At the Blue Monkey: 33 Outlandish Stories

By Walter Serner and Erik Butler

Walter Serner’s first story collection, published in German in 1921, brought to narrative form the philosophy of his earlier Dada manifesto/handbook, Last Loosening: A Handbook for the Con Artist & Those Who Wish to Be One—life is a con job and demands the skills of a swindler. With its depiction of a world of appearances in which nothing can be trusted, At the Blue Monkey helped establish the ex-doctor and renounced Dadaist as a literary “Maupaussant of crime” and offers in this first English translation 33 stories of criminals, con artists and prostitutes engaged in varieties of financial insolvency, embezzlement, sexual hijinks, long and short cons, and dalliances with venereal diseases and drugs.

Told in a baroque, sometimes baffling poetry of underworld slang in an urban world of bars and rent-a-rooms, these short tales are presented to the reader like so many three-card Montes in which readers come to realize too late that they may well themselves be the literary mark.

Walter Serner (1889–1942) helped found the Dada movement and embodied its most cynical and anarchic aspects. After breaking with the movement, he began publishing crime stories and the 1925 novel The Tigress. Moving constantly across Europe, he eventually disappeared and was rumored to have vanished into the criminal milieu he wrote about; in fact he had returned to Czechoslovakia, married and become a schoolteacher. In 1942, he and his wife presumably died after being moved from a concentration camp, his books banned and burned by the Nazis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wakefield Press
• Release date: Aug 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781939663665

Walter Serner

Walter Serner (* 15. Januar 1889 in Karlsbad, Österreich-Ungarn; † wahrscheinlich 23. August 1942 im Wald von Biķernieki bei Riga; eigentlich Walter Eduard Seligmann) war ein Essayist, Schriftsteller und Dadaist. Sein Manifest Letzte Lockerung gilt als einer der wichtigsten Dada-Texte. Er schrieb auch unter anderen Pseudonymen: Seinen ersten Prosatext unterzeichnete er mit Wladimir Senakowski, einen Brief an seinen Verleger mit A.D., eine Rezension seines eigenen Geschichtenbandes Zum blauen Affen unter dem Namen seines Freundes Christian Schad.

Book preview

SCENE IN THE GARRET

Every single day at around three o’clock in the afternoon, Peter was aggrieved by the fact that he’d woken up. It’s a shame there’s no way to avoid life after eight in the morning, he thought.

He spit into the air eleven times. Since he couldn’t hit the ceiling, he resolved to expectorate for as long as it took to make the spittle shoot straight up and fall back into his mouth.

At length, his tongue grew heavy and sluggish. He had just enough energy to turn the pillow so he could rest his head on something dry.

That evening, he dreamed that somebody—maybe an orb spider—was shooting a cannon at his left ear.

Fifi’s dainty foot caught in a shirt forming a grayish yellow mass in the doorway. She cried out: What a pig!

With a bang, a cannonball landed in Peter’s brain and his head fell off the bed; it rolled on the floor until the rest of his body piled at its side.

With due attention, Fifi freed his legs, which were still caught in the blanket. His heels hit the floor with a massive thud.

It started to dawn on Peter that he was awake again; meanwhile, Fifi landed her hindquarters on a board that had been nailed to two crates to make a desk. She was whistling: "Nanette, ma belle coquette …"

Peter stumbled to his feet, then curled up on the bed; he muttered contentedly: A racket fit for Beethoven.

The observation didn’t matter to Fifi at all. Got any money? she asked.

Peter’s view was that it was enough that other people had it. The air’s buzzing like it’s drunk.

Fifi attached no value to this statement, either. She wanted to eat: We slept together again just day before yesterday.

Peter’s face beamed in satisfaction: You’re forgetting that you love me.

Fifi understood immediately. You bastard. You’ll see—they’ll hang you yet. She stood trembling at the foot of the bed.

Cradling the back of his head, Peter looked at her placidly: so she started crying as she sang her ditty. Now and then she managed to squeeze something in: You don’t love me.

Well, I do what I can. You’re too grouchy today.

