CHAPTER IV
FOUR AND THEIR FUTURE
Scarcely had Kien vanished into the building, when Fischerle walked slowly back to the next street corner, turned into a side street and began to run for dear life. Only when he got to the Stars of Heaven, did he allow his sweating, panting, trembling body a moment's rest, then he walked in. At this time of the day most of the denizens of Heaven were usually asleep. He had counted on this; he had no use just now for dangerous or violent people. Present were: the lanky waiter; a hawker, who derived at least one advantage from the insomnia from which he suffered, and could keep on his rounds twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four; a blind ex-service man who, sitting over the cheap cup of morning coffee, which he took here before starting on his day's work, was still making use of his eyes; an old newspaper woman, known as the 'Fishwife', because she looked rather like Fischerle and — as everyone realised — was secretly and hopelessly in love with him; and a sewerman whose custom it was to recover from his night's work and the foul air of the sewers in the equally foul air of the Stars of Heaven. He was regarded as the most respectable of the clients, because he gave three-quarters of his weekly wages to his wife, by whom, in a very happy marriage, he had had three children. The remaining quarter found its way in the course of a day or a night into the cashbox of the proprietress of Heaven.
The Fishwife held out a paper to her beloved as he came in and said: 'There you are, dearie! Where've you been all this time?' When the police were worrying him, Fischerle often disappeared for a day or two. He's gone to America,' they would say, laugh every time at the joke— how would such a cocksparrow manage in the gigantic land of skyscrapers? —and forgot him until he turned up again. The love of his wife, the Capitalist, was not so deep as to give her any anxiety on his behalf. She only loved him when he was near her, and knew that he was used to police courts and lock-ups. When the American joke came up she thought how nice it would be to have all her money to herself for once. For a long time she had been wanting to buy a picture of the Holy Virgin for her little room. A capitalist ought to have a picture of the Holy Virgin. As soon as he ventured out of his hiding place — where, though completely innocent, he frequently took refuge because the police made a habit of holding him days for questioning, and would take his chessboard away — he went at once to tht café and in a few minutes he was her mummy's darling again. But the Fishwife was the only person who asked after him daily, and hazarded every kind of guess as to his whereabouts. He was allowed to read her papers without paying for them. Before she began her rounds, she hobbled hurriedly into the Stars of Heaven, handed him the top copy of the packet fresh from the printer, and waited patiently, her heavy burden under her arm, until he had finished with it. He was allowed to open the paper, crumple it up and fold it up crooked; the others were only allowed to look over his shoulder. When he was in a bad temper he delayed her purposely a long time and she suffered heavy losses. When people teased her about her incomprehensible stupidity, she would shrug her shoulders, shake her hump — which rivalled Fischerle's in size and expressiveness — and say: 'He s all I've got in the world!' Possibly she loved Fischerle for the pleasure of this plaintive phrase. She would cry it out with a jangling voice, and it sounded as though she was crying two newspapers: He's all and The World.
To-day Fischerle had not a glance for her paper. She quite understood, the paper wasn't fresh any more, but she had meant well and thought that maybe he hadn't read anything for days; who could say where he'd come from? Fischerle took her by the shoulders — she was as small as him — shook her and croaked: 'Come here everyone, I've got something for you!' All of them — except the consumptive waiter who wouldn t be ordered about by a Jew, was interested in nothing and stood stock still by the bar — the three therefore, drew close up to him, almost squashing him in their enthusiasm. 'Twenty schillings a day if you work for me! For three days at least.' 'Sixteen pounds of toilet soap,' calculated the unsleeping hawker hurriedly. The blind man looked Fischerle doubtfully in the eye. 'Give us a shove!' boomed the sewerman. The Fishwife noticed only 'if you work for me', and did not hear the sum.
