Chapter 3

Paul and Fritz stepped quickly into a little trattoria off the Via Balbi where the tagliarini was said to be exquisite. They had come straight from the theater by foot along the shabby lanes of the city. One almost became accustomed to the number of cripples and other weird apparitions that prowled the night in Genoa. Fritz gave a coin to the pet monkey of a hurdy-gurdy man who could have passed for the twin brother of Paul’s Genoese coach driver. Paul frowned at the distasteful reminder. But the little café seemed an oasis in the midst of the inferno itself, and the pair wasted no time escaping the street by stepping through the door and taking seats at a table at the side of the room.

The place was loud and cheap; yet the premises seemed clean enough, and to judge from the wonderful smells that wafted in from the kitchen, the food was all it was promised to be. Several couples were busy at their dinners while a group of men sat in the middle of the room playing a game with their hands. One man would call a number between one and ten and hold up three, four, or five fingers. His opponent would attempt to hold up the correct balance of fingers to make up the difference as quickly as possible or he would lose the game. The players were so adept that outsiders were at pains to keep track. At intervals, however, all the men boisterously would whoop and shout their approval or disapproval, thus giving an indication of who had won. It was great fun, and the little group’s laughter was so infectious that everyone in the cafe felt they were taking part. One gregarious fellow in the group with a red bandanna around his neck especially encouraged the patrons and would slap his comrades heartily on the shoulder with a resounding "smack."

"What’s that game?" Paul asked.

"It’s called mora. It’s a national sport of sorts. I think the Genoese play it best of all," replied Fritz, already absorbed in the game.

The two watched until one of the players threw up his hands and quit the field of battle, leaving his opponent the victor. Still, everyone applauded the loser, who acknowledged the accolade with a generous smile and a wave.

After a few moments, the proprietor, Signor Ciacatti, a rotund, jovial-looking fellow, came to the table.

"Ah, Signor Polacco!" he exclaimed with a broad grin and a thick Sicilian. "It is very good that you come again. We have missed you these few weeks, no?"

"A slight indisposition," Fritz explained. "But not even the gravest illness could keep me away from your pasta for very long, Signor Ciacatti," he added.

Signor Ciacatti’s stomach rolled with laughter, and he slapped Fritz good-naturedly on the back.

"—And Paul," Fritz said, turning to his friend, "I want you to meet the owner of the best trattoria in all Italy."

The owner gave as much of a bow as his girth permitted, extended a meaty hand to Paul, and shook vigorously while exchanging pleasantries.

"Well, what can I do for you boys tonight?" Signor Ciacatti asked.

"I’ll have my usual ‘tagliarini con spargi,’ and I believe my guest would like the same but ‘con fegatini.’ You do like chicken livers, as I recall, don’t you, Paul?" Fritz asked.

"Love them. They’re my mother’s specialty."

"After Signor Ciacatti’s fegatini, you’ll forget all about your mother," insisted Fritz with a laugh. Then he turned to the host. "Very well, then. Please bring us that and a bottle of your very best red wine. And, by the way," he added significantly, "don’t spare the sauce, and pile on the noodles in great heaps. We’re starving! Mille grazie," said Fritz.

"Prego, my friend," Signor Ciacatti replied as he bowed again and walked off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Alfredo!" he then called to a small, dark, ferret of a man who darted busily between tables, alternately cleaning up things and serving patrons. "We have guests. Get them some wine—subito!" he ordered, snapping his fingers so briskly that his whole bulk quivered.

The waiter scurried over to the table, set out the silverware and napkins, and disappeared. In seconds he returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

"By the way," said Paul as Fritz sampled the wine and then poured some into the glasses, "why do the people around here call you ‘polacco?’"

"No, no. Po-lac-co," said Fritz, enunciating each syllable. "You know, from the Middle High German polanc, from poljane—the men from the plains—a Pole. They all think I’m Polish."

"Oh!" said Paul whose voice now communicated total confusion.

"Look, it’s quite simple," Fritz explained. "They think by my looks that I’m Polish and not German. It happens all the time. When I stayed at Malwida’s villa in Sorrento, the whole town took to calling me ‘il polacco.’ Why, once an old Polish gentleman wouldn’t even believe me when I told him flat out that I was German. He just looked at me plaintively and said: ‘Well, it’s the old blood for sure, but God knows where the heart has strayed’," Fritz said as he mimicked the old man. "You get accustomed to such things. I’ve always had the feeling that we’re just palpable figments of somebody else’s imagination anyway."

Paul chuckled as he sipped his wine.

