The Golem (23 page)

Prokop immediately felt for his house-key, but Zwakh stopped him with a wave of the hand.

“On the occasion of a general amnesty, the rest of his sentence was remitted and he was given the position of gatekeeper at the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy. Thanks to his proficiency with the spade, which he had acquired in his previous walk of life, the light gardening, which was part of his duties, took up so little of his time that he had leisure enough to purify his heart and mind through the study of carefully selected works of improving literature.

The results were pleasing in the extreme. Whenever the Mother Superior sent him to the local inn on a Saturday evening, to raise his spirits a little, he would always return punctually before nightfall, remarking that he found the general decline in moral standards depressing; there were so many shady characters making the roads unsafe that the sensible course for any right-thinking person was to see that he set off for home in good time.

At that time in Prague the candle-makers had developed the unfortunate tradition of selling little figures with red cloaks representing the murderer Babinski. There was not one among the bereaved families who did not have such a figure. Usually, however, they were to be seen in the shops under a glass cover, and there was nothing calculated to infuriate Babinski so much as as the sight of one of these.

‘It is extremely degrading and betokens an unparalleled coarseness of spirit to keep on confronting a person with his youthful peccadilloes’, Babinski would say on such occasions, adding, ‘and it is deeply regrettable that the authorities have taken no steps to deal with such an outrage.’

Even on his deathbed he was still expressing similar sentiments, and not in vain, for soon afterwards the government banned the trade in the offensive Babinski statuettes.”

Zwakh took a deep draught from his hot toddy, and all three grinned a fiendish grin. Then he stole a cautious glance at the pallid waitress, and I saw her wipe a tear from her eye.

“Well, esteemed colleague and gem-cutter, have you nothing for us?” asked Vrieslander after a considerable pause for general reflection, “Apart, that is, from footing the bill out of gratitude for such a delightful narrative?”

I told them about my wandering in the fog. When I came to the place where I had seen the white house, all three took their pipes out of their mouths with excitement, and when I had finished, Prokop banged the table with his fist and shouted, “That’s the absolute limit! This Pernath experiences every legend personally. By the way, talking of your Golem, the matter’s been cleared up, did you know that?”

“What do you mean: cleared up?” I asked, completely dumbfounded.

“You know that mad Jewish beggar, Hashile? No? Well, Hashile was the Golem.”

“A beggar was the Golem?”

“Yes. Hashile was the Golem. This afternoon the ghost was seen walking without a care in the world in its notorious seventeenth-century costume along Salnitergasse, and the man from the knacker’s yard managed to trap it with a dog-catcher’s noose.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I don’t understand a word of it.”

“But I’m telling you, it was Hashile. I heard he found the clothes some time back in a house entrance. But, to get back to the white house on the
Kleinseite
, your story is terribly interesting. There is an old legend that up there in the Street of the Alchemists is a house which is only visible in fog, and that to a ‘Sunday’s child’ alone. It is called the ‘Wall by the Last Lamp’. If you go up by day all you will see is a large, grey rock; beyond it there’s a sheer drop down into the Stag’s Moat. You were lucky, Pernath, that you didn’t take another step, you would have tumbled down and broken every bone in your body.

Beneath the rock, according to the legend, there’s a huge treasure buried. The stone itself is said to have been laid by the ‘Order of Asiatic Brethren’, whom some people claim founded Prague, as the foundation stone for a house which will not be inhabited until the end of time, by a person – or, rather, by a hermaphrodite, a being composed of man and woman. And this being will have a hare on its coat of arms. By the way, the hare was the symbol of Osiris, so that’s probably where all the business with the Easter bunny originated.

Until the time is come, Methuselah himself, so the legend goes, will keep watch at the place to stop Satan flying down and treading the stone, thus begetting a son with it, the so-called Armilos. Have you never heard of this Armilos? They even know – that is, the old Rabbis know – what he would look like if he appeared on earth: golden hair tied at the back, with two partings, then sickle-shaped eyes and arms that reach down to his feet.”

“Such a divine popinjay should be recorded”, muttered Vrieslander, looking for a pencil.

