Read Online The Eternal Philistine by Odon Von Horvath - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Odon Von Horvath
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hollered at the nervous guy.
“Apologies, sir,” squealed the nervous guy, fidgeting terribly. “But I’m by no means in the mood for such games!”
“And now has come the solemn moment where I smack you,” thought Kobler.
But just then, Albert Hausmann, the guy in need of convalescence, butted into the argument in an exceedingly polite manner, hoping to nip the disagreement in the bud because he was very anxious. “A mistake, my dear sirs!” he said. “
Latrina
basically means lavatory. You’re talking at cross purposes, my dear sirs!”
The guy in need of convalescence spoke perfect Italian and was an altogether very intelligent and erudite man who was especially well versed in world history. “This all used to be South Tyrol,” he said.
And then he advised Kobler to just watch out for the fascist informers, who were, you see, exceedingly cunning and brutal. “Over there, by the third window, for instance,” he whispered mysteriously, and pointed furtively at a man who looked like a farmer. “You see that guy—he’s definitely an informer. He just tried to lure me into an incriminating conversation—he’ll do it to you too! He’s looking to lure anybody in. And as soon as you make a derogatory comment about Mussolini, Nobile, or the system in general, they’ll arrest you and drag you right off the train. Take heed!”
Kobler took heed.
The informer approached him right before Bolzano.
“Bolzano used to be called Bozen,” said the informer.
“Aha!” thought Kobler.
“The Italians are now building an enormous electricity plant in Bozen,” said the informer.
“Go on!” thought Kobler.
“The Italians,” continued the informer, “routed loadsof water to Bozen from really far away. They drilled a shaft through that entire mountain range out there—that is, they began drilling beneath that peak up there, and they also began drilling in Bozen and they wanted to drill things together, but three times they drilled right past each other instead. In the end, they had to hire German engineers,” grinned the informer.
“The Germans didn’t drill things together either,” said Kobler.
“Sure they did, and spot-on!” said the informer excitedly.
“Coincidence,” said Kobler.
Pause.
“Are you familiar with Bozen?” asked the informer.
“No,” said Kobler.
“Then go ahead and take a look at it!” yelled the informer. “The people of Bozen are delighted about their German guests!”
“I’m a German Fascist,” said Kobler.
The informer stared at him, horrified. “And now over there you have the Rosengarten,” he said meekly.
“Perhaps!” said Kobler, and walked off.
The informer stared at him for a while. He was no informer after all.
CHAPTER 12
KOBLER STEPPED INTO THE DINING CAR, PLEASED to have put one over on Mussolini’s supposed informant. “Now I’ve earned my coffee,” he said to himself. He was sohappy: it was like winning a lawsuit that he should by all rights have lost.
There was only one spot left in the dining car.
“Prego?” asked Kobler, this being the extent of his Italian.
“But of course,” answered the passenger in German. He was a cultivated gentleman from Weimar, home of Goethe and the constitution.
Despite the fact that the train was in the sovereign territory of Italy, it was altogether apparent that everybody was speaking German, save for the conductors and a few Blackshirts. And you could hear all sorts of German dialects in the dining car in particular.
The cultivated gentleman seated at Kobler’s table had a squishy appearance and seemed to be extraordinarily hoggish. A gourmand. As the son of a former municipal architect from Pforzheim who during the Wilhelminian era had married the filthy rich daughter of a patrician, he could afford to eat his three salmon canapés, four sardines in oil, two frankfurter sausages, and three eggs in a glass without any concern. From his father, the municipal architect, he had inherited the
“Apologies, sir,” squealed the nervous guy, fidgeting terribly. “But I’m by no means in the mood for such games!”
“And now has come the solemn moment where I smack you,” thought Kobler.
But just then, Albert Hausmann, the guy in need of convalescence, butted into the argument in an exceedingly polite manner, hoping to nip the disagreement in the bud because he was very anxious. “A mistake, my dear sirs!” he said. “
Latrina
basically means lavatory. You’re talking at cross purposes, my dear sirs!”
The guy in need of convalescence spoke perfect Italian and was an altogether very intelligent and erudite man who was especially well versed in world history. “This all used to be South Tyrol,” he said.
And then he advised Kobler to just watch out for the fascist informers, who were, you see, exceedingly cunning and brutal. “Over there, by the third window, for instance,” he whispered mysteriously, and pointed furtively at a man who looked like a farmer. “You see that guy—he’s definitely an informer. He just tried to lure me into an incriminating conversation—he’ll do it to you too! He’s looking to lure anybody in. And as soon as you make a derogatory comment about Mussolini, Nobile, or the system in general, they’ll arrest you and drag you right off the train. Take heed!”
Kobler took heed.
The informer approached him right before Bolzano.
“Bolzano used to be called Bozen,” said the informer.
“Aha!” thought Kobler.
“The Italians are now building an enormous electricity plant in Bozen,” said the informer.
“Go on!” thought Kobler.
“The Italians,” continued the informer, “routed loadsof water to Bozen from really far away. They drilled a shaft through that entire mountain range out there—that is, they began drilling beneath that peak up there, and they also began drilling in Bozen and they wanted to drill things together, but three times they drilled right past each other instead. In the end, they had to hire German engineers,” grinned the informer.
“The Germans didn’t drill things together either,” said Kobler.
“Sure they did, and spot-on!” said the informer excitedly.
“Coincidence,” said Kobler.
Pause.
“Are you familiar with Bozen?” asked the informer.
“No,” said Kobler.
“Then go ahead and take a look at it!” yelled the informer. “The people of Bozen are delighted about their German guests!”
“I’m a German Fascist,” said Kobler.
The informer stared at him, horrified. “And now over there you have the Rosengarten,” he said meekly.
“Perhaps!” said Kobler, and walked off.
The informer stared at him for a while. He was no informer after all.
CHAPTER 12
KOBLER STEPPED INTO THE DINING CAR, PLEASED to have put one over on Mussolini’s supposed informant. “Now I’ve earned my coffee,” he said to himself. He was sohappy: it was like winning a lawsuit that he should by all rights have lost.
There was only one spot left in the dining car.
“Prego?” asked Kobler, this being the extent of his Italian.
“But of course,” answered the passenger in German. He was a cultivated gentleman from Weimar, home of Goethe and the constitution.
Despite the fact that the train was in the sovereign territory of Italy, it was altogether apparent that everybody was speaking German, save for the conductors and a few Blackshirts. And you could hear all sorts of German dialects in the dining car in particular.
The cultivated gentleman seated at Kobler’s table had a squishy appearance and seemed to be extraordinarily hoggish. A gourmand. As the son of a former municipal architect from Pforzheim who during the Wilhelminian era had married the filthy rich daughter of a patrician, he could afford to eat his three salmon canapés, four sardines in oil, two frankfurter sausages, and three eggs in a glass without any concern. From his father, the municipal architect, he had inherited the
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