One must remember that Margarete’s goal was to operate a salon in which true artists could convene. Consequently, her fiancé began to finance an artistic magazine. He located a man of letters, a writer of feuilletons who had long been seeking funding. His name was Dr Feld, and he wrote under an Italian pseudonym about fashion, art exhibitions, social events and also about women. This last them e he handled in the form of aphorisms that he scattered in various magazines, as a farmer spreads seeds over the fields. One read the aphorisms there where the sketches left off and the advertisements began, brief lines punctuated with dashes on smooth shiny paper in a delicate font, and the reader sensed immediately a man of mind and world. Herr Dr Feld now brought a new magazine into existence. It was richly endowed and appeared irregularly, not because it lacked money but, rather, because its publisher and creator considered irregularity a quintessential characteristic of refinement.
All the wealthy members of the family and their distant relatives subscribed to this magazine. It had a somewhat obscure name. It was called The Blue Margin, and I guessed that Herr Dr Feld himself had devised the name. Many collaborators spent their Wednesday afternoons at Frau Margarete Sedan’s. She wore wondrous clothes and gained a little weight. She met all sorts. A young lecturer in history was recommended to her. He came and gave lectures on Napoleon to a small group. Within the circle that surrounded Margarete Russia was in vogue. Margarete began to learn Russian. Her teacher was a refugee Russian engineer with no papers and no money. He liked to speak of the cruelty of the Bolsheviks, and one could tell that he had lived through it. He favoured all people who were upset by revolutions. It was quite agreeable to please these people, because it was they who had money. The engineer gave Russian lessons to many women. He was a small agile man with a bald head and deep little watery eyes. Margarete said there was something demonic about him. Herr Sedan spoke with him about electricity. Occasionally the engineer switched to business. He had dealings with the film industry, and he sold equipment on commission. He rejected nothing. He accepted everything that came across his path. For a time he ran the publicity for a Russian cabaret. In the winter he accompanied the Sedan family to Switzerland. In the winter’s calm of a health resort, in the face of the majestic mountains, something must have happened that induced Herr Sedan to decide to divorce Margarete. The engineer found other students. Margarete returned to Perlefter’s house.
So there she was. Frau Perlefter cried for three weeks. Margarete came to the divorce proceedings in chaste high-necked clothes. Her lawyer said, ‘Lovely.’ In the evening Tante Kempen arrived with a new suggestion. Herr Perlefter was going to a sanatorium in an effort to recover. He would give some thought to a new son-in-law later. But scarcely a day before his departure Margarete brought a bank official to the house whom everyone liked because he was so modest. Perlefter postponed his travels. Two weeks later Margarete married her bank official. Herr Perlefter took him into business. Suddenly Dr Feld was back. He began to opine from within the pages of The Blue Margin. Margarete promised to provide the means. He bought her jewellery, and a week later the whole world could see her picture in The Blue Margin. The Wednesday afternoon gatherings lived once more.
Margarete was fat again. As soon as she married she grew, and nothing could help her. Every morning she did gymnastics. A masseur was recommended, a noted masseur who served the most distinguished houses in the city and commanded the highest prices. He was a handsome muscular man in leather leggings with a wide mouth and white healthy teeth. The bank official was jealous, but it was no use. He played no role at all in the household. When Margarete was in a good mood she stretched out her hand to him. He had to kiss it. When he wanted to speak she interrupted him. Eventually he began to brew tea, tend to the hearth, fetch water and run to the pharmacy. He wanted to be useful. He recounted to patient listeners school stories and anecdotes about life on the stock exchange. He was, unfortunately, a bad storyteller, and from his first sentence one could already predict the end of his story. Dr Feld despised him. Dr Feld was practically as revered as the masseur. Margarete confessed her sorrows to him. The bank official was dumb enough to defend the accuracy of the scales. He wanted to prove that the masseur was superfluous, but he demonstrated only his own expendability.
So passed the months. Perlefter was in the sanatorium. His wife lived with Fredy, whose wife was going to have a child. Karoline also bore a girl. The chemist took her out for a walk. He was a good father and no longer felt a need to invent gunpowder. He pushed the pram, lived outside in the austerity of the countryside and demonstrated a genuine interest in leatherwear.
VIII
While Herr Perlefter was in the sanatorium, recovering from the calamities that had afflicted his house, there landed on one of the European coasts Leo Bidak with his wife and six children along with his entire fortune, which one could fit in a straw basket and still have room to spare. I knew Leo Bidak from my childhood and from my home town. He was related to Alexander Perlefter, who granted no special significance to this family link. Leo Bidak came from San Francisco. He had survived several earthquakes and had missed the European world war. He left to earn money, but he returned as a beggar, and he once again sought ‘a reason for existence’ after having had to give up several existences on both sides of the ocean.
