CHAPTER X

THE BUTTON

In front of the Theresianum Fischerle, whose flight had proved successful, met with an unexpected reception. Instead of his employees, whose fate and whose garrulity he was anxious to forestall, a mass of excited people were pressing against the door. An old man, catching sight of him, wailed 'The cripple!' and ducked as quickly as his stiff limbs would allow him. He was afraid of the criminal, whom rumour had elevated into a dwarf of gigantic stature; when he ducked, he was about on a level with him. A woman took up the old man's feeble cry and made it loud. Then everyone heard it; the joy of wanting the same thing filled them all. 'The cripple!' echoed across the square, 'The cripple! The cripple!'

Fischerle said: 'Pleased to meet you!' and bowed. Among such a mass of people a mass of money might be made. Annoyed at the large sum he had had to put back in Kien's pocket, he hoped he might indemnify himself here. His mind was still on his recent danger and he did not sense the new one. The delighted acclamation which his presence had aroused pleased him too. Thus would he step out of his chess palace in America. Music will strike up, the mob will shout, and he wül be able to pick their pockets of all their dollars. The police would be on the look out, but look was about all they would do. Nothing could happen to him there. A millionaire's sacred. A hundred policemen will look on, and politely request him to help himself. Here the police didn't understand him so well. He had left them inside. There wouldn't be dollars; just small change. But he'd take anything.

As he surveyed the field, noted alleys through which he could slip, pockets at which he could reach, legs through which he could make his escape, the excitement of the crowd swelled menacingly. Everyone wanted his share in the robber who had taken the pearl necklace. Even the calmest lost control. What insolence to show his face among people who had recognized him. The men would pound him to powder. The women would raise him sky-high and then scratch him to pieces. Everyone was for utterly annihilating him, until nothing was left but a shameful blot, nothing else at all. But they had to see him first. For although thousands, inspired by him, were shrieking 'The cripple', those who had seen him numbered not more than a dozen. The road to the Helldwarf was paved with good fellow-beings. All wanted him, all panted for him. Anxious fathers lifted up their children. They might be trampled on, and they would learn something; two birds with one stone. Their neighbours took it ill that they thought of children at all at such a time. Many mothers had quite forgotten their children; they let them scream; they heard'nothing, they only heard: 'The cripple!'

But his plan was easier said than done. He took pains to fall down; the knees of the spectators held up his hump. His face was a death mask already, his crooked legs gave way, instead of his mouth, which was much too small, his nose breathed its last, his tightly closed eyes came open, stark and sightless. The preparations were premature, the plan ran aground on his hump. Fischerle heard the reproaches heaped upon him. It was a sin and a shame for the poor Baron. For a pearl necklace; as if it was worth it. The terrible shock to the young baroness. Poor woman, she'd never be the same again; no husband left. Maybe she'd marry again. No one could force her. A dwarf would get twenty years. Capital punishment ought to be re-introduced. Cripples ought to be exterminated. All criminals are cripples. No, all cripples are criminals. What's he got to look so silly for, like a hick come up for the day? Why can't he earn an honest penny. Taking bread out of people's mouths. What's he want with pearls, a cripple like him, and that Jew nose ought to be cut off. Fischerle was wild; all this talk of pearl necklaces, like blind men talking about colour! Ah, if he only ad one.

Then suddenly the strangers' knees caved in, his hump was released, at long last he sank to the ground. With his sightless eyes he soon ascertained that they had abandoned him. Even while they were abusing him, the crush had seemed less. The cry: 'The cripple!' sounded even louder, but now in the direction of the church. "There, look what you've done,' he said reproachfully, stood up and looked round at the few fans left to him. 'That's the one you want.' Their eyes followed his right hand, which indicated the church; with his left he rapidly gleaned three pockets, contemptuously threw away the comb, the only thing he found, and took to his heels. 

Fischerle never discovered to whom he owed his miraculous escape. At the accustomed place, in company with the others, the Fishwife had waited for him, and to her alone the waiting had seemed too long.

For the sewerman never noticed at all how long his employer was away. He could stand on his two feet for hours at a time, and think of nothing whatever. Time never passed too quickly or too slowly for him. All other men remained strangers to him, for they were either dawdling or hurrying. His wife called him, his wife sent him off to work, his wife received him home again. She was his clock and time of day. He felt at his best when he was drunk, because then time was abolished for other people too.

The blind man whiled away his waiting-time like a king. The large tip yesterday had gone to his head; he hoped for an even larger one today. Moreover he was soon going to retire from the firm of Siegfried Fischer and, with the large sums he had earned, establish an emporium. It must be of vast dimensions, say for ninety saleswomen. He d make his own selection. None under thirteen stone stood a chance. He was the boss and could take on whom he liked. He paid the biggest salaries; he whisked away the heaviest ones from all competitors. Wherever a fat woman might be, she would be sure to hear the true rumour, at Johann Schwer's emporium you get the biggest pay. The proprietor, once a blind man, is a keen-eyed gentleman. He treats every single employee like his own wife. She can snap her fingers at other men and come to him. In his emporium you can buy everything: pommade, real tortoiseshell combs, hair nets, clean handkerchiefs, gent's hats, dog biscuits, dark glasses, pocket mirrors, anything you like. Not buttons. In the windows hang huge notices: NO BUTTONS SOLD HERE.

