Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XIV.

Falk wandered restlessly through the city all day. 

He finally sat in a café and spent several hours there. He was so tired that he could find no strength to get up and get the newspapers. Ask a waiter? No, it hurt just to open his mouth. 

Yet he felt a bit of joy, how beautifully everything arranged itself… and Kunicki is after all a famous shot. Tomorrow everything is over. Good so. 

He actually wondered that the whole thing was so indifferent to him, and it was after all about life… life! He giggled cheerfully. Life! 

Finally he collected himself. When he came home, he felt so exhausted that he lay down on the bed immediately; he was about to fall asleep. 

Then he sat up abruptly. 

He had to speak with Isa after all. Who knows if he would return tomorrow. He had to inform her in any case, without arousing her suspicion, about the most important affairs. 

But he could also do that in writing. And again he lay down. Otherwise she could get bad thoughts. No! Better to write a letter. 

Suddenly he became strangely awake. His brain was shaken and came into operation. 

It now became finally clear to him that tomorrow his death march awaited him. A slight shiver ran through his limbs. It was something like fear… Quite surely fear and unrest, although revolver heroes otherwise do not have fear… 

The whole process became alive in him with such disgustingly intrusive clarity. 

He will have to stand calmly, before his eyes the pistol muzzle will flicker like a black point, then he will clearly hear the cock click, quite clearly, yes, perhaps even as a strong noise. 

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. With difficulty he pushed everything back into himself. 

He yawned. But his yawning seemed affected to himself. 

He had to go to Isa and play piquet with her, that would calm him. Afterwards he could consider the whole story… 

But fear crept up in him and his heart beat terribly. Kunicki after all shot the poor Russian down immediately… 

And leave all this behind: Isa and the whole future… He stopped. 

Where did the self-lie of the future suddenly creep from now? That was a ridiculous lie. Ha, ha, ha… How one can unconsciously lie to oneself… Strange… Naturally it wanted to argue further in me: everything is not so bad as it looks… Everything could still become good. 

And suddenly he shot up like mad. 

Kruk cannot come back to Germany after all. He is sentenced to five years. 

He ran around like possessed. 

Then Isa can never find out. He always opened the letters himself. 

A moment of such immediate, animal feeling of happiness he had never felt before. 

He came completely out of his senses with joy, a terrible life frenzy rose in him. He thought of nothing, only one single, fixed idea roared and whirled in his brain. Only now quickly away! 

Kunicki? Kunicki? What does Kunicki concern me, what does honor concern me, what does shame concern me. Now quickly away, away. 

His brain clung with the last despair strength to this straw. 

Then he suddenly began to laugh in rage and fury. 

Ha, ha, ha… Now I begin to play comedy before myself. As if that could help me over the disgust and the lie! Ha, ha, ha: everything could still become good. 

He suddenly thought of the comical, little Jew from whom he once wanted to borrow money. The Jew naturally had no money, but Falk should console himself, everything would still become good. 

And then a heartfelt cheerfulness came over him that he had not felt for a long time. 

Yes, so he could now go to Isa, he was really cheerful and happy. When he entered the salon, his glance fell by chance on the picture and this mad despair orgy of the sky… But he was cheerful and happy. 

In the dining room he listened. From Isa’s room came sobbing and moaning… 

It shot through him like lightning, he staggered back. His heart stopped. 

He stepped to the door and knocked timidly. No answer. Only a sudden violent cry. He now knocked violently and rattled the door. Isa! Isa! he cried desperately. 

A deep moaning was the answer. 

He became possessed in a moment. An unheard-of rage took possession of him. 

Open! he cried. Again no answer. 

Then an animal fury seized him. His senses left him. He suddenly threw himself with his whole strength against the door, broke it open and fell staggering into the room. 

Isa jumped from the sofa, wild and distraught. 

“What do you want here? Go then! Go then to your mistress,” she cried raging. 

Falk stood and trembled so violently that he had to hold onto the table. “Go then! Go then!” cried Isa and ran desperately back and forth, as if she feared he would seize her. 

