great respect. He gave public lectures in which he taught the Dreamlanders to distinguish dangerous bugs from harmless ones. Armed with a triple-barrelled shotgun, he was up and about at first light, wandering through the herds of gazelles, wild boar and marmots, stalking game. But the animals soon got used to the eccentric bespectacled huntsman and came to love the old gentleman. Our windows, on the other hand, suffered so much damage from his gun that it had to be taken away from him.

  At night we could only go out if armed with a lantern and a gun, and even then we had to take great care. Traps, snares, pitfalls and spring-guns made the city even more dangerous than it already was. But to allow something like that to put them off the pursuit of pleasure was the one thing that never occurred to the Dreamers.

  III

  The depths to which public morality had sunk presented a great opportunity to my fellow artist Castringius. His pornographica were sought after, he was the fashion. Drawings such as The Lascivious Orchid Inseminating the Embryo were much admired. Hector von Brendel bought a complete series from him because Melitta thought them ‘fun’. At first she was very much taken with them and had them nicely framed and hung in her boudoir. But it turned out to be merely a caprice and after a few days they had to go. An occasional beau of hers, an officer of dragoons, was allowed to take them; in return he presented her with a pair of antique emerald earrings. That very same evening the officer took the drawings to the café where they happened to be holding a raffle. The proceeds were to go towards helping those who were suffering the consequences of their dissolute ways; until then there had been no ward for them in our hospital. Quite a lot of money was collected, Blumenstich–not the junk dealer–made up the deficit and soon afterwards the first patients were being admitted to the ward next to the children’s hospital in the monastery.

  As irony would have it, I was the one who won the drawings and now they were hanging in my room. One day I met Castringius in the street. He was looking for a new apartment, he told me. His studio window and skylight were broken and there were bats hanging like smoked hams from his curtain rail. While he was telling me all this he kept having to ward off the attentions of an importunate ibex with his walking stick. I invited him up, and there were the pictures. His jaw dropped in amazement.

  ‘How did you come by these pictures?’

  I explained.

  ‘They’re very good. The White-striped Whip is my most mature work. It represents a synthesis of future morality. There’s not a woman alive today capable of understanding the implications. It has a real tang to it.’

  I agreed with him entirely. I was the only person in the Dream Realm capable of appreciating his artistic achievement. He was an oddball, but I liked him. And why not? He that feels pure, let him cast the first stone.

  Suddenly there was noise in the street. We went over to the window. A lot of people were standing round laughing. And there was something to laugh at. Just imagine, the monkey had downed tools and gone on strike! The previous day already Giovanni had left one customer half shaved when his attention was drawn by a horde of macaques rushing past. A beautiful long-tailed guenon had waved at him and the temptation had been too much for our barber’s assistant. That time his philosophical master had managed to restrain him with a combination of the cane and the argument that time was divisible into tiny eternities. Now, however, no amount of reasoning could hold him back. He gracefully climbed up the drainpipe, grasped the princess’s coffee flask with his prehensile tail, made himself comfortable on the window-ledge of my former apartment, now in a ruinous state and empty, and played on a Jew’s harp he had concealed in his cheek pouch. The old princess gave a shriek of horror and tried to hit the coffee-thief with a broom, but he immediately threw the flask away and grabbed the broom. You should have seen the speed with which the lady disappeared, to reappear on the second floor. We had a perfect view of the duel from my window. Giovanni Battista was having a high old time. First of all he wrested her main weapon–an old pair of fire-tongs–from her and let her have the broom back; in the course of this he almost became a flying monkey! I had left a number of bottles of Indian ink behind and he used these as missiles. And an excellent shot he was, too; we all cheered him on while the princess swore like a fish wife.

  Suddenly he reappeared, wearing the old woman’s filthy bonnet, swung out of the window and slid back down the drainpipe, grimacing grotesquely. At the window upstairs the princess was calling for the police, while at the bottom the barber was waiting with his cane. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, he shouted at the monkey.

  Alfred Blumenstich, a smug smile on his face, was just emerging from the apartment of his nine little darlings, where he had once more been dispensing his own particular brand of charity. His carriage was waiting. With a tremendous leap the monkey sprang onto the head of the stallion and off they went. The onlookers went wild and cheered until the vehicle and its bizarre rider had vanished into the distance.