The hawker, on the other hand, was still hunting in the church for morphia drugs. Their proximity made him sleepy. At intervals he came across the secret parcel, but he knew he hadn't really got it, he was too clever.

All three men were silent.

The Fishwife alone expressed an increasing anxiety. Something's happened to Fischerle. He's not coming yet and he's such a little chap. He always does what he says. Five minutes, he said, he'd be back. There was an accident in the early papers this morning; she thought of Fischerle at once. Two steam engines ran into each other. One was killed on the spot. The other was taken to hospital, seriously injured. She'd better go and see. If he hadn't told her not to, she'd go. They've set on him because he's the chief. He makes a lot of money and carries it with him. She says, he's a big shot. His wife put them up to it, because he doesn't care for her. She's too old for him. Let him get a divorce, any girl under the Stars of Heaven would have him. It's black with people in front of the church. Fischerle must have been run over. She'll just go and have a look see. The others must stay where they are. He can create, proper. His eyes, she's frightened of them. He looks at her, she'd like to run away, she can't. What about the other three, he's the boss. They ought to be frightened too. Under the wheel he lies. His hump is squashed. Fischerle's lost his chessboard. He's looking for it in the Theresianum because he's the world champion. Then he gets in a rage and gets excited. She'll have him ill yet. She'll have to nurse him. This very morning she felt it in her bones. It was in the papers. He never reads them any more. Now she'll go see; now she'll go see.

After every sentence she stopped, and anxiously wrinkled her brow. She walked up and down, waggled her hump, and when she had collected up some more words, went up to her colleagues and whispered them loudly. She could tell that they were all as worried as she was. Not even the blind man said a word, and he knew how to talk when he was in a good temper. All by herself she wanted to look for Fischerle and was afraid the others would come after her. 'I'll be back at once!' she called two or three times as she made off, the further the louder. The men didn't budge; in spite of her fears, she was overjoyed. She would find Fischerle. He must not fret himself about his employees on top of his other fearful misfortunes. He had told them, they were to wait.

Softly she crept round to the square in front of the church. She had long since got round the corner; instead of hurrying, she slackened her naturally minute footsteps and twisted her little head anxiously, backwards. If the hawker or the sewerman or that button-fellow followed her, she'd stop dead, just like the car which had run over Fischerle, and say: 'I'm only looking.' When they went back she would move again. Sometimes she waited a minute: she thought she'd seen a pair of trousers behind the church, but there weren't any, so she crept on. Not for a long time had she seen so many people together. If everyone bought a paper she'd have money for a week. But the whole bundle was lying under the Stars of Heaven; she had no time for papers to-day because she'd got her job with Fischerle. He paid twenty schillings a day, of his own accord, he would have it that way because it was a big firm. She hid herself, so as to find him; she made herself even smaller; somewhere on the ground he'd be lying. She heard his voice. Why couldn't she see him; She stroked the ground with her hand. 'He's not as small as all that,' she whispered and shook her head. She was already in the midst of the crowd, and because she was stooping nothing but her hump could be seen. How would she ever find him among all these big people? All crushed her at once; they must be crushing him too; Fischerle had been crushed to death, they must let him go! He can't breathe, he suffocates, it'll be the end of him!

Suddenly somebody shrieks next to her: 'The cripple!' and hits her on the hump. Others shriek too, others hit her. The crowd falls upon her, they had been too far off to hit Fischerle, they pay with interest now. The Fishwife falls to the ground. She lies on her belly and keeps quite still. They mess her up terribly. They go for the hump, but hit her everywhere. From all over the place the crowd gathers together round her. No doubt about the genuineness of the hump. The crowd breaks over it. As long as she can, the Fishwife trembles for Fischerle's fate and gasps: 'He's all I've got in the world.' Then she loses consciousness.

All was well with Fischerle. Behind the church he found, of his four employees, three waiting for him; the Fishwife was not there. 'Where is she?' he asked and held out his hand, flat, just at the height of his stomach. He meant the little one. 'Absconded,' answered the hawker promptly; he slept light. 'Of course,' said Fischerle, 'a woman; she can't wait; she's got something to do; she's busy; she's lost her money, she's ruined, all women are abortions.' 'You leave my women alone, Mr. Fischerle!' interjected the blind man, threateningly. 'My women aren't abortions. Speak civil.' He almost began to describe his emporium. One glance at lus competitors convinced him of a cleverer way. 'At my place, buttons are prohibited, by order of the police!' he said, merely, and fell silent. 'Gone,' mouthed the sewerman. This powerful response, at length formulated, referred back to Fischerle's first question.

