While I inhaled the reek of freshly applied lacquer, I shuffled out into the hall, prepared to encounter an old American jukebox in the living room somewhere. And, in truth, Archie's remodeling tips had paid homage to even that most tasteless cliché. Beside a small, bow-shaped bar, over which loomed a huge mirror tilted slightly forward, stood that familiar reminder of former days of musical glory, with a "virtuoso" saxophone croaking forth from it—I doubted if Gustav even knew what a saxophone looked like.
Through the open door, I saw both happy renovators standing in the middle of the room, toasting each other with nothing less than champagne. They were proudly surveying the room, relishing its bareness, which was more than equal to the bareness in Karl Lagerfeld's living room. Merely a fire-engine-red sofa and a small granite table, whose form eluded all geometric description, stood forlornly in a dark corner. Only in one regard had Gustav's personal touch prevailed. Proudly glittering on the walls were enlargements of hieroglyphs, plaster-of-paris reproductions of sarcophagus covers, and, lo and behold, a splendidly well-done relief showing the goddess Bast in the form of one of my kind.
When Gustav and Archie noticed Yours Truly, they gave me idiotic grins and raised their glasses in greeting. I paid no attention to the two clowns and gave the rest of the apartment a quick once-over. Compared with the other trendy mishmash, the study was the most acceptable. Furnished with old English furniture and massive bookshelves in a classic library style, which soared up to the ceiling and were illuminated by only one antique reading lamp, the room radiated the pleasantly contemplative atmosphere that a contemplative, intellectual worker like Gustav needed. The third room, the kitchen, had also fallen victim to Archie's remodeling mania. It harbored everything imaginable that lunatics who had been fired from respectable decorating firms had thought up, worse, had put into production, and worst of all, had sold to harmless people like Gustav.
Well, enough griping for now. What was done was done. At least now our routine would be restored: just like in the good old days, I and my mentally handicapped friend would listen to classical music, watch those marvelous old Fred Astaire films on television, and, undisturbed by the envious glances of health fanatics like Archie, gorge ourselves to our heart's delight. Just like the good old days? Not very likely—as long as certain things were not put right that still had to be.
After a power breakfast of various choice meats and scrambled eggs, which Gustav had come up with to celebrate the day, I made a short visit to the catacombs. Jesaja, whom I found asleep in the temple and first had to wake up, went nearly wild with joy when he saw me again. After a hearty round of greetings, I asked him whether the Prophet had made an appearance in the meantime or had even presented the Good Guardian of the Dead with new shipments, which certainly seemed possible considering that it was a religious holiday. The Persian answered in the negative, and added timorously in his roundabout way that he was beginning to get fed up with life underground. So, as an initial resocialization measure, I invited him to the midnight conference. But he backed down, reciting millions of reasons why he could not attend just on this night. The true reason for his shyness was crystal clear: the Prophet had not yet lifted his curfew.
After a few hours, I left the catacombs with the plan of doing everything in my power to free this pitiable being from the prison of lies that the murderer had built especially for him.
Then I returned home to watch Gustav make his holiday preparations. In keeping with venerable tradition, he spent Christmas Eve alone, except, of course, for little me. Archie had already vanished long ago to rush off to some ski chalet in Switzerland where hordes of jet-setters celebrated the birth of Christ in their own offbeat way, probably mating with each other and producing nothing but new generations of Thurn and Taxis. By evening, a crippled-looking Christmas tree would have been erected in the living room and even festively decorated with chocolate angels and plastic candles. Afterwards, a lamb roast would be shoved into the oven.
Although my friend was in a good mood, it did make me feel rather melancholy that, as in preceding years, nobody had invited him to a Christmas dinner. It was also safe to assume that nobody would accept an invitation from him, either. Once again I had to face the fact that Gustav was and would remain a loner whose existence nobody took seriously and whose death would have no other consequence than the automatic cutoff of the electric and water utilities. Of course there were Archie and a few others, whom Gustav, in his blindness, called friends. In reality, however, they were all faceless and nameless acquaintances and acted