'I've started my own business. Sign up that you'll hand over everything to the chief— that's me — and I'll take you on.' They would rather have found out first what it was all about. But Fischerle took good care not to give away business secrets. The thing's a racket, he admitted, further than that he would not go: this he stated categorically. In return each employee would get five schillings advance on the first day. They sat up to that. 'The undersigned guarantees and immediately pays cash down every penny taken to the firm of Siegfried Fischer. The undersigned agrees to keep mum and take the consequences in the event of a misfortune.' In an instant Fischerle had written down these sentences on four sheets of a scribbling pad presented to him by the hawker. As the only genuine businessman among those present he hoped for a share in the business and the more important commissions, and wanted to set on the right side of the chief. The sewerman, the father of a family and the stupidest of them all, signed first; Fischerle was annoyed because the signature was as large as his own, and he piqued himself on having the biggest. 'Too big for your boots!' he scolded, at which the hawker contented himself with a remote corner of the paper and a tiny name. 'I can't read that!' declared Fischerle, and forced the man, who was already seeing himself as the official representative of the firm, to write in less modest characters. The blind man would not lift a finger until he had his money. He had to look on patiently while people threw buttons into his hat, and when he was in civvies trusted no one further than he could see him. "What's this,' Fischerle protested, disgusted: 'Have I ever done anyone?' He drew a few bundied-up notes out of his armpit, flicked a five schilling note into each man's hand and made them sign for it at once 'on account'. 'Now you're talking,' said the blind man. 'Promising's one thing, performing's another. For a man like you I'd go out and beg, if it's got to be!' The hawker would have gone through fire for such a chief, the sewerman through thick and thin. Only the Fishwife was a softy. 'He don't need no signature from me,' she declared, 'I wouldn't steal from him. He's all I've got in the world.' Fischerle regarded her subjection so much as an accepted thing that, since their first greeting, he had turned his back on her. His hump gave her courage; his backview filled her with love indeed, but not with respect. As the capitalist wasn't in the café she felt almost like the wife of the new chief. Scarcely had he heard this impertinence than he turned round, forced the pen into her hand and ordered: "Write, you've nothing to say here!' She obeyed the look in his black eyes — her own were grey — and even signed for the five schillings on account which she hadn't yet received. 'That's that!' Fischerle carefully folded away the four slips of paper and sighed. 'And what do I get out of a business life? Nothing but worry! Believe me, I'd rather be the insignificant person I was before. You've got all the luck!' He knew that superior people always talk to their employees in this way, whether they have worries or not; he had a few. 'Let's go!' he said next, waved to the waiter — a tiny benefactor — from far below, and, accompanied by his new staff, left the cafe.
In the street he explained to each of them their duties. He took each of his employees in turn and ordered the remaining three to follow at some distance as if they had nothing to do with him. It seemed to him necessary to treat these people each according to the measure of his intellect. As he was in a hurry and took the sewerman for the most reliable of them, he selected him, to the great indignation of the hawker for his first confidence.
'You're a good father,' he said, 'so I thought of you right away. A man who hands over seventy-five per cent ofhis net wages to his wife is worth his weight in gold. So, mind what I'm saying and don't trip yourself up. It would be a shame for those nice kids.' He would give him a parcel, the parcel was to be called 'Art'. 'Repeat it: Art!''There now, d'you think I don't know what artful is, because I give the old woman so much!' It was usual, under die Stars of Heaven, to despise the sewerman for his family affairs, which diey envied him. By countless prods to his thick-skinned pride, Fischerle prized out what small measure ot intellect the creature had. Three times over he told him what to do in the utmost detail. The sewerman had never yet crossed the threshold of the Theresianum. Necessary visits were undertaken by his wife. Fischerle's partner would be standing just behind the glass doors, by the window. He was long and lean. You go slowly past him and say not a word, not a single word, and wait until he speaks to you. Then you shout loudly: 'Art, sir! Not a penny less than 200 schillings! High class Art!' Next Fischerle ordered the sewerman to halt in front of a bookshop. Inside he bought the necessary wares. Ten cheap novels at two schillings each were made up into an impressive parcel. Three times he repeated his previous instructions; presumably even this bone-head had understood everything. If Fischerle's partner were to try and pull the paper off the books, he must grip them firmly to himself and shout: 'No! No!' Then he must make his way back, money, parcel and all to a rendezvous behind the church. There he would be paid off. On condition that he told not a soul, not even his fellow employees what he had done, he might report again behind the church at nine sharp the next day. He, Fischerle, had a heart for honest sewermen, not everyone came of a business family. With these words the respectable father of a family was released.
While the sewerman was waiting outside the booksellers, the three others, obedient to their chief's command, had gone on, without taking the slightest notice of the friendly shouts of their colleague who, in the effort of learning his new orders, had quite forgotten the old ones. Fischerle had counted on this, and the sewerman had turned into a side street carrying his parcel as if it were the precious infant of wealthy parents, before the others could even have noticed it. Fischerle whistled, overtook the other three, and selected the Fishwife next. The hawker realized that he was being kept for higher things. 'You'll see,' he said to the blind man, 'he'll send for me last!'
