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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
New translations of the greatest short stories by Joseph Roth, collected in a beautiful edition Joseph Roth's sensibility - both clear-eyed and nostalgic, harshly realistic and tenderly humane - produced some of the most distinctive fiction of the twentieth century. This selection of his finest shorter work, in exquisite new translations by Ruth Martin, showcases Roth's peerless skill as an observer of social discord and individual frailty. A coral merchant, longing for the sea, chooses to adulterate his wares with false corla, with catastrophic results; young Fini, just entering the haze of early sexuality, falls into an unsatisfying relationship with an older musician. In prose of fluid beauty and wry precision, Roth shows us isolated souls pursuing lost ideals in the Austro-Hungarian empire's dying days. JOSEPH ROTH was born into a Jewish family in the small town of Brody in the former Austro-Hungarian Empire. He studied first in Lemberg and then in Vienna, and served in the Austrian army during the first World War. He later worked a a journalist in Vienna and Berlin, travelling widely, staying in hotels and living out of suitcases while also being a prolific writer of fiction, including the novels Job (1930) and The Radetsky March (1932). Roth left Germany when Hitler came to power in 1933 and settled in Paris. He collapsed at the Café Touron in May 1939 and died shortly after.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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JOSEPH ROTH
THE CORAL MERCHANT
Essential Stories
Translated from the German by Ruth Martin
PUSHKIN PRESS
LONDON
CONTENTS
CAREER
1920
He had been the junior bookkeeper with the firm of Reckzügel & Co., a wholesale exporter of saddles and bridles, for twenty-three years, and he earned 350 crowns a month.
And his name was Gabriel Stieglecker.
The other thing to be said about him is that, to keep from starving to death, he went looking for more work to supplement his income, and found some. For a few days at the end of each month he helped out at the firms of Pollacek Brothers, Simon Silberstein and Brother, and Rosalie Funkel. Altogether, Gabriel Stieglecker received 675 crowns a month. And he had now been dying on that amount for three years and five months.
He was an excellent, prompt and reliable bookkeeper. Thanks to his efforts, the firms of Pollacek Brothers, 8Simon Silberstein and Brother, and Rosalie Funkel were able to manage without a bookkeeper of their own. He kept their accounts in order, knew what had to be hidden from the taxman and the police, and was as discreet as a borehole.
Gabriel Stieglecker loved his job. He preferred green ink over blue, and red above that. But his favourite was violet. Every other bookkeeper in the world wrote their figures in black imperial ink. But all of Gabriel Stieglecker’s figures were violet. He claimed to know for a fact that violet ink was more permanent than any other colour, and soaked into the pores of the paper with unparalleled intensity. Yes, one might even suppose that numbers written in violet ink would go on existing long after the paper had disintegrated, as transparent images in the air.
As for the numbers written by Gabriel Stieglecker, it is worth remarking that they could never be mistaken for anyone else’s. They had a personal touch, a distinct character, they were individuals. The 3 had no belly, the 2 no hunchback, the 7 no tail. All the numbers had a “nice line”, they were slender and willowy like modern women, and their artistic panache was second only to the drawings of models in the latest fashion magazines.
For Gabriel Stieglecker loved the numbers he created. He breathed his own breath into them, so to 9speak, and that was why they looked so undernourished. He played with them as a boy plays with tin soldiers, mustering them in double rows, and marking the edge of his parade ground with a grass-green line. Or he would take red ink and start a bloodbath among them—though it was never permitted to spill everywhere willy-nilly; the red was channelled into neat furrows using a ruler. Order had to prevail at all times.
If you did not know this, it would be impossible to understand that Gabriel Stieglecker has now entered the sixth month of his fourth year of dying on this income of 675 crowns. I use the word “dying” not, say, out of forgetfulness; it is entirely deliberate. For the story is true: Gabriel Stieglecker is not this man’s name, but he is a living person. The story is in any case too remarkable for anyone but Life to have come up with it—as you will see.
