Wolf Among Wolves (25 page)

At first, raking in the money had given Herr Quarkus undiluted pleasure, creating in him a distaste for the Schultheiss pothouses, the Bötzow taverns and the Aschinger saloons; and he had become a generous, even popular, client of all the bars in the old Friedrichstadt and the new West End, asserting with conviction that one could eat really decently in only three of all Berlin’s restaurants. Thus, when it came about that a genuine countess embraced him, he felt that no earthly desire of his remained unfulfilled.

But the richer he grew and the less importance money held for him, the more thoughtful became cattle dealer Quarkus. His unscrupulous optimism which hitherto had relied, without worrying about the future, on the continued fall of the mark, became dashed at the sight of this currency leaping round the dollar in bounds which would have carried a flea over Ulm Cathedral.

“There’s a limit to everything,” he muttered when he learned that his pigs had brought him in twentyfold the purchase price. At a time when hundreds of thousands did not know where to find the money for a piece of bread, he became sleepless with the worry of how to invest his.

An expression whispered on many sides—real values—reached his ear. Nobody can free himself from his early training. The lad Emil (the name Quarkus had attained significance for the surrounding world only from his twenty-fifth year onwards) had had to drive one cow along many German highroads, and look after three pigs; he had been a cattle drover before he became a cattle dealer. Longingly the thin hungry youth had looked at the farmhouses beside the highroad, where the doors emitted such an alluring smell of fried potatoes and bacon. Whether it hailed, rained, snowed, or was cold enough to freeze your very eyelashes, the farms always sprawled comfortably along the roadside, their broad thatched or tiled roofs promising protection, warmth and comfort. Even the ox which Emil Quarkus drove could notice this; when it rained it lifted its head, stretched out its tail and lowed yearningly for the farmyards.

What for the boy had been the epitome of all security and comfort, now became a refuge for the man. At a time when the mark was bounding, leaping, crashing, nothing could be more secure than a farm—excepting five or ten farms. And Quarkus was resolved to buy them.

Countess Mutzbauer,
née
Fräulein Fischmann (which she did not naturally divulge to her friend Quarkus) was, of course, more in favor of an estate with a castle, terrace and racing stable. But about this Quarkus was adamant. “I have bought enough cattle from manors,” he said. “I don’t want to buy their worries, too.”

He was sure that if he went to a farm with a bag full of notes—better still with a trunk—asked to buy a cow, bought ten, threw his money around and bragged about it and used it as a bait, then no owner would be able to resist him. And after buying ten cows he would buy the cowhouse, the straw, the land on which the straw grew, and ultimately the whole farm. And when he told the owner that he could remain and carry on with the farming, doing what he liked with the produce, that farmer would think him cracked and would find other sellers for him, more than he wanted. Till the day dawned when the mark—well, nobody could conceive what the mark would be like on
that
day—it baffled imagination. Whatever happened, however, the farm would be there. The farms, rather.

Such were, roughly, Quarkus’s reflections as frequently outlined to the Countess. Actually, since the manor had been turned down, she took very little interest in the matter, but she was too wise to be disinterested enough to let her friend travel by himself. It was always better to be on the spot, for vulgar women, to whom money was as necessary as dung to the dung-beetle, were to be found everywhere. Moreover, if he bought ten farms, an eleventh might perhaps be thrown in as her pickings; and though the idea of her owning a farm was about as reasonable as her possessing a locomotive, yet it could always be sold—in fact, one could sell anything. (Countess Mutzbauer had already sold, in turn, three cars which she had been given by her friend, and had treated him to the magnificent explanation: “You’re too much of a gentleman, Quarkus, to expect me to put up with such an old-fashioned car.” And he was really too much of a gentleman—besides being uninterested in such points.)

The notion of the eleventh farm, however, had reminded the Countess that her chambermaid, Sophie, came from the country and toward midday, having slept thoroughly, she rang for her and conducted the following conversation:

“Sophie, you come from the country, don’t you?”

“Yes, Frau Countess, but I don’t like it.”

“Do you come from a farm?”

“No, Frau Countess, from a manor.”

“You see, Sophie, I told Herr Quarkus that he should buy a manor. But he says he only wants a farm.”

