The Black Obelisk Read Online Free

it will have the name of Otto Fleddersen, landowner, chiseled on its narrow waist in gilded Latin characters at eight hundred marks per letter. "Farewell, black Diana," I say. "Farewell!" and I raise my hat to it. "To the poet it's an eternal riddle that even perfect beauty is subject to the laws of fate and must perish miserably! Farewell! You will now become a shameless advertisement for the soul of the swindler Fleddersen, who cheated the poor widows of the city out of their last ten-thousand-mark bills for overpriced butter adulterated with margarine—not to mention his extortionate prices for calves' liver, pork cutlets, and roast beef! Farewell!"
    "You're making me hungry," Georg remarks. "Off to the Walhalla! Or do you want to buy your tie first?"
    "No. I have time before the stores close. There's no new dollar quotation Saturday afternoons. From noon today till Monday morning our currency is stable. Why? It sounds fishy to me. Why doesn't the mark fall over the week end? Does God hold it up?"
    "Because the stock exchanges are shut. Any more questions?"
    "Yes. Does man live from inside out or from outside in?"
    "Man lives, period. There's goulash at the Walhalla, goulash with potatoes, pickles, and salad. I saw the menu as I was coming back from the bank."
    "Goulash!" I pick a primrose and put it in my buttonhole. "Man lives, you're right! Whoever seeks further is already lost. Come along, let's annoy Eduard Knobloch."
    We enter the big dining room of the Hotel Walhalla. At sight of us Eduard Knobloch, the owner, a fat giant with a brown toupee and a floating dinner coat, makes a face as though he had chewed on a bullet in his venison.
    "Good morning, Herr Knobloch," Georg says. "Fine weather today. Gives one a great appetite!"
    Eduard jerks his shoulders nervously. "Eating too much is unhealthy! It damages the liver, the gall bladder, everything."
    "Not at your place, Herr Knobloch," Georg answers genially. "Your noonday meal is wholesome."
    "Wholesome, yes. But too much of what is wholesome can be harmful too. According to the latest scientific investigations, too much meat—"
    I interrupt Eduard by giving him a gentle slap on his soft belly. He leaps back as though someone had touched his privates. "Leave us alone and resign yourself to your fate," I say. "We won't eat you out of house and home. How's the poetry?"
    "Gone begging. No time! In these times!"
    I do not laugh at this idiotic word play. Eduard is not only an innkeeper, he is a poet too—but he'll have to do better than that. "Where's a table?" I ask.
    Knobloch looks around. His face suddenly brightens. "I'm extremely sorry, gentlemen, but I've just noticed there's not a table free."
    "That doesn't matter. We'll wait."
    Eduard glances around again. "It looks as if none will be free for quite some time," he announces beaming. "The customers all seem to be just beginning their soup. Perhaps if you would care to try the Altstädter Hof or the Railroad Hotel. They say you can eat quite passably there."
    Passably! The day seems to be dripping with sarcasm. First Heinrich and now Eduard. But we will fight for the goulash even if it takes an hour—it's the best dish on the Walhalla's menu.
    But Eduard seems to be not only a poet but a mind reader as well. "No point in waiting," he says. "We never have enough goulash, we always run out of it early. Or would you like to try a German beefsteak? You can have it here at the counter."
    "I'd rather be dead," I say. "We'll get goulash even if we have to cut you up."
    "Really?" Eduard is all fat, skeptical triumph.
    "Yes," I reply and give him a second slap on the belly. "Come, Georg, here's a table for us."
    "Where?" Eduard asks quickly.
    "Where that gentleman is sitting, the one who looks like a fashion plate. Yes, the redhead over there with the elegant lady. There, the one who's getting up and waving to us. My friend Willy, Eduard. Send a waiter. We want to order!"
    Eduard emits a hissing sound behind us like a