“Well, Pernath, if you should ever have the good fortune to turn into a hermaphrodite and stumble on the buried treasure”, Prokop concluded, “then don’t forget I was your best friend.”

I didn’t feel like joking; my heart ached. Zwakh could probably tell by my look, and even if he didn’t know the reason, he quickly came to my aid.

“However that may be, it’s remarkable, almost uncanny, that Pernath should have a vision at the precise spot that is so closely linked to an old legend. There are connections that some people cannot escape from if their soul has the ability to see shapes that are not accessible to our sense of touch. I’m afraid I can’t help it, I think there’s nothing more fascinating than the supernatural! What do the rest of you think?”

Vrieslander and Prokop were serious now, and none of us thought an answer necessary.

“And what do you think, Eulalia?” asked Zwakh, turning round.

The old waitress scratched her head with a knitting needle, sighed, blushed and said, “Oh, get away with you! The things you do say, sir!”

After we had stopped laughing, Vrieslander said, “There’s been something in the air the whole day. I haven’t been able to do a single stroke. I’ve not been able to get Rosina out of my mind, the way she danced in that tail-coat.”

“Has she reappeared yet?” I asked.

“ ‘Appeared’ is good. The Vice Squad booked her for a special appearance! Perhaps the inspector took a fancy to her when he saw her at Loisitchek’s that night? Anyway, now she’s in a fever of activity and doing her bit to increase commerce in the Jewish quarter. And a strapping wench she’s turned into in such a short time!”

“It’s astonishing when you think what one of these daughters of Eve can do to a man, simply by making him fall in love with her”, Zwakh commented. “In order to make enough money to be able to sleep with her, that poor fellow, Jaromir, has turned into an artist overnight. He goes round the taverns cutting silhouettes for the customers who want that kind of portrait.”

Prokop, who had not been listening to Zwakh, smacked his lips and said, “Really? Is she that pretty now? Have you had a little nibble yet, Vrieslander?”

The waitress immediately jumped up indignantly and flounced out of the room.

“There goes that broiling fowl again!” muttered Prokop in exasperation at her departing form. “Virtue outraged! That’s the last thing she needs! Huh!”

Zwakh calmed him down. “Don’t bother with her. Anyway, she made her exit on the wrong cue! But she’d just finished the sock.”

The landlord brought a new supply of hot toddy and the conversation took a decidedly lascivious turn; too lascivious not to set the blood throbbing in my veins, given my already feverish state. I fought against it, but the more I tried to shut myself off from it and concentrate my thoughts on Angelina, the more insistent became the ringing in my ears. Rather abruptly, I got up and left.

The fog had lifted slightly and sprinkled fine needles of ice all over me, but it was still so thick that I could not read the street names, and missed my way going home. I was in the wrong street and was about to turn round when I heard someone call my name. “Herr Pernath! Herr Pernath!”

I looked around, up, down: no one.

Beside me a door with a small, discreet red light over it yawned wide revealing, or so it seemed, the luminescent outlines of a figure at the back of the hallway.

Again the voice, “Herr Pernath! Herr Pernath!”

Surprised, I went into the vestibule, and two warm, female arms wrapped themselves round my neck. A door slowly opened a little, and in the light I could see that it was Rosina who was pressing her hot body against mine.

A dull, grey day.

I had slept late into the morning, a lifeless, dreamless sleep, for all the world as if I were dead.

The old woman who did my housework had either not turned up or had forgotten to light the stove. It was full of cold ashes. The furniture was covered in dust, the floor unswept.

Shivering, I walked up and down. The room was full of the stale smell of cheap liquor. My coat, my clothes stank of cold tobacco smoke.

I threw open the window and then shut it again; the filthy, icy air from the street was unbearable. Outside, the sparrows were perched motionless in the gutters, their feathers soaked. Wherever I looked, there was nothing but drab despair around me, and I had a soul to match, all mangled and torn.

The seat of that armchair, how threadbare it was! The horsehair was coming out at the edges. I should take it to the upholsterer, but why bother, just one more, joyless lifetime to last through, and it would be fit for the rubbish heap with everything else.

