Read Online Flotsam by Erich Maria Remarque - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
Ads: Link
is the very least. That hasn’t anything to do with the quality. You can give me thirty per cent and it can be good toilet water just the same, can’t it?”
The druggist made a face. “All toilet waters are the same. The only thing that makes some better than others is advertising. That’s the whole secret.”
Kern looked at him. “It’s perfectly certain that there’s not going to be any more advertising for this. And so according to you it’s very bad. In that case, thirty-five per cent would be the right discount.”
“Thirty,” the owner rejoined. “Now and then someone asks for it.”
“Herr Bureck,” the druggist said. “I think we can let him have it at thirty-five per cent if he takes a dozen. The man who inquires for it now and then is always the same one. And he doesn’t buy any of it; he just wants to sell us the formula.”
“The formula? Dear God, as if we didn’t have enough trouble!” Bureck lifted his hands in despair.
“The formula?” Kern pricked up his ears. “Who is it that wants to sell you the formula?”
The druggist laughed. “Someone or other. He says he formerlyowned the laboratory himself. All lies of course! The things these emigrees think up!”
Kern was breathless for an instant. “Do you know where the man lives?” he asked.
The druggist shrugged his shoulders. “I think we have the address lying around somewhere. He has given it to us a couple of times.”
“I think it’s my father.”
The two stared at Kern. “Really?” said the druggist.
“Yes, I think that’s who it is. I’ve been looking for him for a long time.”
“Bertha!” the owner shouted excitedly to a woman who was working at a desk in the back of the store. “Have we still got the address of the man who wanted to sell us a formula for toilet water?”
“Do you mean Herr Strna? Or that old windbag who’s been in here loafing around a couple of times?” the woman shouted back.
“Hell!” The proprietor looked at Kern in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.” He went quickly to the back of the store.
“That comes from sleeping with the help,” the druggist remarked sneeringly behind his back.
The owner came back snorting after a while with a slip of paper in his hand. “Here’s the address. It is a Herr Kern, Siegmund Kern.”
“That’s my father.”
“Really?” The man gave the paper to Kern. “This is the address. The last time he was here was about three weeks ago. You understand, of course—”
“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference. But I’d like to go there right away. I’ll come back later about the bottles.”
“Of course. There’s time enough for that.”
———
The house to which Kern had been directed was situated in Tuzarova Street, near the covered markets. It was dark and musty and smelled of damp walls and boiled cabbage. Kern climbed slowly up the stairs. It was strange, but he was a little afraid to see his father again after so long a time—experience had taught him that things never got any better.
On the third floor he rang. After a while there was a sound of shuffling footsteps behind the door and a piece of cardboard was pushed away from a round peephole. Kern could see one black eye peering at him.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice inquired sullenly.
“I want to see someone who lives here,” Kern said.
“No one lives here.”
“That’s not true, you live here, don’t you?” Kern looked at the name on the door. “Frau Melanie Ekowski? But I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well then?”
“I want to talk to a man who lives here.”
“There’s no man living here.”
Kern stared at the round black eye. Perhaps it was true that his father had left long since. He felt suddenly empty and discouraged.
“What’s his name supposed to be?” asked the woman behind the door.
Kern lifted his head with reawakened hope. “I’d rather not shout that through the whole house. If you’ll open the door I’ll tell
The druggist made a face. “All toilet waters are the same. The only thing that makes some better than others is advertising. That’s the whole secret.”
Kern looked at him. “It’s perfectly certain that there’s not going to be any more advertising for this. And so according to you it’s very bad. In that case, thirty-five per cent would be the right discount.”
“Thirty,” the owner rejoined. “Now and then someone asks for it.”
“Herr Bureck,” the druggist said. “I think we can let him have it at thirty-five per cent if he takes a dozen. The man who inquires for it now and then is always the same one. And he doesn’t buy any of it; he just wants to sell us the formula.”
“The formula? Dear God, as if we didn’t have enough trouble!” Bureck lifted his hands in despair.
“The formula?” Kern pricked up his ears. “Who is it that wants to sell you the formula?”
The druggist laughed. “Someone or other. He says he formerlyowned the laboratory himself. All lies of course! The things these emigrees think up!”
Kern was breathless for an instant. “Do you know where the man lives?” he asked.
The druggist shrugged his shoulders. “I think we have the address lying around somewhere. He has given it to us a couple of times.”
“I think it’s my father.”
The two stared at Kern. “Really?” said the druggist.
“Yes, I think that’s who it is. I’ve been looking for him for a long time.”
“Bertha!” the owner shouted excitedly to a woman who was working at a desk in the back of the store. “Have we still got the address of the man who wanted to sell us a formula for toilet water?”
“Do you mean Herr Strna? Or that old windbag who’s been in here loafing around a couple of times?” the woman shouted back.
“Hell!” The proprietor looked at Kern in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.” He went quickly to the back of the store.
“That comes from sleeping with the help,” the druggist remarked sneeringly behind his back.
The owner came back snorting after a while with a slip of paper in his hand. “Here’s the address. It is a Herr Kern, Siegmund Kern.”
“That’s my father.”
“Really?” The man gave the paper to Kern. “This is the address. The last time he was here was about three weeks ago. You understand, of course—”
“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference. But I’d like to go there right away. I’ll come back later about the bottles.”
“Of course. There’s time enough for that.”
———
The house to which Kern had been directed was situated in Tuzarova Street, near the covered markets. It was dark and musty and smelled of damp walls and boiled cabbage. Kern climbed slowly up the stairs. It was strange, but he was a little afraid to see his father again after so long a time—experience had taught him that things never got any better.
On the third floor he rang. After a while there was a sound of shuffling footsteps behind the door and a piece of cardboard was pushed away from a round peephole. Kern could see one black eye peering at him.
“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice inquired sullenly.
“I want to see someone who lives here,” Kern said.
“No one lives here.”
“That’s not true, you live here, don’t you?” Kern looked at the name on the door. “Frau Melanie Ekowski? But I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well then?”
“I want to talk to a man who lives here.”
“There’s no man living here.”
Kern stared at the round black eye. Perhaps it was true that his father had left long since. He felt suddenly empty and discouraged.
“What’s his name supposed to be?” asked the woman behind the door.
Kern lifted his head with reawakened hope. “I’d rather not shout that through the whole house. If you’ll open the door I’ll tell
Similar Books
