Another man, a few years younger, was nodding in agreement at his companion’s culinary decisions, but remained silent.
“Yes, as I said, Eberhard,” said the first man as he dismissed the waiter with a perfunctory gesture. “First comes the painful part of the therapy. Do you know how young smokers are encouraged to give up their addiction? They’re told to inhale the smoke and cough. Try it, go on try …”
Eberhard took a drag of his cigarette and coughed. He felt pain in his lungs and bitter bile rose to his mouth. For some time he breathed in the smoky air as the cigarette burned down in the huge ashtray. The orchestra was playing a foxtrot and two shapely dance-hostesses were dancing alone, illuminated by bulbs that flickered all around the dance floor, while single, ageing men drank glass after glass to give themselves the courage to dance and debauch. Giggling and snorting could be heard from behind the drawn curtains of the alcoves. “Probably some ladies snorting white powder,” said one waiter to another. A wheezing reverberated in Mock’s alcove. “Probably some asthmatic choking,” the other waiter retorted.
“Come on, Cornelius,” Mock groaned. “Look what you’ve done to me …”
“So now you’ve experienced the hideous taste of tobacco,” Cornelius said, staring at the dance-hostesses. “But that’s not the addiction we want to destroy in you … We want you to eliminate your addiction to supper, to devouring mountains of meat in the evenings … This evening you’re going to experience the awful consequences of overeating on your own skin, or rather your own liver. Your brain is going to pick up signals from your burdened bowels, and it’s going to respond in a way that will punish you — with nightmares… Mock, are you hungry now?”
“I’m starving.” Mock reached into the ashtray and ground his cigarette butt into the powdered ash. “I did as you told me. I haven’t eaten a single thing since coffee and cakes this afternoon at your place.”
“So now eat to your heart’s content, until you’re full.” Cornelius watched the waiter lay out the hors d’oeuvres on the table. “Think of our conversations in the trenches at Dunaburg. That’s all we talked about, nothing but food … We didn’t have the courage to talk about women … We didn’t know each other well enough then.” Cornelius grasped the slender neck of the litre carafe of schnapps and filled their glasses. “You could talk about Silesian meatloaves for hours, while I responded with the characteristics of plaice a la Teutonic Knights, which the medieval knights liked so much.”
Mock poured a burning stream of Krsinsik’s lemon schnapps down his throat and plunged his knife into the thick cube of butter garnished with a spring of parsley. He spread some onto a slice of wheat bread and then with his fork broke into the delicate insides of pigs’ trotters in aspic. The cubes and oblongs of aspic, in which wedges of eggs, cloves of garlic and strips of pork had been set, disappeared into Mock’s mouth. As he swallowed he touched the rim of both empty glasses with his fork, creating a pure sound.
“Zack, zack,” Mock said, looking at the oily consistency of the chilled lemon schnapps he was pouring. “Here’s to you, Ruhtgard. To the health of the one who’s paying.”
He then emptied his glass, holding it by its fragile stem, and started on the fried herrings which lay on a long dish in a puddle of vinegar marinade. He crushed flakes of the fish joyfully between his teeth, delighted that the bones, softened by the vinegar, were pliable and harmless.
“That’s how it was.” The two large shots of schnapps were evident in Ruhtgard’s voice. “We talked about women much later. When we were no longer ashamed of our feelings. When …”
“When we had got to know what friendship is.” Mock scraped his fork across the empty dish and sprawled out comfortably on the couch. “When we had grasped that, in a world of shrapnel, splinters and vermin, it was the only thing that made sense. Not the Fatherland, not conquering yet another barbaricum bridge-head, but friendship …”
“Don’t be so pompous, Mock, old comrade.” Ruhtgard smiled at the sight of two waiters laying the table with silver dishes whose dome covers were embellished with the two-headed Austrian eagle. “Look” — he lifted a cover as if to sit it on his head — “This is what our helmets looked like …”
Mock laughed out loud as a drop of hot fat rolled off the cover and landed on Ruhtgard’s neck. While the doctor whacked himself violently, as if stung by a mosquito, Mock filled the empty glasses, gradually increasing the distance between bottle and glass. The last drops fell from a height little short of ten centimetres.
“Pathos was a poor background to what we experienced during those two years.” Ruhtgard got to his feet and drew the curtains of their alcove. “The wrong background. Friendship and comradeship aren’t born in the face of death. There are no friends then. Everyone faces death alone, and stinks of fear. Our comradeship was sealed by the daily humiliation, the daily contempt we experienced. Do you know when I realized that?”
“When?” Mock asked, lifting the covers off the dishes.
“When we had to crap on command.” Ruhtgard broke off to clink glasses with Mock and swallow the burning liquid. His throat barely accepted it. “Captain Mantzelmann would come along and order the entire platoon to crap at the same time. Even me, a medical orderly. When he decided it was time to crap, we’d squat in the trenches with the icy wind lashing our backsides. Mantzelmann marked out the time for us to crap. Pity he didn’t mark out the time to die. Mock, damn it!” he yelled. “There’s only the two of us in this world! You and I!”
“Be quiet, and stop drinking.” Mock tied a starched napkin around his neck. “You’re not having supper, so you shouldn’t drink so much. Three large shots are more than enough.”
Four browned goose necks landed on Mock’s plate. He cut this delicacy into strips and arranged them on round, crunchy slices of potato. Enclosed in a sheath of goose skin was a stuffing made from onion, liver and goose fat. Mock placed soft, braised onion rings on top of these pyramids and began a concentrated assault. He ate slowly and methodically. First he plunged his cutlery into a dish where hunks of roast pork swam in a thick sauce of flour and cream. On top of a piece of meat now speared on his fork, he balanced a mound of potato and goose. When he had devoured this complicated formation he slid a layer of fried cabbage with crackling onto his fork as if it were a shovel. The plates gradually emptied.
“We spoke about women later,” Ruhtgard said, lighting a cigarette, “when the Russians started singing their dumkas.† We’d stare at the starry sky and each one of us would think about warm bodies, soft breasts, smooth thighs …”
“Cornelius, stop making things up.” Mock pushed aside the empty plates, lit a cigarette and poured another two shots from the carafe. “We didn’t talk about women, but about one woman. Each one of us spoke about one woman. I told you about my romantic ideal, about the mysterious, red-headed, unknown Lorelei from the hospital in Konigsberg, while you only talked about …”
“My daughter, Christel.” Ruhtgard drank without waiting for Mock. “About my little princess Christel who now flirts with men, who smells of rutting …”
“Let it go.” Mock was suddenly very thirsty. He pulled the curtain aside to summon a waiter with a frothy tankard. “Your little princess is now a grown-up young lady and ought to be getting married.”
Ruhtgard threw off his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
“Mock, my brother!” he shouted. “Our friendship is like that of Patroclus and Achilles! Let’s exchange waistcoats, as Homer’s heroes exchanged their armour!”
As he said this Ruhtgard threw off his waistcoat and sat down heavily. A moment later black sleep, brother of death, descended over him. Mock left the alcove to look for a waiter, but instead caught sight of the drunken smile of the Jewish-looking girl who was swaying on the dance floor, alone, her handbag slung over her neck. He also saw spilled schnapps, stained tablecloths and the white dust of cocaine; he saw a soldier hiding pamphlets under his greatcoat; he saw his friend, Doctor Ruhtgard, who had once saved his life in a town on the Pregolya. He clicked his fingers and a young waiter appeared.