landscape from Soutine’s painting returned. He was holding Erna by the hand. The whiteness of the girl’s skin contrasted vividly with the navy blue of her school uniform. A white, sailor’s collar covered the small shoulders. They were walking along a narrow path in a dark corridor of trees. She rested her head on his shoulder. He stopped and began kissing her. He was holding Lea Friedlander in his arms. A meadow: kindly beetles crawling up grass stalks. She was feverishly unbuttoning his clothes. Sister Dorothea from the orphanage was shouting: you’ve shit yourself again, look how nice it is to clean up your shit. Scorching sand pours on to torn skin. Scorching desert sand is settling on the stone floor. Into the ruined tomb peers a hairy goat. Hoof marks on the sand. Wind blows sand into zigzag gaps in the wall. From the ceiling tumble small, restless scorpions. They surround him and raise their poisonous abdomens. Eberhard Mock throws aside his Bedouin headgear. The sinister creatures crunch under his sandals. Two scorpions, which he had not noticed, dance on Anwaldt’s belly.
The sleeping man shouted and thumped himself in the stomach. In the closed window hung a red moon. The policeman staggered to the window and opened it as wide as he could. He threw the sheets on the carpet and lay on the pallet, soon soaked in sweat.
Breslau’s night was merciless.
† Necessary condition (Latin).
† Mass for the Dead (Latin).
† “Women are most excited, men most sleepy” (Greek).
V
BRESLAU, MONDAY, JULY 9TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
The morning proved a little cooler. Anwaldt went into the kitchen and inspected it closely: no trace of cockroaches. He knew that, during the day, they hide in various gaps, cracks in the walls, behind skirting-boards. He drank a bottle of warm lemonade. Not worrying about the sweat which had coated his skin, he began a series of swift moves. With a few drags of his razor, he tore away the hard stubble, then poured a jug of cold water over himself, put on clean underwear and a shirt, sat down in the old, tattered armchair and attacked the mucous membrane of his stomach with nicotine.
Two letters lay under his door. He read Mock’s warnings with emotion and burnt the letter over the ashtray. He was pleased with the news from Maass: the learned man dryly informed him that he had translated Friedlander’s cries and was expecting Anwaldt at ten in his apartment on Tauentzienstrasse 14. He studied a map of Breslau and soon found the street. Carried away, he burnt that letter too. He felt an enormous surge of energy. He had not forgotten anything; he gathered the plate with his smeared supper from the table, threw its contents into the toilet on the half-landing, returned the crockery to the restaurant where he consumed a light breakfast, then sat down behind the steering-wheel of the black, gleaming Adler which Mock’s chauffeur had parked outside the building for him. As the car pulled away from the shade, a wave of hot air poured in. The sky was white; the sun barely penetrated the mush which hung heavily over Breslau. So as not to lose his way, Anwaldt followed the map: first Grubschener Strasse, then — on Sonnenplatz — he turned left into little Telegraphstrasse, passed by the Telegraph Office, the Hellenistic mansion of the Museum of Fine Arts, and parked the car on Agnesstrasse, in the shade of the synagogue.
Bank Allgemeine Deutsche Credit-Anstalt was housed in Tauentzienstrasse 14. The residential part of the building was reached from the yard. The caretaker politely allowed the new tenant’s — Doctor Maass’ — guest to pass. The policeman’s irritation, provoked by the heat, increased when he found himself in the spacious, comfortable
Maass did not even pretend to be happy at seeing his guest. He sat him behind the desk and threw down a few sheets of paper covered in regular, legible writing. He himself strode around the room drawing on his cigarette greedily as if he had not smoked for months. Anwaldt swept his eyes over the elegant desk and the luxurious objects on it (the pad of green leather, the ornamental sand-box, the fanciful, round-bellied inkstand, the brass paper-press in the shape of a woman’s leg), and found it hard to hold back the bitterness of envy. Maass paced the room, clearly excited. Thirst was drying out Anwaldt’s throat. A wasp furiously pounded between the window panes. The policeman glanced at Maass’ bulging cheeks, folded the sheets, and put them away in his wallet.
“Goodbye, doctor. I’ll examine this in my study,” he emphasized the word “my” and made to leave. Maass leapt towards him, waving his arms.
“But, my dear Herbert, you’re on edge … It is the heat … Please, do read my expert opinion here … And forgive my vanity, but I’d like to know what you think of my translation right away. Please do ask questions and give me your comments … You’re an intelligent man … I implore you …”
Maass circled around his guest, pulling out cigarettes, cigars and his hissing cigarette lighter in turn. Anwaldt thanked him for the cigar and, not caring how strong it was, inhaled several times, then began to study Friedlander’s apocalyptic outbursts. He looked cursorily through a detailed description of the method used and comments on Semitic vowels and concentrated on the translation of the prophecies. The first of them read:
) — ‘sand’ or
) — ‘to wriggle, dance, fall’.”
Anwaldt relaxed, the wasp flew out through the open gap in the casement window. Maass’ hypothesis was as follows: “… it seems that the person indicated by Friedlander in the first prophecy will die of a festering wound (
“We believe that the second prophecy has already been fulfilled. It concerns — in our opinion — Marietta von der Malten (child, white shore — that’s the name given to the island of Malta), murdered in a saloon carriage furnished in checks (grille). In her abdominal cavity were found wriggling scorpions.”
The detective did not want to show what a great impression this expertise had made on him. He diligently stubbed out his cigar and stood up.
“Do you really have no comments?” Maass’ vanity demanded praise. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Anwaldt was reminded of an incident in the orphanage: he exhausted his tutor urging him to look at the tower of bricks built by little Herbert.
“Doctor Maass, your analysis is so precise and convincing that it’s hard to find any questions. I thank you very much,” he held out his hand in farewell. Maass seemed not to notice.
“My dear Herbert,” he squeaked sweetly. “Perhaps you’d like a cold beer?”
Anwaldt considered this for a moment (Dear Sir, please look at my tower. “I haven’t got any time …”)
“I don’t drink alcohol, but I’d love some cold lemonade or soda water.”
“Of course,” Maass brightened up. Going out to the kitchen, he glanced at his watch again. Out of professional habit, Anwaldt looked over the desk more carefully than he had the first time.