  That was just one incident, but similar scenes were the order of the day.

  It was a mystery where all this teeming multitude of animals came from. They were now the true masters of the city and clearly they knew it. In bed I could hear running and a clatter of hooves, as if I were in a large metropolis. Camels and wild asses wandered through the streets; it was dangerous to tease them.

  In contrast to this abundance of animals, plant life disappeared more and more. Everything was nibbled and crushed, and there was no new growth. The avenues of limes along the Embankment and out towards the cemetery consisted of nothing more than bare trunks. The earth was steaming, as if it intended to spew out even more creatures. Small holes gave off warm, sickly-smelling fumes. The nights were wreathed in a strange half-light that blurred all the contours.

  IV

  The most uncanny thing was a mysterious process which began with the alarming rise in the number of animals, then continued inexorably, at ever increasing speed, until it led to the complete collapse of the Dream Realm: the Crumbling. It affected everything. The buildings of such different materials, the objects that had been brought together over the years, all the things the Master had spent his money on were doomed. Cracks appeared in all the walls at once, wood rotted, iron rusted, glass went cloudy, cloth fell to pieces. Precious objets d’art succumbed to an irresistible inner decay without any reason being apparent.

  A sickness of inanimate matter. There was rot and mildew in even the best-looked-after houses. There must have been some unknown corrupting agent in the air, for fresh food–milk, neat, later on even eggs–went off in a few hours. Many houses burst and had to be hastily evacuated.

  And then there were the ants! They turned up in every fissure and fold, in our clothes, our purses, our beds. There were three kinds: black, white and blood-red. The black species, the largest, were found in every crack in the masonry and everywhere you put your foot out of doors. The much more dangerous white ones transformed timbers into powder. Unquestionably the worst, though, were the red ones, since they chose the human body as their habitat. At first, scratching oneself was still considered indelicate, something one did in private. But what can you do when you have an itch? In the French Quarter everyone had been scratching in public for ages. We soon laughed and followed suit. It was the wife of His Excellency the President who boldly gave the lead on the occasion of a state reception.

  It had become impossible to get rid of the animal excrement in the streets or the dust in the houses. However desperately we tried, it simply went on increasing. Our clothes disintegrated even while we were brushing and beating them. The only thing I found surprising was how the Dreamlanders managed to retain their good humour.

  Melitta Lampenbogen, for example, was irrepressible. The whole of the officer corps were regulars in her house, right down to the mos
t junior lieutenant. He might still stammer, ‘It’s an honour, ma’am’, but she was no longer concerned about the niceties of polite intercourse. Eventually she turned to the lower strata of society. I often observed her ploy of lifting her skirt in the street. People stopped to watch. Dogs ran after her, and they were not to be trifled with now. Once I saw one tear off her dress. She ran away in terror, dropping a crumpled letter. I picked it up and read it later.

  My own Queen Ant,

  I am still intoxicated with happiness. In my thoughts I kiss every one of your charms. As ever, you are the mistress of my dream. How did you sleep? Not very much, I imagine, as usual. Just think, I’ve found a way of at least being able to lie down in peace. Lay the wardrobe on the floor, then an inch of insect powder, then a blanket, then more powder, then another blanket. (Those nightshirts with buttons at the bottom that have become fashionable are no use at all.) Close the wardrobe door as soon as you’re in; a small (heart-shaped?!) hole covered with a fly-screen allows you to breathe.

  Please don’t send your letters to the hotel any more. I hate the American’s gang, that Jacques especially is an utter rogue. Moreover the cooking has gone downhill recently; from now on I’ll take my lunch in the café in Long Street. Send your letters there, marked ‘H. v. B.’, but don’t give them to N. C. to bring, he’s unreliable and since he’s joined up with that damned American he’s become insolent into the bargain.

  How is your tub of lard taking the departure of his last tenant? The barber’s shutting up shop and the princess doesn’t pay much. I saw him today in his carriage, but he was too occupied with the attentions of these tiresome parasites to notice me.