The dwarf made short work of the Fishwife. 'I'm all you've got in the world' ; he reminded her of her love and her lovely sentence. 'Anyone can say that, I'm for proofs. If you keep back a ha'penny it's all over between us, believe me. I'll never touch another of your papers and you can whistle for a new man just the same shape as yourself!' The rest of his explanation was easy. The Fishwife hung on his lips; to see him speaking she made herself even smaller than she was; kiss he could not, on account of his nose, and she was the only one short enough to see his mouth. The Theresianum was her second home. Now she was to go on ahead and wait for the chief behind the church. There she would be given a parcel for which she was to ask 250 schillings, and then go back to the rendezvous with the money and the Earcel. 'Off with you!' he shouted at the end. She was repulsive to im, because she never left offloving him.
At the next corner he halted until the blind man and the hawker came up with him. The latter made way for the former, and nodded briefly and meaningly to the chief. 'I'm disgusted!' Fischerle declared, and cast a respectful glance at the blind man who, in spite of his ragged working clothes, was peering round at every woman and distrustfully sizing them up. He would have loved to know what effect the new cut of his moustache was making on them. He hated young girls, because they objected to his profession. 'A man like you,' Fischerle went on, 'to have to put up with all this cheating!' The blind man pricked up his ears. 'Someone throws a button into your hat. You've told me so yourself. You see it's a button and say thank-you. If you don't say thank-you, you give the show away and your clients smell a rat. So you agree to be cheated. A man like you! Might as well hang yourself. Swindling's a filthy trick. Am I right?' Tears came into the eyes of the blind beggar, grown man though he was, with three years' war service at the front behind him. This daily trick practised on him, which he saw through at once, was his greatest grief. Simply because he had to work so hard for his living, every guttersnipe could make a fool of him. He often thought long and seriously of making an end of himself. If he were not now and then still lucky with women it would have come to that long ago. Under the Stars of Heaven he told everyone who got into conversation with him about the button-trick and ended with the threat to do in one of the swine and then himself. As this had been going on for years, no one took him seriously any more, and his suspicions were furiously growing. 'Yes!' he cried and gesticulated with is arm round Fischerle's hump, 'a child of three knows if it's got a button or a penny in its hand! But I'm not to know! I'm not to know! I'm not blind!' 'Just what I say,' Fischerle finished for him, 'it all comes of swindling. Why must people do each other? They might say "I haven't a penny to-day, my dear sir, to-morrow I'll give you two." But no, they'd sooner do you, and you have to swallow a button. You ought to try another trade, my dear sir! For a long time I've been thinking over what I might do for you. Tell you what, if you do well these three days, I'll take you on for longer. Don't say a word to the others, strictly confidential, I'll sack the Tot; between ourselves I only took them on out of charity for a day or two. You're different, you can't stand cheating, I can't stand cheating, you're a better-class person, I'm a better-class person, you'll admit, we suit each other allright. Just to show you how highly I respect you, I'll give you your whole commission for to-day in advance. The others won't get a penny.' The blind man was in fact presented with the remaining fifteen schillings due to him. First of all he hadn't believed his ears, now he had the same experience with his eyes. 'Suicide be hanged!' he shouted. For the joy of the moment he would have forgone ten women — he reckoned in women. What Fischcrlc next explained to him he accepted with enthusiasm, and therefore with ease. He laughed at the idea of the tall partner, because he felt so happy. 'Does he bite?' he asked. He was thinking of his long, lean dog which lead him to his place of business in the morning and took him home at night. 'Let him try!' Fischerle spoke threateningly. For one moment he hesitated whether he should not entrust him with a higher sum than the 300 schillings he had in mind; the man seemed genuinely enthusiastic. Fiscberle haggled with himself; he would dearly have loved to make five hundred at a stroke. But he saw that the risk was too great; such a loss might well ruin him and he forced his desires down to four hundred. The blind man was to go the square in front of the church and there to wait for him.