But the chief composed his face in perturbed folds. His head sank on his bosom and his wide-open eyes filled with tears. Disconsolately he gazed from one to the other and said nothing. With his right hand he smote, not his forehead, but his nose, and his crooked legs trembled as violently as his voice when at length he spoke. 'Gentlemen,' he whispered,'I'm a ruined man. My partner has — a spasm of indignation shook his expressive body — 'cheated me. Tell you what — he's stopped payment and taken my money to the police! The sewerman's my witness!' He paused for confirmation. The sewerman nodded, however, only after some minutes. In the interval the emporium collapsed, burying ninety saleswomen. The church fell in ana whatever dangerous drugs were inside it, or ought to have been inside it, were destroyed. Sleep could no longer be thought of. When the debris was cleared away, they found in the cellars of the emporium a colossal collection of buttons.

Excited and moved, Fischerlc sought in his trouser pockets. His distress at his own ruin had fled; he had worked himself into a heat as he spoke and forgot the immensity of the disaster so far as it affected him personally. He was the embodied Helping Hand; far more than with nis own fate, was he concerned with that of his friends. He knew how empty his pockets were. He turned the torn lining of the left-hand one inside out; in the right-hand one he found to his amazement a schilling and a button. He drew out both — no good spoiling the ship for a ha porth of tar — and croaked, ecstatic: 'I'll share my last schilling with you! Four employees and the chief; that's five in all. Twenty groschen each. I'll keep the Fishwife's for her, because the schilling's mine. Maybe I'll meet her. Who's got change?' After complicated calculations — for no one had a whole schilling in change — the share-out was at least partially accomplished. The hawker got the schilling and gave up his sixty groschen. In return he contracted a debt of twenty groschen to the sewerman, who had nothing to give to his wife and therefore had not the smell of a pennypiece about him. Out of the hawker's change, the blind man took his single, and Fischerle his double portion. 'You can laugh!' said Fischerle, who was the only one laughing. 'I can make myself small with twenty groschen in my pocket; you ve got your work; rich, you are! But I ve got my pride; I'm like that. I'd like everyone in the Stars of Heaven to say: Fischerle's gone, but he had a noble mind!'

'Where shall we find another chess champion?' wailed the hawker, 'now I'm the only champion, at cards.' In his pocket the heavy schilling danced lightly. The blind man stood there motionless; he had closed his eyes from habit, he was still holding his hand out from habit. His portion, two nickel pieces, lay on it, neavy and stiff, like their new master. Fischerle laughed:'Another champion, at cards!' It seemed comical to him that the world chess champion should be talking to such people, a sewerman with a wife and family, a hawker with insomnia, a suicide on account of buttons. He noticed the outstretched hand, quickly put the button in it and shook himself with laughter. 'Good-bye all!' he crowed, 'and be good, folks, be good!' The blind man opened his eyes and saw the button; he had sensed something and wanted to convince himself of the opposite. Shocked to death he stared after him. Fischerle turned round and called: 'Good-bye, till we meet in a better world, dear friend, don't take it to heart!' Then he hurried off, the fellow was just the kind who mightn't see a joke. In a side street he had his laugh out because men are such fools. He slipped into a doorway, put his hands under his hump, and swayed to left and right. His nose ran, the nickel pieces jingled, his hump ached, he hadn t laughed so much in all his life; he laughed for at least a quarter of an hour. Before he went on, he wiped his nose on the wall, poked it into his armpits and sniffed once at each. Stowed in there was his capital.

In the midst of his rage, a policeman whom he happened to pass, fixed Fischerle with a penetrating state. When he had put a reasonable distance between them, he gave his hatred free rein. That was the last straw; these thieves would stop him going to America! He determined — even before his departure — to avenge himself on the police for the infringement of property rights which they had perpetrated against him. Most of all he would have liked to pinch the lot of them till they squealed. He was convinced they were sharing their ill-gotten gains among themselves. There are, let's say, two thousand police; each would get a whole schilling. Not one would say: 'No! I won't touch the money, because it is stolen goods!' as good policemen ought. Each was as guilty as his neighbour and not one of them would be allowed to get away without a pinch.

'Don't you go believing that it hurts them!' he said suddenly out loud. 'You're here and they're there. What do they know of your pinching:' Instead of taking action which he had thought out for his journey, he hobbled for hours through the town, aimless, exasperated, looking for some means to punish the police. Usually he would lût upon a goojd plan at once for the least intention; but here he could think of nothing and therefore began gradually to renounce his harsher intentions. He was ready even to forego the money if he could contrive some vengeance. He would sacrifice two thousand schillings net! He wouldn't touch them, not at a gift, but someone must take them away from the police!

It was long past noon, he couldn't eat for hate, when suddenly his eye fell on two large brass plates on a single house. One of them read: Dr. Ernest Flink, Gynaecologist. The other, immediately below, belonged to a Dr. Maximilian Bucher, Specialist in Nervous Diseases. 'A silly woman could have everything she wanted all at once,' he thought and suddenly remembered Kien's brother in Paris, who had made his fortune as a gynaecologist and then turned to psychiatry. He looked for the slip of paper on which he had written down the address of this famous Professor, and found it, sure enough, fully, 'when your telegram cost you 27 times as much!' He turns back, excuses himself effusively to the fat gentleman, he had misunderstood him, he hears badly, he's mad in his right ear. He says a bit more so as to draw closer, if only in thought, to the other's note case. At precisely the right moment he remembers his unhappy experiences of people in double fur coats. They keep you at a distance and before you can get anything from them they hand you over to the police. He pays nis penny, magnanimously says good-bye to all and makes off. He renounces the note case for his revenge is on the way.

