Nero Insanetti, the madman who had taken my place as Otto Hell's special assistant, immediately confirmed my feeling of being unwelcome. As soon as the meeting commenced, Nero flailed his short arms in the air. "Point of order, Lord Hades!" He glared venomously at me. "What is a stranger doing in our midst?"
"Whom are you talking about?" Otto growled.
Nero pointed at me. "This devil," he yelped. "What does he do in our beautiful building? Why is he at our important meetings? Why does he eat our fine free food?"
"Nero," Otto replied with quiet menace. "He is here at my invitation. Now stop playing the fool."
"Excuse me, Otto," Professor Masaryk said, obsequiously enough, but a mutinous gleam shone in his eye. "But I believe that Insanetti has a point. This fellow has a police record. Why, he was even implicated in a murder." Professor Masaryk suppressed a sob. "The murder of a pure young girl who worked at this university. A sweet young thing who worked for me. Oh, Lucy!"
Benito coughed deferentially. "Actually, sir, her real name was Charlotte Stant. And we don't know how she came to work here. Or anything about her character."
Professor Masaryk took off his glasses and waved them about vaguely. "Her name is irrelevant. So are her origins. And her morals. Ever since she died I have been unable to do my work properly. Nobody does it for me." Delilah indignantly opened her mouth in protest. Professor Masaryk shook his head obstinately. "No, my dear Lila, you do your best, but it will take a long time to train you properly. You only bring me papers to sign. More and more papers but never any vitamins." Anger suffused his distinguished old face. "I refuse to sit at the same table with this man. He callously deprived me of my vitamins. And he did it together with a well-known CIA agent! The man is a rapist, a murderer, and a spy!"
Professor Flysenko whistled in amazement. "A murderer!" he rumbled. "Now I understand. He challenged me to a duel only fifteen minutes ago. He wanted to kill me!"
"And he is insufferably insolent." Professor Prince Maximilian von und zu Hohenstaufen-Niebelungen joyfully joined this concerted assault. "He refused to go to dinner with me. The young fool has no conception of court etiquette! Is that the sort of example we should encourage for our students? He is a bad influence and his continued presence in this room, building, university, and city will poison the atmosphere permanently!"
"As it is we suffer enough from the air pollution in Prague," Professor Masaryk agreed.
Nero crossed his arms across his chest victoriously. "Leave the room immediately!" he exultantly hissed at me.
"He is obstinate," Professor Masaryk said sorrowfully. "He feels no shame. I told him to confess. And do you know what he said in reply to me? To a man old enough to be his grandfather?" Professor Masaryk looked around at his fellow mutineers. "He had the colossal nerve to say that he hadn't killed the girl. That he was innocent! Even though the newspapers had already convicted him."
"An obvious degenerate," Flysenko said, shaking his head. "In my monumental study of prostitution I make the most interesting point that you can tell a whore by the shape of her skull. Just look at this fellow. He barely has a nose. Look how pointed his ears are. As for the shape of his eyes, why, he even has an epicanthian fold!"
Professor Hohenstaufen leaned forward and stared. "Gott im Himmel!" he exclaimed in shock. "You are right! His eyes are like almonds!"
"He's from Mongolia," Immanuel protested. "He was born that way. He can't help it!"
"Exactly," Flysenko answered triumphantly. "But we can. We Europeans must resist the evil from the East. For centuries now we Poles have been the bulwark of the West. Leave him to me. I know how to deal with Orientals." He crossed himself superstitiously, muttered a short sibilant prayer, and leaned across the table towards me, his little brown eyes glittering with malice. "O evil emissary of the yellow peril!" he hissed. "Depart immediately. Or else the sword of Jan Sobieski will fall upon you!"
"Lord Hades, would you please put an end to this nonsense?" Divka said loudly. "If we are not going to get down to business, I must run away and pack. Poor Wenceslas is going to Tripoli this evening and I promised to go with him. Otherwise he will never be able to understand what Gaddafi is talking about. They will get Wenceslas horribly drunk and he will just nod his head and agree to everything and it really would be very bad for our little country's international reputation if we send any more Semtex to the IRA."