And those net curtains on the windows, how tasteless, how pointless! Why didn’t I twist them into a rope and hang myself by them? Then at least I wouldn’t have to look at the misbegotten things any more, and the whole dreary, tiresome business would be over, once and for all!

Yes, that was the sensible thing to do. Make an end of it. Today. Now. This morning. Not even bother with breakfast. A revolting thought, to do away with yourself on a full stomach! To lie in the wet, cold earth with undigested food decaying inside you!

If only the sun had shone for the last time, so that its sparkling rays would no longer fill your heart with the brazen lie that life is full of joy!

No, I was not going to fall for that again! Never again be at the mercy of this clumsy, pointless destiny that raised me up, then dropped me in the mud, merely in order to make me realise how transient all earthly things were – which I knew already, anyway, which every child, every dog in the street knows.

Poor, poor Miriam. If only I could help
her
at least.

It was time to make a decision, one final, irrevocable decision, before that confounded vital urge woke up again and started dangling more fancies before my all-too-credulous inward eye.

What use had they been to me, all these messages from the incorruptible realm?

None, none whatsoever.

All they had done had been to send me staggering round in circles until this earth seemed an impossible torment.

There was just one thing I could do.

I worked out in my head how much money I had left in the bank. Yes. That was the
only
way. Of all my worthless deeds in this life, that was the only, tiny one that might have any value at all.

I must tie up everything I possessed, including the few gems in the drawer, in a little parcel and send it to Miriam. That would free her from material cares for a few years at least. And write a letter to Hillel, telling him the truth about her and her ‘miracles’.

He alone could help her. I knew that he would find a way.

I gathered together all the stones and wrapped them up. If I went to the bank now I could have everything arranged within the hour.

And then a bunch of red roses for Angelina. My every nerve screamed with sorrow and longing: just one more day, let me live for just one more day!

In order to go through this agony of despair again?

No, I must not wait one single minute longer. I felt satisfaction at not having given way.

I looked round. Was there anything else left to do? Of course, the file. I put it in my pocket to throw it away somewhere in the street, as I had intended to do recently.

I hated that file! How close it had come to making me a murderer!

Who was that coming to disturb me now?

The junk-dealer.

“Only a moment of your time, Herr von Pernath”, he asked, immediately ennobling me when I told him I had no time. “Just a moment for a few words.”

The sweat was pouring down his face and he was trembling with excitement.

“Can we ’ave a few words, in private this time, Herr von Pernath? I don’t want that – that Hillel to come burstin’ in again. Could you lock the door, or perhaps we should go into the next room?” He dragged me along behind him in his usual rough manner. Then he looked round furtively a few times and said in a hoarse whisper, “I’ve changed my mind, you see, in that little matter we was discussin’ the other day. It’s better that way. Wouldn’t ’ave done me no good, anyway. So that’s it. Water under the bridge now.”

I tried to read his eyes, but he returned my gaze, though the effort it cost him could be seen in the way his hand clenched the back of the chair.

“I’m glad to hear it, Herr Wassertrum”, I said in as friendly a tone as I could manage. “Life is dreary enough, without mutual hatred making it a misery for each other,”

“Talks just like a book”, he grunted, relieved. He rummaged around in his trouser pocket and took out the gold watch with the broken spring lids. “Just to show you I really mean it, I’ve brought you a little present. Go on, take it. I insist.”

“What are you thinking of?” I objected. “You don’t imagine –” Then I remembered what Miriam had said about him and I stretched out my hand for the watch, so as not to hurt his feelings. But he ignored it and turned deathly pale as he listened, gurgling, “There! Listen! I knew it would ’appen! It’s that Hillel again. He’s knockin’ at the door!”

I listened as well. Then I went back into the other room, pulling the door to behind me so as reassure him. It wasn’t Hillel this time. Charousek came in, put his finger to his lips as a sign that he knew who was in the next room and then, without waiting to hear what I might say, showered me with a torrent of words.