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

Southerners. He approached the cafés on the Via Veneto, and there they all were, not just the despised Southerners, the whole international clique was sitting there, sitting together as they had once done on the Kurfurstendamm, sitting there playing peace on earth, cooing in each other's ears, the deracinated ones, international, homeless golden jetsam, flying, restless and greedy, from one city to another, snooty vultures, escapees from German order and discipline. Judejahn detected mainly English spoken, the American version predominated, they were the ones who had benefited from the war, but he also heard Italian, French and other sounds, occasionally German—not so much here, for they were off on their own patch, making themselves pleasant to one another. Scum, rabble, Jews and Jew-slaves! The words frothed in his mouth like gall, and coated his teeth. He beheld no uniforms, no insignia on chest or shoulders, he looked out into a world without distinction or honour; there were only the epaulettes on the monkey jackets worn by employees of the gastronomic trade. But hello, what was this formation, scarlet-red, advancing against the street of the exploiters, against the plutocratic boulevard? Was the scarlet column a symbol of authority, an emblem of power? Was it the golden horde, the Young Guard, the Giovinezza, coming to clean up? Alas, it was a bitter deception that had been practised on Judejahn; they were surplices, drifting about the gaunt forms of young priests, and, far from marching, the red horde was walking in a disorderly rout, and to Judejahn it even appeared as though they had a swaying and effeminate walk, because it had escaped his notice, while in power, the manly and determined way priests faced death under a dictatorship, and fortunately he did not guess that the scarlet-robed ones were alumni of the German Seminary in Rome—that would have disturbed him even more. Money governed the Via Veneto. But didn't Judejahn have money? Could he not throw his weight around and buy as others bought? Some chairs stood outside a bar, extraordinarily flimsy-looking yellow chairs, they were ridiculous, chairs not built to be sat on, they looked like a flock of crazy canaries, you could almost hear them twittering. And Judejahn felt drawn to this bar, because, for some reason, it was empty at this hour. He didn't take a seat outside, he scorned the perilous chairs, went into the gaping interior and stood by the bar. He propped his elbow on it, he felt weary, it must be the climate that was sapping his strength, and he ordered a beer. An effeminate fellow in a purple tailcoat indicated to him that if he wanted to drink his beer standing at the bar, he would have to buy a coupon for it first, from the cashier. Behind the cash-desk sat the smiling Laura. Her lovely smile was famed up and down the street, and the owner of the bar would not let her go because of this smile that shone in his bar, which gave it a friendlier atmosphere and made the cash-desk a font of joy, even though Laura was stupid and couldn't add. What did it matter? No one cheated Laura, because even the homosexuals who made up the clientele of the bar late at night and on Sunday afternoons felt graced by Laura's steady smile. Judejahn was struck by it too. But inhumanity made him blind, and so he failed to realize that here was a childlike creature who was giving her best for no return. He thought, Nice-looking cunt. He saw hair black as lacquer, a doll's face lit up by the smile, he saw her red lips and red fingernails, he wanted to buy her, and in this moneyed street you had to buy or be bought. But again he stood there helpless and foolish and didn't know how to behave, how to address her, he wasn't in uniform now, the girl showed no fear, merely beckoning wouldn't do it. He was ready to shell out a lot of money for her, and in lira any sum seemed enormous. But how should he talk to her? In German? She wouldn't understand. Judejahn spoke no Italian.