“Isa!” he finally managed to bring out. 

“Leave me! Leave!” she cried senselessly and stopped her ears with her fingers. “I want to hear nothing. Go then! I cannot see you! I have disgust for you!” 

Falk stood there and stared at her madly. He heard only this hoarse, screaming voice in which a hysterical laughter and crying fought each other. It occurred to him that he had never heard Isa scream before. 

Isa came into rage. She stamped with her feet, cried a few inarticulate sounds, then ran around the table to the door. 

Falk came to his senses. He held her by the arms. She struggled desperately with him, but he held her tighter and tighter, bit himself as it were with his fingers into her arms. 

“Let me go!” she cried with an unnatural voice. He let her go and stood before the door. 

“I will go, but first you shall hear me,” he flared up furiously. 

“I want to hear nothing. I hate you! I beg you! I have disgust for you. You soil me! Go then to your mistress.” 

Suddenly she fell backwards onto the sofa in a wild crying cramp. In senseless fear Falk jumped toward her. 

The slender, frail body twitched and writhed in his arms as if kneaded by a foreign power. From the throat of the tormented woman came spasmodic cries and sobs that were unnatural, as if an animal had uttered them.  

Falk carried her to the balcony, grasped a carafe of water, moistened her forehead and temple, but suddenly she rose again and pushed him back furiously. 

In the next moment she sank together, she threw herself on the sofa, breathed heavily; the strength seemed to leave her, for she crawled more and more together. 

Then she threw herself up again with sudden jerk and stood proud and cold before Falk. 

“What do you want then still?” 

“Nothing, nothing more.” He stammered and looked at her with mad, glazed eyes. 

“Nothing, nothing,” he repeated softly. 

“You must make clear to yourself that between us everything is over, that I will not remain one hour longer with you under one roof… I do not want,” she cried raging… “Let me go then.” 

She threw herself at him and tried to push him out the door. 

It became quite dark before his eyes, he was no longer master of his animal rage attack, he seized her and threw her with full strength onto the sofa. 

She jumped up, wanted to flee, her hair had loosened, he grasped her by the hair, tore half mad at it and dragged her back again. 

“I will kill you, I will kill you,” he grinned in a second of complete confusion of senses. 

She no longer resisted, everything broke in her—she became still for a moment. 

Falk shot up in horrible fear. 

