Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf by Alfred Döblin

Author:Alfred Döblin [Döblin, Alfred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Philosophy, General
ISBN: 9780826477897
Google: A2n1QnqhAQgC
Publisher: A&C Black
Published: 2004-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

American Quick Pressing, an open window, two steaming ironing-boards, in the background several men, not much American about them, sitting smoking, in the front a swarthy young tailor in his shirt-sleeves. Franz looks the place over. He chuckles: “Emmi, cute li’l Emmi, it was nice I found ye today, wasn’t it?” She doesn’t yet understand the man, but is mightily flattered, he can go to hell, that other guy who had stood her up, let ‘im get mad, if he wants to. “Emmi, sweet Emmi, just take a peep at this shop.” “Well, he certainly don’t make much with his pressing.” “Who?” “That little black fellow.” “Nope, not him, but the others.” “Those fellows back there? How do you know? I don’t know ‘em.” Franz chuckles: “Neither do 1. never seen ‘em before, but I know ‘em just the same. Just look at ‘em. And the boss: he presses in front, but in the back - well, he does something else.” “Rooming house?” “Maybe so, nope, oh, they’re all a lotta crooks. Who do all those suits hanging there belong to? I’d just like to be a bull with a brass badge and ask that guy-you’d see ‘em beat it, all right.” “What is it?” “It’s all stuff they’ve hooked, and just deposited here! Quick-pressing place, my eye! Swell guys, eh? Look at ‘em puffing away! They take it easy all right.”

They continue walking. “You oughta do like ‘em, Emmi. That’s the only real thing. Only don’t work. Get that out of your head, that stuff about working! Working gives you blisters on your hands, but no money, or at best, a hole in your head! Work never made a man rich. I’m tellin’ you. Only cheating. You bet!”

“And what do you do, anyhow?” She is full of hope. “Come along, Emmi. I’ll tell you.” They are back again in the Rosenthaler Strasse crowd, then they go through Sophienstrasse into Münzstrasse. Franz goes his way. Trumpets are blaring a marching song beside him. A battle was fought upon the open wold, ratatata, ratatata, ratatata. We have sacked the town and taken all their heavy gold. Sacked it-racked it, ratatata!

They both laugh. This girl he fished up has class. To be sure, her name’s only Emmi, but she has the reformatory and divorce behind her. They are both in high spirits. Emmi asks: “Where’s your other arm?” “It’s at home with my girl, she didn’t want to let me go, so I had to leave my arm in hock.” “Well let’s hope that arm’s as gay as you are.” “You said it. Say, haven’t you heard: I’ve started up a business with that arm o’mine. It stands on a table and says the whole day long: Only he who works shall eat. He who doesn’t work must go hungry. That’s what my arm says all day: Admittance one groschen, and the proletarians gather and enjoy it.” She holds her belly, and he laughs, too. “Listen, dearie, you’re going to tear my other arm off.

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