Homosexual? asked W.
Yes, that he’s a homo, that he’s gay, that’s what they said to him, but I know better, Harry never lies to me. And you know the next thing that happened that night, the guy stuck the gun up inside him.
That can’t be! said W.
Oh yes it can, he stuck it up inside him, Harry told me everything. Harry didn’t have anything on, you see, just his coat over his pyjamas, that’s how they put him in the car and took him with them. And in his office he stuck the gun up his butt and said, should I pull the trigger? That’s just what you need, you son-of-a bitch faggot, he said, admit you’re a faggot, or I’ll pull the trigger. .
Unbelievable! said W. — he tried to visualize this scene. . was it possible to picture Feuerbach in such a tableau, Feuerbach the elegant cynic with his gingerly fingers? W. shook his head and said: That’s an absolutely hair-raising story!
You can believe me, she insisted, Harry told it to me right afterwards. He’d never tell it to anyone but me. And you could even still see it, he still had a wound from the gun, I’m telling you. And after that he vanished from Berlin for four whole weeks.
And where did he vanish to?
He said he couldn’t tell me. Because they were sure to come back and question me. And then it was better if I didn’t know. It was true, they did come. . of course I didn’t say a word. I don’t know, I told them, I never know where he is, and then they went away again. And I tell that to everyone, no one gets anything out of me. And then Harry came back and said, I’ll show them. I’ll make a baby, yeah. . he said to me, I’ll make you a baby. He actually said that to me. Or I’ll make a baby with another girl down there in A. Harry, I said, I believe you that you’re normal, it’s no reason to go making a baby. You’ll never be able to pay for it, and the young lady’s stuck with the kid. No good will ever come of that. .
W. would have regarded this story as sheer fantasy if it hadn’t come from Frau Falbe. . Maybe Harry had made it up? You couldn’t put it past him, he must have heard about plenty of crazy things in prison. — Still, there would have been no pressing reason to make up a thing like that; Harry could have concocted better stories to elicit his landlady’s sympathy, and he wouldn’t even have had to concoct them. Had he told the truth after all? In the end it didn’t matter. . but W. felt a certain pleasure at the thought that his case officer had suddenly acquired this sort of reputation. . he didn’t begrudge it to him! It would almost be a pity if the story were just made up, he thought gleefully. . and besides he was personally familiar with certain of Feuerbach’s moods when drunk. — The story was irrelevant, really. . much more interesting was the tone in which Frau Falbe had told it to him.
Actually she hadn’t so much told it as she’d hoarsely gasped it out, paying no heed to the questions he interposed; turning halfway out of the armchair she’d leant her upper body on the desk, one hand at the triangular neckline of her blouse, as if she lacked air to breathe, and while speaking she’d gone through two cigarettes. — He had to admit that the woman’s agitation had infected him. . and yet he had reacted too matter-of-factly, barely showing that he was on her side (why was it that even in this situation he refused to relinquish his solidarity with Feuerbach?); in his eyes the man was a criminal, that’s what he should have said! — He resolved to go back upstairs to her — he had to hear that story again, in even more detail, he hadn’t been able to get a handle on it, he’d only ever heard stories like that about some perverted Nazis.
The next day, when he rang her doorbell around noon, there ended up being no time to talk. She’d opened the door in her robe, looking more uncertain than surprised. — She had to make her bed, it would only take a minute. . she said; he glanced into the bedroom, where a double bed stood; the side where her husband must have slept was untouched, the bedclothes neatly covered with a curtain-like material. She hadn’t lost the hoarse tone to her voice; she asked him in, and both of them headed towards the bedroom as though they had to finish making the bed together. Suddenly Frau Falbe leant against him; the next moment they were sitting on the edge of the bed. — Come back this evening, I’m busy now, said Frau Falbe; another moment later they were already sprawled across the double bed.
This evening I can’t. . he’d whispered into her ear in a strained voice. . I’m a woman, too, she murmured in reply, stay here, don’t come this evening. — And several times she said apologetically: I know, I know things aren’t easy for you either. .
The strangest thing about it all was that she kept using the formal ‘you’ the whole time. . after barely an hour he was back in his room, overwhelmed and slightly giddy. With the blind down he sat in the armchair in the dark and tried to get his bearings; outside he heard Frau Falbe putter about cleaning the stairs, and so he didn’t dare to leave the room; gradually exhaustion overcame him. The night before he had barely managed to sleep, despite several glasses of beer he’d drunk at a pub after Frau Falbe’s visit; he’d constantly been woken up again by some harmless noise or other, only around five had he stopped hearing things. Shortly before noon he’d been wide awake again, it struck him that he had no more coffee left, and he recalled his landlady’s invitation.
That had been in the morning, and now, as he woke up late in the armchair, there was of course still no coffee. . only tea, which he often drank, but never right after waking up. — It was too late to buy coffee, he’d have to go back up to Frau Falbe. . only now, still half-asleep in his armchair, did he form a clearer picture of that noon’s events, for even in the bright daylight that fell through the two windows of Frau Falbe’s bedroom, he’d sensed things rather than seen them. He recalled that she had torn open the buttoned-up robe, hands flying, and shed the rest of her clothing just as hastily, even as she buried him beneath her. She’d uttered a flood of unintelligible words as she ran her lips ceaselessly over his face and neck (and even at this moment, presumably without thinking, she had kept to the formal ‘you’). . amid continuous murmuring adjurations — a mixture of apologies, assurances and childish scolding — she had tried with one hand, then the other, to give him an erection, while he clutched her upper body as though to calm her down; at last her yanking, inexpert, tireless hand motions transformed his pain into pleasure; she noticed it immediately and spread her lower body astraddle his loins, making him feel his ejaculation a moment later. And she’d remained crouched over him a little longer, covering his face and closing his eyes with both her hands; her two thumbs lay just below his nose, and he breathed the scent they gave off. . it had to be his own smell, quickly dissipating to nothingness, transformed to the neutral smell of her heavy, faintly trembling hands.
Then he heard his landlady in the stairwell again (it was as though she kept finding things to do there because she sensed he was evading her); he went out and said — avoiding both the informal and the formal ‘you’—that he hadn’t managed to go shopping, and a proper coffee would be nothing to sneeze at right now; she gave him a rather shy smile and said she’d come right down. . He must have overslept? — He went back to his room, put on his pyjamas and waited. — As they’d embraced on the double bed he’d kept wanting to ask again about the scene with Harry. . Maybe he hadn’t understood right, could she explain how that was with the gun again? — He pictured the possible consequences of the question: You couldn’t explain that, you could only show it. . He hadn’t even got a chance to speak, but maybe he had been too timid anyway. — This sort of rebuke had a tendency to ambush him, but could usually be dispelled again quickly with reasonable words such as: ultimately he was after objective truths. . yes, he was used to dealing objectively with heated emotions, something he ascribed in large part to the attacks by Feuerbach, who had badmouthed him often enough as hypersensitive. And the enthusiasm with which others spoke of their capabilities in the sexual realm had always struck him as exaggerated. . still, he couldn’t deny that he was prone to a sometimes irksome restraint.