Auto-da-fé (50 page)
Authors: Elias Canetti
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Literary, #Literary Criticism, #German, #Novel, #European, #German fiction
With a magniloquent gesture Kien concluded die peroration. He flung his arm aloft, a flagstaff without a flag. His body stretched itself, his joints jingled; sharp and clear he gathered his voice for the finale: 'Long live death!'
At this cry the Inspector woke up. Unwillingly he pushed the ties to one side, a whole trayful; he had selected the best. When would he find time to hoard them? He let them vanish, for happier hours.
'My friend,' he said, 'if I understand you rightly, you have got to death already. Would you mind repeating your story?'
The policemen nudged each other. He was in one of his moods. Thérèse s foot overstepped her circle. She must say something. The man with a memory saw his goal in sight. Not one word had he forgotten. He intended to repeat the whole story in place of the accused. 'He's tired already,' he said and shrugged a contemptuous shoulder at Kien, TU tell you quicker!' Thérèse burst out: 'I ask you, he's murdering me.' In her fear, she spoke low. Kien heard her; he disallowed her. He would not turn round. Never! for what purpose? She was dead. Thérèse shouted: 'I ask you, I'm afraid!' The man with a memory, annoyed at the interruption, challenged her: 'What's biting you?' The father spoke soothingly: 'Nature has created women the weaker sex,' a motto he had derived from his son's last German composition. The Inspector drew out his mirror, gaped at himself and sighed: 'I'm tired too.' His nose eluded him; nothing interested him any longer. Thérèse screamed: 'I ask you, he must be put away!' Once again Kien resisted her voice; he would not turn round. But he groaned loud. The caretaker was sick of all the fuss. 'Professor!' he bellowed from behind, 'It's not so bad. We're all still alive. And no bones broken!' He couldn't relish death. That's how he was. With ponderous steps he strode forward. He intervened.
The Professor was a clever man. He had got it all out of those books. He knew how to string sentences. A famous man and a heart of gold, what's more; but don't you believe a word he says. He's got no murder on no conscience. Where would he have the strength for it? He only says it because his wife's not up to him. Things like that are in books. He knows everything. He's frightened of a darning needle. His wife had soured him. She s a wicked old soul, the filthy bitch. She'd go with anyone. Fall on her back before you can say knife. He'll take his oath on it. The Professor hadn't been gone a week when she seduced him. He was a policeman, a caretaker as well, and retired. Name: Benedikt Pfaff. As long as he can remember, his house has been No. 24 Ehrlich Strasse. As for stealing, that woman had better shut her trap. The Professor married her out of pity, because she was the maid. Another man would have bashed her head in. Her mother died in the gutter. She'd been cautioned for begging. She hadn't a crust to her name. He knows because her daughter said so. Told him in bed. Talks enough for fifty. The Professor is innocent, as true as he's a retired policeman. He'll take it on himself. An organ of the law can take responsibility. At home in his little lodge he's got a real police station; his colleagues would be surprised: canaries and a peep-hole. Everyone ought to work; those who don't work come on the rates.
Astounded, they listened. His bellowing penetrated every brain. Even the proud father understood him. This was his own language, however much he admired his son's German composition. In the Inspector, too, the ashes of interest were rekindled. He conceded that the redhead might once have been in the police. No ordinary man would have stood forth, loud-voiced and unabashed, in this place. Again and again Thérèse sought to protest. Her words sounded feeble. She glided now to the left, now to the right, until she managed to lay hold of Kien's jacket. She tugged at it; he must turn round; he must tell them, was she a maid, or a housekeeper? She sought his help, she relied on him to indemnify her for her other man's abuse. He'd married her for love. Where was his love now? He may be a murderer, but at least he can speak. She won't be a maid. Thirty-four years she'd been a housekeeper. For a whole year she's been a respectable housewife. He must say something! He must be quick! Or she'll tell them his secret between six and seven!
Privately she had determined to tell on him, as soon as he had paid her her due, his love. He was the only one who heard her words. Against the colossal din, he heard her voice behind him, low, but as ever indignant. He felt her horny hand on his coat. Cautiously, he hardly knew how, he drew in his backbone, twisted and turned his shoulders, slipped out of the sleeves, tweaked them softly down with his fingers and suddenly, after one last jerk, stood there without either his coat or Thérèse. Now he felt her no longer. If she clutched at his waistcoat he would do the same. In his thoughts he named neither Thérèse nor her mirage. He avoided her name and avoided the vision of her; but he knew what he was defending himself against.
