would come to a satisfactory end only if he carried out his intention to place the 760,000,000 marks intact in her hands. But if 10,000 marks or only 1,000 were missing, then the black consequences could not be foreseen.
Perhaps silly, certainly superstitious—but how could you be sure? This life was so complicated, turned up so unexpectedly, contradicted every rule of logic, every careful calculation—was there not a chance of catching it out by means of superstitions, wild ideas, absurdities and follies? Very well then, Wolfgang, it was all right; and if it wasn’t, it would work out just the same. Whether one made a mistake according to logic or folly was the private amusement of each individual. He, Wolfgang Pagel, plumped for folly.
As I am, so I remain, forever and ever. Amen.
Seven hundred and sixty million marks. A good round thousand dollars. Four thousand two hundred prewar marks. A nice little sum in the evening for one who at midday had had to beg Uncle for a single dollar. For whom two rolls and a very battered enamel can of adulterated coffee were beyond hope in the morning.
Pagel arrived at the Brandenburger Tor. He would have liked to pause for a moment to get out of the everlasting rain and dry his face, but it was not possible—the arches were thronged with beggars, hawkers and war-wounded. The rain had driven them from the entrances of the Tiergarten and the Pariserplatz into this shelter, and if Pagel were to place himself among them his inability to say no would endanger the inviolable treasure. He therefore fled from himself and the entreaties of the beggars into the rain again—hard-hearted out of weakness not hardness, like many another.
He carried himself rather stiffly, his hands guarding the pockets of his tunic. The money was in danger of getting wet. He did not forget for a moment that he was carrying a sum of 760 millions on him. A quarter of this sum, that is 250 dollars, was in good American notes, magnificent paper dollars, the most coveted currency in the Berlin of the day.…
I could afford to let the whole town dance tonight, he thought, and whistled contentedly. The remainder—570 millions—was in German notes, some of it in incredibly small denominations.
But the way it had been got together! It had been difficult enough to drag this sum out of the art chap that evening. No such amount of money was available in the place, nor could they send to the banks—they were closed by then. An advance certainly, and the balance tomorrow morning, nine-thirty, by messenger to any place in Berlin which Herr Pagel might designate. Herr Pagel would trust them for this sum, would he not? And at that the dealer, a massive man with rather a red face and a black Assyrian beard, had looked along his walls in affectionate pride.
Wolfgang followed this glance. He was sufficiently the son of his father to be able to understand the man’s pride in, and affection for, his pictures—this man who looked as if he had no concern with art.
Across the road, two blocks farther along by Potsdamerstrasse, the “Sturm” gallery also sold pictures. He had stood there now and then with Peter for quite a time and looked at these Marcs, Kampendocks, Klees and Noldes. Sometimes he had had to laugh or to shake his head or to complain, for many of the works were merely a colossal impudence—those were the times of Cubism, Futurism, and Expressionism. Scraps of newspaper were stuck together and made into pictures, and the world was carved up into triangles which one itched to put together again like a jigsaw puzzle. But sometimes, standing there, one had been thrilled. A feeling was stirred, you were affected, a chord had been touched. Would these rotten times give birth to something living?
But here at this rich man’s, who bought pictures only if he liked them, and who was not greatly interested in their sale, here one saw no such experiments or gropings. Even in the reception room there was a Corot, some pond bathed in reddish light; and redder still the cap of the solitary ferryman who was poling his boat off an embankment. There was a magnificent van Gogh, an immense expanse of green and yellow field and an even wider expanse of blue sky already darkened by the threat of an oncoming storm; a Gauguin of mild brown girls with beautiful bosoms; yes, and a Pointillist like Signac, a Rousseau, childlike and awkward, a peaceful animal scene by Zugel, Leistikow’s red sunny pine trees. These, however, were far removed from the experimental stage—they had been tested by the understanding, judged worthy of love, and were now loved. You could trust this man.
