“Yes,” Mock muttered and sucked in air as he detached the last strips of meat from the bone.
“He would play and I’d guess what animal the piece was supposed to be about. Our neighbour had a greying, evenly trimmed and well-groomed beard. I loved him with all my burning, eight-year-old heart … Don’t worry,” she briefly changed the subject, detecting a glimmer of unease in Mock’s eyes. “He didn’t do anything bad to me. He sometimes kissed me on the cheek and I would pick up the smell of good tobacco from his beard … From time to time he played cards with my parents. I’d sit on my father’s knee this time, staring in bewilderment at the figures on the cards and not understanding anything of the game, but wishing with my whole heart that my father would be the loser … I wanted our neigh-bour, Herr Manfred Nagler, to win … I’ve always liked older men …”
“Glad to hear it.” Mock passed the wine to her and watched as she drank straight from the bottle.
“I studied at the Music Conservatory in Riga, you know?” She was breathing quickly; the wine had momentarily taken her breath away. “Most of all I liked to play The Carnival of the Animals, even though my professor railed against Saint-Saens. He said it was primitive, illustrative music … He was wrong. All music illustrates something, doesn’t it? Debussy, for instance, illustrates a sea warmed by the sun, Dvorak the vigour and power of America, and Chopin the states of a human soul … Do you want some more chicken?”
“Yes, please.” He watched her slender fingers, rested his head on his arm and moved closer to her. The sun dappled the sea before his eyes.
He was torn from his nap by Erika’s voice. She was asking him something insistently.
“You agree, really?” she whispered delightedly. “Well, go on then! Tell me when you were born! Exactly, including the time!”
“What do you want to know that for?” Mock rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch. He had not slept for more than a quarter of an hour.
“But you nodded, you agreed with everything I said,” Erika said, disappointed. “You were asleep all along — you’ve had it up to here with my babbling …”
“Alright, alright …” Mock lit a cigarette. “I can give you the exact time I was born … What’s it to me? The eighteenth of September, 1883. At about midday …”
“Ah, so it’s your birthday the day after tomorrow. I’ve got to get you a present …” Erika traced the date in the wet sand. “And your place of birth?”
“Waldenburg, Silesia. Are you trying to work out my horoscope?”
“No, not me.” She rested her head on his knee. “My sister … she’s an astrologer. But I told you …”
“Alright, alright …” he muttered.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” She was not looking him in the eye; she was looking lower. At his nose? Lips? “You haven’t called me a whore for a whole week … You’ve been calling me by my name … You even listen when I tell you about my childhood, even though it bores you… Why?”
Mock struggled with himself for a while. He pondered his reply, weighing all its consequences.
“The wind isn’t howling.” He avoided an honest answer. “And there’s no aggression or insanity in me.”
17. IX.1919
I could not put my plan into effect because I had to seek approval from the Great Assembly. When I presented him with my plan to awaken the Erinyes a few days ago, the Master wrote to me to say that further sacrificial offerings could prove dangerous. Apart from that, the Master voiced other reservations and summoned the Council. The meeting took place this past night at my house. The Master quite rightly pointed out my inconsistency. It lies in the lack of a precise definition of the notion of the “Erinyes”. According to my plan, the spiritual energy which will escape when the body of our bitter enemy’s father is offered in sacrifice will become an “Erinye”. How can we be certain that this will be the case? the Master asked. How do we know that the “Erinye” is not going to be some part of our bitter enemy’s soul, or some spiritual being independent of our bitter enemy and his father? Some demon we have awakened? And that demon we are not going to be able to control. It is too dangerous. What should we do therefore? There was a discussion. One of our brothers rightly pointed out that the ancients believed in three Erinyes. One of them, Megaera, was the Erinye of jealousy. So, with the help of Augsteiner’s formulae, we could transform the spiritual energy slipping from the body of our enemy’s father into either Megaera or Tisiphone. The second Erinye, Tisiphone, being the “avenger of murder”, while the third, Allecto, is “unremitting in her vengeance”. We have to offer two further sacrifices, three in all — our bitter enemy’s father, and two others whom he loves to be Tisiphone and Allecto. Everybody agreed with this reasoning. When three Erinyes descend on our greatest enemy, he will turn to an occultist. There can be no doubt that we have a hold on every occultist in the city. Then we will bore into his mind and make him aware of his terrible guilt. It will be the final blow. We cannot blatantly spell out to him where this guilt lies — he has to be deeply convinced of it himself. That is why our plan of self-knowledge is the best one possible. There remains the problem of the two other Erinyes — Tisiphone and Allecto. Who can they be? Whom does he love apart from his father? Does he love anyone at all? Because surely he does not love the prostitute with whom he went away — he who knows all the hideous secrets of the prostituted soul? We resolved to examine this carefully in the light of ancient writings, and we will meet in three days to settle everything.
RUGENWALDERMUNDE, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26TH, 1919
NOON
Erika and Mock sat in silence on the covered terrace of a cafe on the eastern side of the canal, staring out at the stormy sea through small, rectangular windowpanes lashed with fine rain. Both were preoccupied, Erika with her coffee and apple strudel, Mock with his cigar and balloon of cognac. The silence which had come over them heralded imminent chaos, foreshadowed changes, relentlessly signalled the end.
“We’ve been here for more than two weeks,” Mock began, and fell silent again.
“I’d say we’ve been here for almost three weeks.” Erika smoothed her napkin on the marble table.
“This cognac would be a lot of alcohol for you.” Mock swirled his glass and watched as the amber liquid ran down its inner sides. “There’s still quite a bit left, but for me it’s no more than a gulp. I’ll knock it back and it’ll be gone.”
“Yes. In that we differ,” Erika said, and she closed her eyes. Two streams of tears trickled from beneath her long lashes down towards the corners of her lips.
Mock riveted his eyes to the windowpanes streaming with rain and listened to the howling of the gale above the sound of the waves. Another gale tore at his chest and forced words into his head that he did not want to utter. He looked about him and shuddered. On the terrace besides them was the prostitute with the broken parasol, whom he knew by sight. She was gazing at the streaming window, grating a spoon in her cup. And now there appeared one other person: the hotel bell-boy. He swiftly ran up to the table occupied by Mock and Erika.
“Registered delivery for Frau Erika Mock,” he said, clicking his heels loudly.
Erika accepted the letter, the boy some coins and Mock a few moments of respite. The girl tore open the envelope with a fruit knife and began to read. A faint smile appeared on her lips.
“What is it?” Mock could not resist asking.
“Listen to this.” She put the letter on the table and weighted down an unruly corner of the page with the ashtray. “‘The man born on September 18th, 1883, in Waldenburg is a typical Virgo, full of inhibitions and unconscious longings. Sad events experienced not long ago — perhaps an unfortunate love affair? — weigh heavily on his mind.’” Erika glanced at Mock with interest. “Tell me, Eberhard, what was this unfortunate love affair … You never talk about yourself. You don’t want to confide in a crafty whore … But now, after three wonderful weeks together … Tell me something about yourself …”