The caretaker had finished his address. Without waiting for its effect, as there was no answer to it, he stepped between Thérèse and Kien, bellowed: 'Hold your tongue!' tore the jacket out of her hand and reinserted the Professor, as if he had been an infant. The Inspector mutely handed back the money and the papers. His eyes expressed regret at the misunderstanding, but he took back not a word of the successful examination. The man with a memory noticed numerous dubious details; in case of accidents, he took careful note of the redhead's story and counted up the various points it raised on his fingers. The policemen were all talking together. Each one vented his own opinion. One, who liked to deal in proverbs, said: 'Crimes come home to roost,' and the sentence was echoed in every heart. Therese's thirty-four years of housekeeping were lost in the babble of voices. She stamped her foot. The proud father, whom she reminded of one of his sisters-in-law — forbidden fruit — at length got her a hearing. Red as a turkey and in a shrieking voice, she vindicated herself in figures. Her husband would witness for her, and if he wouldn't, she'd fetch Mr. Brute of the furniture and upholstery firm of Brute & Wife. He'd only recently married. At 'married' her voice broke. But no one believed her. She stayed a common maid, and the proud father tried to make an assignation for that very night. The caretaker overheard and, before she could answer, confirmed it. 'She'd run to Brazil for a bit of fun,' he told his colleague jovially. America didn't sound far enough for him. Purring and radiant, he looked round the sub-station and discovered on die walls enlarged photographs of movements in Jiu-jitsu, 'In my time,' he bellowed, 'this was enough!' He clenched his massive fists and held them under the admiring noses of several colleagues at once. 'Ah, those were the days,' said the father, and tickled Thérèse under the chin. His boy would live to see better times. The Inspector looked Kien up and down. So this was a Professor, he had a feeling for the well-connected, they went round with money stuffed into their pockets like hay. Another man would have known how to dress himself properly. Instead of going about like a beggar. The world was unjust. Thérèse said to the father: 'If you please, but first I'm a housewife!' She knew, not a day over thirty, but she was deeply offended. Kien stared motionless at the Inspector and listened for the nearness or distance of her voice.
When the caretaker decided it was time to get a move on and affectionately took the Professor by the arm, he shook his head and clutched with astonishing strength at the table. They sought to disengage him, but the table came too. Then Benedikt Pfaff bellowed at Thcrese: 'Clear out, you filthy bitch! He can't relish that woman!' he added, turning to his colleagues. The father seized Thérèse, and pushed her out amid a shower of jokes. She was furious and whispered: ater on he shouldn't give her a moment's rest. On the threshold she gathered what remained of her voice and shouted: 'A murder's nothing, I suppose! A murder's nothing!' Someone fetched her one on the mouth and she glided home at top speed. She would let in no murderer. Quickly she bolted the door, two bolts below, two bolts above, two in the middle; then she looked carefully to see if there were any burglars.
But ten policemen could not dislodge the Professor. 'She's gone,' the caretaker encouraged him, and tipped his square head in the direction of the door. Kien said nothing. The Inspector looked hard at his fingers. They were insistent; they were moving his table. If this went on he would soon be in an empty room. He stood up; his cushion had been moved too. 'Gentlemen! he said,'this won't do!' Around dozen policemen surrounded Kien and persuaded him kindly to let go of the table. 'The saints help those who help themselves, one told him. The father promised him to drive all the bees out of his wife's bonnet that very night. 'You should only marry better-class people!' the man with a memory reassured him. He himself was only going to marry a wife with money, which was why he had none yet. The Inspector directed operations and thought: what do I get out of it? He yawned, and despised them all. 'Don t put me to shame, Professor!' bellowed Benedikt Pfaff, 'Come nice and quiet! We're going home now!' Kien stood firm.
But the Inspector had had enough of it. He commanded 'Out with him!' The twelve, until this moment merely persuasive, hurled themselves on the table and shook Kien off it, like a withered leaf. He did not fall. He remained alert. He would not be defeated. Instead of uttering useless words he pulled out his handkerchief and himself fastened it over his eyes. He drew the knots tight, until it hurt. His friend guided him by the arm, out into the street.
As soon as the doors had closed, the man with the memory laid a finger on his forehead and asserted: 'The real criminal was the fourth!' The sub-station decided from now on to keep a sharp eye on the lift-attendant of the Theresianum.
In the street the caretaker offered the Professor the hospitality of his little room. In his flat he might suffer annoyance; why expose himself to wrangling? He needed rest. 'Yes,' said Kien, 'I do not like the smell.' He would avail himself of the caretaker's offer until the flat had been cleaned.