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

His mother observed him–she knew his smallest gesture, the
slightest movement of his smooth, sun tanned features. She read in the
slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that it was something
important.
“What is it?” she asked, and her voice trembled.
“Nothing big,” he answered easily. “You know of course that
Uncle Jakob is dead.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said. “It was sad enough.”
“Well then,” he nodded, “the Legal Councilor has sent me a copy
of the will. I am the executor and to become the girl’s guardian as
well. To do that I must go to Lendenich.”
“When will you leave?” she asked quickly.
“Well,” he said. “I think–this evening.”
“Don’t go,” she begged. “Don’t go! You’ve only been back with
me for three days and now you want to leave again.”
“But mother,” he turned to face her. “It’s only for a few days,
just to put things in order.”
She said, “That’s what you always say, only a few days–and then
you stay away for years.”
“You must be able to see it, dear mother!” he insisted. “Here is
the will. Uncle has left you a right decent sum of money and me as
well–Something I certainly was not expecting from him. We could
certainly use it, both of us.”
She shook her head, “What should I do with the money if you are
not with me, my boy?”
He stood up and kissed her gray hair.
“Mother dear, by the end of the week I will be back here with
you. It is scarcely two hours by train.”
She sighed deeply, stroked his hands, “Two hours–or two
hundred hours, what is the difference?–You are gone either way!”
“Adieu, dear mother,” he said, went upstairs, packed only a small
suitcase and came back out to the balcony.
“There, you see! Scarcely enough for two days–Auf
Wiedersehen!”
“Auf Wiedersehen, dear boy,” she said quietly.
She heard how he bounded down the stairs, heard the latch click
as the door shut. She laid her hand on the intelligent head of her little
hound that looked at her with faithful trusting eyes.
“Dear animal,” she spoke. “Now we are alone again–Oh, only to
go again, does he come here–when will we see him again?”
Heavy tears fell from her gentle eyes, rolled over the wrinkles on
her cheeks, fell down onto the long brown ears of the little hound. He
licked at them with his red tongue.
Then down below she heard the bell, heard voices and steps
coming up the stairs. She quickly wiped the tears out of her eyes,
pushed her black lace scarf into place and straightened out her hair.
She stood up, leaned over the railing and called down into the
courtyard for the cook to prepare fresh tea for the guests that had
come.
Oh, it was good that so many came to visit her, Ladies and
Gentlemen–today and always. She could chat with them, tell them
about her boy.
Legal Councilor Gontram, whom he had wired about his arrival,
awaited him at the train station, took him with to the garden terraces
of the Royal Court, where he explained everything to him that was
important. He begged him to go at once out to Lendenich, speak with
the Fräulein and then early the next morning come back into the
office.
He couldn’t really say the Fräulein would make trouble for him,
but he had a strange, uncomfortable feeling about her that made every
meeting with her intolerable. It was funny in a way, he had worked
with so many criminals–murderers, assassins, burglars, abortionists,
and once he really got to know them he always found that they were
really pretty decent people–with the exception of their crimes.
But with the Fräulein, whom you could not reproach for
anything, he always had the same feeling that other people had toward
the criminals he worked with. It must lie completely in him–
Frank Braun requested that he telephone ahead and announce his
arrival to the Fräulein. Then he excused himself, strolled through the
park until he hit the road to Lendenich.
He walked through the old village, past the statue of St.
Nepomuk and nodded to him, stood in front of the Iron Gate and rang,
looking into the courtyard. There was a large gas candelabra burning
in the entrance where once a paltry little lantern had glowed. That was
the only change that he saw.
Above, from her window the Fräulein looked down, searched the
features of the stranger, and tried to recognize him in the flickering
light. She saw how Aloys sped up, how he put the key in the lock
more quickly than usual.
“Good evening young Master!” cried the servant and the stranger
shook hands with him, called him by name, as if he had just come
back to his own house after a little trip.
“How goes it, Aloys?”
Then the old coachman hobbled over the stones as quickly as his
crippled leg would carry him.
“Young Master,” he crowed. “Young Master! Welcome to
Brinken!”
Frank Braun exclaimed, “Froitsheim! Still here? Glad to see you
again!”
He shook both hands vigorously. Then the cook came and the
wide hipped house keeper. With them came Paul, the valet. The entire
servant’s quarters emptied itself into the courtyard. Two old maids
pressed to the front, stretching their hands out to him, but first,
carefully wiping their hands on their aprons.
“Jesus Christ be praised!” the gardener greeted him and he