"I guess I never told you," Fritz went on, "but ironically enough, I really am Polish."

Paul’s eyes opened wide.

"You don’t say?"

"Indeed!" Fritz said. "In fact, it’s something that I’m rather proud of. It goes back to my father’s side—some old aristocratic family by the name Nietzky. The German part of my heritage comes mostly from my mother. Did I ever tell you that I’m related to Goethe himself—distantly, anyway?"

Paul’s face again registered surprise, even admiration.

"It’s true. Anyway, despite the German, I apparently still look Polish. I suppose we all have some hidden blood like that flowing in our veins."

Paul wagged his head side to side as he considered the implications of the statement.

"Actually, I consider myself quite fortunate," Fritz pressed on. "The Poles are a valiant and great people. Just think: Copernicus, Chopin—where would we be without Chopin, Paul?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders.

"Next to him, Beethoven is a barbarian," Fritz explained. "It’s a shame that Chopin was so corrupted by the French—such a bunch of milksops. In fact, I think it’s really the Polish blood mixed into our German heritage that has kept us from going the way of the French. One day we Germans may even achieve true greatness; that is, if we ever survive the Bismarcks and other bonehead Prussians."

"Polish!" Paul exclaimed with a laugh. "Well, I never would have thought it." With that, he raised his glass, toasted Fritz, and downed the wine in a single gulp.

Fritz was in the midst of refilling the glasses when Paul glanced at the wine and asked timidly: "Uh… do you really think we ought to? I mean, Lizzy said that…"

"Oh, now come off it! Not you too! This is supposed to be a celebration," Fritz complained and then filled the glasses brim high.

"So Elisabeth’s been bending your ear about my health, eh? Well, don’t worry about it. I’m feeling much better now, thank you very much."

"Really?" Paul asked.

"Absolutely!" Fritz shot back. "Anyway, I’ve got plenty of medication for my insomnia and migraines. A few grains of chloral hydrate in cognac does wonders and doesn’t even taste half bad when you get used to it. Pech’s always around if I need anything else. Otherwise I write to good old Overbeck, who’s nice enough not only to forward me my monthly pension but also any ingredients I might need for my private Apotheke; a little ferrum phosphoricum, a bit of natrium muriaticum. I mix the stuff up myself at night like Faust in his monk’s cell."

"You sound like an alchemist," observed Paul.

"Lad, anyone who attempts to combine life with the honored discipline of philosophy must either be an alchemist or just plain crazy."

"Pech, Pech," muttered Paul as he screwed up his face. "Who’s he again?"

"My physician, of course; the only fellow who has ever given me any positive results with my illness. He looks like a swine, but he’s really brilliant and quite a conversationalist, too. You’ll probably run into him if you stick with me long enough."

At that moment, Alfredo arrived with the platters of food, set them down, and disappeared again through the kitchen door like the tail of a rat.

Paul looked at the food on Fritz’s plate.

"Still a vegetarian?" he asked as he focused his attention on the asparagus in the red sauce.

"No," Fritz answered matter-of-factly as he laid his napkin out over his lap. "Everyone exaggerates and gives me grief about that. I just prefer vegetables. You see, whenever I sink my teeth into meat, I can’t help but feel shudders of cannibalism gnaw at my conscience," he quipped.

"Me too!" Paul agreed. "The difference is, I don’t let my conscience bother me about it," he added with a laugh and then dug deeply into the fegatini.

The two men pounced on their meals and made small talk about the excellence of Signor Ciacatti’s cuisine. Fritz rhapsodized on and on about his asparagus dish while he described in detail how garlic, onions, and asparagus were all sautéed in hot olive oil. To this was added tomatoes and rich spices to make the rich, bubbling red sauce that was allowed to simmer for an hour or more until the aroma was unbearably delicious. Then the noodles were prepared quickly, placed on the hot platter, and smothered with the sauce and asparagus—and just a dash of grated Parmesan cheese. Fritz’s description and the mouth-watering aroma from his dish was nearly enough to make a vegetarian out of Paul on the spot, but he resisted the impulse and renewed his attack on his fegatini.

"So what did you think of Miss Sarah’s performance?" Fritz asked finally with a grin on his face.

Paul snorted.

"I must say, it was one of the shortest performances I’ve ever seen," he replied. "Imagine, fainting away like that right after the first act!"

"Um, yes indeed," mumbled Fritz, his mouth half-full of the house specialty. "What was that greasy little man on stage trying to say after she collapsed the second time? I didn’t catch it all. Those soldiers were making too much of a racket."

"I think that was the theater manager. He said something like she burst a blood vessel—something like that."