Fischerle was through with the Stars but compared to The Baboon it was Heaven indeed. As he came in several wanted men leapt towards him. From all sides they applauded him with satisfaction and demonstrated their joy at the unusual visitor. The landlady had just popped out for a minute, how pleased she will be. They assumed he had come straight from Heaven. That place, blessed by the presence of innumerable women, they were not allowed to enter. They asked after this lady and that; Fischerle lied as quickly as he could. He put on no side and behaved genially; he did not want to spend a penny too much on his forged passport. He hesitated with his request so as not to put the price up. After they had convinced themselves that it was really him, they clapped a little longer; one's own hands often strengthen conviction. He must take a seat, now he was there, he must stay. A fine little dwarf like him they wouldn't let go so soon. Had the Stars of Heaven fallen in yet? Catch any of them going under that dangerous roof. The police ought to see to it and get it mended! All those women who used to come there — where would they run to if the roof fell in?

While they tried to persuade Fischerle to do something about it, a piece of plaster fell into the black coffee which someone had set before him. He drank and expressed his regret that he had so little time to spare. He had come to say good-bye. The Chess League at Tokio had offered him a place as chess inspector. 'Tokio is in Japan. I go the day after to-morrow. The journey takes six months. For me, that is. I'm playing a match in every town. To cover my expenses. I shall get my passage money, but not till I get to Tokio. The Japs are suspicious. Look, they say, if we send the money first, he won't come. Not that I'd do that, but they've been caught that way. Once bit... In their letter it says: 'We entertain, most honourable champion, the utmost confidence in you. But did we steal our money? We did not!'

The others wanted to see the letter. Fischerle excused himself. The police had it. They'd promised him a passport in spite of his many in his coat pocket. The letter of recommendation had to go to Paris — that was too far, and while he was getting there the police would have blued all the money. If he wrote a letter himself and signed it with his name, the grand gentleman would ask himself: 'Fischerle! Who's Fischerle?' and nothing would come of it. For he had amassed a fortune and was shockingly proud. A Professor and a fortune in one, you needed subtlety to handle that. It wasn't like life, it was like chess. If he knew for certain whether the Professor was interested in chess he could sign 'Fischerle, World Chess Champion'. But a man like that was quite capable of not believing it. In two months, when Fischerle had knocked Capablanca into a cocked hat, annihilated and smashed him like a beaten dog, then he would send a telegram to all the outstanding people in the world: 'Have the honour respectfully to introduce myself, the new World Chess Champion, Siegfried Fischer.' Then there'd be no room for doubt, then everyone would know, all the people would bow to him, even wealthy Professors, whoever doubted it would be brought to court for defamation; and sending a real telegram, that was a thing all his life he'd wanted to do.

The official, carved in dry wood, shakes his head. This can't be serious and he has no time for jokes. 'You've got to take it!' Fischerle insists. 'Are you paid to take it, or am I?' Suddenly he is afraid that people with a record mayn't hand in telegrams. But how does the official know him? Certainly not from Heaven, and he never used to get his forms here.

'It doesn't make sense!' says the man and hands the telegram back. The other's deformity gives him courage. 'A normal person wouldn't write that.'

'That's right!' shrieks Fischerle, 'that's why I'm sending my brother a telegram. He's to come and fetch me! I'm mad!'

'Be off with you and quick now!' the official flares up; he was almost spitting.

A fat person in two fur coats, one natural, one artificial, waiting behind Fischerle, finds the waste of time enraging, hurls the dwarf to one side, threatens the official with a complaint and closes his speech — the weight of a bulging note case behind each word — with the sentence: 'You have no right to refuse a telegram, understand? Who are you?'

The official is silenced, swallows his right to understand and does his duty. Fischerle does him out of a penny. The fat gentleman, who had helped the dwarf on principle and not because he was in a hurry, draws his attention to the error. 'You've a nerve!' says Fischerle and escapes. Outside he thinks they may hold up his telegram as a punishment for his cheating. 'For a penny, Fischerle,' he thinks reproach-previous convictions. His homeland was proud of the fame which he'd carry out to Japan on his chessboard.

'And you're going the day after to-morrow?' six voices spoke together and the rest thought in chorus. They loved him although he came from Heaven, because his credulousness went to their hearts. 'You'll never get anything out of the police, as true as I was down for nine years!' one of them asserted. 'You'll be locked up too, for desertion!' 'And then they'll write your record to Japan.'

Fischerle's eyes filled with tears. He pushed his coffee cup away and began to sob. 'I'll knife those robbers!' they could hear, in between times, 'I'll knife them all!' Some of them were sorry for him; they had a variety of experience, and as many opinions. A famous forger asserted, there was one way out: himself. Fischerle could pay half-price because he was only half a man. In this witticism he disguised his sympathy. Not one of them would have spoken a sympathetic word. Fischerle smiled through his tears. 'I know you're a famous man,' he said, 'but you've never made out a passport for Japan, not even you!'

The forger, Passport Joe by name, a man with flowing locks, pitch black, a broken-down painter who, from his artist days, had still preserved his vanity, blazed up and snarled: 'My passes are valid as far as America!'

