CHAPTER VI

THE RED COCK

Peter locked the door behind his brother. It was secured by three complicated locks and thick, heavy iron bolts. He rattled them: not a nail shook. The whole door was like a single piece of steel; behind it he was truly at home. The keys still fitted; the paint on the wood had faded; it felt rough to the touch. The rust on the darkened bolts was old and it was hard to make out what part of the door had been repaired. Surely the caretaker had smashed it, when he had broken into the flat. A kick of his and the bolts had snapped like wood; the wretched liar, he lied with his fists and feet; he had simply crashed into the flat. Once upon a time came the first of the month and brought no honorarium for Mr. Pfaff. 'Something's happened to him!' he had roared, and hurled himself upstairs to the source of his income; it had suddenly dried up. On the way he had battered the stairs. The stone whimpered under his booted fists. The tenants crept out of their dens, all his subjects in the house, and held their noses. 'It stinks!' they complained. "Where?' he asked threateningly. 'Out of the library.' 'I can stink nothing!' He couldn't even speak his native tongue. He had a thick nose and gigantic nostrils, but his moustache was twisted and reached up into his nostrils. So he could smell nothing but pomade, and as for the corpse he never smelt that. His moustache was as stiff as ice, every day he waxed it. He had red pomade in a thousand different tubes. Under the bed in his closet was a collection of salve jars, red of every colour, red here, red there, red overhead. His head, yes, his head was FIERY RED.

Kien put out the light in the hall. He only had to press a switch and it grew dark at once. Through cracks in the door a pale glimmer reached him from the study and gently stroked his trousers. How many trousers had he not seen! The peep-hole existed no longer. The ruffian had broken it off. The wall was left desolate. To-morrow a new Pfaff would move in down below and wall up the gash. If only it had been staunched at once! The napkin was stiff with blood. The water in the basin was reddened by a sea-battle off the canary islands. Why had they hidden themselves under the bed? There was room enough on the wall. There were four cages ready. But they looked down haughtily on the small fry. The flesh-pots were empty. Then came the quails and the children of Israel could eat. All the birds were killed. Little throats they had, under their yellow feathers. Who would think it, that powerful voice, and yet how get at their little throats! Once you grasp them, you press them, there s an end of the four part song, blood spurts in all directions, thick, warm blood, these birds live in a perpetual fever, hot blood, it BURNS, my trousers BURN.

Kien wiped the blood and the glow offhis trousers. Instead of going into his study, whence the light assaulted him, he went through the long dark corridor into the kitchen. On the table was a plate of bread. The chair in front of it was crooked as if someone had justbeen sitting on it. He pushed it away with hostility. He seized the soft, yellow brioches, they were the birds' corpses, and poured them into the bread bin. It looked like a crematorium. He hid it away in the kitchen cupboard. On the table the plate alone was left, shining and dazzlingly white, a cushion. On top of it lay a book — 'The Trousers...' Thérèse had opened it. She had stopped at page 20. She was wearing gloves. 'I read every page six times.' She was trying to seduce him. He wanted nothing but a glass of water. She fetched it. Tm going away for six months.' 'Excuse me, I can't have it!' 'It is necessary.' 'I can't have it.' 'But I'm going just the same.' 'Then I'lllock the door of the flat!' 'I have the key.' 'Where, excuse me?' 'Here!" 'And if a Fire should break out?'