As soon as the blind man had vanished from sight, the hawker thought his time had come. He overtook the dwarf with small, quick strides and fell into step with him. 'Stick like burrs, don't they?' he said. He bent his head down, but he couldn't manage to bow it right down to Fischerle's; at least he looked up while he was talking as if the dwarf, since he had become the chief, had grown to twice his height. Fischerle was silent. He had no intention of allowing any familiarities to this man. The other three he had found in the Stars of Heaven as if sent by providence; with this one he was on his guard. To-day and not again, he said to himself. The hawker repeated: 'Stick like burrs, they do, don't they?' Fischerle's patience was exhausted. 'Tell you what, you keep your trap shut! You're an employee! I'll do the talking. If you want to do the talking, get yourself another job!' The hawker pulled himself together and stooped low. His hands, a moment ago rubbing themselves in calculation, were now folded. His head, arms and backside twitched violently. How else could he show his obsequiousness? In the confusion of his nervous reactions, he all but stood on his head, so as respectfully to fold his feet. Liberation from his insomnia was at stake. The word 'wealth' was associated with sanatoriums and expensive cures. In his heaven there would be sleeping draughts which never failed. There you could sleep for a fortnight together, without waking once. You could eat in your sleep. After a fortnight you could wake up —sooner wasn't allowed —you had to give in, what else could you do? Doctors are as strict as the police. Then you could play cards half the day. There was a special room for that, open only to people in higher-class lines of business. In a few hours you were as rich again, you were that lucky at cards. Then you could sleep another fortnight. Time — as much time as a man could want. 'What are you jigging about for? Ought to be ashamed of yourself!' screeched Fischerle. 'Stop shaking this minute or you're no use to me.' The hawker started out of his sleep and, as far as he could, calmed down his quivering limbs. Once again he was all greed.
Fischerle saw that he had not a shred of a reason for sacking this suspicious character. Furious, he began with his instructions. 'Pay attention, now, or you'll get the sack! I shall give you a parcel. A parcel, do you understand? A hawker like you must know what a parcel is. You take it to the Theresianum. I don't need to tell you anything about that. You spend most of your time there anyway, a fellow like you who doesn't use his head. You push open the glass door where it leads up to the book section. Stop waggling about so, I tell you! If you waggle about like that you'll smash the glass door, and that's your affair. At the window you'll see a thin gentlemanly gentleman. He's a business friend of mine. You go up to him and don't say anything. If you speak to him before he speaks to you, he'll turn his back and leave you standing. He's like that. He's a person of authority. So you be quiet, see! I don't want to have to bring an action for damages against you. But if you make a mistake, I'll have to, you can be sure of that; I won't have you wrecking my hard-earned business for me ! If you're nervy, clear out ! I'd sooner have that sewerman. Where was I? Can you tell me that?' Suddenly Fischerle became aware that he had lost grip on that high-class way of talking which he had acquired during his few days' association with Kien. Precisely this way of talking seemed to him the only one possible when dealing with this pretentious employee. He paused to calm himself and used the opportunity to catch out the hated rival unawares. But the hawker replied promptly: 'You've got to your gentlemanly business-friend and I'm to say nothing.' ' You've got there, you've got there,' croaked Fischerle, 'and where's your parcel?' Til have that in my hand.' The humility of this treacherous creature made Fischerle wild. 'Ugh!' he sighed, 'by the time I've made you understand, I'll have grown another hump.' The hawker grinned, writing off the abuse against the hump. But even from his height he did not feel safe against observation and looked stealthily down. Fischerle had noticed nothing, he was clutching round for more words of abuse. He wanted to avoid such vulgar expressions as were usual under the Stars of Heaven ; they would have made no impression on one of its denizens. Merely to go on saying 'Bonehead' was too boring. Suddenly he hastened his step so that the hawker was left half a pace behind, then turned contemptuously on him and said: 'Tired already? Tell you what, go and drown yourself.' Then he went on with his instructions. He impressed on him, he must ask for a 'payment' of ioo schillings from the tall business friend, but only when he had been intercepted and spoken to, and then, without wasting another word, come back to the square behind the church with parcel and payment. He'd learn the rest when he got there. One word about his work, even to the other employees, and he'd be sacked on the spot.
At the idea that the hawker might give away the whole show and go into business with the others against him, Fischeile softened a little. To atone for his attacks, he slackened his pace and said, when the other was left a good yard in advance by this manœuvre: 'Stop, where are you off to? We aren't in such a hurry as all that!' The hawker took this for some new trick. The remaining words, which Fischerle spoke to him in a calm and friendly voice, as though they were still equals under the Stars of Heaven, he explained as the outcome of Fischerle 's fear of arbitrary action. In spite of his nerves he was by no means a fool. His judgment of men and motives was just; in order to persuade them to buy matches, shoe laces, writing pads and even soap, he made use of more cunning, sympathy and even discretion than a successful diplomat. Only when he was involved in his dream of a long, long sleep did his thoughts diffuse themselves in a vague mist. He grasped that the success of the new business depended on a secret.