“Yes, Frau Countess, my Hans was just like that, too. When he had enough money for Habel and partridges, then he only wanted Aschinger with pea soup and bacon; men are like that.”

“So you, too, Sophie, think that a manor is much better?”

“Of course, Frau Countess. A manor is much bigger, and when it belongs to you, you don’t need to work yourself but employ people.”

“On a farm one has to work?”

“Terribly hard, Frau Countess; and work which ruins the appearance.”

Hastily the Countess decided to forgo the eleventh farm and accept instead the gift of a diamond ring. And with that decision she lost all personal interest in the trip or the purchase, and thus any reason for taking Sophie with her as adviser.

“Listen, Sophie, in case Herr Quarkus should ask you, don’t tell him that. That’s no need to dissuade him; it only spoils his pleasure and won’t stop him buying.”

“Just like my Hans,” said Sophie with a sigh, reflecting sadly that the police would never have nabbed Hans Liebschner if he had followed her advice.

“All right, Sophie. Then everything is settled. I knew you understood all about the country. Herr Quarkus and I are going to buy a farm, and I thought of buying one for myself. Then I would have taken you with me. But if a farm is no use …”

Too late Sophie realized that she had spoken too soon. A trip by car into the country with the rich Quarkus would have been very agreeable. She changed her tune. “Of course, Frau Countess, there are all sorts of farms—”

“No, no,” said the former Fräulein Fischmann. “You’ve explained everything splendidly. I’m not buying.”

Since there was nothing more to be gained here, Sophie looked for an advantage on the other side. “So Frau Countess will probably be away for some time?”

Yes, Countess Mutzbauer would hardly be back before tomorrow evening.

“Oh, if the Frau Countess would then be so kind … My aunt at Neukölln has been seriously ill and I ought to have gone to see her before.… Could I have this afternoon off? And perhaps till tomorrow midday?”

“Well, Sophie,” said her mistress graciously, although she took the sick aunt in Neukölln about as seriously as Sophie did the acquisition of a farm by the Countess, “it’s really Mathilde’s turn for a day off, but as you’ve given me such good advice … Don’t upset Mathilde, though.”

“Not at all, Frau Countess; if I give her a cinema ticket she’ll be quite happy. She’s so mean. Only recently the cobbler said to her: ‘Fräulein, don’t
you ever go out? The soles of your shoes are still good the second year of wearing!’ But she’s like that.”

Perhaps the cook Mathilde was really like that with regard to stinginess, days off and the cinema; Sophie Kowalewski may have reported correctly, but she was mistaken in her forecast of the way in which Mathilde would receive the news about that particular afternoon off. Sophie had spoken quite casually about the paltry cinema ticket with which Mathilde would let herself be appeased; but nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind at all! Mathilde stormed. She wouldn’t have it. What? She, the economical and steady one, was to sacrifice herself for a whore who went with any lounge-lizard for three drinks! Oh, no! Unless Sophie immediately gave up this outing obtained in such an underhand manner, she, Mathilde, would go at once to the Countess, and what the Countess would then hear, Sophie might only too well imagine. Such filth wouldn’t pass without reason over her lips. At which point Sophie began to defend her client in front of her friend.

Oh, stout, easy-going Mathilde! Sophie could not understand why she was furious. Previously she had allowed her free days to be passed over a dozen times, had forgone them voluntarily or involuntarily, and when she sulked for once, a box of sweets or a cinema ticket had always appeased her. Had the oppressive heat driven the old woman mad? For a moment Sophie wondered whether she ought not to give in. If Mathilde opened her mouth to the Countess there might be a pretty stink. Not that Sophie was afraid of that. She could make short work of a drunken man who kicked up a row, and such could be almost as bad as a quarrelsome woman.

So she considered for a moment.… Then she spoke coldly and maliciously: “I don’t know what’s biting you, Mathilde. Why do you want to go out? You haven’t anything fit to wear.”

Oh, how sweetly this oil sizzles, how the flame rises higher and higher. “Nothing to wear! Of course, if I could use my mistress’s wardrobe, as some of us do …”

“You’d do it, Mathilde. Only nothing fits you. You’re so terribly fat.”

Even in 1923 it was a serious insult to call a woman plump—not to mention fat. Promptly Mathilde burst into tears. “Whore, strumpet, bitch!” she screamed, and rushed off to her mistress. Herr Quarkus had just come in, and they were about to set out for the country.

