“Accursed crew!” he screeches. “You were celebrating already, were you? I’ll teach you!”
He misses his wife and gives a hiss of rage. She clings to his cane. “But Father, we had to make preparations; the doctor—”
“The doctor is an idiot! Let go of my stick, you devil! Let go, I tell you, you beast!”
The little, roly-poly woman lets the stick go. The hissing drake in front of her swings it and hits one of his daughters. The three women could easily disarm the weak old man, but he has the upper hand, like a sergeant major with his recruits. The daughters are now holding onto the cane and trying tearfully to explain. Knopf will not listen. “Let go of my stick, you devil’s brood! Wasting money, throwing it away, I’ll teach you!”
The cane is released, Knopf strikes again, misses, and falls forward on one knee. Bubbles of saliva hang in the Nietzsche mustache as he gets up and continues to follow Zarathustra’s precept by beating his harem. “Father, you’ll kill yourself if you get so excited!” cry the weeping daughters. “Please be calm! We’re overjoyed that you’re alive! Shall we make you some coffee?”
“Coffee? I’ll make you coffee! I’ll beat you to a pulp, that’s what I’ll do, you devil’s brood! Squandering all that money—”
“But Father, we can sell the things!”
“Sell! I’ll sell you, you damned spendthrifts—”
“But Father, it hasn’t been paid for yet!” screams Frau Knopf in utter despair.
That penetrates. Knopf lets the cane sink. “What’s that?”
We step forward. “Heir Knopf,” Georg says. “My congratulations!”
“Kiss my ass!” the sergeant major replies. “Can’t you see I’m occupied?”
“You are overexerting yourself.”
“Well? What’s that to you? I’m being ruined by my family here.”
“Your wife has just done a splendid bit of business. If she sells the mourning clothes tomorrow, she will make a profit of several billion through the inflation—especially if the material hasn’t been paid for.”
“No, we haven’t paid for it yet!” cry the quartet.
“Then you should be happy, Herr Knopf! While you’ve been ill the dollar has been rising fast. Without knowing it you’ve made a profit in your sleep.”
Knopf pricks up his ears. He knows about the inflation because schnaps has become constantly more expensive. “Well, a profit,” he mutters. Then he turns to his four ruffled sparrows. “Have you bought a tombstone for me too?”
“No, Father!” cry the quartet in relief—with a warning glance at us.
“And why not?” Knopf screeches furiously.
They stare at him.
“You geese!” he shouts. “Then we could sell it too! At a profit, eh?” he asks Georg.
“Only if it had been paid for. Otherwise we’d simply take it back.”
“That’s what you think! Then we’d sell it to Hollmann and Klotz and pay you out of the proceeds!” The sergeant major turns back to his brood. “You geese! Where’s the money? If you haven’t paid for the cloth, you still have the money! Bring it here!”
“Come on,” Georg says. “The emotional part is over. The financial part is no concern of ours.”
He is mistaken. A quarter of an hour later Knopf is standing in our office. A penetrating smell of schnaps surrounds him. “I’ve found out everything,” he says. “Lies won’t help you. My wife has confessed. She bought a tombstone from you.”
“She didn’t pay for it. Remember that. Now you don’t have to take it.”
“She bought it,” the sergeant major declares threateningly. “There are witnesses. Don’t try to crawl out! Yes or no?”
Georg looks at me. “All right. But it was an inquiry rather than a purchase.”
“Yes or no?” Knopf snorts.
“Because we’ve known each other so long, let it be as you like, Herr Knopf,” Georg says to quiet the old man.
“All right then. Give it to me in writing.”
We look at each other. This worn-out martial skeleton has learned fast. He is trying to outsmart us.
“Why in writing?” I ask. “Pay for the stone and it’s yours.”
“Be silent, you betrayer!” Knopf shouts at me. “In writing!” he screeches. “For eight billion! Much too much for a piece of stone!”
“If you want it, you must pay for it immediately,” I say.
Knopf fights heroically. It takes us ten minutes to defeat him. He produces eight billion of the money he has taken from his wife and pays. “In writing, now!” he growls.
He gets it in writing. Through the window I see the ladies of his family standing in their doorway. Timidly they look over at me and make signs. Knopf has robbed them of their last measly million. Meanwhile, he has been handed his receipt. “So,” he says to Georg. “And now what will you pay me for the stone? I’ll sell it.”
“Eight billion.”
“What? You double-dealer! Eight billion is what I have paid myself. What about the inflation?”
“The inflation is here. Today the stone is worth eight and a half billion. I pay you eight as the purchase price. We have to make a half-billion profit on the sale.”
“What? You usurer! And I? Where’s my profit? You’ll just pocket that, eh?”
“Herr Knopf,” I say. “If you buy a bicycle and sell it again an hour later, you won’t get the full purchase price back. That’s one of the facts of business; our economy rests on it.”
“The economy can kiss my ass!” the incensed sergeant major declares. “A bicycle that has been bought is a used bicycle, even if you haven’t ridden it. But my headstone is new.”
“Theoretically it’s used too,” I say. “Speaking in a business way. Besides, you can’t ask us to take a loss simply because you’re still alive.”
“Frauds! That’s what you are!”
“Just keep the headstone,” Georg advises him. “It’s a good investment. Some time or other you’ll have use for it. No family is immortal.”
“I’ll sell it to your competitors. To Hollmann and Klotz if you don’t give me ten billion for it immediately!”
I pick up the telephone. “Come on, we’ll save you the trouble. Here, call them up. Number 624.”
Knopf becomes uncertain and refuses. “The same sort of shysters as you! What will the stone be worth tomorrow?”
“Perhaps a billion more. Perhaps two or three billion.”
“And in a week?”
“Herr Knopf,” Georg says. “If we knew the dollar exchange in advance we wouldn’t be sitting here haggling with you about headstones.”
“It’s easily possible that you will be a trillionaire in a month,” I explain.
Knopf considers this. “I’ll keep the stone,” he growls finally. “Too bad I’ve paid for it already.”
“We’ll buy it back any time.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you! I wouldn’t dream of it without making a profit! I’ll keep it as a speculation. Give it a good place.” Knopf looks anxiously out of the window. “Perhaps it will rain.”
“Rain doesn’t hurt headstones.”
“Nonsense! Then they’re no longer new! I demand that mine be kept in the shed. On straw.”
“Why don’t you put it in your house?” Georg asks. “Then it will be protected from the cold during the winter.”
“You’re completely crazy, aren’t you?”
“Not in the least. There are lots of admirable people who keep their coffins in their homes. Holy men, principally, and South Italians. Some even use them for beds. Wilke upstairs always sleeps in his giant coffin when he has drunk so much that he can’t get home.”