laughed.
“To eternity, Amen!”
“The young Master is here!” cried the gray haired cook and gave
Frank Braun’s suitcase to the valet.
Everyone stood around him, everyone demanded a personal
greeting, a handshake, a friendly word, and the younger ones, those
that didn’t know him, stood nearby, staring at him with open eyes and
awkward smiles, off to the side stood the chauffeur, smoking his short
pipe. Even his indolent features showed a friendly smile.
Fräulein ten Brinken snapped her fingers.
“My guardian appears well liked here,” she said half out loud
and she called down:
“Bring the Gentleman’s things up to his room–and you, Aloys,
show him the way.”
Some frost fell on the fresh spring of his welcome. They let their
heads drop, didn’t speak any more. Only Froitsheim shook his hand
one last time, walked with him to the master staircase.
“It is good you are here, young Master.”
Frank Braun went up to his room, washed himself, and then
followed the butler who announced that dinner was served. He
stepped into the dining room and was left alone for a moment. He
looked around, there, like always, stood the giant buffet, ostentatious
as ever with the heavy golden plates that bore the crest of the
Brinkens.
But no fruit lay on them today.
“It is still too early in the season,” he murmured, “or perhaps my
cousin has no interest in the first fruits.”
Then the Fräulein came in from the other side, adorned in a black
silk gown, richly set with lace down to her feet. She stood in the door
a moment, then stepped in and greeted him.
“Good evening, Herr Cousin.”
She reached out her hand to him, but only the two fingertips. He
pretended not to notice, taking her entire hand and shaking it
vigorously. With a gesture she invited him to take his place and sat
down across from him.
“May we be informal with each other?” she began.
“Certainly,” he nodded. “That has long been the custom with the
Brinkens.”
He raised his glass, “To your health, little cousin.”
“Little cousin,” she thought. “He calls me little cousin, thinks of
me as a doll.”
But she replied, “Prosit, big cousin.”
She emptied her glass, waved for the servant to refill it and drank
once more, “To your health, Herr Guardian!”
That made him laugh, Guardian–guardian? It sounded so
dignified–”Am I really that old?” he thought.
He answered, “And to you, little ward.”
She got angry–little ward, again; little?–Oh, it would soon be
shown which of them was the superior.
“How is you mother?” she asked.
“Thank you,” he nodded. “Very well, thank you–haven’t you met
her yet?–You could have visited her at least once.”
“She never visited us either,” she retorted.
Then when she saw his smile, she quickly added, “Really cousin,
we never thought of it.”
“I can just imagine,” he said dryly.
“Papa scarcely spoke of her and not of you at all.”
She spoke a little too quickly, rushing herself. “I was really
surprised, you know, when he made you–”
“Me too!” he interrupted her, “and he certainly had some reason
for doing it.”
“A reason?” she asked. “What reason?”
He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know yet–but it will soon
come out.”
The conversation never faltered. It was like a ball game; the short
sentences flew back and forth. They remained polite, amiable and
obliging, but they watched each other, were completely on their
guards, and never came together. A taut net stretched itself between
them.
After dinner she led him into the music room.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
But he requested whiskey and soda. They sat down, chatted some
more. Then she stood up, went to the Grand piano.
“Should I sing something?” she asked.
“Please,” he said politely.
She raised the lid, sat down, then she turned around and asked:
“Any special request cousin?”
“No,” he replied. “I don’t know your repertoire, little cousin.”
She pressed her lips together. That is becoming a habit, she
thought.
She struck a couple of notes, sang half a stanza, broke off, began
another song, and broke that off as well. Then she sang a couple of
measures of Offenbach, then a line from Grieg.
“You don’t appear to be in the right mood,” he observed calmly.
She laid her hands on her lap, remained quiet awhile, drummed
nervously on her knees. Then she raised her hands, sank them quickly
onto the keys and began:
There once was a shepherdess
And ron, ron and small patapon
There once was a shepherdess
Who kept her sheep
Ron, ron who kept her sheep
She turned toward him, pouting. Oh, yes, that little face
surrounded by short curls could very well belong to a graceful
shepherdess–
She made a cheese
And ron, ron and small patapon
She made a cheese
While milking her sheep
Ron, ron, while milking her sheep
Pretty shepherdess, he thought, and poor–little sheep. She moved
her head, stretched her left foot sideways, tapped out a beat on the
floor with a dainty shoe.
The naughty cat watched
And ron, ron and small patapon
The naughty cat watched
From a small distance away
Ron, ron, from a small distance away
If you touch it with your paws
And ron, ron, and small patapon
If you touch it with your paws
I will hit you with a stick
Ron, ron, I will hit you with a stick!