Fischerle made use of the rest of the way to indicate by means of a number of different examples the dangerous nature of his apparently so harmless friend, the tall gentlemanly gentleman. He had fought so long in the last war that he d gone raving mad. For days at a time he wouldn't move or lift a finger against anyone. But if you were to utter a single unnecessary word to him, he'd draw his old army revolver and shoot you on the spot. The courts can do nothing about it, he's not in his right senses, he carries a doctor's certificate about with him. The police know him. But why take him up? they say, he's always let go again. Anyway, he doesn't shoot people dead on the spot, he fires at their legs. In a couple of weeks his victims are usually alright again. Only one thing really gets him wild. Asking questions, that's what does it. He won t stand a single question. A person asks him as innocent as you please, how he is. The next minute, that person's a corpse. On these occasions my business-friend fires straight at the heart. He's like that. Nothing can be done about it. He's sorry afterwards. There've only been six proper corpses so far. Everyone knows about this dangerous habit and only six have actually asked him anything. If it weren't for this, you could do very good business with him.
The hawker believed not a word. But he had an inflammable imagination. He saw a well-dressed gentleman standing before him who, even before you could have your sleep out, would be shooting you dead. He decided to avoid questions in all circumstances and to get to the bottom of the secret some odier way.
Fischerle put his fingers to his lips and said 'Pst!' They had reached the church, where the blind man, with dog-like devotion in his eyes, was waiting for them. In the meantime he had not stared at a single woman, he only knew that several had passed by. In his excessive joy he would have been happy to greet his colleagues cordially; the poor devils would be sacked in three days, but he'd got a job for life. He welcomed the hawker as warmly as if he hadn't seen him for years. Behind the church the three linked up with the Fishwife. She had run so hard that she had been panting a full ten minutes to regain her breath. The blind man fondled Tier hump. "What's up, Ma!' he shouted and laughed over the whole of his furrowed, flaccid face. 'We're in luck to-day!' Maybe he'd give her a bit of fun one day. The Fishwife screamed aloud. She felt that it was not Fischerle's hand touching her, said to herself: it is him, and then heard the coarse voice of the blind man. Her scream changed from fear to delight and from delight to disillusion. Fischerle's voice was alluring. He ought to sell newspapers! People would have rushed to buy. But he was too good for work. It would have tired him. It was better really, he should stay the chief.
For it wasn't only his voice, he had such sharp eyes. Here was'the sewerman coming round die corner. He saw him first, ordered the others to 'Stay put!' and hurried to meet him. He drew him into the porch of the church, took die parcel from him — it was still lying in is arms just as it had been before — and the two hundred schillings in notes from between the finger's of his right hand. He counted out fifteen schillings and put them into his hand, though he had to uncurl it himself. At this point the tongue-tied mouth of the sewerman brought out the first sentence of his report. 'Went off a treat,' he began. 'I see, I see!' cried Fischerle. 'To-morrow at nine sharp. Nine sharp. Here. Here. Nine sharp, here!' The sewerman made off with heavy, lagging strides and began to count over his salary. After a stubborn pause he said: 'That's right.' Up to the door of the Stars of Heaven he struggled with his habit and finally gave in. Fifteen schillings for his wire, five for his beer. He stuck to it. Originally he had intended to drink the lot.
It was in the church porch that Fischerle first saw what a bad plan he had made. If he gave the Fishwife the parcel now, the hawker was close by and would see everything. As soon as he twigged it was always the same parcel, it was all over with the beautiful secret. But the Fishwife, as if she could read his thoughts, had come of her own accord to find him in the porch: 'My turn,' she said. 'You take your time, you!' he turned on her and gave her the parcel. 'Off with you!' She nobbled off as fast as she could. Her hump hid from the eyes of the others the parcel she was carrying.
The blind man all this time was explaining to the hawker that it was no good trying on anything with women. In the first place a man must have a good job, a job in which a man can keep his eyes open. You get nothing out of being blind. People think if a man looks blind, they can do what they like with him. But if you've got on in the world, women come of their own accord, dozens of them, so that you don't even know where to lay them all. Common people don't understand a thing about it. Like dogs they are, don't care where they do it. Filthy beasts, he's different! He has to have a good bed, with a horsehair mattress, a nice stove in the room, not one of those smelly oil-stoves, and a juicy bit. of goods. He can't stand a smoking stove, his lungs aren't the same since the war. He's not the kind to go with any woman. Of course, when he was still a beggar, he used to try his luck pretty well anywhere. Now he was going to get himself a better suit, he'd have money to burn soon, and he'd take his choice. He'd have a hundred or so nice bits of goods, pinch them all — they needn't undress, he could tell without — and take three or four home. More at a time wouldn't be good for his health. No more buttons for him. 'I shall have to see about a double-bed!' he sighed, 'or where shall I put the three plump little bits?' The hawker had other troubles. He was dislocating his neck in an effort to see round the Fishwife's hump. Is she, or isn't she, carrying a parcel? The sewerman came up with a parcel, and went away without. Why did Fischerle make him go into the porch? You can't sec any of them, not Fischerle, not the sewerman not the Fishwife as long as they're up there. The parcel must be hidden in the church, of course. A stupendous idea! Who'd look for stolen goods in a church? That hunchback's got a head on his shoulders. The parcel is most interesting — a delivery of cocaine. How did that sneak-thief get into this grand line of business?