Kien went to the sink and turned the tap on full. With full force the stream shot into the heaw basin; it almost broke it. Soon it was full of water. The flood streamed over the kitchen floor and quenched every danger. He turned the tap off again. He slipped on the stone tiles. He slipped into the bedroom next door. It was empty. He smiled at it. In earlier times there had been a bed here and against the opposite wall a trunk. In the bed the blue virago had slept. She kept her weapons hidden in the trunk; skirts, skirts and yet more skirts. Daily she performed her devotions at the ironing board in the corner. The limp folds were laid out on the table; they arose resurrected in their strength. Later she moved in with him and brought the furniture with her. The walls went pale with joy. They have been white ever since. And what did Thérèse pile up against them? Sacks of flour, great sacks of flour! She was making the bedroom into her store cupboard against the lean years. Thighs hung down from the ceiling, smoked thighs. The floor was abristle with sugar loaves. Bread rolls tumbled against kegs of butter. Milk cans sucked close up to each other. The sacks of flour against the wall defended the town from hostile attack. There were things laid up here for all eternity. She let herself be locked in, unperturbed, and Dragged of her keys. One day she opened the bedroom door. There was not a crumb left in the kitchen and what did she find in the bedroom? The flour bags were nothing but holes. Instead of hams, strings hung from the ceiling. The mille had all run out of the cans, and the sugar loaves were only blue paper. The floor had eaten up the bread and smeared the butter into its cracks. Who has done this? Who? Rats! Rats appear suddenly in houses where there were never any before, no one knows where they come from, but there they are, they eat up everything, kind blessed rats, and they leave nothing behind for hungry women but a pile of newspapers; there they lie, nothing else. They don't care for newspaper. Rats hate cellulose. They manœuvre in the darkness all right, but they are not termites. Termites eat wood and books. The love riot among the termites. FIRE IN THE LIBRARY.

Kien threw down the paper on the pile. He must cancel his regular order for papers at once. He left the hateful room. But it's night already, he said aloud, in the passage. How can I cancel my order? So as to go on reading, he took out his watch. All it offered was a dial. He could not make out the time. Murder and Arson were more forthcoming. In the library opposite there was light. He burned to know the time. He went into his study.

It was just eleven. No church bell was striking. Once it had been broad daylight. The yellow church was opposite. Across the little square people passed and repassed, excited. The hunchbacked dwarf was called Fischerle. He cried to soften a heart of stone. Paving stones jumped up and lay down again. There was a cordon of police round the Theresianum. Operations in charge of a major. He carried the warrant for arrest in his pocket. The dwarf had seen through it himself. Enemies had hidden under the stairs. Up above the hog was in charge. Books delivered over helpless to conscienceless beasts! The hog had composed a cookery book with a hundred and three recipes. It was said of his stomach — it had corners. Then why was Kien a criminal? Because he helped the poorest of the poor. For the police had drawn up a warrant even before they heard about the corpse. Against him all this gigantic levy. Forces on horse and on foot. Brand new revolvers, rifles, machine guns, barbed wire and tanks — but all is vain against him, they can't hang him till they've got him! Through their legs, they escape into the roses, he and his loyal dwarf. And now the enemy are on his heels, he hears grunting and panting, and the bloodhound at his throat. But ah, there is worse to come. On the sixth floor of the Theresianum the beasts arc bidding each other good night; there they keep thousands of books unjustly in durance, tens of thousands, against their free will, guiltless, what can-they do against the hog, cut off from terra firma, close under the Broiling attic roof, starving, condemned, condemned to the devouring Flames.

Kien heard cries for help. Despairing, he pulled at the cord which was attached to the skylight and the windows flew open. He listened. The cries redoubled. His mistrusted them. He hurried into the neighbouring room and here too pulled at the cord. In here the cries were fainter. The third room echoed shrilly. In the fourth they could hardly be heard. He went back through all the rooms. He walked and listened. The cries rose and fell in waves. He pressed his hands against his ears and took them quickly away again. Pressed them and took them away. It sounded just the same as above. Ah, his ears were confusing him. He pushed the ladder, despite its resistant rails, into the middle of the study and climbed to its highest level. The upper part of his body overtopped the roof; he held fast on to the panes. Then he heard the despairing cries; they were the books screaming. In the direction of the Theresianum he was aware of a reddish glow. Hesitantly it spread across the black gaping heavens. The smell of oil was in his nose. The glow of fire, screams, the smell; the Theresianum is Burning.