  I’ll see you at nine o’clock tonight behind the rose bush–how bare it is now!

  Your loving Hector

  P. S. I still keep getting anonymous letters about you. How little the world knows my Melitta!

  Soon everyone was carrying a bag of insect powder round with them. If they had previously suffered from sleeping sickness, they now hardly slept at all. In a fever of excitement, with flushed cheeks, people wandered round the city until well past midnight. It was safer out in the streets than in the ruinous houses. During the past few days the animals’ mating frenzy had reached a climax. Everywhere–in dark corners, in the water, in the air–all sorts of creatures were copulating. From the stables came whinnying, bleating, grunting. One bull, infuriated by the sight of cows brought in for slaughter, had crushed a butcher to pulp against the wall.

  The American was stirring up hatred and dissension, and mocked everything. There were very few left who still believed in the Lord. The Clock Spell was forgotten. Only occasionally did someone go into the cell now, and then they didn’t stay the prescribed thirty seconds, but came straight out. I knew now that the end of the Dream Realm was approaching inexorably.

  One night I heard hissing and deep growling on the roof. With horror I watched a gigantic leopard crunch up a hare; an icy shiver ran down my spine as I heard the bones crack. My room wasn’t a cosy den any more. There were two gaping fissures in the wall from which, in the evenings, the rear portions of cockroaches stuck out at regular intervals, making them look like a frieze. During the day a pair of robins used my ash-tray as a nest. They were harmless and rewarded me for leaving them undisturbed with their singing. Unfortunately I was not to enjoy the pleasure for long. One day a kestrel, ignoring me completely, shot in and killed the male robin.

  On one of the last evenings I found two scorpions under the blanket as I was going to bed and was hunting out any other such vermin when the weapon I was using–the bootjack–fell apart. I picked up my scissors: they had rusted away. Only then did I notice that my paper was mouldy and my rulers, what was left of my drawing-table, the three-legged chest of drawers, in short all wooden pieces of furniture were worm-eaten and rotten.

  And what did I look like myself? Pretty odd! At least lots of other people, who were usually neat and tidy in their dress, were going round in tatters too. We all had mildew on our clothes and shoes. It was no use washing and scrubbing them, it reappeared as fast as we could get rid of it. The materials our clothes were made from went threadbare, frayed and dropped off bit by bit. We men managed to carry it off with a certain amount of dignity, but the poor women! Better not to talk about it.

  V

  A great change came when the houses were no longer really habitable. It was still all right on the ground floor, but going up stairs demanded courage bordering on recklessness.

  One day when the waiter brought me a rotten egg, a broken beer bottle containing some murky liquid and a filthy, greasy cloth, presumably intended as a napkin, my patience gave out and I called for the landlord, who happened to be at the rear, propping up the ceiling with parts of the billiard table.

  ‘What do you call this?’ I barked. ‘There must be a pound of decaying matter on this cutlery. Please remove these disgusting objects and that foul rag at once.’ He bowed and scraped. ‘You can’t get the staff nowadays’, he whined.

  ‘All right, all right.’ I waved him away in exasperation, stood up, took my mangy top-hat and left the café. The place where I had been sitting had already been taken over by a colony of ants.

  I only kept going to the café out of habit. Conditions there were too revolting to eat or drink anything other than a black coffee. Anton had changed, and not for the better; he never washed his hands and his smell preceded him from a great distance. You didn’t have to go round like that. The barber referred to the crust of filth covering him as ‘primal matter’. It was simply nauseating! I was even more surprised, therefore, when I came back one evening and heard soft giggling in the vestibule. I shone my lamp in every corner, expecting to find some animal, and what did I see behind the storeroom door? Anton and Melitta locked in a passionate embrace!

  She died soon after. She was found in her bedroom, torn to pieces. The door was locked and had to be broken down. There was a gigantic mastiff locked in with her. The rabid beast bristled and threw itself at the men who appeared in the doorway, biting two policemen before they managed to shoot it. They died soon afterwards from rabies. In the last days of her life not much was left of her former beauty. It was in vain that she tried to conceal the ravages of her way of life through excessive make-up and powder.