But Wolfgang Pagel equally realized that here he could demand whatever he wanted. He could be so unreasonable as to require them, after six o’clock in the evening, where there was no money left in the establishment, to scrape together a sum of 760 millions. He was as wet as a drowned cat when he first entered and produced the picture from under his tunic, where he had endeavored to shelter it from the storm. The gentleman, soft as an over-ripe plum, who had been shown it, said in matter-of-fact tones, but with a suspicious glance: “Certainly, a Pagel of the best period. You are selling on account of whom?” And Pagel felt that they would buy the picture on any condition and that he could dictate his own terms.
On his reply that he was selling on his own account, the over-ripe plum had called in the proprietor who, without making the slightest ado about the man in the tunic (in these times the most unlikely and shabby creatures sold most unlikely and precious possessions), had briefly remarked: “Set it down over there. Of course I know it, Dr. Mainz. Family property. An uncommonly good Pagel—sometimes he transcended himself. Not often—three or four times.… Mostly he’s too pretty for me. Too slick and smooth, eh?”
He had turned to Wolfgang. “But you don’t understand anything of that sort, do you? You only want money? As much as possible?”
Under the sudden attack Pagel started. He felt himself blushing crimson.
“I am the son,” he said as calmly as possible.
It was sufficient.
“I’m tremendously sorry,” the dealer said. “I admit I’m an ass. I ought to have seen the likeness, especially about the eyes—about the eyes if nowhere else. Your father has often been here. Yes, in his wheel-chair, to see some pictures. He liked pictures. Do you also like pictures?”
Again this abrupt, sudden—well, it was really an attack. At least Wolfgang felt it so. He had never considered whether the picture he had taken away from his mother was a good one or not. Fundamentally, the dealer had guessed correctly; even if he were the son, the transaction was only a question of money—although the money was for Peter.
With vexation mingled with sadness he realized that he really was the man he was estimated to be.
“Yes, I like them quite well,” he replied, sullen.
“It’s a very fine work,” said the dealer pensively. “I’ve already seen it twice; no, three times. Your mother didn’t want me to look at it. Does she agree to a sale?”
Again an attack. Pagel became annoyed. God, what a fuss about a picture, barely half a yard of painted canvas. A picture was something to look at if one wanted to; one wasn’t compelled, it wasn’t necessary. One could live without pictures; but not without money.
“No,” he said crossly. “My mother doesn’t agree to a sale.”
The dealer looked at him politely and waited in silence.
“She made me a gift of this”—with feigned indifference—“thing here; one makes presents to members of one’s family, you know. As I needed money, I remembered it. I’m selling it,” he added emphatically, “against my mother’s wishes.”
The dealer listened quietly; then he announced casually, but in a noticeably colder voice, “Yes, yes, I understand, of course.”
The over-ripe Dr. Mainz, who had vanished unnoticed, now re-entered. The dealer looked at his assistant (fine arts degree), and the assistant nodded briefly. “In any case,” said the dealer, “your mother raises no objection to its sale. I have just had her rung up,” he added, in answer to Pagel’s inquiring glance. “Now please don’t think I’m suspicious. I am a man of business, a prudent man of business. I don’t want any trouble.”
“And what will you pay?” Pagel asked abruptly. His mother could have prevented the sale with a word. She had not done so, and Wolfgang felt that the break was final. He could go his own way; from now onwards and forever his way was alone. She had no further interest in him.
“I’ll pay,” said the dealer, “a thousand dollars; that is, seven hundred and sixty millions of marks. If you would let me have the picture on commission I would exhibit it here and sell it on your account, and you might get a very much higher figure. But if I have understood you correctly, you need the money at once.”
“At once, within an hour.”
“Now, let’s say tomorrow morning,” smiled the dealer. “That’s pretty prompt. I’ll send my messenger with the money to whatever place you like.”
“Now!” said Pagel. “This very hour. I must …”
The dealer looked at him attentively. “We’ve sent our cash in hand to the bank,” he said kindly, as if he were