Yeah … I have twenty marks left, and Herr von Potthammer isn’t coming back for two weeks. She was bawling like somebody’d kicked her.

Suddenly, Peter was standing there in his pants and a jacket that he couldn’t pawn, either. For want of buttons, he closed it with a safety pin already bent to this end; he’d declined a knitting needle Fifi took from her hair. Then he twisted a dark fabric around his neck.

The operation inspired Fifi’s maternal sentiments. With a handkerchief monogrammed R.W., she dusted off his shoulders. Without any particular concern, she muttered, O, o, o; her hips were glowing.

Abruptly, Peter found his unspeakable felt hat lying somewhere in the dust and leapt down the gloomy staircase in measured strides.

Fifi locked up the garret, quickly put away the key, and called out longingly: Wait up, bastard!

THE THING ABOUT HOT VELVET

… Three days later, some testy stranger handed me a ticket to Brussels, third class. Changed my life top to bottom.

Fine, fine. But once, years ago … I … Well, pal, to get right to the point … With one line or another, I got Anni up to my room, and things got pretty heavy … But then she started babbling about my lips—‘hot velvet’ … I was touched, of course, but it spoiled the mood.

Quit yer lying, Paul! Von Mittenmank moistened the end of a cigarette and gracefully took a seat on the dresser.

Come on, Fritz! You’ve been around the block so many times you’re actually taking me seriously, Hasedom said with a dismissive cough.

Von Mittenmank tried to look as surprised as he really was—in vain.

Hesitantly, somebody knocked at the door.

Their twin gazes crossed, and they eyed each other gamely. As if by arrangement, nobody answered.

Soon, the knocking grew so loud that Hasedom was quite sure. He got an idea and grinned—then unceremoniously shoved von Mittenmank into the adjoining room.

It was a charming young lady, nervously holding a cigarette between her fingers. Haltingly, she began: What happened yesterday … that was really dumb of me.

What’re you talking about? Hasedom leaned back on the flowery wallpaper; to his satisfaction, he noticed the door handle was moving. He made sure to stay calm and collected.

Come on—you know.

Hasedom’s legs made a coy twitch. Oh, right, you mean the thing about hot velvet.

The charming young lady gave a start: What? … No, the one with Lili … That …

What was dumb about it? Curious about the effect his feigned ignorance would produce, Hasedom cast a gaze that was a little too cocky.

What? … What? The girl lost all composure, and probably her train of thought, too. I won’t stand here and let you insult me! Remember that! It takes two, sure, but it’s up to me!

What’s up to you? Hasedom asked quietly, carefully controlling his expression.

Eww! Her voice sounded like a whistle. Then her tone grew uncertain: Me—jealous!

Hasedom straightened up; he had his bearings now. Smiling, he slowly began: "So you’re saying that you started it."

No, that’s not what I said, and it isn’t true.

So who was it that tugged my sleeve?

Me—I did, but just because you hadn’t said hello.

Who was it, yesterday, talking … um, about my lips?

She threw the cigarette on the bed, and Hasedom didn’t even try to pick it up. Arms akimbo, she screamed: Me, me, me … But just because, yesterday … She was panting, beside herself.

Why bring up the business with Lili if it was … just … up to you?

A small, bright bolt soared through the air: a slap had landed on Hasedom’s face.

With barely concealed delight, he leisurely retrieved the cigarette from the bed—remarkably, it hadn’t burned a hole—and, more leisurely still, lit it again. After a few minutes of standing there, immobile, he looked up again.

The charming young lady was at the window, trembling and tapping her fingers on her breast.

I assume I’m not wrong, my dear, that you’re unaware why I didn’t slap you back. Each syllable Hasedom spoke was gloating. To his immense pleasure, he saw her fingers grow still and every fiber tense in anticipation; almost imperceptibly, the door to the other room moved.

After a lull punctuated by artful sounds, he declared matter-of-factly: Here’s why: Otherwise, I’d never get rid of you.

For a few seconds, the charming young lady didn’t stir. Then, in a series of mannered steps, she skipped to the door and pressed the handle. Idiot, fool! and thumbed her nose at him …

Von Mittenmank was already confronting Hasedom: Shame on you! You’ve got a sentimental streak!