Gabriel Stieglecker had a seat at the regulars’ table in Café Aspern, where he went every Sunday for a black coffee with saccharin. And every Sunday, while he was busy thinking about the strange sheen of the violet ink he had purchased the day before, the other regulars would reproach him. Why had he not asked for a raise yet? Could he not see that he was being despicably exploited? In this day and age? By that firm? That honest company?10
In order to forget these reproaches quickly and completely, Gabriel Stieglecker went into the office every Sunday afternoon and wrote out numbers. Gabriel Stieglecker completed all his work for Monday morning and would have gone to bed well pleased with his efforts had he not been plagued by the worry that the next morning he would have nothing to do.
And so Gabriel Stieglecker’s Sunday nights were tormented and anxious. Gabriel Stieglecker was not at all in favour of Sundays.
On one and the same day, all of the following occurred:
The washerwoman announced that her prices were going up by ten per cent; the electric tram introduced the two-crown tariff; and his landlady raised the rent by thirty crowns in view of the “rise in electricity costs”.
(I take the fact that Gabriel Stieglecker had no electric light in his room as read, and mention it purely for the sake of those who may feel that the behaviour of Gabriel Stieglecker’s landlady was reasonable.)
These three catastrophes caused the junior bookkeeper Gabriel Stieglecker to seek the senior bookkeeper’s advice.
The senior bookkeeper took off the glasses he wore for work and put on his gold pince-nez, which he usually did only when the chief clerk summoned him.11
The senior bookkeeper did not look at Gabriel through the lenses of the pince-nez, as one might expect, but over the gold rim. And at the same time he lowered his chin onto his chest, making it look like he was about to charge Gabriel with a pair of imaginary horns.
“The twenty per cent rise is surely sufficient for you, is it not?” said the senior bookkeeper, who was only senior because he had been writing out numbers at the firm for thirty-two years; though with imperial ink, of course.
His question was whispered, but it had the tone of a rumble of thunder muffled by pillowy clouds.
“I haven’t received a twenty per cent rise!” said Gabriel.
“Then you must ask for it,” the senior bookkeeper said loudly, taking off the pince-nez and replacing his glasses.
That was the signal for Gabriel Stieglecker to leave.
He went back to his desk and thought things over. One could not ask for a twenty per cent rise straight out. But, by cautiously referring to the very kind salary increase given to all employees, and in view of how difficult the general escalation in living costs had made things, he might most humbly request a rise of fifty crowns.12
Gabriel Stieglecker dipped a new nib in the violet ink with the strange sheen and wrote a letter to his boss. He asked for fifty crowns, signing it respectfully and most humbly yours, and placing his name very low down in the bottom right-hand corner. So low that his surname almost fell off the table.
The next morning, Gabriel Stieglecker found a letter on his desk, in which the company informed him that from the fifteenth of this month his salary would be increased by twenty-five crowns.
At home, to his great surprise, Gabriel Stieglecker found another letter. It was from the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother, where Gabriel helped out with the accounts. Hell’s bells, could they be writing to say that the firm was dispensing with his services? That really would be cause for despair.
But the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother was informing the bookkeeper Gabriel Stieglecker that it had significantly expanded its business and wished to engage him as principal bookkeeper on a starting salary of one thousand crowns. Gabriel Stieglecker was requested to let them know immediately in writing whether he would be “willing and able” to take up this position.
Once he had convinced himself that the signature was genuine, Gabriel Stieglecker sat straight down at 13his desk to indicate his willingness to enter employment with the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother under the conditions set out in letter number so and so. But then he remembered that he had no violet ink at home. And of course, he could not write a letter of such critical importance in black imperial ink.
While he was eating his polenta and gravy, he began to have reservations. Of course, he would now have to give notice! But how? Could one write a letter to the firm, just like that? Was that how it was done? He had been there for twenty-three years. Two more and he would be celebrating his jubilee. The head of the company himself would come and give him a present, perhaps some one-off bonus, and the chief clerk would make a little speech, and the senior bookkeeper would be wearing his gold pince-nez. When one considered all this, could one give notice just like that?
