The Eternal Philistine by Odon Von Horvath Page B

and ordered himself a sort of fish soup.
    “Well, that’s one peculiar dish,” said Kobler warily, and sniffed it. “I’d say there are a lot of exotic ingredients in there.”
    “Do you remember the colonial monument on the Corniche?” inquired Schmitz with his mouth full. “That was that monumental monument for Frenchmen who died fighting against the French colonial peoples. And of course, lots of stuff here comes from the colonies, but it’s like that everywhere! Even our famous Viennese black coffee is grown by the blacks. If we didn’t have any colonial goods, we wouldn’t, my dear sir, be able to satisfy even our most primitive needs. And believe me, that’d be the case too if somebody didn’t so shamelessly exploit those poor negroes. And then of course all the colonial goods would be prohibitively expensive because plantation owners would also want to earn a thousand times more money. Just believe me, my esteemed colleague, we whites are the biggest beasts!”
    He suddenly had to cough violently after tossing down his throat a morsel that was too large. Once he was finished coughing, he resumed:
    “If we white beasts were honorable people, we would have to build our civilization upon people without any needs, people whose needs could be satisfied without negro products, forest people as it were. Then we’d have states hardly capable of satisfying a need. But then what would be left of our occidental culture?”
    “I’m not sure,” answered Kobler, shooting a bored glance at his watch. “When are we going to the brothel district?” he asked anxiously.
    “It’s not worth it just yet—it’s still way too light out,” said Schmitz. “In the meantime we could take a look at a few old churches.
Garçon
, bring me another banana!”

CHAPTER 18
    RIGHT BEHIND MARSEILLE’S BEAUTIFUL TOWN hall begins the famous brothel district: dismal and filthy, a true labyrinth that seems to go on forever.
    The farther one strays from the city hall, the more unofficial the prostitution gets and the more brutishly it deports itself. The streets keep getting narrower, the tall houses more dilapidated, and even the air seems to be decaying.
    The God and the Bayadère
, it suddenly occurred to Schmitz, he being a literary man and all. “Do you see that
bayadère
over there?” he asked Kobler. “That fat yellow thing that’s washing its black feet—oh, how unsavory! My goodness, now she’s about to give herself a pedicure! And that thing calls itself God’s likeness!”
    “It’s enough to make you sick,” said Kobler.
    “Watch out!” yelled Schmitz. He saw another likeness approaching Kobler. This likeness had a crusty rash all around its mouth and insisted on giving Kobler a kiss. While Kobler was putting up a desperate struggle, a third likeness snatched Schmitz’s hat off his head, acting very coy. A group of Senegalese sailors couldn’t help but laugh at that.
    “No matter how you look at it, that’s one interestingmixture of peoples,” stated Schmitz, who after lengthy negotiations had reclaimed his hat for the price of five cigarettes. “Did you get a look at that Japanese whore too?”
    “I even saw the Chinese one!” answered Kobler. “You certainly can see all sorts of stuff here. I just don’t get the men who mess around with it all.”
    “Sex drive—nothing more,” said Schmitz, “and sailors are said to have quite exceptional ones.”
    “I don’t get these sailors,” interrupted Kobler sullenly, before beginning to curse and complain impatiently about the apparent lack of nice whores in Marseille—“just horrible, abominable ones.” He had envisioned this harbor city as being quite different.
    “Just calm down,” Schmitz consoled him. “I’ll take you to an upscale, very official whorehouse. I got the address from a head waiter at the Bristol in Vienna. The women are sure to be well cared for. And supposedly you can see all sorts of stuff there, even if you don’t mess