"Travelling a lot with Good King Wenceslas, aren't you?" Professor Novak asked jealously. "Do you have any time left for your students?"
"I make time for my students," Divka replied, her eyes flashing. "Unlike you. You just make them. And then double-time them."
"Stop this squabbling!" Professor Hell expostulated. "Really, Divka, I'm surprised at you."
"He started it," Divka muttered defensively.
"Did not," Novak spluttered under his breath.
"Did too."
"Told you to stop it!" Hell said in exasperation. "Sound like an old married couple!"
"Well, actually, we were married," Divka and Novak said in unison but then their momentary harmony fell apart into an acrimonious counterpoint as they pointed fingers at each other and simultaneously yelled: "It was his fault!" "It was her fault!"
"This is not a divorce court!" Hell bellowed. A sullen silence settled over the room. "Maybe we can get on with the meeting now," Hell grumbled. "Where were we?"
"We still have not resolved the question of this murderer's presence," Professor Masaryk noted.
"Do we really want the CIA to know all our secrets?" Professor Hohenstaufen added.
Otto glared at Hohenstaufen. "What secrets?" he demanded. "Got anything to hide, Untermenschen?"
Professor Hohenstaufen tried to meet Hell's glare, failed, blushed, and bit the ends of his drooping grey moustache. "I go to confession every Sunday," he mumbled weakly.
"You see?" Professor Masaryk said to me earnestly. "This is how to set an example. Do not be so proud, young man. Listen to your elders. Emulate their conduct. Professor Hohenstaufen never raped anyone."
The image of a gaunt young man in tight trousers with garish makeup around his hollow haunted eyes hanging around the Zoo station in Berlin flashed before me. "Except his son." The words slipped rebelliously out of my mouth despite my firm resolve to keep my mouth shut. The effect, however, was astounding: Hohenstaufen gasped, turned purple, clutched his flabby chest, and collapsed onto the floor.
"Now see what you have done!" Professor Masaryk howled. "Another murder!"
"He's not dead yet," Immanuel said, kneeling over Professor Hohenstaufen's prostrate form. "He just fainted."
"Heart attack?" Hell inquired.
"I don't think so," Immanuel replied. "His heartbeat sounds pretty regular."
"Well, if he's not dying, throw some cold water in his face," Hell ordered. "Haven't got all day." Benito picked up a bottle of mineral water from the table and poured it over Professor Hohenstaufen's head. Hohenstaufen spluttered and sat up. He looked like a fat bedraggled water rat. "Now, if you're feeling better, Schutzstaffen, why don't you tell us your little secrets?" Hell invited. "You might, for instance, tell us why you have secretly invited the president of Banque Eurolux to give a lecture to our students."
Hohenstaufen gagged and looked imploringly at Hell. "May I please be excused from this meeting, your lordship? I do not feel well..."
"Not just yet," Hell replied inexorably. "As Masaryk says, you'll feel better once you've confessed."
"Really, Otto!" Professor Masaryk gulped. "I didn't mean it like that. Must we torture a senior colleague in this fashion? Prince Maximilian has already told us that he confesses every Sunday!"
"Ah, but to whom?" Hell murmured. "Who is your confessor, Sauerkraut? Is it by any chance His Eminence the Cardinal, cousin to the late Prince Ludwig von G and T?"
"His Eminence is also my cousin," Professor Hohenstaufen replied with some dignity. "Why should I not keep my sins in the family?"
"Like with your son, eh?" Hohenstaufen's face turned purple again and he swayed in his chair. "Never mind that for the moment," Hell said magnanimously. "Just answer the question. Why did you invite the president of the Banque Europeenne pour la luxe, calme, et volupte to give this year's keynote lecture?"
"Banque Eurolux is a prominent European institution," Professor Hohenstaufen responded. "I am the director of the European Studies department. I assumed that we would all agree that this invitation would be good for our little institution."