Fischerle permitted himself to remark that America was not Japan by a long way. He wasn't going to be used as a guinea pig. All of a sudden at the Japanese frontier he'd be picked up and locked up. He wasn't curious to see the inside of a Japanese jail, not curious at all. They talked to him persuasively but he wouldn't hear of it. The men brought up impressive arguments. Passport Joe had often done time, but his clients never; he took so much trouble with other people. He put everything he had into his art; he locked himself in to do the job. Every passport took so much out of him, he had to have a long sleep. They were not mass produced. Each was drawn line by line. Anyone who peeped got his block knocked off. Fischerlc didn't deny it, but he was adamant. Besides, he hadn't got a brass farthing. All this talk was therefore useless. Passport Joe declared himself ready to present him gratis with a first quality special passport if he would only undertake to make use of it. He could reimburse him by advertising the masterpiece when he got to Japan. Fischerle thanked him; he was too small for them to have their little jokes with, they were as strong as giants, he was as feeble as an old woman. Let somebody else burn their silly fingers. They stood him another two black coffees. Passport Joe raged. Fischerle must let him make him a passport or he'd smash his face for him twice over! The others managed to restrain him for the time being; but all of them were exasperated on his account and took his part. Negotiations dragged themselves out for an hour. Joe took each of his friends aside separately and promised them handsome payment. Then their patience gave way. They told Fischerle in so many words that he was their prisoner and would only get his liberty on one condition. The condition was that he would accept and use a forged passport for which he would have to pay nothing as he had no money, anyway. Fischerle yielded to force. But he went on whining. Two heavy-weights accompanied him to the photographer where his picture was taken at the expense of Passport Joe. Let him stir an inch it would be the worse for him. He didn t stir. His escort waited until the plate was developed and printed.

When they got back Passport Joe had already locked himself in. No one was to interrupt him. His most trusted friend pushed the damp photographs in through the crack in the door. He was working like a man possessed. Beads of sweat ran down his streaming hair on to the table and endangered the cleanliness of the passport. But thanks to the dexterous movements of his head it remained unblemished. He took his greatest pleasure in the signatures. He had at his command the official style and the angular pedantry of every single high ranking police officer. His signatures alone were masterpieces. He accompanied their curves with fiery motions of his torso. To the air of a popular song he hummed the words 'How original!' How original! Never done so well before!'

"When he succeeded so well with the signature that it would have taken even him in, he would keep the passport as a souvenir and excuse himself to the waiting client, whom his imagination dragged into the little workshop, with his favourite proverb: 'Every man his own neighbour.' He had several dozen of these sample masterpieces. A little suitcase contained them. When business was bad he would travel with his collection to neighbouring towns. There he would show them off. Veterans of his trade, competitors and pupils were all alike ashamed at their own incapacity. They would send difficult orders straight to him without asking for any commission. To ask for one indeed would have been no better than suicide. He had friends among the strongest and most respected criminals, each of them a king in his profession, but together the ordinary clients of The Baboon. But the disorderliness of Passport Joe had a limit: among the passports in his collection he placed small square tickets, on each the inscription could be read: 'Doing well as dollar prince in America' or 'Owner sends hest wishes from South Africa, land of diamonds' or 'Diving for pearls, thanks to Passport Joe' or 'Why don't you come to Mecca? Here die world throws money out at the window. Allah is Great.' These facts the proprietor selected from letters of appreciation which haunted him in his deepest sleep. They were too valuable for him to show them; their contents alone must suffice, facts speak for themselves. For this reason, after every finished document he drank several glasses of rum, dropped his burning head on to the table, parted his flowing hair with his fingers and dreamed of the future and the deeds of the client in question. Not one of them had yet written to him but he knew from his dreams what they would have written and made use of their careers for the purpose of advertisement. While he was working for Fischerle he was thinking of the admiration which his passport would provoke in Japan. This land was new to him, he had not ventured so far before. He completed two samples at once. The first of these which succeeded inimitably he decided to make an exception of and to hand over to lus client. His mission was after all of exceptional importance.

In the meantime Fischerle was being treated to whatever titbits the meagre buffet of The Baboon could afford. He was given two old smoked sausages all to himself, a portion of stinking cheese and as much stale bread as he wanted, ten cigarettes of The Baboon brand, although he didn't smoke, three small glasses of the Fin de la Maison, a tea and rum, a rum without tea, and innumerable pieces of advice for the journey. He must beware of pickpockets. People would do anything to get a passport like the one he was going to have. Some forger or other might easily nip out the photograph, put in another and keep the loveliest passport for die rest of his life. He must be careful not to show it off too much, for the railway station would be alive with envious people. And he must write and tell them his news, somewhere or other Passport Joe had a secret poste restante and he was always delighted to receive any testimonial; he treasured them just as the landlady of The Baboon treasured her love letters: no one had ever been allowed to see one. Anyway who would notice from a letter that the writer was a mere hunchback;

Fischerle promised everything; he wouldn't be stingy with thanks, appreciation, news and gratitude. All the same, he was afraid. He couldn't help his shape. Now if only he were called Dr. Fischer instead of plain Fischer the police would respect him at once.