He was forty-two years old, a family man, and he had experienced much and learned nothing. He’d had a few different jobs, and not one of them had he mastered to perfection. In his youth he had been a longshoreman in Odessa. Back then he could still break thick paving stones on his knee and balance a Cossack sabre on his fingertip, crack a hazelnut between his fingers and uproot young trees with one hand. He was so strong that he was compelled to demonstrate his prowess, and since dock work did not strain him enough he supplemented it through fights in saloons and quiet alleys. On Sundays he appeared as a wrestler in a circus and followed the rules just as minimally as the laws of the country, which he despised, because he was one of those unusual people for whom the state was a stupid institution that robs liberty. Consequently Leo Bidak had not only the authorities for enemies but also professional associations, and as he had never belonged to the Association of Athletes he was considered in the sports world to be a querulous outsider who won all the prize competitions without paying any contributions, enjoying all the privileges without subjecting himself to the obligations. In addition, Bidak was a favourite of the crowd, who had no qualms when he made a mistake and forgave all his illegal moves while others who did the same were booed out of the arena. And so Leo Bidak had to fend for himself, a rebel within his own profession, unclassifiable in any category or species, lonely and mighty, averse to society and his own confederates, against both worlds. He was short and fat; his hands were round and soft with short fingers like those of a child, and yet his grip was firm. These hands were like iron when they were clenched into fists. I once saw Bidak’s palms and was amazed at their clear and simple lines, the likes of which I have never encountered in anyone else. There were three heavy furrows, two lateral creases and a long line. Everything else was smooth, like a palm of sanded skin. According to the rules of palmistry Bidak had at least 150 years to live, without sickness, without pain, without complications. His hands were tools; when he wasn’t working or hitting they hung there limp from his strong round wrists like a pair of hammers.
Even his face was simple. It consisted of a low forehead, tiny blue eyes, a short nose, a small but wide chin and two strong cheeks, on whose surface muscles could be seen flexing. Behind the forehead lived the simplest of minds: the eyes had nothing else to do except look out for danger; the nose needed only to smell, the mouth only to eat. Even Leo Bidak’s hair was only there to meet the requirements of nature. It had no colour. It was neither thick nor thin, neither hard nor soft, and Bidak wore it as God let it grow, falling down over his forehead or cut very short, depending on whether or not he had money to go to a barber.
For Bidak had no money, and he earned only a
little. The wages he made at the circus he drank and gambled away. Three dice of human bone rattled constantly in his right trouser pocket. He won at games only when he was drunk; he lost when he was sober, and that is why he never came into money, because he spent whatever he had. He lost on the street whatever else he put up – paper, watches, a pencil, smooth pebbles, keys and tools. He needed the stones to practise marksmanship. He had such skill with slingshots that he could hit a specific windowpane on a moving train. On free afternoons he went out into the fields through which the train crossed, lay down in the grass and made a mental note when he heard a train coming to hit the third or fourth or fifth windowpane of the third to last car. He always hit it. That behind the windowpane people sat he knew. That he might unknowingly hit one delighted him much. Sometimes he flew a kite made out of newspaper. He carried a ball of hard dark-blue twine in his pocket, twine that he, with his small, wide and sharp teeth he could chew through and with which he could sew his clothes and also his boots.
For a time he was a driver for a distillery, and the smell of alcohol dazed him so much that he became drunk without drinking. He knew how to deal with horses, for his father had been a driver, owner of a wagon and two white horses, of which one died in its youth and the other reached an advanced age and after the death of old Bidak was able to serve three more masters. The elder Bidak drank heavily and froze to death one winter on the road, in a ditch into which both horse and carriage had fallen. He left his son an old house, a barn and a large Rosskopf clock that could go for three days without winding. Horse, wagon and sleigh were bought by the bearded Coachman Manes, who, now with two horses, experienced an unexpected windfall, gaining many customers and procuring a new whip with a handle of hard leather and a six-knotted leash. Bidak did not like the driver Manes. Leo went to his mother’s relatives in Russia and was a worker in a port instead of what he would have been entitled to: horse, wagon, sleigh and customers and a new whip to crack.
As driver for the distillery Leo one day fell asleep in his seat, drunk from the alcohol fumes; the horse became frightened, a child got under its hooves and Bidak was fired. He joined a sugar and tea wholesaler and was charged with unloading and stacking the large black-packaged sugar loaves. He learned a great trick: he could carry half a hundredweight at once thanks to a contraption that he himself had invented, a small wooden stairway with three steps that hung on his back and carried ten sugarloaves on each step. A wrestler came to visit him at work once, and Bidak hit him in the head with an entire load of sugar. The athlete was dead on the spot.
This murder happened in the gloomy hallway that connected the offices of the trading house with the warehouse, at a time when only a hard-of-hearing senior accountant was still present. He had heard neither the quarrel nor the fall of the sugar and the wrestler. Bidak dragged the dead man to an adjacent property, pocketed his belt as a souvenir and buried the body. Then he returned to work. The senior accountant had missed him and called for him, and because he had not come Leo Bidak was dismissed. A week later there was a story in the sports pages about the sudden death of the wrestler. At that point Leo Bidak made his way to the West.