And even if he could, then giving his notice would be the least of his worries! Because then the boss, or Herr Reckzügel junior at least, would be certain to call him into his office. And the office, yes, that was what Gabriel really feared.
There was a double door. The first was wooden, and the second padded. It looked something like the door of a safe, so noiseless and plush was it. You had only to look at the door and you would start to feel 14tired. Sitting in a leather-upholstered chair, you entered the pre-hypnotic state which there was no avoiding once Herr Reckzügel began speaking to you. Inside his office, broad, comfortable leather sofas stood around a nut-brown table. On the left, a ponderous desk squatted in the corner, and on the left-hand wall slept the brown fire-safe, metal eyelids closed over its locks. The air was heavy with a scent of Havana cigars, pineapple and Perolin that beguiled the senses.
Gabriel pictured this room so clearly to himself that he fell into a kind of lethargy. In this state, he wrote a letter to the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother, saying that he was aware of what an honour this was, but in consideration of his long service to the business where he had now been employed for more than twenty-three years, he must ask for a period of one week to think the matter over.
That week was the most unpleasant of Gabriel’s less than pleasant life.
Gabriel Stieglecker even neglected his numbers. He stopped giving them proper consideration, and from time to time—the very thought!—he would write a full set of figures in the debit column in black imperial ink. Here and there a 2 even appeared with a hunchback, and a 7 with a tail. It was terrible.15
On Monday, Gabriel would have to make a decision. On Sunday he did not go to his regular café. Nor did he go to the office.
Instead, since the weather was already mild and spring-like, Gabriel took a walk in the city park. And there he ran into the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother.
Simon Silberstein and Brother were tremendously kind to Gabriel. They took it for granted that he would be their new bookkeeper, and began to discuss the details. Before they went on their way, they treated him to a modest supper in the park restaurant.
When Gabriel returned home on Sunday evening, he had made up his mind to go and work for the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother.
He got up at five in the morning, had a shave and did some stretching exercises with a chair. He took a deep breath, held it and twisted himself into all kinds of peculiar shapes. Limbering up gave him courage. Then he took the tram to the office, for the first time since the introduction of the two-crown tariff.
He sat down quickly at the desk with the sprightliness of a much younger man, dipped a fresh nib into the violet ink with the strange sheen and wrote; he wrote his letter of resignation.16
Just as he was about to sign his name most respectfully and humbly, the office boy arrived. Gabriel was wanted by the boss.
Since the first of January, when according to the old custom he had wished the boss all the best for the new year, Gabriel Stieglecker had not set foot in the dangerously hypnotic office. What did the boss want? Perhaps he had got wind of what Gabriel was planning and meant to beat him to it? Well, so much the better!
In the boss’s room there was a very insistent smell of cigars, pineapple and Perolin.
Herr Reckzügel senior was standing in the middle of the room beneath the chandelier, the lowest brass ball of which was nicely reflected on his bald head. He was holding a dark blue jacket.
Gabriel came to an abrupt halt just inside the padded door. He was bemused. He heard the boss as if through a very thick wall, saying:
“Herr Stieglecker, I just wanted to say that I found this jacket, which in and of itself”—Herr Reckzügel always said “in and of itself”—“is still very serviceable, in my wardrobe. I believe it is the case that at present, unfortunately, you find yourself in rather disadvantageous circumstances. And I wanted to say 17that, in and of itself, it would be perfectly alright, if you catch my meaning, should you wish to… et cetera.” Herr Reckzügel always said “et cetera” when he could not find the right words.
Gabriel Stieglecker staggered out with the jacket and returned to his desk, where he collapsed. He tore the letter of resignation into countless tiny pieces. And as he did so, he imagined that he was tearing up the jacket.
How could he give notice now? The jacket, the jacket! How could he be so ungrateful? The man had given him a jacket, and now he was going to resign?! That he would not do—not Gabriel Stieglecker.
Instead, he once more dipped a fresh nib into the violet ink with the strange sheen and wrote to the firm of Simon Silberstein and Brother that he was very grateful for the previous day’s generous supper invitation, but in consideration of some highly unusual circumstances which had arisen in the past few hours, he felt compelled, etc.