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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

She laughed hysterically and then looked at Janina with wild hate, but only a moment… 

“You naturally did not know that he was married… How he lies, ha, ha, ha, how he lies…” 

Suddenly Janina’s strength left her. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. 

Isa became very serious; she stood up. 

“Did I insult you?” she asked coldly. 

But she expected no answer, she went to the bed end where the little one lay, looked at him attentively and then stood in the middle of the room. 

“But don’t cry. I did not want to insult you… How beautiful the child is! And you have no guilt… You are only a small, weak girl.” 

And again she began to laugh. 

Strange that you have a child… How old are you actually? Eighteen? Nineteen? Well, farewell and don’t cry. He will come back, he will come, she raged… I will drive him back to you, immediately—immediately… 

“Don’t torment me!” Janina suddenly cried out. 

“Torment? Torment? Ha, ha, ha… I will send him here immediately… tout de suite, tout de suite…” 

On the street she stood for a long time. 

A few street boys went past her, laughed impudently at her and threw obscene words at her. 

She looked around timidly and began to go, quick, senselessly quick… “Only not back, only not back, only not back to the liar,” 

she murmured softly to herself. 

“But my God! what disgusting people live here! Why do you harass me, why do you push me then? What did I do to you?” 

She gnashed her teeth in impotent rage. 

Suddenly she felt a violent pain. A fellow had run into her and brutally pushed her aside so that she almost fell. 

The pain brought her to consciousness. 

She began to go slowly, kept close to the wall, she became anxious like a small child, a crying cramp worked its way up in her with all strength, she choked it down with difficulty, but could not prevent the tears from running unstoppably over her cheeks.  

Then she came to an empty square, sat down on a bench and calmed herself. And only now everything flew through her brain with visionary clarity and a wild pain began to rage in her. She lost her senses. 

And in the moment she collected herself. Geißler will give money. Only away, far, far away from him, Geißler will give money, Geißler, Geißler she repeated incessantly. 

She got into a cab and gave Geißler’s address. 

The pain raged ever wilder… As if a hell had been unleashed in her… Ha, ha, ha… Mais non, pas du tout; je suis au contraire tres enchantée… très enchantée… These big letters: Isak Isaksohn… No, how comical! Isak Isaksohn… Ha, ha, ha… Falk is a genius. He must improve the race, it is his duty, his duty… Here I can buy fabrics—Friedrichstraße 183, and yes, what was his name? Isak Isaksohn and Friedrichstraße 183… 

Then she suddenly felt an unspeakable disgust. The person took her, with the same hands he embraced her as the girl there—with the same mouth he kissed her… 

She shook herself. A morbid rage overcame her, it became unbearably tight to her, she would have liked to tear her clothes apart. The disgust choked her ever more violently. 

Why did he not drag the woman into my bed?! Ha, ha, ha… He should have done it before my eyes… 

She could no longer control herself. She cramped and crawled into herself and stretched up again, she felt an unbearable pain in the breast, in the head, everywhere, everywhere… 

Oh que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal… Mon Dieu, que jai mal! 

When she entered Geißler’s room, she was seized by a sudden cheerfulness. 

“How well you look at me! You are like a small, shy boy… Ha, ha, ha… And you have such a beautiful, soft coat… Well, don’t look at me as if I fell from heaven… I am after all Erik Falk’s legally, legally you understand? on the Mairie of the fifteenth arrondissement in Paris legally married wife…” 

She laughed heartily. 

Geißler looked at her astonished. But since she laughed so heartily, he laughed with. 

“Just think, Walther, we haven’t even greeted each other…” She kept his hand in hers. 

“How big and good your hand is! And so warm, so warm.” 

“You didn’t meet Erik downstairs?” asked Geißler a little uneasily. “Erik Falk? My husband?” She choked with laughter. “No, no! 

My husband, ha, ha, mon mari! quelle drôle idée plus philosophique qu’originale, n’est-ce pas?” 

She looked around and sat down. Geißler looked at her helplessly. 

“Why do you look at me so sadly? Ah,—ah…” she stood up again… “He was here, he told you everything…” 

Geißler turned around and busied himself with the papers. 

“Did he tell you about his little son, and about his little mistress? Ha, ha, ha… did he want to lighten his heart with you?” 

“Well, you know, Isa, you don’t need to take that so to heart. You are after all a woman, and a man is organized quite differently…” 

She had sat down again in the meantime, but suddenly she felt a great fatigue, she was near fainting. 

“Give water!” 

She drank greedily a large glass. 

