Death in Rome by Wolfgang Koeppen Read Free Book Online Page A

business internationally, dishing out fame and prize-money once again. Pfaffrath had also read somewhere that Kürenberg would be conducting Siegfried's symphony, and it came back to him. 'Do you remember that Kürenberg,' he asked his wife, 'who was our General Musical Director in '34, and was all set to go on to Berlin?' 'He married that Aufhäuser woman,' replied Anna. 'Yes,' said Pfaffrath, 'that's why he couldn't go to Berlin, and we weren't able to keep him, either. ' And Pfaffrath had the impression that at that time, before the gauleiters had acquired all power for themselves, when he was Oberpresident of the province, he had supported Kürenberg, and that pleased him now, because it suggested that in choosing to conduct and promote the work of the son, Kürenberg was gratefully acknowledging the help of the father. But
    up in the cage of her room, Eva listened out for the avenger's footfall.
    Spinning out of the revolving door, the porter's hand, white-gloved lackey's hand, hangman's hand, death's hand had given the carousel of ingress and egress momentum, most respectfully, your humble servant, always at your service, sir, a tip for death, sir. Spun by his hand out of the revolving door, Judejahn felt he'd been thrown out of the hotel, out of the security of money and rank, out of the safety of power that stood behind him, borrowed power to be sure, foreign power, the power of another race even, dusky Levantine power, but nevertheless state power with suzerainty and its own flag—all at once he felt powerless. It was the first time in a very long time that Judejahn had stepped out, a man among men, a civilian, without protection, without an escort, without a weapon, a stout elderly fellow in a dark suit. It threw him the way no one paid him any attention. Passersby touched him, brushed past him, knocked into him and muttered a quick desultory 'Pardon'. Pardon for Judejahn? He took a couple of strides. No one was keeping a respectful distance. Judejahn could have gone back inside the hotel, he could have rung the diplomatic mission of his employers, and he would have been sent the automobile with the Arab licence plates. Or he could have merely waved to the hotel porter, and the white-gloved and serviceable fellow would have whistled up a taxi-cab with his shrill little flute. Back then—how stiffly they had stood, his guard of honour! Two lines of black uniforms. Twenty outriders, a car in front of him, another behind him. But he wanted to walk. He probably hadn't walked through a city for thirty years. When Berlin was a glowing inferno, when the whole world was on Judejahn's heels, he had walked a little, had crawled through debris, climbed over bodies, romped through ruins and then he'd been rescued. How? Brought low by chance, or, as his Führer would have said, by fate, doused with petrol, burned to ashes, and then not finished after all, the Phoenix resurrected itself, fate had rescued Judejahn and led him to the Promised Land, not the land of Israel, but that of some other dusky tribe. And there Judejahn hadn't been on foot either, only on the exercise ground, taking a few steps in the desert.
    He got a grip on himself of course, old dreadnought, and if he fell, here was a railing to hand. Wrought-iron palings rose like spears into the sky—a palisade of power, wealth and rejection. A large automobile slid across the gravel drive. Judejahn remembered. He too had driven up here, more sweep, more gravel crunch, but he had once driven up here. A sign informed him that he was standing in front of the United States Embassy. Of course, Judejahn hadn't been to see the Americans; they hadn't invited him, they hadn't even been there at the time. But he had, definitely, so there must have been something Fascist in the building, some big production, and they had failed to exercise the necessary rigour. What was the Duce? A sentimental indulgence on the part of the Führer. Judejahn had a particular loathing for