CHAPTER X
THE BUTTON
In front of the Theresianum Fischerle, whose flight had proved successful, met with an unexpected reception. Instead of his employees, whose fate and whose garrulity he was anxious to forestall, a mass of excited people were pressing against the door. An old man, catching sight of him, wailed 'The cripple!' and ducked as quickly as his stiff limbs would allow him. He was afraid of the criminal, whom rumour had elevated into a dwarf of gigantic stature; when he ducked, he was about on a level with him. A woman took up the old man's feeble cry and made it loud. Then everyone heard it; the joy of wanting the same thing filled them all. 'The cripple!' echoed across the square, 'The cripple! The cripple!'
Fischerle said: 'Pleased to meet you!' and bowed. Among such a mass of people a mass of money might be made. Annoyed at the large sum he had had to put back in Kien's pocket, he hoped he might indemnify himself here. His mind was still on his recent danger and he did not sense the new one. The delighted acclamation which his presence had aroused pleased him too. Thus would he step out of his chess palace in America. Music will strike up, the mob will shout, and he wül be able to pick their pockets of all their dollars. The police would be on the look out, but look was about all they would do. Nothing could happen to him there. A millionaire's sacred. A hundred policemen will look on, and politely request him to help himself. Here the police didn't understand him so well. He had left them inside. There wouldn't be dollars; just small change. But he'd take anything.
As he surveyed the field, noted alleys through which he could slip, pockets at which he could reach, legs through which he could make his escape, the excitement of the crowd swelled menacingly. Everyone wanted his share in the robber who had taken the pearl necklace. Even the calmest lost control. What insolence to show his face among people who had recognized him. The men would pound him to powder. The women would raise him sky-high and then scratch him to pieces. Everyone was for utterly annihilating him, until nothing was left but a shameful blot, nothing else at all. But they had to see him first. For although thousands, inspired by him, were shrieking 'The cripple', those who had seen him numbered not more than a dozen. The road to the Helldwarf was paved with good fellow-beings. All wanted him, all panted for him. Anxious fathers lifted up their children. They might be trampled on, and they would learn something; two birds with one stone. Their neighbours took it ill that they thought of children at all at such a time. Many mothers had quite forgotten their children; they let them scream; they heard'nothing, they only heard: 'The cripple!'
Fischerle found them too rowdy. Instead of 'Long live the world champion!' they were shouting 'The cripple!' And why the cripple should be cheered, he could not quite see. He was josded on all sides. They ought to love him less and grudge him less. In this way, he'd never get anything. Someone crushed his fingers; someone else pushed him. He hardly knew which side his hump was. With one hand alone, stealing was too risky. 'Folks!' he screeched, 'you're too fond of me!' Only those nearest to him caught his words. His meaning not a soul understood. A shove taught him better, a kick convinced him. He had evidently started something, if only he could make out what. Had he been caught at it already? He looked at his free hand. No, it hadn't been in any pocket. He could never help picking up trifles; handkerchiefs, combs, mirrors. He used to take them and then throw them away for revenge. But this time, to his shame, his hand was empty. What were these people thinking of, to catch him at it when he wasn't? He hadn't taken a thing and now they were trampling on him. They hit him on top, they kicked him below, and of course the women were pinching his hump. It didn't hurt; these people didn't know the first thing about hitting; they could have learnt for nothing under the Stars of Heaven. But, because you never can tell, and apparent beginners often turn out at one blow to be experts, Fischerle began to wail piteously. Usually he croaked, but if he was put to it, at a time like the present for example, his voice sounded like a new-born child's. He also had the right persistence. A woman near by grew uneasy and looked round. Her child was at home. She was afraid it might have run after her and been trampled on. She sought it with eyes and ears in vain; clucked soothing noises, as she did over the pram, and in the end grew calm. The others weren't deceived into taking the murderer for a baby. They were afraid they would soon be pushed aside, so great was the crush, and they hurried. Their blows were less and less expert; more and more of them went wide. But newcomers joined the circle with the same intention. Altogether, Fischerle was far from satisfied. If he had wanted, escape would have been child's play. He had only to feel in his armpits and strew banknotes among them. Perhaps that was what they were aiming at. Of course — the hawker, the selfish brute, the snake in the grass, he must have worked the crowd up, and now they wanted his money. He pressed his arms close to his sides, indignant at the insolence which employees these days permit themselves towards their employers — but not to him, he'd throw the snake out on his ear, he'd give him the sack, he'd have done it anyway — and decided to sham dead. If these criminals searched his pockets, then he'd have proof of what they wanted. If they didn't, then they'd clear off, because he was dead.