At this all the men in The Baboon called a council. Only one was left on guard by the door to see that the dwarf didn't escape. They took it upon themselves to interrupt their friend at his work in spite of his strict prohibition and to request that he would bestow the title of doctor on Fischerle. If they were polite and called him 'Maestro', Passport Joe wouldn't go wild at once. On this point they were agreed, but not one of them volunteered to carry the message. For if he should go wild whoever interrupted him would certainly not get the commission he had promised, and none of them was fool enough to risk that.

At this moment the landlady came back from her shopping. She liked walking the streets mostly for love, but at times when she wanted to prove to her clients that she was a woman too, for money. The men cheerfully took advantage of her return to break up their meeting. They forgot their intentions and looked on deeply moved as the landlady embraced Fischerle's hump. She overwhelmed him with words of affection; she'd been longing to see him, longing for his dainty little nose, his crooked little legs, she'd longed for his darling, darling chessboard. She'd no dwarfies in her place. She'd heard that the Capitalist, his wife, had grown even fatter. How that woman ate, was it true? Fischerle made no answer and looked steadily in front of him. She fetched her pile of old periodicals of which she was proud — all of them came from Heaven — and laid them in front of her darling. Fischerle never opened one of them and remained obdurate. What was in his dear little heart, such a dear little heart the little darling had; she traced on her palm a circle about a quarter its size.

Until he was made a doctor, said Fischerle, he would be afraid.

The men grew restless. They tried to talk him out of their cowardice. You can't be a doctor they bellowed altogether, cripples can't be doctors. A cripple and a doctor, it can't be done. That would be a fine sight! A doctor has to have a good record. A cripple is a bad record, that goes without saying. Did he know a single cripple who was a doctor or did he not?

'I know one,' said Fischerle, 'I know one. He's smaller than I am, he hasn't any arms, he hasn't any legs. It's a crying shame only to look at him. He writes with his mouth and reads with his eyes. And he's a famous doctor.'

This made little impression on the men. 'That's different altogether,' said one speaking for the rest, 'he must have been a doctor first and then his arms and legs were run over and lost. So it wasn't his fault.'

'Nonsense,' screeched Fischcrle, outraged by these lies. 'He was born that way I tell you. I know what I'm talking about, he came into the world without arms and legs. You're all asses. I'm clever I am, he said to himself, why then shouldn't I be a doctor; So he sat himself down and he studied. Ordinary people study five years, cripples have to go on for twelve. He told me himself, he's a friend of mine, at thirty Tie was a doctor and famous. I play chess with him, he just looks at you and you're well again. His waiting-room's full to bursting. He sits on his little wheel-chair and has two lady secretaries to help him. They help the patients undress, tap their chests and show them to the doctor. All he does is to take one sniffat them and he knows what's wrong at once. Then he calls out 'The next gentleman, please!' The fellow earns a fortune, there isn't another doctor like him. He's very fond of me, he says cripples must stick together; I'm taking lessons from him. He'll turn me into a doctor he's promised. But I'm not to tell anyone because people wouldn't understand. I've known him for ten years, another two years and I'm through with my studies. Then along comes this letter from Japan and I throw the whole thing up. I'd like to go and say good-bye to him for the fellow deserves it, but I don't trust myself. He might try to hold me back and then I'd lose my job in Tokio. I can go abroad on my own. I'm not such a cripple as he is, not by a long way!'

Several of them asked him to show them the man. They were already half convinced. Fischerlc poked his nose into his waistcoat pocket and said: 'Sorry, I haven't got him with me to-day. Usually I keep him there! It's too bad!'

Everyone laughed; their heavy arms and fists shook on the tables and because they were glad to laugh and seldom had the opportunity, they got up all of them, forgot dieir fear and stampeded, eight strong, to the little room where Passport Joe was working. All together so that no one should bear the blame alone they flung open the door and yelled in chorus: 'Don't forget to make him a doctor! He's been studying ten years already!' Passport Joe nodded, 'All the way to Japan'. He was in a good mood to-day.

Fischerle began to realize how drunk he was. Usually spirits made him sad. But to-day he jumped up —his passport and his new rank of doctor were as good as in his pocket — and clutching round the stomach of the landlady of The Baboon, danced her round the café. His long arms crawled snakelike round her neck, they could reach far. He croaked, she waddled. A murderer (but no one knew), pulled an enormous comb out of his pocket, folded over it a piece of tissue paper and blew a soft melody. Out of love for the landlady another one, a simple housebreaker, inexacdy stamped out the rhythm. The others slapped their powerful thighs. A delicate tinkling came from the broken glass panel of the door. Fischerle's legs twisted themselves up still more and the landlady gazed with enchantment at his nose. 'Such a long way!' she shrieked. 'Such a long way!' This her biggest and most beloved nose was going to leave her, was going to go all the way to Japan! The murderer went on playing and thinking about her, they all knew her intimately and they all owed her a lot. Inside Passport Joe chanted sweetly, his tenor voice was popular and he looked forward to celebrating the evening; he had been working for three hours, in another he would surely have done. All the men were singing but none of them knew the right words for the song, so that each one sang his own heart's desire. 'The winning number,'hummed one and another breathed, 'Sweetheart'. 'A nugget like a football' was what the third wanted and the fourth an unending opium pipe. 'Good morning, boys!' somebody was humming under a moustache. In his youth the moustache's proprietor had been a schoolmaster and he was sorry for the pension he had lost. But mosdy there were threats and all of them would have liked to emigrate, each on his own, just to show the others. Fischerle's head sank lower and lower; his own accompaniment to the song 'Checkmate, checkmate' was lost in the general din.

