I'm Not Stiller by Max Frisch Read Free Book Online

precision on his own head, which is supposed to have left an indelible impression on the children for the rest of their lives—Daddy with a sola topi and revolver holster that were not only genuine, but showed visible signs of use—and when his wife said, 'You know, Isidore, you really shouldn't have done it,' it was all over with Isidore's cosy homecoming. He drew (once more, I expect, with military precision) his revolver from his belt and fired three shots into the still untouched cake decorated with sugar icing, which, as may readily be imagined, caused a pretty frightful mess. 'Isidore,' screamed his wife, for her dressing gown was spattered all over with whipped cream—if the innocent children had not been there as witness she would have thought the whole visit, which cannot have lasted more than ten minutes, a hallucination. Surrounded by her five children like a Niobe, she watched Isidore the irresponsible walk coolly out through the garden gate, the impossible topi on his head.
    After this shock the poor woman could never look at birthday cake without thinking of Isidore, a pitiable state of affairs. Her friends advised her confidentially to get a divorce, but the brave woman still hoped. Her husband's guilt was obvious. But she still hoped he would relent, lived entirely for the five children she had by Isidore, and like a Penelope put off for another year the young lawyer who paid her a visit and urged her, not without reasons of his own, to divorce her husband. And sure enough a year later—again on her birthday—Isidore returned, sat down after the usual greeting, rolled down his sleeves and once more let the children play with his topi; but this time their delight at having a daddy lasted less than three minutes. 'Isidore,' said his wife, 'where have you been this time?' He stood up, without shooting, thank goodness, and without taking his topi away from the innocent children, rolled up his sleeves again, and went out through the garden gate never to return. His poor wife wept as she signed the divorce petition, but it had to be, especially as Isidore did not put in an appearance within the legally specified period; his chemist's shop was sold; the second marriage proceeded without ostentation and after the legally specified period had elapsed was also sanctioned by the registry office; in short, everything followed an orderly pattern, as was so important for the growing children. There was never any answer to the question of where Daddy had got to. Not even a picture postcard. Mummy didn't want the children to ask where he was; she ought never to have asked Daddy herself...
    ***
    They have no money for whisky, but plenty for telegrams to Mexico to confirm from the Swiss Embassy that there is not only a Mexican dump called Orizaba, but in very truth a whole lot of flourishing
haciendas
, some of them really occupied by ex-ministers, some of them larger than the canton of Zurich and some of them smaller. On the other hand, however (my able counsel informs me), the Embassy cannot confirm that a Swiss citizen was ever employed on a Mexican
hacienda.
    'Well,' I said, 'now you know.'
    'What?'
    'That I'm not a Swiss citizen, Herr Doktor, and therefore can't be your missing Herr Stiller.'
    Whenever one of us thinks with razor-edged acuity, the other is in no way convinced; my counsel reached into his leather case and actually offered me a cigar he had specially bought for me—not the brand I wanted, unfortunately, but I nevertheless showed I was touched.
    'Word of honour—have you really been in Mexico?' he asked. 'Joking apart.'
    It's funny how a little thing like a one-franc cigar immediately puts you under an obligation, making it quite impossible for me to turn my back on the donor without a word, in answer to his question ... Have I really been in Mexico! Anyone can say Yes, but not everyone, I thought to myself, can relate what a backache a lower shrub-leaf, like the one on this cigar,