Dazzled, he closed his eyes. He lowered his burning skull. Drops of water splashed on his neck. It was raining. He Hung his head back and offered bis face to the rain. How cool — the strange water! Even die clouds were merciful. Perhaps they would put out the fire. Then an icy blow struck him on the eyelid. He was cold. Someone tweaked at him. They stripped him stark naked. They went through his all pockets. They left him his shirt. In the little mirror he saw himself. He was very thin. Red fruits, thick and bloated, grew all around him. The caretaker was one of them. The corpse attempted to talk. He would not listen to her. She was always saying: I ask you. He stopped up his ears. She tapped on her blue skirt. He turned his back on her. In front of him was seated a uniform without a nose. 'Your name?' 'Dr. Peter Kien.' 'Professions' 'The greatest living sinologist.' 'Impossible!' 'I swear it.' 'Perjury!' 'No!' 'Criminal!' 'I am in my right mind. I confess. In full possession of my senses. I killed her. I am perfectly sane. My brother knows nothing of it. Spare him! He is a famous man. I lied to him.' "Where is the money?' 'Money?' 'You stole it.' 'I'm not a thief!' 'Thief and murderer!' 'Murderer!' 'Thief and murderer!' 'Murderer!' 'You are under arrest. You will stay here!' 'But my brother's coming. Leave me free until then! He must know nothing. I implore you!' And the caretaker steps forward, he is still his friend, and procures him a few days of liberty. He brings him home and keeps guard over him, he does not let him out of the little room. That was where George found him, in misery but not a criminal. Now he is on his train already, if only he had stayed here! He would have helped him at his trial! A murderer must give himself up? But he won't. He will stay here. He must watch the burning Theresianum.

Slowly he lifted his lids. The rain had stopped. The reddish glow had paled, the fire brigade must have arrived at last. The sky no longer rang with cries. Kien climbed down from the ladder. In every room the cries for help were stilled. So as not to miss them if they began again, he left the skylights wide open. In the middle of the room the ladder was placed ready. If the disaster should grow to a climax, it would help his flight. Whither.? To the Theresianum. The hog lay, a charred corpse, under the beams. There, unknown among the crowd, there was much he could do. Leave the house! Take care! Tanks arc patrolling the streets. All the king's horses. They think they have caught him. The Lord will smite them; and he, the murderer, will escape. But first he will efface all traces.

He kneels before the writing desk. He passes his hand over the carpet. That was where the corpse lay. Is the blood still visible? It is not visible. He pushed his fingers far into his nostrils, but they only smell a little of dust. No blood. He must look more closely. The light is bad. It hangs too high. The flex of the table lamp does not reach so far. On the writing desk is a box of matches. He strikes six at once, six months, and lies down on the carpet. From very close he holds the light to the carpet, looking for bloodstains. Those, red stripes are part of the pattern. They were always here. They must be got rid of. The police will take them for blood. They must be burnt out. He presses the matches into the carpet. They go out. He throws them away. He strikes six new ones. Softly he passes them over one of the red stripes, then delicately pokes them in. They leave a brown mark behind them. Soon they go out. He strikes new ones. He uses a whole box. The carpet remains cool. It is marked all over with brownish scars. Glowing patches are here and there. Now nothing can be proved against him. Why did he confess? Before thirteen witnesses. The corpse was there too, and the ginger cat which can sec at night. The murderer with wife and child. A knock. The police at the door. A knock.

Kien will not open. He stops his ears. He hides behind a book. It is on the writing-table. He wants to read it. The letters dance up and down. Not a word can he make out. Quiet please! Before his eyes it flickers, fiery red. This is the aftermath of his terrible shock, on account of the fire, who would not have been frightened; when the Theresianum burns numberless numbers of books go up in flames. He stands up. How can he possibly read now. The book lies too far off. Sit ! He sits again. Trapped. No, his home, the writing desk, the library. All are loyal to him. Nothing has been burnt. He can read when he wants to. But the book is not even open. He had forgotten to open it. Stupidity must be punished. He opens it. He strikes his hand on it. It strikes twelve. Now I've got you! Read! Stop! No. Get out! Oh! A letter detaches itself from the first line and hits him a blow on the ear. Letters are lead. It hurts. Strike him! Strike him! Another. And another. A footnote kicks him. More and more. He totters. Linesand whole pages come clattering on to him. They shake and beat him, they worry him, they toss him about among themselves. Blood, Let me go! Damnable mob! Help! George! Help! Help! George!