At that moment the dwarf came running back to them, crying: 'Patience gendemen! By the time she gets back on her crooked legs, we'll all be dead.' 'No dying for me, chief!' shouted the blind man. 'We all die in the end, sir,' the hawker obsequiously confirmed, turning the palms of his hands outwards just as Fischerle would have done in his place. 'Ah,' he added, 'if we'd a good chess player here, but neither of us is up to playing with a champion.' 'Champion, champion,' Fischerle shook his head, injured. 'In three months I shall be world champion, gendemen.' Both his employees gazed at each other in delight. 'Long live the world champion!' yelled the blind man suddenly. The hawker, in his thin, twittering voice —he had only to open his mouth for everyone under the Stars of Heaven to say: 'Hark at the mandoline' — rapidly joined in the plaudit. He managed to get out 'world' but 'champion' stuck in his throat. Fortunately the small square was deserted at this hour by every living soul; not one of those farthest outposts of civilization in the town, the police, was to be seen. Fischerle bowed acquiescence, but felt all the same that he had gone too far and croaked: 'Unfortunately I must ask for more quiet during working hours! No talking please!' "What's this?' asked the blind man, who wanted to start again on his future plans and thought he had a right to, in return for his acclamation. The hawker put his finger to his lip and said: 'I always say, silence is golden,' and said no more.
The blind man was left alone with his women. He was not to be put off his pleasures, and went on talking aloud. He began with its being no use to go after women, ended with the double-bed, and, getting the impression that Fischerle brought far too little understanding to these matters, began again at the beginning and laboriously described in detail some of the hundred and more women who were being kept in readiness for him. He allotted an incredible backside to each, gave their weight in hundredweights and increased it each time. When he got to the sixty-fifth woman, whom he selected as an example for the sixties, her backside alone weighted two hundredweight. He was bad at arithmetic, and liked to stick to a figure once he had named it. All the same, two hundredweight seemed to him a little exaggerated. 'What I say is gospel,' he asserted. 'I don't know how to tell a lie, it's always the same since the war!' All this time, Fischerle had enough to think of. He must forcibly keep down the mounting thoughts of chess. There was no interruption he feared more than this growing lust for a game. It might be the ruin of his business. He tapped the little chessboard in his right coat-pocket which served at the same time as a box for the pieces, heard them jump excitedly within, mumbled: 'You be quiet now!' and tapped again, until he was tired of the noise. The hawker was thinking of drugs and confusing their effects with his own desperate need for sleep. If he found the parcel in the church, he would take out a packet or two and try. He was only afraid that in a drugged sleep ofthat kind he'd dream. If he had to dream, he'd sooner not sleep at all. What he wanted was a real sleep, with people to feed but not to wake you, at least not for a fortnight.
