Moral 63 Page #2

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A writer would have to write two

novels to earn that much.

That's no gauge. How much?

20,000.

Multiply that by 5. I'll start to

dictate, with all details and names,

all the way up to ministers.

Shall I go up to...?

I'll talk to my boss. I can't promise

that we'll overvalue ministers,

but you're good for a raise in

circulation, for sure.

And with what should I start,

or rather, where?

Well, from the beginning. Sad childhood.

Father an alcoholic, mother mentally ill,

or vice versa. I don't know what your

childhood was like. Orphanage, beatings,

rape, and so on.

But it wasn't like that at all. Dad was

a teacher, Mom was old aristocracy.

Sheltered childhood, graduation, 4

semesters of linguistics...

Stop with that crap, will you?

First marriage at 22 years old.

Virginal, but not completely clueless.

This is bad. Terrible. Nobody

will buy this off us.

Your fate is supposed to trigger

people's empathy.

Your bourgeois upbringing won't interest

anyone. Bring in the social morass.

Victim of her surroundings, molested

since childhood, abuse of body and soul.

Suppressed feelings, sadness, hates life,

complexes, Freud. Something like that.

Where should I get that from?

I'm not Sagan.

You don't have to invent anything.

Just grab onto life fully.

Don't you read a newspaper?

Here.

"Colonel Warned The Spiegel"

"Fibag Files Vanished Without

A Trace In The Mail"

"Fibag Affair In Documents"

"A Lifetime For Vera Brhne"

"Orgies At The Gynecologist"

"Strauss Covers For Kapfinger"

"A New Brhne Case?"

It started on Shrove Monday.

It started on Shrove Monday.

My mother was nearing 40.

She looked dazzling.

Was twice-divorced

and had many admirers.

We had many parties.

We were even partying on

this Shrove Monday.

There was a housewife party.

I was 15 years old, and my mother found

this a suitable age to begin living.

That's why I was initiated

on this evening.

They gave me a lot to drink, and slowly

I and my inhibitions dissipated.

Eventually, an old friend of the family

grabbed me and pulled me...

.. into the full glow of the crowd.

Hello, my child. You don't

know the world yet.

So we're not yet showing

you our true colours.

And that throws off your equilibrium.

Let oneself degenerate.

Don't miss a moment.

Always "Bottoms Up!", "Bottoms Up!"

Don't wither, don't stand still. He who

deliberates and stands still breaks down.

Tempo, tempo, my son! Go in!

Life is only a salad of pictures,

with which one wallpapers one's soul.

And that salad of all those vivid

pictures, is spiced and served you daily.

With flash-cameras and microphones.

We listen to the grief and the joy.

We chase after the newest sensations.

After a dagger, in a

night in Brussels.

My child, his knees go weak.

Remember, one enters the Reich

with every strike.

Hello, my child, you

don't know the people.

Look away for now; I'm

showing my true face.

And if no guide

promises you the mountains.

Sensation. Sensations,

everything is deception,

everything is a bluff. You can

tell that from all the illusions:

an empty glass, ruffled bedsheets.

Destination:
gynecologist...

Gynecologist

Not gynecologist. Dentist.

Dentist.

- Open very wide.

One spring morning, the gentleman

invited me and my mother

to look at his dream house on the

Costa Brava. -Stop, stop, stop, stop...

Uh, "dream house", "Costa Brava",

we can't do that.

Why not? -Better something original.

Instead let's say Riviera or the Seine.

Lugano, Ascona, where they

dropped off all the brothers.

OK, fine.

One spring morning, the gentleman

invited me and my mother

to look at his dream house in Ticino.

My mother took his word for certain

things; that is, he made her some promises.

But she had become wary

in her dealings with friends,

and this time she wanted to

play it safe.

That's not easy for a single woman

if she wants to satisfy her needs.

I was not standing at his grave.

It was the grave of my mother.

She had died in pretrial custody.

Come on. Lift your head, tears!

Cry, cry, sad. Yes, that's good.

Uncle Franz-Josef

Rest in Peace.

Many people sent wreaths, but

no one came to the funeral.

I had suddenly become wise,

and felt very sorry for myself.

But it was a very pleasant sensation.

I wanted to preserve the good-feeling

sense of sorrow for a while,

so I went to a church.

"Church" is very good.

Rejoice with me. I have found my

lamb, which had been lost.

You must be mistaken. I am not

your lamb. -My name is Krampfinger.

Dr. Krampfinger.

Stop, stop, stop. Krampfinger is

too similar. We'll get in trouble.

OK then, why don't we make

it... Kapfler, or Kraempfer.

We'll take the "r" away.

Kaempfer. That addresses a lot.

Very well.

Kaempfer. Dr. Kaempfer. Name means

nothing to you. But I know you.

That is, your case, or to be exact,

your mother's case.

It was thoroughly discussed

in my newspapers. Sociologically,

as a critique of society.

It was never sensationalized.

You own newspapers?

- Yes.

A practical instrument of power, of

the instinct for validation.

But also for the Catholic charities.

For example, I would like to help you.

Why? -You are wise; you are alone.

Even if you think you have 100 friends.

You have a childhood behind you, in

which nothing was spared you.

You have already been on the wide

avenue that leads to destruction.

Yet you stood still,

to find the narrow passage through

which one steps into the real life.

Your voice has a pleasant vibrato.

One feels as if in an apple-blossom

bubble bath.

Believe me, it's not hard to be good if one

doesn't know the chances of temptation.

It isn't such a big deal to fold your

hands in prayer and ask God for solace

when one is an ugly young woman.

But to be pretty, to look like you, and

yet hide one's face in prayer,

that's like a light that shines

through the windows of our days.

Whereto? -I would like to

offer you my house.

I live in the penthouse. Only

the sky is above me.

It looks like the Tower of Babylon.

Humans don't get along anymore,

even without a tower.

Do you speak so articulately in every

situation? -Unless my voice leaves me.

But that happens rarely.

Are you married anyway?

- I'm a widower.

Poor early Middle Ages.

Precious objects.

I prefer Baroque. It's funnier.

After you.

What else can I offer you?

Rosie, we're having the reverend for

lunch, so two extra placemats. -Will do.

That's my cook. This is a

house of natural lifestyles.

Only absolute naturalness overcomes the

perilous methods that magazines, films,

and advertising use to do

their business these days.

My bedroom. Follow me.

One must be able to hear the angels

singing in this bed.

It's a singular joy. -Can one sleep

on it, too? -But of course.

As if in Abraham's lap. -I can't

really picture Abraham's lap.

My child, you shouldn't allow the flowery

language of some folks to beguile you.

Guard yourself from false tongues and

from scholarly tongues.

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