Suddenly the landlady put her finger to her mouth and breathed: 'He's asleep, he's asleep!' Five of the men placed him carefully on a chair in the corner and shouted: 'Quiet there, stop the music, Fischerle must have his sleep out before his long journey!' The tissue paper folded over the comb fell silent. They all gathered together and began to discuss the perils of the journey to Japan. One of them battered on the table and said threateningly that in the desert of Takla Makan every second traveller died of thirst; it lay just in the middle between Constantinople and Japan. Even the erstwhile schoolmaster had heard of it and said: 'That's right.' The journey by sea was preferable. The dwarf could surely swim and even if he couldn't he would float on his hump, fat as it was. He would be unwise to land anywhere. He'd be passing India. Cobras he in wait all along the quay side. Half a bite and he'd be dead because he was only halfa man.

Fischerle wasn't asleep. He had remembered his capital and in his corner he was searching round to see where it had got to during the dancing. He found it again in its right place; he applauded his armpits, how splendidly they were made, with any other man the glorious treasure would long have slid down into his trousers or the floor would have eaten it up. He wasn't in the least tired, on the contrary he was listening and as those idiots talked of all sorts of foreign countries and cobras he was thinking of America and of his millionaire's palace.

Late in the evening, it was already dark, Passport Joe appeared from his little room waving a passport in each hand. All the men were silent; they respected his work because he paid generously for it. Softly he crept up to the dwarf, laid the passports before him on the table and woke him up with a shattering blow on the ear. Fischerle saw it coming but stayed still. He must pay something, that was evident, and he was only happy that nobody had suggested searching him. 'You must advertise me!' yelled Passport Joe, he was reeling and babbling. During the last few hours he had grown drunk on his Japanese fame. He stood the dwarf on the table and made him swear with both hands:

That he would use the passport, that he would pay nothing for it, that he would hold it under the noses of the Japs, that he would tell them that he, Rudoph Amsel, known as Passport Joe, was what — after his death — all of Europe would know, namely the greatest living painter. That he would talk of him daily. That he would give interviews about him. He could give the date and place of his birth and say that he had been unable to tolerate any art school; independent and on his own feet, without crutches and without idols, integrity incarnate, he had risen to the heights on which he now stood.

Fischerle swore and swore. Passport Joe forced him to repeat word for word every phrase which he uttered in his screaming voice. Last of all, Fischerle was solemnly to abjure Heaven and never more to cross the threshold ofthat haunt of criminals before his departure. 'Heaven is a filthy hole!' cried Fischerle, obsequious and hoarse. 'I'll take great care not to get mixed up with them and in Japan I'll found a sister firm for The Baboon! If I earn too much money I'll send it to you. But don't you go telling Heaven anything about my journey. Those jailbirds there are just the kind who'll put the police on me. To please you I'll take the false passport on my own hunchback and swear that you didn't force it on me. Heaven can go to hell!' After this he was allowed to sit down and sleep again in his same corner. He hopped down from the table and put the better passport in his pocket next to his miniature chessboard, which was the safest place for it. First he snored for fun so as to overhear them. But soon he was really asleep, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his fingertips in his armpits so that the very slightest attempt at robbery would wake him at once.

At four in the morning when they closed and when, now and again, the policeman's face swiftly fluttered across the window-panes, Fischerle was woken up. Quickly he sneezed the sleep out of his nose and was on the alert at once. They informed him of the decision they had taken in the meanwhile to nominate him an honorary member of The Baboon. He thanked them effusively. Many more guests had arrived and all now wished him luck on his journey. Cheers for the mighty game of chess grew loud. A thousand well-meant slaps on the back almost crushed him. Grinning so widely that it could be seen he bowed to this side and that, cried at the top of his voice: 'So long. See you all in Tokio at the New Baboon,' and left the café.

In the street he offered friendly greetings to several policemen he ran into, always in little groups and very much on their guard. From today, he said to himself, I will be polite to the police. He avoided Heaven although it was quite near. Now that he was a doctor he decided to have nothing more to do with low dives. Moreover, he must not be seen. It was a pitch black night. Out of economy only every third street lamp was lit. In America they have arc lights. They shine continually day and night. They have so much money there all the people are extravagant and a bit mad. A man who was ashamed because his wife was nothing but an old tart needn't go home if he doesn't want to. He'd go to the Salvation Army; they have hotels with white beds; everyone is allowed two linen sheets for his personal use, even a Jew. Why don't people introduce this brilliant combination into Europe? He tapped on his right coat pocket; there he could feel his chessboard and his passport both together. No one in Heaven would ever have presented him with a passport. People there only thought about themselves and how they could make money. The Baboon was noble. He respected The Baboon. The Baboon had elected him to honorary membership. And that's no small honour because only first class criminals go there! In Heaven the swine lived on their girls, they might at least do some work themselves. He'd pay them back. The gigantic chess palace he was going to build in America should be called Baboon Palace. Not a soul would know it was called after a low dive back home.

