every moment to crack with excitement. He contended that anyone who
had the misfortune to be a woman must have the courage to be a whore,
that the whore is the essential woman, and that relations with women,
incidentally, are more or less degrading. When they left the tavern,
Kuno Kohn placed the hard, miserable bone that was his lower arm upon
Mechenmal's thick, flabby lower arm. A gold bracelet struck the
hunchback's wrist. On the way Kuno Kohn asked Mechenmal to spend the
night at his place. The locksmith agreed to the request.

Kuno Kohn lived in a large, ordinary room, in a summer-house on a
side street in the western section. However, the bed was
exceptionally wide, almost ostentatious. On the pillow lay yellowish
and red flowers. In front of the window stood a writing-table on
which there were some books--perhaps Baudelaire, George, Rilke. Near
it and on it lay sheets of paper, which were apparently covered with
finished and unfinished poems and treatises. On a shelf at a window
stood volumes of Goethe, Shakespeare, a Bible, and a translation of
Homer. On the table and chairs lay perhaps newspapers and pieces of
clothing. Somewhere lay yellowed photos of old people and children.
The locksmith looked at everything with curiosity.

They soon sat down. The conversation, which was lively at first,
gradually faltered. Kuno Kohn turned the lamp down. Later he spoke
softly and imploringly to the locksmith. Then he offered him the bed.
He himself would sleep on the sofa. The locksmith agreed.

Kuno Kohn arranged for a subordinate position for his friend
Mechenmal at a newspaper publishing office. Mechenmal picked up his
new trade with surprising swiftness, and very soon obtained
sufficient knowledge of salesmanship. He changed positions and