Then Gabriel took the same pen and wrote immaculate, slender numbers in the credit column with violet, shimmering ink. They were the most splendid numbers that Gabriel Stieglecker had ever written.
THE BLIND MIRROR
1925
I
Little fini was sitting on a bench in the Prater, wrapping the good warmth of the April day around her like a shawl. She gave herself up willingly to a sweet fainting sensation she had never known before, as to a melody. The blood hammered heavy and fast against the thin skin of her wrists and temples. The pale green of the trees and lawns began to spread, covering prams, stones and benches. Everything she could see merged together, as if she were looking out of a very fast train at a very green world. It lasted a moment that felt like an eternity. Then the people and things around her regained their contours, their own character and life, their own gait and posture, their distinguishing features and familiar faces. But an echo 19of the fainting fit remained, singing in her blood as it circulated, filling her veins, her whole body, as a chorale fills a church. The emptiness sang; her limbs were heavy, but life was light and free-floating, her heart took to the wing as when death has been conquered. In the distance, black fears fluttered back to earth, no more darkness threatened, no violence waited, there was no flicker of dread on the broad, happy horizon of this wonderful day. Fini could hear the slow beat of her heart, and was comforted to feel her own warm life so close; it was a surprise to find herself alone with her heart for the first time and to be so aware of it, and its beat was like the slow drip of a comforting answer to questions she had been too frightened to ask. Her chest had the lightness of a torment recently shaken off, a kind of melancholy happiness that felt like weeping, or the loosening of a fetter that had been clamped tight for many long years—finally, finally.
Fini, little Fini, got up and stretched her arms, young, like a young bird trying to fly—and as she took her first step, the thoughts returned. They had been lurking mysteriously close by, like swarms of flies they came; the little fears, the sleek, black worries, the ugly scuttering cares, the threats of tomorrow and the day after, the cruel images of cruel days; and the fear settled like a mean yoke across her trembling shoulders.20
The sweet music of the swoon had died away, the good, sleepy song of forgetting; all that luminous expanse of carefree emptiness had paled and the protective warmth of the mild day was gone. Fini shivered in the air of that April evening as she stood up to deliver the letters to the firm of Mendel & Co., to District Courts I and II, to the joint plaintiff Wolff & Sons, the letters all held in her green-bound book, other people’s letters to be taken into other people’s anterooms, the light load, the painful load that she delivered to earn the postage, from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening.
Through the wide streets she went, lost and insignificant, and only when she reached the next foyer did she notice that the letter for District Court I was no longer there, the important letter; in the crooked column of hasty signatures, one was missing, one line was empty, and if one looked long enough it turned into a terrible, gaping hole—a hollow, white eye socket. A great trembling came over the little girl, and the cold became almost unbearable on this mild April evening—she knew it was mild, but it did not warm her. Fini wanted to pull down the warmth and drape it around her thin shoulders. The evening cloaked the city and it should protect her, too, lost as she was on that vast street.21
Ah! When one is so small and thin, it does one good to find some refuge in the noisy wastelands of the city. Iron life rises to form an ominous dome above our little heads, and we are powerless and lost, at the mercy of the barking dog and the glittering policeman, the man’s lustful eye and the shrill cry of the shrewish woman into whose path we blindly stumble, at the mercy of every force that resides on the public squares and lurks on the street corners. Now it would be good to know of a house we could go to, a house with a grand entrance that would shelter us, welcome us like a mother and feed and comfort us and drive the great fear out of our hearts just as the mighty porter drives out unwelcome intruders; now that we have felt the pitilessness of the world outside, a great harbouring house would feel so good. Inside, there would be no worries about the lost letter and the dreaded morrow.
A man in a white coat came and lit a street lamp with a long pole, and it breathed a little warmth into the shivering girl, and brought the meagre but welcome consolation that between today and tomorrow there still lay a long night. Between the calamity and its dreadful consequences lay ten or twelve hours and a night’s sleep and perhaps a redemptive dream and time enough for a miracle, which must surely come 22once in everyone’s life. Perhaps, if there was no dream and no miracle, she would have a chance to talk in the morning to Dr Blum, the junior partner, who was better because he was younger and wore his hair brushed forward like a student.
