fitting place for the ape, who fixed his small eyes on Mock.
“I’d like to see the manager,” Mock said, instinctively reaching for his identification. But he checked himself; he did not want to reveal all his cards yet. “My name is Eberhard Mock. Where would I find him?”
“Complaints are dealt with at the tables. You should have called the boss from there,” muttered the doorman. “Come back tomorrow after three.”
“I’m here on a different matter. A very important matter,” Mock said, and resorted to a method sure to calm his nerves, that of mentally reciting Horace’s “ Exegi monumentum ”. † Beneath the low vault of the doorman’s skull, a small brain was strenuously at work. When Mock got to the well-known line “ non omnis moriar ”, ‡ the doorman said:
“Tell me what it’s about. I’ll pass it on to the boss – maybe he’ll see you …”
“You’re not going to pass anything on to him,” said Mock, “because you’d have to repeat ten words and that goes far beyond your capabilities.”
“Fuck off. Right now,” the doorman glowered, clenching his fists. He was on the verge of thumping his bulging chest with them.
Mock recited to himself the famous ode about the immortality of the muses’ chosen one. Suddenly he got stuck and no longer knew who it was who had climbed the Capitol in silence: was it the priest or the Vestal? At the same time he turned abruptly and delivered his first blow from a half-spin. The astonished doorman grabbed his chin and lost his balance. That was enough for Mock. He bent down, gripped his opponent by the ankles and pulled him forwards. A spray of water indicated where the doorman, deprived of the support of his short limbs, had found himself. Water overflowed from the fountain, pouring onto the red carpet as the doorman thrashed about helplessly in the marble basin. He tried to push himself up with his hands. The waterfall poured over his white shirt and blinded him. Mock, mentally analysing subsequent lines from Horace about the roaring Aufidus River, donned a knuckle-duster and aimed another blow at the doorman’s chin. The ape’s elbow slipped on the bottom of the fountain and his head fell back into the bubbling whirlpool. Mock threw his coat aside, grabbed him once again by the ankles and, with a mighty heave, dragged him out of the water. The ape’s head thumped against the stone rim of the fountain before his body landed on the soft carpet. Mock leaned one hand against a palm tree and set about kicking the prostrate man. Unnecessarily: the doorman was already unconscious.
Mock looked with irritation at the drenched sleeves of his jacket and his blood-stained trouser legs. He realized he was holding an extinguished cigarette end between his lips. Spitting it into the fountain, he scrutinized the casino guests who had left the gaming-room and were nowstaring at the unconscious doorman in horror. Their sentiments were shared by the porter who, without waiting to be asked, said:
“The manager’s office is on the first floor. Room 104.”
Room 104 looked a little too small for the hefty, fat body topped with a bald head, which sat sprawled in an armchair, carefully inspecting its croupiers’ reports. Norbert Risse’s stature evoked indescribable joy among restaurateurs and tailors: ten-course meals and the bales of material used to make his elegant clothes allowed representatives of both professions to forget, at least for a while, their everyday material concerns.
Mock’s profession was entirely different, so the sight of Risse did not arouse much enthusiasm in him. He was not interested in the casino manager’s silk cravat, his quilted dressing gown, and least of all in the set of Chinese porcelain that stood on the coffee table and the listless parrot which knew only sign language.
“My name is Eberhard Mock,” he said. “Criminal Counsellor Eberhard Mock. I am a suppliant, a humble suppliant.”
Risse studied Mock’s sodden clothes as
“I’d like to see the manager,” Mock said, instinctively reaching for his identification. But he checked himself; he did not want to reveal all his cards yet. “My name is Eberhard Mock. Where would I find him?”
“Complaints are dealt with at the tables. You should have called the boss from there,” muttered the doorman. “Come back tomorrow after three.”
“I’m here on a different matter. A very important matter,” Mock said, and resorted to a method sure to calm his nerves, that of mentally reciting Horace’s “ Exegi monumentum ”. † Beneath the low vault of the doorman’s skull, a small brain was strenuously at work. When Mock got to the well-known line “ non omnis moriar ”, ‡ the doorman said:
“Tell me what it’s about. I’ll pass it on to the boss – maybe he’ll see you …”
“You’re not going to pass anything on to him,” said Mock, “because you’d have to repeat ten words and that goes far beyond your capabilities.”
“Fuck off. Right now,” the doorman glowered, clenching his fists. He was on the verge of thumping his bulging chest with them.
Mock recited to himself the famous ode about the immortality of the muses’ chosen one. Suddenly he got stuck and no longer knew who it was who had climbed the Capitol in silence: was it the priest or the Vestal? At the same time he turned abruptly and delivered his first blow from a half-spin. The astonished doorman grabbed his chin and lost his balance. That was enough for Mock. He bent down, gripped his opponent by the ankles and pulled him forwards. A spray of water indicated where the doorman, deprived of the support of his short limbs, had found himself. Water overflowed from the fountain, pouring onto the red carpet as the doorman thrashed about helplessly in the marble basin. He tried to push himself up with his hands. The waterfall poured over his white shirt and blinded him. Mock, mentally analysing subsequent lines from Horace about the roaring Aufidus River, donned a knuckle-duster and aimed another blow at the doorman’s chin. The ape’s elbow slipped on the bottom of the fountain and his head fell back into the bubbling whirlpool. Mock threw his coat aside, grabbed him once again by the ankles and, with a mighty heave, dragged him out of the water. The ape’s head thumped against the stone rim of the fountain before his body landed on the soft carpet. Mock leaned one hand against a palm tree and set about kicking the prostrate man. Unnecessarily: the doorman was already unconscious.
Mock looked with irritation at the drenched sleeves of his jacket and his blood-stained trouser legs. He realized he was holding an extinguished cigarette end between his lips. Spitting it into the fountain, he scrutinized the casino guests who had left the gaming-room and were nowstaring at the unconscious doorman in horror. Their sentiments were shared by the porter who, without waiting to be asked, said:
“The manager’s office is on the first floor. Room 104.”
Room 104 looked a little too small for the hefty, fat body topped with a bald head, which sat sprawled in an armchair, carefully inspecting its croupiers’ reports. Norbert Risse’s stature evoked indescribable joy among restaurateurs and tailors: ten-course meals and the bales of material used to make his elegant clothes allowed representatives of both professions to forget, at least for a while, their everyday material concerns.
Mock’s profession was entirely different, so the sight of Risse did not arouse much enthusiasm in him. He was not interested in the casino manager’s silk cravat, his quilted dressing gown, and least of all in the set of Chinese porcelain that stood on the coffee table and the listless parrot which knew only sign language.
“My name is Eberhard Mock,” he said. “Criminal Counsellor Eberhard Mock. I am a suppliant, a humble suppliant.”
Risse studied Mock’s sodden clothes as
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