The End of the World in Breslau Read Free Page A

door.
Fortunately for Mock’s head, the caretaker of the tenement was not asleep and managed to open the door in time. Mock hugged him effusively and, in no particular hurry, began his arduous expedition up the stairs, tumbling against the Scylla of the banister and the Charybdis of the wall, threatened by a Cerberus who, wailing and barking, was thrashing about in the vestibule of Hades behind some closed door. Mock, detained neither by the siren song of the servant who tried to take his coatand hat, nor by the wild delight of his old dog, Argos, reached the Ithaca of his bedroom where the faithful Penelope was waiting for him in her muslin dressing gown and high-heeled slippers.
Mock smiled at the pensive Sophie whose head was leaning against the backrest of the chaise-longue adjacent to their turned-down bed. Sophie stretched herself a little and the muslin of her dressing gown clung to her generous breasts. Mock took this to mean only one thing and feverishly began to undress. As he struggled with the cord of his long johns, Sophie sighed:
“Where were you?”
“In a tavern.”
“With whom?”
“I met two friends, the same as yesterday – Ebners and Domagalla.”
Sophie stood up and slipped beneath the eiderdown. Mock, somewhat surprised, did the same and snuggled close to his wife’s back. He squeezed his hand under her arm with difficulty and greedily spread his fingers over one soft breast.
“I know you want to apologize to me. I know that perfectly well. Carry on being proud and hard and don’t say a word. I forgive your behaviour at Franz’s. I forgive your coming back late. You wanted a drink, you were annoyed,” she said in a monotonous voice, staring into the mirror of the dressing table opposite the bed. “You say you were with friends. I know you’re not lying. You certainly haven’t been with a woman.” She propped herself up on one elbow and looked into the eyes of her reflection. “You wouldn’t manage it with a woman in the state you’re in. You’ve had no fire in you lately. You’re simply feeble in bed.”
“I can do it right now. I can hold you down. You’ll be begging me to stop,” Mock’s cheeks were burning; with one hand he tore at the muslin of the dressing gown, with the other, at the cotton of his long johns. “Today is the day our child will finally be conceived.”
Sophie turned to her husband and, touching his lips with hers, spoke with the voice of a sleepy child:
“I waited for you yesterday – you were with friends. I waited for you today – again you were with friends, and now you want to fuck?”
Mock adored it when she was vulgar. He ripped his long johns in his excitement. Sophie leaned against the wall. From beneath her nightdress appeared two narrow pink feet. Mock began to stroke and kiss them. Sophie slipped her fingers into her husband’s thick hair and pulled his head back.
“You want to fuck?” she repeated the question.
Mock closed his eyes and nodded. Sophie drew her legs towards her and planted both feet on her husband’s ribcage. She straightened them abruptly and pushed him off the bed.
“Fuck with your friends,” he heard his wife whisper as he fell onto the rough carpet.

BRESLAU, MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH, 1927
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
    Mock woke up at the desk in his study. His right hand was covered with clots of blood. In the lamplight stood a bottle of Rhein Spätburgunder and a half-filled glass. He scrutinized his hand. Stuck to the dry, brownish clumps of blood were a few fair hairs. Mock went to the kitchen, holding up his torn long johns. He washed his hands meticulously in the cast-iron washbasin. Then he poured some water into an enamel mug and drank, listening to the sounds coming from the courtyard: a metallic creaking of springs. He looked out of the window. Cabby Bombosch had put a nose-bag over his horse’s head and was stroking its nape. The carriage shook and bounced on its suspension. Rosemarie was earning the money for