Telegrams of the Soul by Peter Altenberg Page B

softly. Such is the standard question of all dilettantes of life.
    â€œMy story wouldn’t interest the gentleman much—.”
    â€œOn the contrary. You seem to me to have been born for something better!” Second standard line of the dilettante!
    â€œI was corrupted—.”
    â€œAha, by love!”
    â€œNo, not love!”
    â€œThen by desire!”
    â€œNo, they plied me with drink, on a picnic—.”
    â€œBy alcohol then! It’s got to have been one of the three poisons—.”
    He categorized it all under the rubric “alcohol.”
    Anna brushed by and said: “Hey, Mr. Robinson Crusoe, don’t you go and corrupt this innocent thing—.”
    The Danube island man walked over to the open window, peered out at the darkness of the narrow street lit only with a glaring fleck of light from the pissoir, and took in a breath of the foul air with evident disgust. Then he said: “You’ve got too little respect for sunlight and fresh air, that’s your problem!”
    The girls were momentarily befuddled by the thought that they actually might perhaps have too little respect for sunlight and fresh air. Since up till then they really had no respect for it at all.
    Only Friederike, who never wanted to hear her named shortened into “Fritzerl” because she was the one they always called that, spoke up: “Well, we’ve got a better sense of humor than you, Mister—.”
    â€œZip it,” said the other girls, “don’t hurt the guy’s feelings, that ain’t right—.”
    â€œFarewell, you fallen soul!” said the man and left.
    â€œWith our best regards, Mr. Robinson Crusoe—,” Anna called after him.
    â€œWhat’d you all tell me to zip it for when I put that sorry sap in his place?!?” said Friederike.
    â€œYou can’t just go ’n rub their nose in the truth; he might still have picked one to take upstairs—.”
    â€œNo way, not that sun nut; all his sun-soaked strength makes him weak where it counts—.”
    __________________
    * Viennese slang for brothel

Putain
    The little room is flooded with the scent of a mountain meadow. In the light brown wash basin lies a thick bunch of Daphne Cneorum, rose-colored asters.
    â€œDaphne Cneorum—,” he remarks upon entering, savoring all the types of alpine laurel with their fine fragrance and color, and thinks of mountainsides bathed in sunlight.
    â€œThe hell with my flowers—,” she says. “What do you care what they’re called—?”
    She undresses and crawls into bed.
    â€œSay, what’d Max mean?! Are you fellahs really not going to come by no more?”
    â€œNo—,” he says, “it costs money and people talk. What are we, whoremongers?! For heaven’s sake!”
    Silence.
    â€œWell then, that’s that—,” she says softly.
    He inhales the clear scent of woman’s breath and mountain meadow.
    She lies there motionless.
    Then she says: “It’s a damn shame, it is—. I was proud of you all, proud—. I always said: ‘My friends—!’ Maybe I didn’t act like I should have. I shoulda pulled the wool over your eyes, made a scene, a comedy—.”
    â€œCome on, sweetheart, don’t be such a child—,” he says and kisses her hand.
    â€œYou’re fine fellahs, ain’t you—,” she says, “fine as silk! Why’d you bother coming?! What for?! Nothing to be done—. That’s all: ‘Nothing to be done about it.’ I can’t put it into pretty words, but that’s all—. I got thoughts in my head too, see—. That Robert, he’s such a dear. I’ll tell you a little story. But you can’t go blabbing it around town. One time he said to me: “You’re tired, Anna, better sleep—.” “ ’S’at what we came up for?!” I says. “Tired