front of him, small by comparison, wrapped in her sheepskin, and puffing out smoke with an expression he couldn't see, as she had her back turned to the door. And it transpired that the giant was indeed Magnus, the son of that Doctor Magnus who had started the old foundation for "refugees of all nations."
An argument was in progress. Strife between Magnus and Anja.
The veins on the backs of his large hands were great, forceful canals. His will seemed to go straight into his hands; Anja's slumped shoulders trembled under their weight. His face, meanwhile, seemed calm, his mouth was closed, he didn't speak. And yet there was widespread disturbance, the others were talking and shouting. The room had filled up. The troupe was assembled. The boys in sweaters, the figure of the ancient peasant woman from bygone days, the sculpted Roman head of the lady in black tulle all spoke up, and Fedor also ran up, voicing his complaint. Shadows rose in Sibylle's face. Dissent was spreading, and her face was like a bright body of water, crossed by the great wingspan of a large night fowl, whose cawing, in popular legend, brings misfortune to the huts of those people who hear it. She returned to her makeup stool and her mirror. What possesses her to stay here, my God, why does she stay? thought Friedrich; that, and: If only I had a horse, a strong and mettlesome steed! I'd come galloping up and crash through the blacked-out windows, and snatch up Sibylle, and lay her across in front of me, and fly away, leaving in my wake only a shower of sparks from the impacts of the four stout, shod hooves of my mount. Oh, if only I had a horse! He almost said it aloud. Sibylle was fiddling about with boxes and bottles and pencils. A compact was knocked over, and a fine dusting of powder was scattered about the room like the white smoke of a locomotive as it whistles into the mouth of a tunnel, and left the arguing parties looking a little hazy, like people stepping out of East End pubs in London town on a foggy evening, the smoke of the wheat brandy in their throats, reeling in dazzlement, till they drown in the grimy, turbid milk that God, who also provided them with a blade to slit their fellow man's throat, spread over His streets. They were in danger, and so they showed their teeth. The ground they stood on was swaying. The immigration police had shown an interest in their enterprise, and they were to be deported. The members of the troupe were either, like Fedor, stateless, or else they had the passport of some nation that was not worth having. They enjoyed no diplomatic protection. They could not, when ordered to leave the country, puff out their chests and say: "Well, our embassy will have something to say about that, but for now we should put you on notice of the poor impression your decision will make internationally, and of the possible deterioration of the political situation that seems likely to follow from it." All this they could not do. All they could do was meekly bow their heads and appeal to the sympathy of some middle-ranking official. No country gave much for what happened to them. And as their situation was so bad, so desperate, so hopeless, so, correspondingly, their complaints were bitter, their cries of indignation frightful, and the tears in their eyes—tears of rage and shame and disappointment—genuine. Magnus had undertaken to plead their case in the name of his father's old foundation, appealing to the hallowed memory of his forebear, who had established the right to shelter and asylum. Had Magnus failed them? Did his connections not extend far enough? Was he not able to help, or did he not want to stand in the way of the departure of the troupe? Friedrich's view of things was as follows: He is the son, merely the son of the old Doctor Magnus who set up the foundation "for refugees of all nations," and it is with other sons that he will have to deal. There will be no chance for the troupe. The sons have never taken up the
An argument was in progress. Strife between Magnus and Anja.
The veins on the backs of his large hands were great, forceful canals. His will seemed to go straight into his hands; Anja's slumped shoulders trembled under their weight. His face, meanwhile, seemed calm, his mouth was closed, he didn't speak. And yet there was widespread disturbance, the others were talking and shouting. The room had filled up. The troupe was assembled. The boys in sweaters, the figure of the ancient peasant woman from bygone days, the sculpted Roman head of the lady in black tulle all spoke up, and Fedor also ran up, voicing his complaint. Shadows rose in Sibylle's face. Dissent was spreading, and her face was like a bright body of water, crossed by the great wingspan of a large night fowl, whose cawing, in popular legend, brings misfortune to the huts of those people who hear it. She returned to her makeup stool and her mirror. What possesses her to stay here, my God, why does she stay? thought Friedrich; that, and: If only I had a horse, a strong and mettlesome steed! I'd come galloping up and crash through the blacked-out windows, and snatch up Sibylle, and lay her across in front of me, and fly away, leaving in my wake only a shower of sparks from the impacts of the four stout, shod hooves of my mount. Oh, if only I had a horse! He almost said it aloud. Sibylle was fiddling about with boxes and bottles and pencils. A compact was knocked over, and a fine dusting of powder was scattered about the room like the white smoke of a locomotive as it whistles into the mouth of a tunnel, and left the arguing parties looking a little hazy, like people stepping out of East End pubs in London town on a foggy evening, the smoke of the wheat brandy in their throats, reeling in dazzlement, till they drown in the grimy, turbid milk that God, who also provided them with a blade to slit their fellow man's throat, spread over His streets. They were in danger, and so they showed their teeth. The ground they stood on was swaying. The immigration police had shown an interest in their enterprise, and they were to be deported. The members of the troupe were either, like Fedor, stateless, or else they had the passport of some nation that was not worth having. They enjoyed no diplomatic protection. They could not, when ordered to leave the country, puff out their chests and say: "Well, our embassy will have something to say about that, but for now we should put you on notice of the poor impression your decision will make internationally, and of the possible deterioration of the political situation that seems likely to follow from it." All this they could not do. All they could do was meekly bow their heads and appeal to the sympathy of some middle-ranking official. No country gave much for what happened to them. And as their situation was so bad, so desperate, so hopeless, so, correspondingly, their complaints were bitter, their cries of indignation frightful, and the tears in their eyes—tears of rage and shame and disappointment—genuine. Magnus had undertaken to plead their case in the name of his father's old foundation, appealing to the hallowed memory of his forebear, who had established the right to shelter and asylum. Had Magnus failed them? Did his connections not extend far enough? Was he not able to help, or did he not want to stand in the way of the departure of the troupe? Friedrich's view of things was as follows: He is the son, merely the son of the old Doctor Magnus who set up the foundation "for refugees of all nations," and it is with other sons that he will have to deal. There will be no chance for the troupe. The sons have never taken up the
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