their featureless navy wool suits, and with their dull, submissive expressions, they might have been a bunch of housewives waiting for a department store sale to begin. Sibylle greeted them, and a few of them greeted her back, reluctant, measured, as though proud of occupying an inferior rank. Friedrich felt like calling out: "Grüss Gott , Mrs. Tax Inspector," but then he saw that these women were the girls whose almost naked photographs were on show in the glass vitrine.
"They're kept on a tight rein," Sibylle said. "They have to be here at seven sharp, but they never open the gates before quarter past. Magnus says he wants them to get some fresh air, because they don't get home till daybreak, and if it was up to them they wouldn't leave their beds."
"Does Magnus own the Variety, then?" Friedrich was astonished.
"Yes, he's the owner, but not the manager. He hates it really. He says he goes in there sometimes to make himself sick. But he lives off the takings. The whole city, he says, keeps it going. We live off their stupidity, he says to Anja, at dinner. Magnus's father was a wealthy man, a doctor and philanthropist, who left his entire fortune to a foundation for refugees. Magnus, his son, inherited three buildings. There's the St. Peter's Hostel, which he's not allowed to touch, this Variety Theater, and a little chalet outside the city, where he lives. Anja used to live there, she's married to him, but then she moved back into St. Peters."
This was news. Friedrich thought: Why am I interested in this fellow?
They were standing a little back from the group of women, and Sibylle went on: "Magnus loathes these women. Cows, he calls them, cooks who can't cook, professional mourners who go onstage out of pique. Once, when he was still running the Variety, he tried to take on girls who, as he describes them, were like young, mulish, headstrong bulls; wild eighteen-year-olds, tanned, agile gymnasts, gazelles, chance offshoots of supple breezes, who, out of inborn dislike for any origins, were game for anything, even out of resentment against the boredom of their parental sofa world, echt filles de joie , hetaerae such as you find in the poems of Lucian. And the upshot of all his endeavors was that he practically went broke. The regulars stayed away, took their custom elsewhere, to the bars on either side. Only a few people with no money went, down-at-heel students with ragged trousers spent the whole night with eyes like saucers in front of a single glass of something that they were too preoccupied even to touch. The little guy who owns a dairy, a greengrocer's shop, or a pork butcher's, what he wants to see is his neighbor's wife, the woman he runs into on the staircase, the girl who's working for him, the housemaid who sweeps up the dirt in front of the steps down to his shop—figures from his day-to-day experience gyrating in front of his eyes in the tiny white glitter knickers of naked dancers, while he's hunched over a mug of beer or a glass of wine. That's the secret of the pleasure industry, a lesson that Magnus isn't able to apply personally, but [we live off stupidity] is happy to have applied by others on his behalf. He's a remarkable man, you'll get to see him in a moment, he's on his way; only leaving those poor girls out in the gale I think is a petty form of vengeance that isn't even worthy of a shriveled dwarf."
From the opposite side of the street, they heard a strident whistle. Fedor stepped into the light of a streetlamp and approached them. His walk was tired, and no longer as bouncy and insouciant as it had been that morning. He was carrying a small suitcase in one hand. A hotel stamp was stuck on one corner of it. Maybe it had his makeup things in it. It couldn't have been much. He looked like a salesman coming home after a trying day, without the least success. Over his sweater he was wearing a jacket. It was very tight and waisted. The stiff hat he had on in place of the cap that would have looked
"They're kept on a tight rein," Sibylle said. "They have to be here at seven sharp, but they never open the gates before quarter past. Magnus says he wants them to get some fresh air, because they don't get home till daybreak, and if it was up to them they wouldn't leave their beds."
"Does Magnus own the Variety, then?" Friedrich was astonished.
"Yes, he's the owner, but not the manager. He hates it really. He says he goes in there sometimes to make himself sick. But he lives off the takings. The whole city, he says, keeps it going. We live off their stupidity, he says to Anja, at dinner. Magnus's father was a wealthy man, a doctor and philanthropist, who left his entire fortune to a foundation for refugees. Magnus, his son, inherited three buildings. There's the St. Peter's Hostel, which he's not allowed to touch, this Variety Theater, and a little chalet outside the city, where he lives. Anja used to live there, she's married to him, but then she moved back into St. Peters."
This was news. Friedrich thought: Why am I interested in this fellow?
They were standing a little back from the group of women, and Sibylle went on: "Magnus loathes these women. Cows, he calls them, cooks who can't cook, professional mourners who go onstage out of pique. Once, when he was still running the Variety, he tried to take on girls who, as he describes them, were like young, mulish, headstrong bulls; wild eighteen-year-olds, tanned, agile gymnasts, gazelles, chance offshoots of supple breezes, who, out of inborn dislike for any origins, were game for anything, even out of resentment against the boredom of their parental sofa world, echt filles de joie , hetaerae such as you find in the poems of Lucian. And the upshot of all his endeavors was that he practically went broke. The regulars stayed away, took their custom elsewhere, to the bars on either side. Only a few people with no money went, down-at-heel students with ragged trousers spent the whole night with eyes like saucers in front of a single glass of something that they were too preoccupied even to touch. The little guy who owns a dairy, a greengrocer's shop, or a pork butcher's, what he wants to see is his neighbor's wife, the woman he runs into on the staircase, the girl who's working for him, the housemaid who sweeps up the dirt in front of the steps down to his shop—figures from his day-to-day experience gyrating in front of his eyes in the tiny white glitter knickers of naked dancers, while he's hunched over a mug of beer or a glass of wine. That's the secret of the pleasure industry, a lesson that Magnus isn't able to apply personally, but [we live off stupidity] is happy to have applied by others on his behalf. He's a remarkable man, you'll get to see him in a moment, he's on his way; only leaving those poor girls out in the gale I think is a petty form of vengeance that isn't even worthy of a shriveled dwarf."
From the opposite side of the street, they heard a strident whistle. Fedor stepped into the light of a streetlamp and approached them. His walk was tired, and no longer as bouncy and insouciant as it had been that morning. He was carrying a small suitcase in one hand. A hotel stamp was stuck on one corner of it. Maybe it had his makeup things in it. It couldn't have been much. He looked like a salesman coming home after a trying day, without the least success. Over his sweater he was wearing a jacket. It was very tight and waisted. The stiff hat he had on in place of the cap that would have looked
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