into the self-conscious silence, or when, reluctant and tense, he loitered on streetcorners in the evening. The feeling that something was close to him, something so strong and corporeal that it made the air begin to tremble softly, and yet was impossible to grasp.
Ferdinandstrasse shone before him, and the glare from the shopwindows blinded him. It was already late and he began to hurry. He saw Zdenka standing by the National Theatre, and her sweet face greeted him from the crowd, smiling.
II
That was also the autumn when Severin made the acquaintance of Lazarus Kain. He had his shop in the upper part of Stephansgasse, not far from the large botanical garden. The rust-flecked covers of yellowed brochures and the worn cloth bindings behind the glass panes of the display case told passersby that there was a bookstore here. Over the door, on a sign christened by snow and rain, the word “Antiquariat” stood in faded letters under the name of the owner.
The store was low and narrow and was lit by a gas-flame even by day. But it could be very comfortable here during the winter, when the iron oven in the corner glowed almost red from heat, and behind the reading desk Lazarus leafed through bulging catalogues or taught tricks to his raven Anton. During the holiday months and early autumn he did nothing with the business. He would leave his daughter behind in the shop and make excursions into the surrounding area. He walked up and down the street with small steps and looked at the upper stories of the houses. The gaslight in the shop had weakened his eyes, and he was a little shortsighted. He looked at the servant girls and watched how they leaned their robust breasts against the windowsills and shook the dust from the tablecloths down into the street. The blood rose in his yellow face and he blinked. Sometimes he also stopped by the column of St. Adelbert and followed the nurses from the nearby maternity ward with his glances. Right next door stood the shabby rooms of The Poison Shanty. Lazarus remembered the evenings when the medical students used to gather here and dance with the midwives. Occasionally he had also stopped to visit, and had watched the festivities from a corner. Now the tavern had changed owners and the pub was completely abandoned except for a few Czech youths who played ninepins in the neglected garden, and a sullen waitress who served the guests cheerless beer in cracked glasses.
He often sat in the small Pilsner bar across from Stephanskirche. It was not very lively here either on the summer mornings when he visited. The priests from the nearby deanery waited until later to come and have their lunches. Lazarus sat by the window, behind the green draperies, and admired the fine ankles of the girls who hurried past. He already had nearly half a century behind him, but women were still his greatest passion. At home, on the high shelves of his bookshop, he kept many costly volumes for connoisseurs and his best customers. Dangerous and shameless novels, French and German private editions, copperplate engravings, rare translations from the time of Réstif de la Bretonne. He clung to these treasures with an infatuated tenderness, often taking them out to amuse himself and stroking their pages with his fingers. He sold them only unhappily and for high prices, and felt genuine sorrow when he saw them in the hands of buyers; it was as though they took part of a beloved estate with them when they left the building. He loved only two things more than these books: the raven Anton, an old and disheveled beast that had kept him company in the bookshop for years, and his daughter Susanna.
It was in the small pub across from the church that Severin first met Lazarus Kain. Outside the bells in the tower began striking for Sunday mass, and both of them watched the thoughtful young women who walked past the tavern window, prayer books in hand. Then Lazarus moved his glass closer to Severin’s and began to speak. His
Ferdinandstrasse shone before him, and the glare from the shopwindows blinded him. It was already late and he began to hurry. He saw Zdenka standing by the National Theatre, and her sweet face greeted him from the crowd, smiling.
II
That was also the autumn when Severin made the acquaintance of Lazarus Kain. He had his shop in the upper part of Stephansgasse, not far from the large botanical garden. The rust-flecked covers of yellowed brochures and the worn cloth bindings behind the glass panes of the display case told passersby that there was a bookstore here. Over the door, on a sign christened by snow and rain, the word “Antiquariat” stood in faded letters under the name of the owner.
The store was low and narrow and was lit by a gas-flame even by day. But it could be very comfortable here during the winter, when the iron oven in the corner glowed almost red from heat, and behind the reading desk Lazarus leafed through bulging catalogues or taught tricks to his raven Anton. During the holiday months and early autumn he did nothing with the business. He would leave his daughter behind in the shop and make excursions into the surrounding area. He walked up and down the street with small steps and looked at the upper stories of the houses. The gaslight in the shop had weakened his eyes, and he was a little shortsighted. He looked at the servant girls and watched how they leaned their robust breasts against the windowsills and shook the dust from the tablecloths down into the street. The blood rose in his yellow face and he blinked. Sometimes he also stopped by the column of St. Adelbert and followed the nurses from the nearby maternity ward with his glances. Right next door stood the shabby rooms of The Poison Shanty. Lazarus remembered the evenings when the medical students used to gather here and dance with the midwives. Occasionally he had also stopped to visit, and had watched the festivities from a corner. Now the tavern had changed owners and the pub was completely abandoned except for a few Czech youths who played ninepins in the neglected garden, and a sullen waitress who served the guests cheerless beer in cracked glasses.
He often sat in the small Pilsner bar across from Stephanskirche. It was not very lively here either on the summer mornings when he visited. The priests from the nearby deanery waited until later to come and have their lunches. Lazarus sat by the window, behind the green draperies, and admired the fine ankles of the girls who hurried past. He already had nearly half a century behind him, but women were still his greatest passion. At home, on the high shelves of his bookshop, he kept many costly volumes for connoisseurs and his best customers. Dangerous and shameless novels, French and German private editions, copperplate engravings, rare translations from the time of Réstif de la Bretonne. He clung to these treasures with an infatuated tenderness, often taking them out to amuse himself and stroking their pages with his fingers. He sold them only unhappily and for high prices, and felt genuine sorrow when he saw them in the hands of buyers; it was as though they took part of a beloved estate with them when they left the building. He loved only two things more than these books: the raven Anton, an old and disheveled beast that had kept him company in the bookshop for years, and his daughter Susanna.
It was in the small pub across from the church that Severin first met Lazarus Kain. Outside the bells in the tower began striking for Sunday mass, and both of them watched the thoughtful young women who walked past the tavern window, prayer books in hand. Then Lazarus moved his glass closer to Severin’s and began to speak. His
Similar Books