Under a bridge he waited for day. Before sitting down he fetched himself a dry stone. In his thoughts he was already wearing a new suit, which fitted his hump like a glove; it was a black and white check, made to measure and costing two fortunes. A man who couldn't look after a suit like that was not worthy of America. So he avoided all violent motion in spite of the cold. He stretched out his legs as if his trousers had been pressed. From time to time he flicked off a little dust which he could see glimmering unprofitably through the darkness. For hours at a time a shoe cleaner knelt before the stone and polished for dear life. Fischerle took no notice of him. If you talked to these lads they worked badly, better leave them to their polishing. A smart felt hat protected Fischerle's coiffure from the wind, which tended'to get up towards morning; a sea breeze was its name. On the far side of the table sat Capablanca playing in gloves. 'You may think that I haven't any gloves,' said Fischerle, and drew a brand new pair out of his pocket. Capablanca turned pale; his own were worn. Fischerle flung the new gloves at his feet and shouted: 'I challenge you.' 'For my part,' said Capablanca, trembling with fear, 'I don t believe you're a doctor. I don't play with just anybody.' 'I am a doctor, Fischerle replied calmly, and held his passport under his nose, 'Read that if you can read!' Capablanca surrendered. He began to cry and was inconsolable. 'Nothing lasts for ever,' said Fischerle, and patted him on the shoulder. 'How many years have you been world champion; Other chaps want something out of life too. Just take a look at my new suit! You're not the only one in the world.' But Capablanca was a broken man, he looked old, his face was covered with wrinkles and his gloves were crumpled. 'Tell you what,' said Fischerle, the poor devil went to his heart, 'I'll give you a game.' The old man stood up, shook his head, gave Fischerle a visiting card of his very own and sobbed: 'You're a noble fellow. Come and call on me!' On the visiting card the whole address was printed in foreign letters; who could read that? Fischerle tormented himself, every stroke was different, you couldn't make out a word. 'You should learn to read !' shouted Capablanca, he had already disappeared, he could only be heard calling, and how loud he called, the doddering crook: 'You should learn to read!' Fischerle wanted the address, the address. 'But it's on the visiting card!' screamed die devil from far off. 'Maybe he doesn't know German,' sighed Fischerle and stood there twisting the visiting card round in his hands; he would have torn it up but the photograph on it interested him. It was a photograph of himself still in his old suit without a hat and with a hump. The visiting card was his passport, he himself was lying on a stone with the old bridge over him and instead of the sea breeze the daylight was already half showing.

He got up and solemnly cursed Capablanca. This was not playing fair, what he'd just done. True, you can take liberties in a dream, but dreams reveal a man's true character. Fischerle had offered to give him a game — and he'd done him down about his address! And where was he to get the miserable address now?

At home Fischerle kept a minute pocket diary. Every double page was devoted to a chess champion. Whenever a new genius appeared in the papers he would, if possible on the very same day discover everything about his life from the date of his birth down to his address, and set them down. Owing to the small size of the diary and his gigantic writing this was the work of more hours than altogether suited the habits of the Capitalist. She would ask him who he was writing to, what he was doing; he said not a word. In case of a disaster — with which as an inhabitant of Heaven he must always reckon —he hoped to find refuge and protection among his hated rivals in the profession. For twenty long years he had kept his list a deadly secret. The Capitalist suspected secret love affairs. The diary was hidden deep in a crack in the floor under the bed. His small fingers were alone able to reach it. Often he derided his fears, and said: 'Fischerle, what are you going to get out of that? The Capitalist will love you for ever!' But he only laid hands on the diary when a new champion was to go into it. There they all were, in black and white. Capablanca too. When the Capitalist went off to work, to-night, he'd fetch it.

The new day began with shopping. Doctors carry note cases, and those who go to buy a suit must have one to draw out, otherwise they get laughed at. Waiting for the shops to open, his hair went grey. He wanted the biggest possible note case, in check leather; but the price must be marked on the outside. He wouldn't be cheated. He compared the window displays of a dozen shops and selected a gigantic case, for which there was only room in his pocket because the lining was torn. When it came to paying, he turned away. Suspicious, the shop-assistants surrounded him. Two took up their stand at the door, to get a breath of fresh air. He clutched at his armpit and paid cash down.

Under the bridge he aired his capital, smoothed it out flat on the very stone on which he had slept, and placed the notes, unfolded, in his check leather note case. He could nave got in even more. One ought to be able to buy them ready filled, he sighed; then with his capital added, it would have been really fat. In any case, the tailor would notice what it contained. In a superior outfitter's, he asked to see the proprietor. He came and stared, astonished at this commanding customer. In spite of Fischerle's unusual deformity, the first thing he noticed was his shabby suit. Fischerle bowed, in his own way, by drawing himself up, and presented himself.