But George has gone. Peter leaps up. With formidable strength he grasps the book and snaps it to. So, he has taken the letters prisoner, all of them, and will not let them go again. Never! He is free. He stands up. He stands alone. George has gone. He has outwitted him. What does he know of the murder? A mental specialist. An ass. A wide-open soul. Yet he would gladly steal the books. He would want him dead soon. Then he'd have the library. He won't get it. Patience! 'What do you want upstairs?' ']ust to look round!' 'Just to get round me!' That's what you'd like. Shoemaker stick to your idiots. He's coming again. In six months. Better luck next time. A will? Not necessary. The only heir will get everything he wants. A special train to Paris. The Kien library. Who collected it? The psychiatrist Georges Kien, who else? And his brother, the sinologist? Quite a mistake, there wasn't a brother, two of the same name, no connection, a murderer, he murdered his wife, Murder and Fire in all the papers, sentenced to imprisonment for life — for life — for death — the dance of death — the golden calf— an inheritance of a million — none but the brave — wave — parting — no — till death us do part — death by Fire — loss loss by Fire — burnt burnt by Fire — Fire Fire Fire.

Kien seizes the book on the table and threatens his brother with it. He is trying to rob him; everyone is out for a will, everyone counts on the death of his nearest. A brother is good enough to die, thieves kitchen of a world, men devour and steal books. All want something, and all are gone, and no one .can wait. Earlier they burnt a man's possessions with him, a will was nowhere to be found and there was nothing left, nothing but bones. The letters rattle inside the book. They are prisoners, they can't come out. They've beaten him bloody. He threatens them with death by fire. That is how he will avenge himself on all his enemies ! He has murdered his wife, the hog is a charred skeleton, George will get no books. And the police won't get him. Powerless, the letters are knocking to be let out. Outside the police knock against the door. 'Open the door!' 'Never more.' 'In the name of the law!' 'Pshaw!' 'Let us in!' 'Din.' 'At once.' 'Dunce.' 'You'll be shot.' 'Pot.' 'We'll smoke you out!' 'Lout!' They are trying to break down his door. They won't do that easily. His door is strong and fiery. Bang. Bang. Bang. The blows grow heavier. He can hear them where he is. His door is bolted with iron. But if the rust has eaten into the bolts? No metal is all-powerful. Bang. Bang. Hogs are herded before his door, ramming it with stomachs, with corners. The wood will crack for certain. It looks so old and worn. They seized the enemy trenches. Entrenched. Ready, steady, crash. Ready, steady, crash! The bell. At eleven all the bells ring. The Theresianum. The hunchback. March off, pulling long noses. Am I right or am I not? Ready, steady — am I right — ready, steady.

The books cascade offthe shelves on to the floor. He takes them up in his long arms. Very quietly, so that they can't hear him outside, he carries pile after pile into the hall. He builds them up high against the iron door. And while the frantic din tears his brain to fragments, he builds a mighty bulwark out of books. The hall is filled with volume upon volume. He fetches the ladder to help him. Soon he has reached the ceiling. He goes back to his room. The shelves gape at him. In front of the writing desk the carpet is ablaze. He goes into the bedroom next to the kitchen and drags out all the old newspapers. He pulls the pages apart, and crumples them, he rolls them into balls, and throws them into all the corners. He places the ladder in the middle of the room where it stood before. He climbs up to the sixth step, looks down on the fire and waits.

When the flames reached him at last, he laughed out loud, louder than he had ever laughed in all his life.