The Golem by Gustav Meyrink Read Free Book Online Page A

old man was standing beside me, the same one who had given that horrible laugh earlier. He was wearing gloves and a black frock coat, and his protuberant eyes were fixed on the entrance of the house opposite. His coarse-featured face was clean shaven and was twitching with excitement.
    Automatically, I followed the direction of his gaze and realised that he was staring spellbound at Rosina, who was standing on the other side of the street, her permanent smile playing round her lips. The old man was trying to make signs to her, and I could tell that she was well aware of them, but was behaving as if she had no idea what he meant.
    Finally the old man could stand it no longer, and waded across the street on tiptoe, bobbing up and down in a ridiculous manner, like a huge, black rubber ball bouncing over the puddles.
    He seemed to be well-known, to go by all the innuendoes I could hear around me. Someone behind me – a lout with a red knitted scarf round his neck, a blue soldier’s cap on his head and a half-smoked cigar behind his ear – started making leering insinuations which I did not understand. All I could make out was that in the Ghetto they called the old man the ‘Freemason’ and that in their jargon this was a name for a man who has sexual relations with schoolgirls but whose connections with the police render him immune to the legal consequences.
    Across the street Rosina and the old man disappeared in the darkness of the entrance hall.

PUNCH
     
    We had opened the window to get rid of the tobacco smoke from my tiny room. The cold night wind blew in and set the shaggy coats hanging on the door gently swinging to and fro.
    “Prokop’s noble specimen of the hatter’s art is tempted to fly away”, said Zwakh, pointing to the musician’s huge floppy hat, the broad brim of which was beginning to flap like a pair of black wings.
    Joshua Prokop gave a cheery wink. “It probably wants to –”
    “– go to Loisitchek’s, to listen to the dance band”, interrupted Vrieslander.
    Prokop laughed and beat time to the music that was borne across the roofs on the thin winter air. Then he picked up my old, battered guitar that was leaning against the wall, pretended to pluck its broken strings and sang a strange song in a squawking falsetto, exaggerating the pronunciation of its canting jargon:
A dusty hen
With gelt to cough;
A zaftik naffka
For your kife;
Jack-a-dandy,
Snout and scoff:
Nothing but fressing –
That’s the life.
     
    “Shows a natural aptitude for thieves’ slang, doesn’t he?” laughed Vrieslander, joining in a reprise with his rumbling bass:
Jack-a-dandy,
Snout and scoff:
Nothing but fressing –
That’s the life.
     
    Zwakh explained. “It’s a peculiar song that Nephtali Schaffranek – the meshuggenah with the green eyeshade – croaks out every night at Loisitchek’s; there’s a dolled-up woman plays the accordion and joins in the words. It’s an interesting dive, you should come along with us some time, Pernath. Perhaps later on, when we’ve run out of punch. What do you think? As a birthday treat for you?”
    “Yes, you should come along with us”, said Prokop, closing the window, “it really is worth seeing.”
    Then we went back to our hot punch, each one occupied with his own thoughts. Vrieslander was carving away at a puppet.
    Zwakh broke the silence. “You literally cut us off from the outside world, Joshua, when you closed that window. Since then, no one’s said a word.”
    “I was just thinking about the way those coats started flapping earlier on”, Prokop answered quickly, as if to excuse his silence. “Isn’t it strange the way the wind makes inanimate objects move? Doesn’t it look odd when things which usually just lie there lifeless suddenly start fluttering. Don’t you agree? I remember once looking out onto an empty square, watching huge scraps of paper whirling angrily round and round, chasing one another as if each had sworn to kill the others; and I