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Authors: Erich Maria Remarque
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youth.
"If you're interested in the relativity of time," I say, briefly hopeful, "then I can introduce you to a society where you can meet experts in that field—the Poets' Club of this dear city. Hans Hungermann, the writer, has elucidated the problem in an unpublished sequence of sixty poems. We can go there right now; there's a meeting every Sunday night with a social hour afterward."
"Are there women there?"
"Naturally not. Women poets are like calculating horses. With the exception, of course, of Sappho's pupils."
"Well then, what's the social hour?" Riesenfeld asks.
"It consists of running down other writers. Especially the successful ones."
Riesenfeld grunts contemptuously. I am ready to give up. Suddenly the window in the horse butcher's house across the street lights up like a brightly lit painting in a dark museum. Behind the curtains we see Lisa. She is just getting dressed and has nothing on except a brassiere and a pair of very short white silk panties.
Riesenfeld emits a snort like a ground hog. His cosmic melancholy has disappeared like' magic. I get up to turn on the light. "No light!" he snaps. "Have you no feeling for poetry?"
He creeps to the window. Lisa begins to draw a tight dress over her head. She writhes like a serpent. Riesenfeld snorts aloud. "A seductive creature! Donnerwetter , what a rear end! A dream! Who is she?"
"Susanna in the bath," I explain, trying to intimate delicately that at the moment we are in the role of the old goats watching her.
"Nonsense!" The voyeur with the Einstein complex never moves his eyes from the golden window. "I mean what's her name."
"I haven't the slightest idea. This is the first time we've seen her. She wasn't even living there at noon today," I say to whet his interest.
"Really?" Lisa has got her dress on and is now smoothing it down with her hands. Behind Riesenfeld's back Georg fills his glass and mine. We toss off the drinks. "A woman of breeding," Riesenfeld says, continuing to cling to the window. "A lady, that's easy to see. Probably French."
As far as we know, Lisa comes from Bohemia. "It might be Mademoiselle de la Tour," I reply. "I heard someone mention that name yesterday."
"You see?" Riesenfeld turns around to us for an instant. "I told you she was French! One can tell right away—that je ne sais quoi! Don't you think so too, Herr Kroll?"
"You're the connoisseur, Herr Riesenfeld."
The light in Lisa's room goes off. Riesenfeld pours his drink down his time-parched throat and once more presses his face against the window. After a while Lisa appears at the door and goes down the steps into the street. Riesenfeld stares after her. "An enchanting walk! She does not mince; she takes long strides. A lithe, luscious panther! Women who mince are always a disappointment. But I give you my guarantee for that one."
At the words "lithe, luscious panther" I have quickly downed another drink. Georg has sunk into his chair, grinning silently. We have turned the trick. Now Riesenfeld whirls around. His face shimmers like a pale moon. "Light, gentlemen! What are we waiting for? Forward into life!"
We follow him into the mild night. I stare at his froglike back. If only, I think enviously, it were as easy for me to bob up from my gray hours as it is for this quick-change artist.
The Red Mill is jam packed. All we can get is a table next to the orchestra. The music is too loud anyway, but at our table it is completely deafening. At first we shout our observations into one another's ears; after that we content ourselves with signs like a trio of deaf mutes. The dance floor is so crowded that the dancers can hardly move. But that doesn't matter to Riesenfeld. He spies a woman in white silk at the bar and rushes up to her. Proudly he propels her with his pointed belly across the dance floor. She is a head taller than he and stares in boredom at the balloon-hung ceiling. Lower down, Riesenfeld seethes and smolders like Vesuvius. His demon has seized
"If you're interested in the relativity of time," I say, briefly hopeful, "then I can introduce you to a society where you can meet experts in that field—the Poets' Club of this dear city. Hans Hungermann, the writer, has elucidated the problem in an unpublished sequence of sixty poems. We can go there right now; there's a meeting every Sunday night with a social hour afterward."
"Are there women there?"
"Naturally not. Women poets are like calculating horses. With the exception, of course, of Sappho's pupils."
"Well then, what's the social hour?" Riesenfeld asks.
"It consists of running down other writers. Especially the successful ones."
Riesenfeld grunts contemptuously. I am ready to give up. Suddenly the window in the horse butcher's house across the street lights up like a brightly lit painting in a dark museum. Behind the curtains we see Lisa. She is just getting dressed and has nothing on except a brassiere and a pair of very short white silk panties.
Riesenfeld emits a snort like a ground hog. His cosmic melancholy has disappeared like' magic. I get up to turn on the light. "No light!" he snaps. "Have you no feeling for poetry?"
He creeps to the window. Lisa begins to draw a tight dress over her head. She writhes like a serpent. Riesenfeld snorts aloud. "A seductive creature! Donnerwetter , what a rear end! A dream! Who is she?"
"Susanna in the bath," I explain, trying to intimate delicately that at the moment we are in the role of the old goats watching her.
"Nonsense!" The voyeur with the Einstein complex never moves his eyes from the golden window. "I mean what's her name."
"I haven't the slightest idea. This is the first time we've seen her. She wasn't even living there at noon today," I say to whet his interest.
"Really?" Lisa has got her dress on and is now smoothing it down with her hands. Behind Riesenfeld's back Georg fills his glass and mine. We toss off the drinks. "A woman of breeding," Riesenfeld says, continuing to cling to the window. "A lady, that's easy to see. Probably French."
As far as we know, Lisa comes from Bohemia. "It might be Mademoiselle de la Tour," I reply. "I heard someone mention that name yesterday."
"You see?" Riesenfeld turns around to us for an instant. "I told you she was French! One can tell right away—that je ne sais quoi! Don't you think so too, Herr Kroll?"
"You're the connoisseur, Herr Riesenfeld."
The light in Lisa's room goes off. Riesenfeld pours his drink down his time-parched throat and once more presses his face against the window. After a while Lisa appears at the door and goes down the steps into the street. Riesenfeld stares after her. "An enchanting walk! She does not mince; she takes long strides. A lithe, luscious panther! Women who mince are always a disappointment. But I give you my guarantee for that one."
At the words "lithe, luscious panther" I have quickly downed another drink. Georg has sunk into his chair, grinning silently. We have turned the trick. Now Riesenfeld whirls around. His face shimmers like a pale moon. "Light, gentlemen! What are we waiting for? Forward into life!"
We follow him into the mild night. I stare at his froglike back. If only, I think enviously, it were as easy for me to bob up from my gray hours as it is for this quick-change artist.
The Red Mill is jam packed. All we can get is a table next to the orchestra. The music is too loud anyway, but at our table it is completely deafening. At first we shout our observations into one another's ears; after that we content ourselves with signs like a trio of deaf mutes. The dance floor is so crowded that the dancers can hardly move. But that doesn't matter to Riesenfeld. He spies a woman in white silk at the bar and rushes up to her. Proudly he propels her with his pointed belly across the dance floor. She is a head taller than he and stares in boredom at the balloon-hung ceiling. Lower down, Riesenfeld seethes and smolders like Vesuvius. His demon has seized
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