"Isn't Jean Rameau the president of Banque Eurolux?" Marya Madlenova asked, interested. "Pompous little pseudo-intellectual fake. So is his twin brother Jacques, the chairman of Pan-European Airlines. They take after their uncle. My dear friend Jean-Saul Fartre once introduced me to Albert Rameau. Such an annoying person. Always babbling about killing Arabs on the beach. It was a great relief when he died in that absurd motorcycle accident. His ridiculous disciples speak darkly of murder but it was obviously his own fault since he never could hold his drink. Nor can his nephews. I cannot imagine what Jean Rameau could have to say that would be of any interest to our students."
"That could be said for most of the people we invite to give lectures," Novak pointed out. "What makes Rameau particularly objectionable?"
"Well, besides the fact that he has stolen several hundred million dollars from the bank he manages, money which was supposed to go to starving babies suffering from AIDS in the worst orphanages in Romania, nothing," Hell replied. "Man is a vicious criminal, but, then, most bankers are. Point is, Rameau needs lots of support and legitimacy right now in order to keep his job. What did Rameau offer Donnerblitzen here in return for this flattering invitation?"
"Would Professor Hohenstaufen do such a thing for money?" Divka's eyes were wide with horror at the thought of such corruption.
"It is done all the time." Marya Madlenova shrugged. "How do you think Nixon got rehabilitated? The going rate is ten thousand dollars per lecture for the person who arranges the event."
"That's peanuts, I suppose," Immanuel sniggered, fingering the tattered fabric of his threadbare jacket.
"This is all part of a bigger game," Hell said grimly. "Isn't it, Sachertorte?" Professor Hohenstaufen looked about him like a hunted animal. "How long have you been a whore and a spy? Selling your favours to everyone: kickbacks from Rameau, graft from the Cardinal, hush money from Attila Ugh, and, of course, palm grease from Nero..."
Nero let out an agonized wail and began to hop up and down in his chair. Hell looked at his special assistant coldly. "How long have you been involved in Hohenstaufen and Ugh's little conspiracy, Nero?"
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly palpably tense. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and held their breath, waiting for the next unpredictable disclosure. The peaceful facade of the University of Truth and Justice was cracking open: what dreadful skeletons would now stagger forth from hidden closets?
"Whom are you talking about?" Otto growled.
Nero pointed at me. "This devil," he yelped. "What does he do in our beautiful building? Why is he at our important meetings? Why does he eat our fine free food?"
"Nero," Otto replied with quiet menace. "He is here at my invitation. Now stop playing the fool."
"Excuse me, Otto," Professor Masaryk said, obsequiously enough, but a mutinous gleam shone in his eye. "But I believe that Insanetti has a point. This fellow has a police record. Why, he was even implicated in a murder." Professor Masaryk suppressed a sob. "The murder of a pure young girl who worked at this university. A sweet young thing who worked for me. Oh, Lucy!"
Benito coughed deferentially. "Actually, sir, her real name was Charlotte Stant. And we don't know how she came to work here. Or anything about her character."
Professor Masaryk took off his glasses and waved them about vaguely. "Her name is irrelevant. So are her origins. And her morals. Ever since she died I have been unable to do my work properly. Nobody does it for me." Delilah indignantly opened her mouth in protest. Professor Masaryk shook his head obstinately. "No, my dear Lila, you do your best, but it will take a long time to train you properly. You only bring me papers to sign. More and more papers but never any vitamins." Anger suffused his distinguished old face. "I refuse to sit at the same table with this man. He callously deprived me of my vitamins. And he did it together with a well-known CIA agent! The man is a rapist, a murderer, and a spy!"
Professor Flysenko whistled in amazement. "A murderer!" he rumbled. "Now I understand. He challenged me to a duel only fifteen minutes ago. He wanted to kill me!"
"And he is insufferably insolent." Professor Prince Maximilian von und zu Hohenstaufen-Niebelungen joyfully joined this concerted assault. "He refused to go to dinner with me. The young fool has no conception of court etiquette! Is that the sort of example we should encourage for our students? He is a bad influence and his continued presence in this room, building, university, and city will poison the atmosphere permanently!"