"And three hours wasted!" Fritz sighed. "I suppose these prima donnas must have their little way with things. Do you suppose she’ll be in better health tomorrow evening? Miss Émeraude is looking forward to seeing an entire performance with us."

"I think so," replied Paul. "Anyway, just imagine what Elisabeth will say!"

At that the pair burst into laughter that mingled with the cacophony caused by the mora players who were in the midst of another game.

Fritz, who had been doing less of the talking, finished eating first. He removed his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with his napkin in his own inimitable way—always the right lens first and then the left, with two or three quick rubs between his forefinger and thumb.

It was then that Paul noticed how Fritz had changed since they were together last. His eyes seemed even more deeply set and penetrating. If one did not know Fritz, one might think he was rather grave. It was chiefly his stare and the gaunt structure of his face. It was the face of a predator, of a seeker—a seer.

But Fritz smiled easily at Paul in his usual way and replaced the spectacles. He hooked them over his left ear first and then over his right, as he always did.

"Ah, that’s better," he said. "So, lad; how’s the work coming along, hm?"

Paul looked up from his dinner and returned a sour smile.

"And I thought I was going to get to digest this meal!" he returned. "But now that you’ve asked: it’s coming; slowly—but it’s coming," he said. "Still in the rough, you understand, but I think it’ll work out with time. I seem to be caught in minutiae, and not even the praise you gave me in your Human, All—Too—Human can save me from that. I’ve done loads of research; I just can’t get the damn thing down on paper."

"And what’s your focus again?" Fritz now asked with professorial detachment.

"Moral conscience," Paul replied.

"No, no. I mean, give me the details."

Paul took a deep breath.

"All right. My point is that there are whole groups of people and tribes who have no conception whatever of what we term ‘morals.’ I mean, some of them don’t even feel guilt!"

"Y’don’t say," Fritz remarked.

"Absolutely!" gushed Paul, getting into it. "I tell you, whole cultures exist whose morals simply fly in the face of civilization. For example, there are many tribes that run about completely naked and cavort with each other any way they wish. Marriage itself is a concept completely foreign to many groups like the American Chippewas, the Sioux, the Esquimau, the Arawaks, and several Bush tribes."

"Amazing!" Fritz emoted. "Go on, go on," he urged as he took in Paul’s every word with rapt attention.

"In fact, Bancroft documents the fact rather convincingly that the Veddaks and the Californians don’t have any formal ceremony or even a word in the language for marriage but rather simply seem to pair off and copulate according to fancy like the beasts of the field."

Fritz choked on the wine he was sipping.

"So, you see," Paul continued, unperturbed, "the question of moral conscience really deserves close study. I just wish I could get it down black on white; but I can’t!"

"Rubbish! Don’t worry, lad," said Fritz reassuringly. "It will work itself out. Give it a little time, a little patience."

Ah, that’s easy for you to say," Paul whined. "Who hasn’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche: Master of the aphorism, virtuoso at the pianoforte, Maestro Wagner’s closest friend! Books pour out of you, poems, music, cute little treatises. It can’t be as difficult for you."

At that moment Paul was able to catch the eye of Alfredo, who was busy at a nearby table. The waiter scurried over and Paul absent-mindedly asked him in German rather than Italian for a bit more sauce on his noodles. Alfredo smiled politely, although he had not the slightest understanding of the request. But in order to do his very best to satisfy the customer, he answered in the affirmative, quickly picked up Paul’s plate in one hand, and dashed off. Paul smiled at Alfredo’s efficiency as the waiter glided across the room to the kitchen. Paul’s smile promptly dropped, however, for Alfredo did not enter the kitchen but took the plate of food and, with panache, deftly dumped it into a bin of dirty dishes. He then brushed off his hands and waved to Paul with a broad smile. Having executed his job in crack fashion, Alfredo immediately looked about for another challenge. The man obviously was worth double whatever they were paying him.

Fritz, in the meanwhile, had been talking a blue streak, making various suggestions to help Paul. He was quite unaware that his friend had not been very attentive.

"Well, well," Fritz laughed, thus bringing Paul back into the conversation, "do you really think I’m that good at the piano?" He grinned elfin-like and then sighed heavily when Paul did not respond as enthusiastically as he had hoped.

"No matter," he said. "I’m no longer the Maestro’s closest friend either. At any rate, Paul, we’re all equal when we face that first sheet of cold, white paper. I’m merely more practiced at overcoming obstacles—the material itself as well as people who try to sabotage you. And don’t worry, both the material and the people eventually take care of themselves."

"How so?" Paul asked.