Sophie, shrugging her shoulders, stayed behind. It was all one to her, whatever happened. All of a sudden she had had quite enough of the life here, although a minute ago she would not have wished to leave. But it was like that nowadays, there was no stability; what was valid one moment was not so the
next. (Never was the fatal gas tap turned on so often and so impulsively as in those days.)

Suddenly she felt how dog-tired and worn-out she was, and how attractive the thought of a couple of weeks’ holiday with her parents in Neulohe. That would be really fine: to sleep as long as you liked, do nothing, drink nothing and, above all—for a change—no gentlemen. Besides, you could show yourself off to envious school friends of bygone days as a finished woman-about-town—especially just now when they were working themselves to death over the harvest. Finally, and most important, quite close to Neulohe was Meienburg, where stood an establishment which little Sophie had formerly looked at with horror but which now sheltered her Hans. Suddenly she was seized by a mad longing for him; her whole body was a-tremble. She must go to him, she must live near him, she must sense him once again—at the very least she must see him. It ought to be easy to get into touch with him. Warders were only men after all.…

Sophie had stopped cleaning the silver—why do anything now? She’d leave today anyway; finish with the joint! With satisfaction she heard Mathilde’s guttural whine interspersed with the sharp, irritated voice of the Countess, and occasionally Herr Quarkus’s hoarse tones. If they came and made the slightest criticism there would be a showdown. What a showdown! They would have no option but to get rid of her on the spot—not without her month’s wages, though. And that great gawk Mathilde could whistle for her free day—she would have to do all the work herself.

With reluctance Countess Mutzbauer sent her friend Quarkus to fetch Sophie from the kitchen. Certainly she wanted no quarrel with her chambermaid, least of all in front of her friend. There had been, some time ago, rather an odd burglary in the flat, and though Herr Quarkus had generously replaced the lost jewelry, he had wanted then and there to get in touch with the police. It would not be pleasant if Sophie explained the ramifications of that theft. Even more painful, of course, would be an account of certain bedroom visits. Countess Mutzbauer was convinced that her gentleman friend would not be broad-minded in the latter respect; and even though one should never shed tears over a lost lover, there being as many good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, she was terrified of a good thrashing.

But what was to be done? Mathilde, in front of Herr Quarkus, had given an exact account not only of the freedom with which Sophie used her mistress’s wardrobe as well as underwear (the Countess had known this all along) but also of an orgy which had taken place in the Mutzbauer apartments during a two-day absence of the mistress, an orgy, besides, in which strange bullies and tarts
had taken part, also her own liqueurs, cigarettes, champagne, and—here Herr Quarkus leaped up with a “Damn”—unfortunately the Mutzbauer bed, too.

Against all sense and reason the Countess hoped that Sophie would be reticent. On her side, at least, nothing would be done to make matters worse.

Whereupon in the first three minutes the very worst happened. There was a frightful row, an infernal stench. Emil Quarkus, the cattle dealer, was certainly not squeamish and during his life had had to put up with a lot of unpleasant things; moreover the times were not propitious for cultivating a thin skin.… But what these three women said to each other stank more than all the dunghills of his future farms rolled into one.

And Quarkus, too, shouted and stormed. With his own hands he threw them out of the room in turn and, howling with fury, fetched them in again for cross-examination, exculpation. He bashed their heads together, separated the clawing women, telephoned for the police and immediately canceled the call, inspected Sophie’s trunks, and had almost at once to rush to her ladyship’s bedroom where murder seemed to be in progress. Then, picking up his hat, he marched off with the contemptuous exclamation: “You damned women, you can kiss my arse,” left the flat, got into his car, and made the chauffeur stop at once, it having occurred to him that under no circumstances could he leave his jewelry with that vulgar woman.…

The upshot was that he sat on a couch utterly exhausted, incapable of anything more. Her cheeks still red and her eyes flashing, Countess Mutzbauer paced up and down and mixed a pick-me-up for her Emil.

“Such vulgar women! All abominable lies, of course. It’s good that you dismissed them on the spot, Quarkus.” (He had done nothing of the sort.) “You’re quite right not to call in the police.” (He would dearly have loved to do so.) “In the end your wife would have learned of it, and you know what she is!”