  The two chess players also suffered agonies. Eventually the old gentlemen, who were completely in thrall to their passion, came to find any movement so complicated they needed hours of deliberation just to lift a finger. Given the amount of vermin around, it was obvious that such slowness would cause serious problems. Much to be praised, therefore, was a young lady who happened to be taking tea in the café once and noticed the torments the two were suffering. She simply went over and, quite unembarrassed, started picking the ants and bugs off their coats. After that we all followed her example. Until then we had laughed at the grotesque faces the chess players pulled, but now it became the custom for us regulars to give the two gentlemen a quick scratch as we came or left. As you can see, even in those terrible times not all sympathy for the sufferings of others had vanished.

  Once again the American was stirring things up. He prophesied that the deluge of animals would soon dry up and he turned out to be right insofar as the bigger species gradually withdrew. For the time being, however, the smaller mammals and reptiles remained, though the birds had completely disappeared, apart from hosts of ravens and white-necked vultures. The vultures, massive, heavy birds, perched like bronze statues on the stumps of the trees along the avenues, staring fixedly at the city as if they were waiting for something. Even though his prophecy had only partially come true, it brought the American new support. From now on his attacks on his mortal enemy, Patera, were even more vicious, if that were possible.

  I went back to taking a regular evening stroll along the river. The waves had washed up countless shells, corals, snails, fish-bones and scales on the banks. I was surprised how often I found remains of marine fauna. The banks looked as if they wer
e strewn with mystical signs and I was convinced the blue-eyed tribe would be able to understand this symbolic language. There were definitely mysteries here. The wings of the often magnificent insects–moths and flying beetles–had marks which must be forgotten characters, only I didn’t possess the key to them.

  How great you must be, Patera, I thought. Why does the Lord hide himself away, even from those who love him? I walked along, lost in melancholy thought. The bare trees on the opposite bank were bent low over the river so that their branches touched the black water. Gigantic shadows were moving between them and the crack of breaking twigs could be clearly heard. Sometimes I saw long necks or trunks which made me think of monstrous prehistoric creatures. The darker it grew, the more dangerous it was for people out walking alone. One evening, which was to be of great significance for me, I turned back in fright when a beam sticking out of the water suddenly blew out air. An alligator was baring its teeth at me.

  As I made my way home I thought about another dangerous incident the previous day which had turned out all right in the end. For a long time rumours had been circulating about a huge tiger, a pregnant female, that was said to be living in the Palace. Various people claimed they had seen its blunt muzzle and long back in the window gallery. Yesterday just such a beast had leapt into Alfred Blumenstich’s glazed veranda. At the sight of the fierce animal the lady of the house, who was fat and chubby, simply fainted without a sound. Professor Korntheuer happened to be having lunch with them. In this terrible situation the venerable old gentleman showed remarkable heroism. ‘Keep calm’, he said to the horrified husband as he stood up, ‘even the fiercest beasts of prey will submit to a higher being. They feel awe at our upright gait and our noble, lordly gaze fills them with fear.’ With that he walked towards the animal, taking his spectacles off. Whether it was the strangeness of the stiff-legged scholarly figure approaching or something else, the result was another crash of shattering glass as the tiger jumped out, unfortunately with Frau Blumenstich in its jaws. Blumenstich wrung his hands. ‘Oh God, please save my Julie’, he whimpered. Pursued by the servants armed with rifles, the tiger carried the unconscious woman off to the Palace. In the street everyone politely made way for them. The fire brigade was called out as quickly as possible and tried to separate the striped monster from its prey. You could hear it in one of the large rooms on the first floor, furiously snarling at its attackers. To shoot it was impossible, they could very easily have hit Frau Blumenstich, so they tried to winkle the animal out with their fire-hoses. That helped. The soaking shower persuaded the tiger to leave its corner, but unfortunately it didn’t forget its prey. With a huge leap it soared out through the high arched window. The people screamed in horror, but God heard her poor husband’s prayer. Frau Blumenstich got caught on the window-catch and hung there, upside down, her skirts over her head, visible to all and sundry, but safe. In the general rejoicing the tiger managed to make its escape.