"As it is we suffer enough from the air pollution in Prague," Professor Masaryk agreed.
Nero crossed his arms across his chest victoriously. "Leave the room immediately!" he exultantly hissed at me.
"He is obstinate," Professor Masaryk said sorrowfully. "He feels no shame. I told him to confess. And do you know what he said in reply to me? To a man old enough to be his grandfather?" Professor Masaryk looked around at his fellow mutineers. "He had the colossal nerve to say that he hadn't killed the girl. That he was innocent! Even though the newspapers had already convicted him."
"An obvious degenerate," Flysenko said, shaking his head. "In my monumental study of prostitution I make the most interesting point that you can tell a whore by the shape of her skull. Just look at this fellow. He barely has a nose. Look how pointed his ears are. As for the shape of his eyes, why, he even has an epicanthian fold!"
Professor Hohenstaufen leaned forward and stared. "Gott im Himmel!" he exclaimed in shock. "You are right! His eyes are like almonds!"
"He's from Mongolia," Immanuel protested. "He was born that way. He can't help it!"
"Exactly," Flysenko answered triumphantly. "But we can. We Europeans must resist the evil from the East. For centuries now we Poles have been the bulwark of the West. Leave him to me. I know how to deal with Orientals." He crossed himself superstitiously, muttered a short sibilant prayer, and leaned across the table towards me, his little brown eyes glittering with malice. "O evil emissary of the yellow peril!" he hissed. "Depart immediately. Or else the sword of Jan Sobieski will fall upon you!"
"Lord Hades, would you please put an end to this nonsense?" Divka said loudly. "If we are not going to get down to business, I must run away and pack. Poor Wenceslas is going to Tripoli this evening and I promised to go with him. Otherwise he will never be able to understand what Gaddafi is talking about. They will get Wenceslas horribly drunk and he will just nod his head and agree to everything and it really would be very bad for our little country's international reputation if we send any more Semtex to the IRA."
"Travelling a lot with Good King Wenceslas, aren't you?" Professor Novak asked jealously. "Do you have any time left for your students?"
"I make time for my students," Divka replied, her eyes flashing. "Unlike you. You just make them. And then double-time them."
"Stop this squabbling!" Professor Hell expostulated. "Really, Divka, I'm surprised at you."
"He started it," Divka muttered defensively.
"Did not," Novak spluttered under his breath.
"Did too."
"Told you to stop it!" Hell said in exasperation. "Sound like an old married couple!"
"Well, actually, we were married," Divka and Novak said in unison but then their momentary harmony fell apart into an acrimonious counterpoint as they pointed fingers at each other and simultaneously yelled: "It was his fault!" "It was her fault!"
"This is not a divorce court!" Hell bellowed. A sullen silence settled over the room. "Maybe we can get on with the meeting now," Hell grumbled. "Where were we?"
"We still have not resolved the question of this murderer's presence," Professor Masaryk noted.
"Do we really want the CIA to know all our secrets?" Professor Hohenstaufen added.
Otto glared at Hohenstaufen. "What secrets?" he demanded. "Got anything to hide, Untermenschen?"
Professor Hohenstaufen tried to meet Hell's glare, failed, blushed, and bit the ends of his drooping grey moustache. "I go to confession every Sunday," he mumbled weakly.
"You see?" Professor Masaryk said to me earnestly. "This is how to set an example. Do not be so proud, young man. Listen to your elders. Emulate their conduct. Professor Hohenstaufen never raped anyone."
The image of a gaunt young man in tight trousers with garish makeup around his hollow haunted eyes hanging around the Zoo station in Berlin flashed before me. "Except his son." The words slipped rebelliously out of my mouth despite my firm resolve to keep my mouth shut. The effect, however, was astounding: Hohenstaufen gasped, turned purple, clutched his flabby chest, and collapsed onto the floor.
"Now see what you have done!" Professor Masaryk howled. "Another murder!"
"He's not dead yet," Immanuel said, kneeling over Professor Hohenstaufen's prostrate form. "He just fainted."