Then Fischerle saw the Fishwife disappear into the church after signalling vehemendy to him. He seized the blind man by the arm, said, 'Of course you're right!' and to the hawker, 'You stay here!' and pulled the former over to the church door with him. There he told him to wait and dragged the Fishwife into the Church. She was in a high state of excitement and couldn't utter a word. To calm herself a little she pressed the parcel and 250 schillings into his hands. While he was counting the money she took a deep breath and sobbed: 'He asked me, was I called Mrs. Fischerle !' 'And you answered ...' he screeched, quivering with terror lest she should have wrecked his whole business by a stupid answer; she had wrecked it, for sure, and was pleased with herself, the silly goose! You've only got to suggest to her that she's Mrs. Fischerle and she goes out of her head! He never had been able to stand her, and that great donkey there, what had he to go and ask her that for, he's met my wife ! Just because she's got a hump, and I've got a hump he has to think we're married; he's tumbled to something after all, and now I'll have to cut and run with this wretched 450 schillings, what a filthy trick! "What did you say?' he screeched a second time. He forgot he was in church. He was usually respectful and cautious in churches, for his nose was very marked. 'I — wasn't — to say — anything!' She sobbed between each word. 'I shook my head.' The money he had thought lost rolled like a weight off his heart. But the terror she had caused him, made him fly into a passion. He would have liked to knock her block off. Unfortunately he hadn't the time. He pushed her out of the church and snarled in her ear: 'To-morrow you can go and sell your fdthy papers! I'll never read one again!' She understood she had lost her job with him. She was in no condition to calculate what money she was losing. A gentleman had taken her for Fischerle's wife and she hadn't been allowed to say anything! People see that she belongs to him, but she mayn't say a thing. What a blow! what a fearful blow! In all her life she had never been so happy before. All the way home she sobbed without a break: 'He's all I've got in the world.' She forgot that he still owed her the twenty schillings, a sum which in bad times she had to run round for a week to collect. She accompanied her refrain with the image of the gentleman who had called her 'Mrs. Fischerle'. She forgot that every one called her the Fishwife, anyway. She sobbed too because she didn't know where the gentleman lived or where he was going. She would have offered him a paper every single day. He would have asked her again.
Fischerle was rid of her. He hadn't cheated her on purpose. He, too, in the anger arising from his terror and his relief had lost his head. All the same, even if her services had been smoothly rendered, he would certainly have tried to cheat her of her salary. He handed the parcel to the blind man and advised him to go carefully and to keep quiet, his permanent employment depended on that. The blind man in die meantime had closed his eyes in order to forget the women whom he had seen as large as life before him. When he opened them, all had vanished, even the heaviest, and he felt a slight regret. Instead of them, he recollected in detail his new duties. Fischerle's advice was therefore superfluous. In spite of the haste necessary to his undertaking, Fischerle did not let him go gladly; he had set much store on this question of buttons. How much that man cared for the acquisition of women he, who was indifferent by nature to the other sex, could not possibly estimate.
Going back to the hawker, he said: 'To think that a businessman has to trust such scum!' 'How right you are!' declared the other, who excepted himself as a businessman from the scum. 'What's the point of living?' — the four hundred schillings which he might lose made him tired oflife. 'For sleeping,' answered the hawker. 'You and sleep!' at the thought of the hawker asleep — he who lamented his insomnia all day and every day — devouring laughter shook the dwarf. When he laughed, his nostrils looked like two wide open mouths; underneath them two small slits, the corners of his mouth, became visible. This time he had got it so badly that he had to hold his hump as other people would their belly. He put his hands under it and carefully absorbed every jolt that shook his body.
He had barely laughed himself to a standstill — the hawker was wounded to the depths of his soul by the scepticism with which his projected sleep had just been received — when the blind man reappeared and vanished into the porch. Fischerle threw himself upon him and tore the money out of his hand, was amazed to find die sum exact — or hadn't he told him to ask for five hundred after all, no, four hundred — and asked in order to disguise his excitement: 'How'd it go*' 'I ran into someone in the swing door, into a woman, I'm telling you, if I hadn't been holding this parcel so stupidly I'd have bumped right up against her, such a fat one she was! Your business friend's a bit off it.' 'Why? what's the matter with you?' 'You won't mind my saying so, but he's got it in for the women! Four hundred's a lot, he said. Because of the woman, he said, he understands and doesn't mind paying. Women are the cause of all the trouble. If I'd been allowed to speak I'd have told him straight, the bloody fool! Women! Women! What else would I live for if it weren't for women? I bumped into that one a treat, and he makes a scene!' 'That's the way he is. He's a bachelor for pleasure. I won't have any complaints, he's my friend. I won't have you talking to him either, otherwise you'll hurt his feelings. You don't hurt a friend's feelings. Have I ever hurt yours?' 'No, I give you that, you've got a heart of gold.' 'That's it, you come back to-morrow at nine, see? And not a word, see, because you're my friend! We'll show them if a man can be done down by buttons!' The blind man went off. He felt such a deep well-being that he had soon forgotten the peculiarities of the business friend. With twenty schillings you could do something. First things first. First things were a woman and a new suit, the new suit must be black to match his new moustache; you can't get a black suit for twenty schillings. There was always the woman.
As for the hawker, injured and curious as he was, he had forgotten both caution and his habitual cowardice. He wanted to surprise the dwarf in the very act of changing the parcels. The prospect of going over an entire church, even a small one, to find the parcel, did not tempt him in the least. By popping up suddenly he would get at least an idea of where it was, for the dwarf would be coming away from it. He met him in the doorway, took his parcel, and went off without a word.