In Perlefter’s city lived Bidak’s aunt, named Frida Sammet. She owned a laundry and pressing establishment, which she herself operated. Her husband, who was able to write the occasional verse of poetry, had a gentle nature and was abused and subjugated by his wife. He was a silent and witty man with no job but with many talents. He once wanted to be a writer, and he had even already published a work, a book for shy young men on writing love letters which found many readers and buyers. Herr Sammet was in favour of practical themes. He wrote a pamphlet about foot-and-mouth disease, about the souls of dogs and a protest against compulsory vaccination. He occupied himself with the occult, hypnosis, eye care; he owned a microscope and a furnace; he believed in a perpetual-motion machine and in alchemy, and he often read the encyclopaedia and foreign dictionaries. He did not allow himself to miss a single foreign word, pursued each to its origins, and in this way came to a disorderly but extensive knowledge. His wife was at times very proud of her educated husband, especially when she spoke to strangers. At home she scolded him and forced him to perform humiliating chores. At ten o’clock he had to be lying in bed, at seven in the morning arisen; he was not allowed to drink any alcohol, could smoke only three cigarettes a day, could not eat cured meats, nor herring, nor onions, nor fresh bread, nor roasted potatoes – all the treats for which Herr Sammet longed. He hated his wife – which would surprise nobody. The hatred connected them as a chain binds two inmates. Nevertheless they developed similar faces over the years. Both had narrow, withered cheeks. The difference was that Herr Sammet’s mouth was a friendly curve. Frau Sammet’s mouth, however, was like a long, narrow and greatly faded brush stroke. Her voice was sharp and thin like a sword. Herr Sammet’s voice was imperceptible. He always spoke silently, like someone who has lost his vocal cords.
Day and night he mused about taking revenge on his wife. He owned the house in which they lived and in which the laundry was located. He kept a few hundred gold coins in a secret compartment. It was the last bastion that he successfully defended against his wife. He spoke often, happily and almost frivolously, about his death. For he did not fear death in the first place; rather, he was looking forward to the hereafter, a subject in which he was very well versed, and to his existence as a spirit which he believed he had secured. Secondly, he knew that he had nothing more to expect from life and that the iron-clad health of his wife would continue for a long time. He could enjoy actual pleasure only when dead. This joy was in part based on his the confidence that Frida would not find the gold coins. But he did not even begrudge her the house. By law it would go to her at his death if he did not give away it during his lifetime. But he had no friends and no sympathetic acquaintances. Then Leo Bidak appeared.
He arrived just on that fateful day on which Frau Frida Sammet had put her left arm through a windowpane and severed an artery. Herr Sammet, who had mastered the art of healing, knew that it was of critical importance to stop the bleeding and to bring the arm into an extended vertical position. Because he was creative he laid his wife out on a table, constricted the arm above the wrist with a handkerchief, took down the lamp hanging from the ceiling and connected, by means of a rope, the extended arm to the hook on the ceiling. Thus, helplessly bound, lay Frau Frida in the middle of the room when her nephew Bidak arrived. In this position she could not offer him a warm reception.
Bidak entered the business. He helped the girls by ironing and starching the laundry; he sorted the shirt collars and the stiff shirt breasts and freed white curtains of their yellow rust stains. He brought the clean clothes to the homes of the better customers and invoices and warning letters to the defaulting debtors. Frau Frida Sammet had reason to be pleased with him had dissatisfaction not been her nature. She was thus unhappy with her nephew. She complained about him to Herr Sammet. But he took Bidak’s side. Frau Sammet complained about her husband to Bidak. Then she learned, to her horror, that her nephew and her husband were friends.
Yes, they were friends.
Herr Sammet spoke with Bidak about all profound questions that weigh upon mankind. They went for walks together, watched sunsets, noted wind direction and stargazed on clear nights. They also talked politics. Leo Bidak was just as dissatisfied with the world order as was Herr Sammet. They were both unhappy.
They were determined to reform the world. Frau Sammet forbade her husband from attending socialist meetings. She could not forbid her nephew. To irritate her he wore a red tie, and he even came to work with a red carnation in his buttonhole, and on May Day he let the pressers have the day off. Frau Sammet would have fired him long ago, but she could not. The older she became the greater the number of clients who were in arrears. Perhaps Leo Bidak was a revolutionary spirit, but he could not be called unreliable. He had great strength, and on busy Saturdays he mastered over a thousand stiff dickeys. At six o’clock he put th
e work down. For sorting the laundry he demanded a premium. He was, without question, a radical socialist.
After a year, he knew Herr Sammet’s secret hiding place for the gold coins. Then he asked for a raise. Frau Frida hoped to learn the secret from him. She increased Bidak’s salary, but she learned nothing.
‘The money lies behind the painting with the black ship,’ said Leo Bidak. But it was not there. ‘He’s hidden it again,’ said Bidak.
At one point Herr Sammet fell ill. He had a notary come and gave Leo Bidak half of the house.
Herr Sammet regained his health. But he was not sorry that he had given Leo Bidak half of his house.
Now Bidak had a half of a house. He was already twenty-three years old. At this age men normally begin to look for a wife. Bidak fell in love with a girl named Ellen who had learned shorthand and was a socialist.
Leo Bidak and Ellen met often, they read books, and Herr Sammet was pleased about these young lovers.