"Heart attack?" Hell inquired.
"I don't think so," Immanuel replied. "His heartbeat sounds pretty regular."
"Well, if he's not dying, throw some cold water in his face," Hell ordered. "Haven't got all day." Benito picked up a bottle of mineral water from the table and poured it over Professor Hohenstaufen's head. Hohenstaufen spluttered and sat up. He looked like a fat bedraggled water rat. "Now, if you're feeling better, Schutzstaffen, why don't you tell us your little secrets?" Hell invited. "You might, for instance, tell us why you have secretly invited the president of Banque Eurolux to give a lecture to our students."
Hohenstaufen gagged and looked imploringly at Hell. "May I please be excused from this meeting, your lordship? I do not feel well..."
"Not just yet," Hell replied inexorably. "As Masaryk says, you'll feel better once you've confessed."
"Really, Otto!" Professor Masaryk gulped. "I didn't mean it like that. Must we torture a senior colleague in this fashion? Prince Maximilian has already told us that he confesses every Sunday!"
"Ah, but to whom?" Hell murmured. "Who is your confessor, Sauerkraut? Is it by any chance His Eminence the Cardinal, cousin to the late Prince Ludwig von G and T?"
"His Eminence is also my cousin," Professor Hohenstaufen replied with some dignity. "Why should I not keep my sins in the family?"
"Like with your son, eh?" Hohenstaufen's face turned purple again and he swayed in his chair. "Never mind that for the moment," Hell said magnanimously. "Just answer the question. Why did you invite the president of the Banque Europeenne pour la luxe, calme, et volupte to give this year's keynote lecture?"
"Banque Eurolux is a prominent European institution," Professor Hohenstaufen responded. "I am the director of the European Studies department. I assumed that we would all agree that this invitation would be good for our little institution."
"Isn't Jean Rameau the president of Banque Eurolux?" Marya Madlenova asked, interested. "Pompous little pseudo-intellectual fake. So is his twin brother Jacques, the chairman of Pan-European Airlines. They take after their uncle. My dear friend Jean-Saul Fartre once introduced me to Albert Rameau. Such an annoying person. Always babbling about killing Arabs on the beach. It was a great relief when he died in that absurd motorcycle accident. His ridiculous disciples speak darkly of murder but it was obviously his own fault since he never could hold his drink. Nor can his nephews. I cannot imagine what Jean Rameau could have to say that would be of any interest to our students."
"That could be said for most of the people we invite to give lectures," Novak pointed out. "What makes Rameau particularly objectionable?"
"Well, besides the fact that he has stolen several hundred million dollars from the bank he manages, money which was supposed to go to starving babies suffering from AIDS in the worst orphanages in Romania, nothing," Hell replied. "Man is a vicious criminal, but, then, most bankers are. Point is, Rameau needs lots of support and legitimacy right now in order to keep his job. What did Rameau offer Donnerblitzen here in return for this flattering invitation?"
"Would Professor Hohenstaufen do such a thing for money?" Divka's eyes were wide with horror at the thought of such corruption.
"It is done all the time." Marya Madlenova shrugged. "How do you think Nixon got rehabilitated? The going rate is ten thousand dollars per lecture for the person who arranges the event."
"That's peanuts, I suppose," Immanuel sniggered, fingering the tattered fabric of his threadbare jacket.
"This is all part of a bigger game," Hell said grimly. "Isn't it, Sachertorte?" Professor Hohenstaufen looked about him like a hunted animal. "How long have you been a whore and a spy? Selling your favours to everyone: kickbacks from Rameau, graft from the Cardinal, hush money from Attila Ugh, and, of course, palm grease from Nero..."
Nero let out an agonized wail and began to hop up and down in his chair. Hell looked at his special assistant coldly. "How long have you been involved in Hohenstaufen and Ugh's little conspiracy, Nero?"
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly palpably tense. Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and held their breath, waiting for the next unpredictable disclosure. The peaceful facade of the University of Truth and Justice was cracking open: what dreadful skeletons would now stagger forth from hidden closets?