Fischerle followed him slowly. The outcome of this fourth attempt was not of much financial significance; it was a matter of principle. Should Kien pay out this hundred schillings as well, the resultant profit coming to Fischerle alone — 950 schillings — would be larger than what he had already received as his reward for finding the wallet. During the whole of this organized fraud at the expense of the book racket, Fischerle had not for an instant lost sight of the fact that he was dealing with an enemy who, only yesterday, had tried to fleece him of everything. Naturally enough you look after your own skin. If you're up against a murderer you have to murder yourself; if you're up against a crook you have to be crooked too. Though there was a particular twist to this affair. Maybe the creature would only insist on having the reward money back again, maybe he'd plunge even deeper in mean trickery — people often get impossible ideas into their heads — and risk his whole fortune on the game. Anyway his whole fortune had once been in Fischerle's possession, so he'd a right to get it back from him. Maybe, though, the good opportunity was over now. It isn't everyone who can get ideas into his head. If the creature had a character like Fischerlc's, if he cared as much for getting back that reward money as Fischerle did for chess, then business would be brisk. But can you ever tell what sort of a customer you may be dealing with? Maybe he only talks big, maybe he's only a poor sap who'll begin to regret his money and will say suddenly: 'Stop, that s enough!' He may do that and may lose his chance of getting back the reward money for a mere hundred schillings. How should he know that he's going to have every penny taken off him and not get a thing in return: If this book racket has a spark of intellect, and you've got to hand it him, he does give that impression, he's got to pay until he hasn't anything left. Fischerle began to doubt if he had as much intellect as all that; not every one had the logic, which he had developed at chess. He needs a man of character, a man of character like himself, a man who'll go through with things to the bitter end; for a man like that he'd pay out gladly, a man like that could be his business partner if he could only find him; he'll just go as far as thedooroftheTheresi-anum to meet him, he'll wait for him there. In any case, he can always double-cross him later on.
Instead of a man of character, out trotted the hawker. He stopped short, horrified. He hadn't expected to run into the chief. He'd heen smart enough to ask for twenty schillings more than the sum stipulated. He clutched at his left trouser pocket where he had stuffed his earnings — they couldn't be detected — and dropped the parcel. For the moment Fischerlc cared not at all what happened to the goods; he wanted to know something. His employee had crouched on his knees to pick up the parcel; to his astonishment Fischerlc did likewise. Once on the ground he reached for the hawker's right hand and found the hundred schillings. That's nothing but a blind, he thought. He's frightened for his precious parcel, but why the hell didn't I take a quick look inside it, it's too late now. Fischerle got up and said: 'Don t fall over! Take the parcel home and at nine sharp to-morrow be ready in the church with it! So long.' 'Here, what about my commission?' 'Excuse me, my memory' — accidentally he was speaking the truth — 'here it is!' He gave him his percentage.
The hawker went off ('To-morrow at nine? That's what you think') into the church. Behind a column he sank once more to his knees and, deep in prayer lest anyone should come in while he was at it, he opened the parcel. It contained books. His last doubt vanished. He'd been done. The real parcel was somewhere else. He packed up the books, hid them under a bench, and began his search. Praying all the time, he crept round about the church and, praying, looked under every bench. He was thorough; the opportunity was not one which would quickly come again. Often he thought he had the secret, but it was only a black prayerbook. At the end of an hour he had acquired an implacable hatred for prayerbooks. At the end of two hours his back ached and his tongue hung limply out of his mouth. His lips continued to move as if he were murmuring prayers. When he had finished he began again at the beginning. He was too clever to repeat his actions mechanically. He knew that i£ you've overlooked a thing once, you overlook it again, and changed the order of his actions. All this time few people came into the church. He listened intently for unusual noises and stood stock still when he heard one. A pious old woman held him up for twenty minutes; he feared she might discover the sacred secret before he did, and watched her intendy. So long as she stayed there he didn't even dare sit down. Early in the afternoon he had no notion left how long he had been searching, but stumbled, zigzag, from the left to the third row of benches on the right, and from the right to the third row of benches on the left. This was the last order of search which he had thought out for himself. Towards evening he collapsed somewhere on the floor and fell into a sleep of exhaustion. He had achieved his ultimate aim, but long before the fortnight was up, that same evening when die church was locked up, the sacristan shook him awake and threw him out. He forgot the real parcel.