Albert

Albert Gleizes - his friend

Poor Franz. You old bag of bones. Always whining, always moaning. You old faker. You had more women than any three of us. Standing behind your bar, holding court. Watching everything. Hearing everything. But always you would complain. Always sighing. Pretending to be old. Well, you’re dead at last. How does it feel?

It’s funny, I keep waiting for you to answer. I’ve heard so much about your impending death for the last twenty years that I expect this is just another joke. Just another attempt to make us laugh. Just one more time. It would be a good joke too. We could use one.

The war has begun. It stinks. It is horrible. Food is in short supply already. What will it be like after a year? After ten. Wars in our part of the world have a habit of lasting a hundred years or more. If I, like you Franz, live long enough to die of old age will I even see the end of this on? So many soldiers.

At least I’m making money. God, more money than I know what to do with. Everything I do turns into money. I’m not complaining. I’m not like you, Franz. I love having my money. I love spending my money. It buys so much these days. Even more than it used to. Funny isn’t it. There is less to buy, and yet I can get anything I want. And anything I buy I can resell at a profit a week later.

You always pretended that you liked the simple life, Franz. Walking along quiet city streets, strolling through the countryside. Pa. Nonsense. I remember that time we went skiing for a week in the mountains and you nearly went crazy. You couldn’t wait to get back to your bar. Nor could I.

I love the chaos and uncertainty because I know when to act. I know when to buy and when to sell. Maria says that I am a chameleon, always changing my colors, but she is not exactly right. I am a broker. I look into people’s eyes and see what they want, and then I find it for them. Or I find something and then see who needs it the most.

I sold ham to the Jews. And yes, I am proud of it. I convinced their rabbi that it was processed buffalo meat from America. You have never seen such looks of delight on their faces as they ate. Have I damned them all to hell? Nonsense. I have given them meat when they would otherwise have had none.

Maria did not speak with me for a week after that. But I brought her champaigne and flowers, both of which are in very short supply these days, and she opened her doors to me.

Yes, Franz, your Maria. It is the only thing I am ashamed of. Not that I keep her as my mistress. But that I stole her from you while you were still alive. Admittedly there was a thrill in that. God, I loved those first few times. The furtiveness, the sneaking. The delicious feeling that I was poaching on the forbidden. Shtupping my best friend’s lover. But, like all things, that passed quickly. Soon it was just routine.
She said you complained too much. And you did. She said she tried to ease your suffering. You always said she never smiled.

She never smiled for you, Franz, but for me she smiled. I would bring her delights. I would bring her jewels. She hid them away from you because you would ask questions. Once when she wore the pearl earrings, you asked her, and she said that they were her mothers.

Since when, Franz, could a farm girl’s mother have a set of perfectly matched Japanese pearls set in silver?

You fool. You lived in paradise with a goddess, and had nothing but complaints. Yes, you were sick, but still.

Why am I talking to you? Why am I berating you? Do I feel guilty about stealing Maria? I suppose I do. A bit. But you know me. I always want to have more. When I see something I want, I find a way to get it. Always restless. Always moving. Always on the prowl.

I suppose you knew how to live. You had your tavern. You had your wife. You had your child, poor thing. You had your mistress. And you had the good fortune to pass away before the war began. A good life, all in all.

Me, I keep changing my hat. One minute I am a buyer. One minute I am a seller. One minute I am a husband. The next I am a lover. Sometimes I don’t know who I am. Sometimes I think I am nothing more than the sum of the lines in my accounting ledger.

I hate music, yet I go to the Symphony. I hate art, yet I hang it on my walls. I wish I was young enough to be a soldier carrying a gun and shooting other fellows for the joy of it. When a bomb exploded near the train station I did not run, but I watched its flames grow while the people nearby fled. I stood to the side and saw the chaos, the craziness, the fear.

And I felt calm.
Am I evil? Franz I wish I could talk with you about this. This is what troubles me most. I sell the guns. I sell the gunpowder. I sell the bullets. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. True? But it is me. I am the middle man. I am the wealthy merchant. Is it wrong?

There is that fellow, Nietzche. He says that God is dead. I believe him, and yet I am afraid for my soul. If there is no god, then why should I be afraid? Pascal says that if there is only the smallest chance of damnation then it would be worth it to be good. But is it better to be poor and dead and good than rich and fat and evil?

And am I evil? I do not shoot the guns. I do not launch the mortars? I do not arm the bombs.

Maria has left me, of course. I knew she would eventually. I gave her much too much, and she has taken it all to leave Europe for America. The last time I saw her, she cursed me for bringing so much darkness into the world. Did I not light up your life? I asked her. And it stopped her. For a time, she said. For a time. But then the money became more important than me.

Maria, I said to her, trying to hold her, trying to stop her. It was never the money. It was the deal. It was the opportunity. It was the result that the money produced.

She pretended not to understand. She shook herself free, picked up her suitcase, and left me there.

It took only a week to find another girl to fill her flat, to lie on her bed, to wear the clothes she left behind.

So, good Franz, you are gone. Maria is gone. The world we all knew is gone.

And I am rich. Fabulously rich. I love it. I love every single minute of it. I am thinking, believe it or not, of running for Parliament. Can you believe it? I can’t. I’ll wait, though, see what happens with this war. It’s never a good idea to be in charge when the world is so changeable.

Well, my old friend. Sleep well in the dirt. I’ll join you soon enough. Until then.

Next - Maria

Franz