If it were not for the hallway we have to walk through every evening, a hallway worse than the street outside, which smells of the faeces of young cats and where the caretaker’s wife lurks, and if it were not for the staircase with its broken bannisters like a gap-toothed grin and if not for our careworn mother with her perpetual curiosity and exceptionally sharp ears—were it not for all that, then the morrow could be left to the Lord, to the good Lord, and the rest of today could be enjoyed, in a soft bed, with a book and postcards spread out on the covers.
II
Her mother was not yet home. It is good when our mothers are not there, with their doubtful, searching eyes, our mothers who are tired and tearful, strict and frightening and yet sad, our poor mothers, who understand nothing and chide us, and to whom we have to lie. When they are not there, we do not have to give an 23account of ourselves, nor must we fear the effect that account might have, the need to lie and be discovered lying. As Fini undressed slowly, she felt a warm, wet trickle run down her thighs, it had to be blood—and she was sorely worried. Something had happened to her, and she racked her forgetful brain for some sin that she had doubtless committed many days before.
It is lovely to be able to undress alone in a room, in front of the mirror—so long as the door is locked, as if we had our own room like Tilly, our more grown-up friend—and to look at our growing breasts, white and firm with their rosy tips, although they are not yet so big and so visible through our clothes as Tilly’s, who has a boyfriend and is allowed to kiss.
Affectionately, as if she were stroking a strange little animal, Fini ran her hands over her body, felt the nascent curves of her hips and her cool, rounded knee, and saw the thin red rivulet of blood making its way down her bare leg.
Little girls are afraid when they see this red blood—and if they do not know where it is coming from, if they are all alone and naked, without the protective wrapping of a dress, locked in a room with a living mirror, seeing red blood, mysterious, flowing for mysterious reasons, then their fear is three times as great. Miracles have their source in us; they live in us, and we 24are frightened to find ourselves so close to the great mystery we had thought was remote, far from our bodies. Fini held her breath and suddenly heard the great emptiness in the room, felt the deadness of the dead objects, saw the lamp burning in a mist, a white mist that took on and retained the shape of a ghostly countenance with a glowing core. From a vast distance away, as if from a dimly felt world beyond the grave, Fini heard voices out on the street and the screech of a train, a never-ending melody played on a violin, and a comforting whisper of silence as if from a large seashell. The endless silence flooded in, cool and soft, an ocean that was rising up from her feet—it had already reached her knees, and soon the blue silence covered her hips and went on rising ominously towards her heart.
A welcome darkness came over her and she fainted, slipping into a soft, spread-out, inviting cloak of tender velvet.
III
That was how her mother found her—her mother, who was forever busy and turning grey with worry—when she returned on the Westbahn train from collecting payments in Purkersdorf.25
She threw her battered hat, which was vital for collecting payments and had been squashed on the journey, onto the sofa. There was the wretched sound of eggs breaking in her bag. She was just opening her quivering lips to curse, they were already puckered around an ugly word, when she took fright, thought of suicide and grisly reports in the paper, and bent over Fini.
When the girl came to she saw her mother’s broad face above her, looked into her pained eyes and saw an unusual kindness in them, comfort and an unfamiliar look of alarm. Her mother quickly took her in her strong arms and lifted her into the large, soft, white bed; she brought cold milk and kissed her forehead, lips and eyes as she had not done in a long time. The touch of her mother’s lips was familiar, long-missed, like the return of a half-forgotten childhood. “Good girl,” her mother said, and then she said it again, and her voice was different—it was the voice of an old, former, lost mother who had now returned. “You’re poorly,” her mother said, and: “You’re a woman now.” And Fini understood the question that Tilly, grown-up Tilly, kept asking her: had she, too, been poorly yet? A silent joy flared up inside her, a secret celebration, as if she were wearing a white dress and being confirmed.
