Flotsam Read Free Page A

really expected to do is commit suicide—there’s nothing else.”
    “And with a passport? There’s no place where you get a permit to work too?”
    “Of course not. You only get the right to starve to death in peace—not on the run. That’s a good deal.”
    Kern stared straight ahead.
    Steiner slapped him on the shoulder. “Keep your chin up, Baby. In return for all this you have the good fortune to live in the twentieth century, the century of culture, progress, and humanity.”
    “Isn’t there anything at all to eat here?” asked a little man with a bald head, sitting in a corner on one of the plank beds. “Not even any coffee?”
    “All you have to do is ring for the head waiter,” Steiner replied. “Tell him to bring the bill of fare. There are four menus to choose from. Caviar if you want it, of course.”
    “Food very bad here,” said the Pole.
    “Why, there’s our Jesus Christ!” Steiner looked at him with interest. “Are you a regular guest?”
    “Very bad,” repeated the Pole. “And so little—”
    “Oh God,” said the man in the corner, “and I have a roast chicken in my trunk. When are they going to let us out of here anyhow?”
    “In two weeks,” Steiner answered. “That’s the usual punishment for refugees without papers, eh, Jesus Christ? I bet you know that.”
    “Two weeks,” agreed the Pole. “Or longer. Very little food. And so bad. Thin soup.”
    “Damn it! By then my chicken will be spoiled,” the bald-headgroaned. “My first chicken in two years. I saved up for it, groschen by groschen. I was going to eat it today.”
    “Postpone your anguish till tonight,” Steiner said, “then you can assume you would already have eaten it and that will make it easier.”
    “What nonsense is that you’re talking?” The man stared indignantly at Steiner. “Are you trying to tell me that would be the same thing, you twaddler? When I haven’t really eaten it? And besides, I’d have saved a drumstick for tomorrow.”
    “Then wait until tomorrow noon.”
    “That not bad for me,” the Pole broke in, “I not eat chicken.”
    “It can’t possibly be bad for
you
—you haven’t a roast chicken lying in your trunk,” growled the man in the corner.
    “If I had chicken, still not bad. I not eat her. Not stand chickens. Vomit up afterwards.” The Pole looked very satisfied and smoothed his beard. “For me that chicken no loss.”
    “No one’s interested in that, you fool!” the bald-head shouted angrily.
    “Even if chicken here—I not eat same,” announced the Pole triumphantly.
    “Good God! Did anyone ever hear such drivel?” The owner of the chicken in the trunk pressed his hands in desperation to his head.
    “Apparently he can’t lose on roast chicken,” Steiner said. “As far as they are concerned, our Jesus Christ is immune. A Diogenes among roast chickens. How about stewed chicken?”
    “Truly not,” the Pole announced firmly.
    “And chicken paprika?”
    “Not at all chicken.” The Pole beamed.
    “I’m going crazy!” howled the tormented owner of the chicken.
    Steiner turned around. “And eggs, Jesus Christ, chicken’s eggs?”
    His smile disappeared. “Little eggs, yes—love little eggs.” An expression of yearning stirred his untidy beard. “Very much love.”
    “Thank God, at last a flaw in this perfection.”
    “Very much love little eggs,” the Pole insisted; “four eggs, six eggs, twelve eggs—six boiled, other six fried. With little potatoes. Little fried potatoes and bacon.”
    “I can’t listen to any more of this. Nail him to the cross, this gluttonous Jesus Christ!” stormed the Chicken in the Trunk.
    “Gentlemen,” said a pleasant bass voice with a Russian accent, “why all this excitement about an illusion? I smuggled a bottle of vodka through. May I offer you some? Vodka warms the heart and soothes the spirit.” The Russian uncorked the bottle, took a drink, and handed it to Steiner. The latter drank and handed it to