“Ha, ha… I have not seen my husband, no, no, je ne l’ai pas vu depuis cinq jours… Strange preference for my mother tongue. I have almost forgotten it… I was in a hideous, German boarding school… At five o’clock we had to get up… O! brr! But how strong you are and your hand so big and so good.” 

She suddenly looked at him fixedly. 

“You don’t need to look so mournful. I want no pity. I want money. Give me money,” she said harshly. 

He looked at her frightened. “What do you need it for?” 

“You are a nice gentleman! Ha, ha, ha. You ask a lady what she needs money for! Just give me money, I have a very bad affair…” 

“Isa, be serious for a moment. You don’t want to do stupid things?” 

“What do you think?” 

“Well listen, Isa. You know very well what you are to me… very bad things are going on with you now… And there you know to whom you should turn… I mean, well—you will not misunderstand me… You know me… But… pas de sentiments, n’est-ce pas? How much do you need?” 

“Three, four hundred…” 

“I will give you five hundred.” 

She did not understand him, stared only at him with growing rapture. Her senses began to confuse. 

“How splendid you are!… And give me your big, warm hand… Yes, so, hold me tight, hold me tight… O que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal…” 

She fell into a hysterical crying cramp.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Twelve
Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s
world.
FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house,
somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from
Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was
from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in
some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed
fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back
from somewhere.
Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white
staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old
engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in
which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors
hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew
where they stood in the world.
There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good
portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful
grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria.
His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There
was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long
blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him
as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick,
ancient tome.
In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere,
from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from
the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were
many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian,
Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they
glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains.
He went further, through the room where the modernists hung.
There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one
of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.
All around stood old furniture, most of it mahogany–Empire,
Directoire or Biedermeir. There was none of oak but several simpler,
modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style,
simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was
a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood
there and made it belong.
He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed–
two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of
place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were
careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting.
Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a
chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the
floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed strange and
bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only.
There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the
Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many
weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting
trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells,
snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long
necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from
Albania.
On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It
hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins,
swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty
ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails.
The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was
thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and
mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.
There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all
sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the
absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes.
In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung
framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya,
small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted
colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and
Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a
dedication.
There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly
populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac.
All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar
bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, had caught the
mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its
three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear
from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish
idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger.
Single handedly he had stole this black thunderstone out of the
forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of
this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba
Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword
he had given his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo
and for this other long executioner’s sword, his little pocket chess
game to the Vice Regent of Shantung.
These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the
Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant
hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of
animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the
dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–
His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag,
reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over
there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of
Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container
of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two
magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally
laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them–
Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood
and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his
new treasures–none had been opened yet.
“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.
A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large
double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a
Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest.
“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him.
“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.
He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From
there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with
bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread
out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian
eagle.
“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.
The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched
it.
“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back
again?”
Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out
onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea.
Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles,
further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow-
white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing
trees.
“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.
His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered.
“That is Father Cyprian.”
A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and
as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came
rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a
shuffling Galatian peddler.
“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di
Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”
He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly
said, “cockatoo”.
“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked.
“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is
safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a
silver spoon.
“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft,
“’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”
“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed.
His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much
better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world–
always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to
get a half hour of peace.”
She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across
the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling
bird back up on the railing.
Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its
little head on her knee.
“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some
white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well.
Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round
hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots.
They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the
forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the
female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or
great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white,
blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle.
Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom
with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his
mother had planted many colorful primroses there.
Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house,
all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were
the sparrows.
“The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his
mother.
She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the
courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He
had to search before he finally found it.
“It already has three little eggs,” he said.
“No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the
fourth one this morning.”
“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful
here mother.”
She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is
beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.”
“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you
used to?”
She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people.
They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner.
Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me.
But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.”
“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described
the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if
she wanted to be there when he unpacked.
Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He
tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked
at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram
that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house.
There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank
Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He,
the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary
executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe
he begged him to take up his obligation.

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