Are you drunk? Hasedom really was perplexed.

Me, drunk? You’re the one playing the lion-tamer, you clown!

You didn’t do what you were supposed to. Hasedom beamed a broad smile.

Anyway: that business with the hot velvet happened years ago, didn’t it … But now you’re trying to make it up from scratch and fool me—me!

Hasedom was twisting this way and that in amusement. He coughed dismissively: My thanks. Without you, I’d be f…—I couldn’t have gotten her off my back so easily.

Quit yer lying, Paul! But then von Mittenmank stopped short and grinned; he ran out the door to the staircase and called out: Anni! Anni!

No response. It was silent but for the bright sound of little, wooden heels clicking.

Is your name Anni? von Mittenmank shouted. Please, I beg you, answer!

Absolute silence. Finally, a small, shrill voice was heard: No, you dope—Franzi!

Full of himself, von Mittenmank headed back into the room: Well, you old cheat? I got you!

Hasedom gently eased into an armchair.

You did a bad job lying—and two times at once, pal, von Mittenmank gloated.

Bemused, Hasedom batted his eyes: Lying—no. A bad job—yes. Two times at once—maybe.

Whaaat?

Shame on you. You’re taking me seriously again … By the way, how’d that work out in Brussels? And please, no tall tales!

In vain, von Mittenmank tried not to look as surprised as he really was.

Then they both started howling.

A PROCURER OF NOTE

One evening, when defining the preferability of a pimp to an imperial count, Dungyerszki—whose brain was quite the engine—observed that the honors due to the former surpass those due to the latter: hunting for a dowry in installments, a pimp assures that her ladyship will derive some benefit; plus, he face risks and must demonstrate courage.

For the last few weeks, Dungyerszki had been having fun defining. It made him more entrepreneurial—and interesting, in his own eyes.

Now, he decided he wouldn’t go hungry any longer. Instead, he’d make the best of things and turn his interesting self to profit.

To this end, he betook himself to Kauffinger Strasse and approached a young woman arrayed in a colorful getup and decked out in jewels of a dubious nature. He inquired: How would you define ‘vice,’ mademoiselle?

Excuse me?

I would fain inquire what you understand ‘vice’ to mean.

Take a hike. Play that game with somebody else.

You’re mistaken, m’lady. So you may be quite sure, here’s my answer: vice is an activity that makes the existence of virtue possible.

Ah, you’re one of those. Alright, let’s have it again.

But of course. Dungyerszki recited the words again, more slowly and sonorously.

Jeezus, one of those. But when you’re right, you’re right. The young lady flashed an animated smile.

Well then, my dear, you won’t have trouble telling me what ‘virtue’ means.

Come on, get it outta your system.

You’re a veritable psychologist. So …

I’m a what? Careful what you say.

No, no. I meant to praise you. Virtue is the absence of any possibility of devoting oneself to vice.

Hmm. I like that better. So what d’you do?

I don’t do anything. A job proves that one lacks bad qualities of the better sort.

The young lady gave a sweet smile, took a quick look at her wristwatch, cocked her head, and grabbed Dungyerszki’s arm: Come with me. It’s just six. Let’s grab a drink.

Dungyerszki obliged and let her call him Zki. He happily agreed to a meeting the following morning at 16 Kudlacher Strasse and promised to attend to his vestments. Thereupon, he requested two marks for refectory purposes. With great largesse, she supplied them, and he took leave of Miss Milli in exalted spirits.

The not inconsiderable success of this first venture induced Dungyerszki—once he had dined opulently, paid a visit to a café, and smoked several imported cigarettes—to repeat his efforts at eleven o’clock that night.

He found a party ideally suited to the project: a gentleman in serious attire with a pouch under his chin, thick, reddish eyelids, a hairy wart on his cheek, and a bulging, corpulent frame.

Dungyerszki made a low-key approach. In front of the Theatine Church, where incense still filled the air even though it was closed, he asked him out of the blue: "Sir, could you please tell me what ‘heaven’