It was as if the death of her husband had turned on all the sources of venom within Frau Sammet. From a thousand chasms of her soul burst forth this wickedness and thrust itself into the world. It was probably the love that lives longer than one thinks and continues to act when one believes it to be dead and buried — the last remains of her husband’s love — which had prevented Frau Sammet from giving vent to the anger and pain housed inside. Now it was unleashed. It was a weary yet unremitting working rage, a woeful doggedness, it was a malice of grief, the distemper of a widow. She went through the house, silent yet audible; she made accusations against no one, but she herself was an accusation; she suffered, she ailed, she looked like a shadow, but she was as only a shadow can be, ever present, frightful and yet not corporeal enough to frighten; she was no longer alive, not of flesh and blood, and therefore eternal, inviolate and immortal. What harm could she do to Bidak’s massive body? Her malice gave her a thousand weapons against which health and vigour were defenceless. She muttered curses that one could scarcely hear but that one could feel and therefore began to take effect immediately. She was ever present. She appeared when the children exulted and suffocated their joy, and whenever someone laughed he had to stop suddenly, his laughter broke in the middle like a sparkling glass that suddenly shatters for no apparent reason.
Only Leo Bidak retained his cheerful disposition, as I said before. The bitter, silent fury of his aunt was directed at him, but neither could harm the other. Her terrible wickedness was like a thin steel foil against the heavy armour of cheerfulness that surrounded Bidak. They were two eternal enemies that according to the laws of nature could not counteract one another; they were like day and night, summer and winter, life and death.
Nevertheless Leo Bidak was afraid. He shuddered before the spectre. He did everything possible to annoy his aunt. Actually, he wanted to prove that she was not dead, that she yet lived. He now managed the laundry alone. But on Saturday evenings his aunt came to do the books. He kept her waiting until nine o’clock. Then he went out. At eleven o’clock he returned, and the accounting began. But sometimes Tante Sammet had, one knew not from where, a skeleton key. She figured without Bidak. She could calculate better, and she cheated him out of ridiculous amounts of money. As a rule Bidak came back too late. Then he sought revenge.
His aunt lived on the first floor in a small room. Bidak locked the door and tied a cat’s tail to the handle. The animal cried the whole night through. Nobody in the house could sleep. Only Leo Bidak slept, as he had drunk a great deal. His aunt rattled the door. She broke everything in sight. She shrieked. But Bidak did not hear her. He slept and smiled contentedly in his sleep. Under his pillow lay the key to the door. If his wife attempted to steal the key Bidak awoke; even in his sleep he could detect danger, like an animal.
He soon began to come home early only on Thursdays and Fridays to take stock of the clothing. Half was missing. Customers demanded compensation. Every morning Bidak had to go to court. He hired a number of lawyers. They cost more money than the missing laundry.
And yet Bidak was happy with his life.
I was his truest customer. I had no valuable laundry. It could also have been lost. But my collars and shirts were personally washed and ironed by Bidak. I was not only his truest, I was also the only customer with whom he dealt himself.
We were, one might say, friends. For friendship is a passion like love, it attacks people’s hearts and binds two together who march to a different beat, even though they march to a different beat. I must confess at this point that we drank together, went for walks and spoke of various things.
We spoke about sad things, and Leo Bidak understood their full sadness. Yet he smiled. Yes, he even submerged himself completely in the sorrows of the world, and still his mood was cheerful. He was like a sprightly river that rushed through the gloomy deep of a forest, shimmering and alive, yet dark green and dead. He bored himself a loud, joyous path through all terrors.
He not only drank; he also read books but with a preference for the historical. Of all the eras in world history he loved the French Revolution the most. He was a rebel.
If only he were a contemporary of the Revolution! He would have achieved historical glory. For he was not without talent, only without occasion. Nature had not created him to become a laundry owner. He was a noble bandit.
‘In the year ‘48’, he said, ‘the people of Vienna stood on the city plaza and cried, “Give us Latour!” And they were given Latour. They hung a noose from a streetlamp and strung him up. Why else are there streetlamps in the world? Ha-ha-ha!’
Every day he carried out a thousand little revolutions. He beat up policemen in quiet alleyways, he learned from the statute books and disputed with magistrates and officials, with creditors and notaries, and he argued them into the ground. He read parliamentary proceedings and even gave speeches. For he was an important man in a local chapter of a social democracy group, and on May Day he carried a gold-embroidered red flag.
However, the mortgages beleaguered him, and his half house didn’t quite belong to him any more. He now owned but an eighth.
In the summer he arranged a festival in the woods. His children went with him to Knappek’s little forest, which he had leased, and he hung lanterns from the trees and surrounded the forest with barbed wire to prevent entry by unauthorized persons without tickets. He worked all day long, but the rain destroyed his paper ornaments, so he brought in new ones. In the middle of a clearing he erected a market tent with lebkuchen, beer and sausages. Two of his children sold cheese. His wife sat at the counter. The presser women gave out beer. During the three days of the proletarian festival Leo’s shop was closed.
He personally administered the raffle and the wheel of fortune.
He stood on an empty crate, and to him it was as if he stood on the terrace of a conquered castle. He called out numbers and encouraged the spectators to purchase tickets for the welfare of the proletariat, and he felt like he was giving a rebellious speech to the assembled people.
Then he gave the wheel of fortune a mighty spin. It rattled, squealed and squeaked, and this racket was very pleasing to Bidak, and he smiled so much that his little eyes were no longer visible, and his mouth with its yellow smoker’s teeth was wide open, lit by the reddish lantern light, revealing his large red pharynx. Then he gave out the winnings. He always gave the children something, even when they had not won. And as the children didn’t usually win Leo Bidak handed out a great deal of money. He paid for these gifts himself. The local chapter had in Bidak an invaluable member. Thus he soon lost the last eighth of the house.
He sought to get the other half of the house from Tante Sammet. She would not put her signature on the papers. She referred to the fact that she would soon die. Then the other half of the house would belong to the Bidak family anyway.
But Tante Sammet did not die. Death neglected her. He took her for a cat that could not be grabbed. Or perhaps he took her for one of his kind. He did not claim her because she rendered him services. She was temporarily his deputy in the noisy and overly healthy Bidak house. She suffered many accidents. She was tripped, knocked over and had wounds all over her body. A Bidak child threw a fireplace poker at her head.
But she did not die.
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