"I’ll give you an example," said Fritz. "You see, once there was this unprincipled fellow at Basel when I taught there who did everything he could to discredit my work and get me fired from my position. He was jealous. Anyway, at first I thought up all sorts of things for revenge—you know, a little dueling on a foggy morning and things of that sort."

Paul nodded understanding.

"At length," Fritz continued, "I decided that it would be better for my own peace of mind to forgive the ass and wish him well rather than ill—a credo I continue to live by. But you can imagine that for a long while I still secretly continued to pray that the fellow would get sacked summarily for some crime of utter stupidity, like being caught on a desk with the Dean’s daughter—in flagrante delicto, as it were."

Paul pressed the napkin to his mouth. Tears of laughter ran from his eyes.

"It’s because of that episode," Fritz went on, "that I haven’t let anything get me down since. And, I guess that’s also why I’m so thankful for good friends like you, old Professor Ritschl, who got me my job at Basel in the first place, and Peter Gast."

Fritz wiped perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief.

"You see, Paul," he went on after a moment, "the world is just chock full of amazingly small minds, and most of them seemed to be in my own field, unfortunately. I just thank God I can write. For me, it’s like being high up in the mountains with the eagles and the clouds. But it’s not always easy, not even for me. In fact, the book that I just finished last week wasn’t half as much fun as Human—All—Too—Human."

Paul shook his head. "Christ! What? Another one?"

"Yes, my Sanctus Januarius. Anyway, that’s what I’m calling it for the time being."

Paul sank deflated in his chair as Fritz picked up the bottle of wine, filled both glasses, and took a respectable drink. With the wine, the good food, and the pleasant conversation, Fritz had completely thrown all caution to the wind concerning his health and was enjoying himself thoroughly.

"Frankly," said Paul somewhat despondently, "I would be simply ecstatic if I could just finish my one little book. But the research—"

"—Damn the research," boomed Fritz. Just write! And you may as well do it here and now, because it won’t be any easier anywhere else. America, my young Lothario, is right here or it is nowhere. You’ll just have to work at it."

"But I have been working hard," Paul complained.

"Fine. Then you haven’t a thing to worry about. Anyway, remember: what’s important is not your last book but your next one with all its twists and turns, all its problems and hard-won solutions, and all the glory that goes into creating something from nothing."

"Hm," Paul remarked sourly.

"Do you know what my next book will be about?" Fritz challenged. "No? Then let me tell you about it."

Fritz took another long drink of wine and then dove back into the conversation.

"This one, Paul, I shall dedicate to mankind—a monument to man himself, to his striving, and to his ceaseless pursuit of the truth. You’ll see. It will be more than a book. It will be a poem, a song, if you like. Let the bastards say what they like. One-hundred years from now, they’ll be reading my book still."

Fritz’s voice was uncharacteristically excited and his face was slightly flushed, undoubtedly from the wine that he put to his lips repeatedly. Paul would have become alarmed had he thought twice about it, but it was fascinating listening to Fritz. Paul admired Fritz more than any other person he knew, and he considered his own writing—style less though it was—as second only next to Fritz in clarity and precision of thought. In fact, even though their philosophical paths had diverged on some points during the last few years, Paul always felt that his work was as good as Fritz’s when it came right down to it. It was only just now that he began to feel that he had been passed-by. Fritz’s work seemed to be progressing; it was metamorphosing into something completely new. How could that be? Was it the same old Fritz who sat there, or was it some alchemist or necromancer who had assumed the form of his old friend?

Paul frowned. The noise of the restaurant from the patrons and the mora players combined with the effects of the wine, creating a cacophony in his head. He seemed for a moment not to know where he was, and he felt strangely insignificant in this café and in this city of filth, squalor, and foul-smelling air. He would never care for Genoa, for he felt like a speck in a morass of nothingness. Here he would go unnoticed. Here he would be forgotten.

Paul’s mind raced, and he felt light-headed. He began to formulate a sentence in his mind and did not notice that Fritz had once again removed his spectacles, but this time sat unusually still. Only his hands moved. He raised them up gracefully to his face and covered it. Then his fingers arched on his forehead until the knuckles whitened.

Paul opened his mouth to speak but stopped abruptly, for his friend sat paralyzed in his seat, clutching his head in pain. In a moment the whole café seemed to have become stone still. Paul broke out into a cold sweat and, realizing what was happening, suddenly felt completely sober. Why was no one helping him, he thought. Why was no one trying to help his friend? And in the gloom of the dimly lit café, he could only hear his own shrill voice crying out frantically: "Fritz! Fritz!"