The Black Obelisk: A Novel by Erich Maria Remarque

Author:Erich Maria Remarque [Remarque, Erich Maria]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780812985559
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2013-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

We go into Eduard Knobloch’s restaurant. “Look over there,” I say, stopping as though I had run into a tree. “Life seems to be up to its tricks here too! I should have guessed it!”

Gerda is sitting at a table in the wine room with a vase of tiger lilies in front of her. She is alone and is hacking away at a venison steak that is almost as big as the table. “What do you say to that?” I ask Georg. “Doesn’t it smell of betrayal?”

“Was there anything to betray?”

“No. But what about unfaithfulness?”

“Was there anything to be faithful to?”

“Oh stop it, Socrates!” I reply. “Can’t you see Eduard’s fat paw at work here?”

“I see it all right. But who has betrayed you? Eduard or Gerda?”

“Gerda! Who do you think? The man’s never responsible.”

“Nor the woman either.”

“Then who?”

“You.”

“All right,” I say. “It’s easy for you to talk. You don’t get betrayed. You are a betrayer yourself.”

Georg nods with self-satisfaction. “Love is a matter of emotion,” he instructs me. “Not of morality. Emotion, however, knows nothing of betrayal. It increases, disappears, or changes—so where is the betrayal? There is no contract. Didn’t you deafen Gerda with your howling about your sufferings over Erna?”

“Only at the beginning. You know she was there when we had our row in the Red Mill.”

“Then don’t yammer now. Give up or do something.”

Some people get up from a table near us. We sit down. Freidank, the waiter, veers away. “Where’s Herr Knobloch?” I ask.

Freidank glances around. “I don’t know—he has been here all along, at that table over there with the lady.”

“Simple, isn’t it?” I say to Georg. “That’s where we stand now. I am a natural victim of the inflation. Once again. First with Erna, now with Gerda. Am I a born cuckold? Things like this don’t happen to you.”

“Fight!” Georg replies. “Nothing is lost yet. Go over to Gerda!”

“What am I to fight with? Tombstones? Eduard gives her venison and dedicates poems to her. In poems she can’t see differences in quality—in food unfortunately she can. And I, fool that I am, have only myself to blame! I brought her here and aroused her appetite. Literally!”

“Then give up,” Georg says. “Why fight? One can’t fight about emotions anyway.”

“No? Then why did you advise me to a minute ago?”

“Because today is Tuesday. Here comes Eduard—in his Sunday best with a rosebud in his buttonhole. You’re done for.”

Eduard is taken aback when he sees us. He peers over toward Gerda and then greets us with the condescension of a victor. “Herr Knobloch,” Georg says, “is loyalty the badge of honor, as our beloved field marshal has declared, or isn’t it?”

“It all depends,” Eduard replies cautiously. “Today we have Königsberger meat balls with gravy and potatoes. A fine meal.”

“Does a soldier strike his comrade in the back?” Georg asks, undeterred. “Does a brother strike his brother? Does a poet strike a fellow poet?”

“Poets attack each other all the time. That’s what they live for.”

“They live for open battle, not for stabs in the belly,” I interpose.

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