Garden of Beasts

pulled out a pack of cigars. “These are vile but I rather like them.” He offered the pack to Paul, who shook his head. “They are cabbage leaves soaked in tobacco water and nicotine. It’s hard now to find real cigars.”
    “What line are you in?” Paul asked. “Aside from being a wine importer.”
    Webber laughed and squinted a coy gaze at Paul. He worked to inhale the acrid smoke and then said thoughtfully, “Many different things. Much of what I do is to acquire and sell hard-to-find items. Military goods are in demand lately. Not weapons, of course. But insignias, canteens, belts, boots, uniforms. Everyone here loves uniforms. When husbands are at work, their women go out and buy them uniforms, even if they have no rank or any affiliation. Children wear them. Infants! Medals, bars, ribbons, epaulets, collar tabs. And I sell them to the government for our real soldiers too. We have conscription again. Our army is swelling. They need uniforms, and cloth is hard to come by. I have people from whom I acquire uniforms and then I alter them somewhat and sell them to the army.”
    “You steal them from one government source and sell them back to another.”
    “Ach, Mr. John Dillinger, you are very funny.” He looked across the room. “One moment . . . Hans, come here. Hans!”
    A man dressed in a tuxedo appeared. He looked suspiciouslyat Paul but Webber assured him that they were friends and then said, “I have come into possession of some butter. Would you like it?”
    “How much?”
    “How much butter or how much the price?”
    “Both, naturally.”
    “Ten kilos. Seventy-five marks.”
    “If it’s like last time, you mean you have six kilos of butter mixed with four kilos of coal oil, lard, water and yellow dye. That is too much to pay for six kilos of butter.”
    “Then trade me two cases of French champagne.”
    “One case.”
    “Ten kilos for one case?” Webber looked indignant.
    “Six kilos, as I explained.”
    “Eighteen bottles.”
    With a dismissing shrug the maître d’ said, “Add more dye and I’ll agree. A dozen patrons refused to eat your white butter last month. And who could blame them?”
    After he had left, Paul finished his beer and shook a Chesterfield out of the pack, once again keeping it below the level of the table so that no one could see the American brand. It took him four tries to light the cigarette; the cheap matches the club provided kept breaking.
    Webber nodded at them. “I didn’t supply those, my friend. Don’t blame me.”
    Paul inhaled long on the Chesterfield and then asked, “Why did you help me, Otto?”
    “Because, of course, you were in need.”
    “You do good deeds, do you?” Paul raised an eyebrow.
    Webber stroked his mustache. “All right, let us be honest: In these days one must look much harder for opportunities than in the past.”
    “And I’m an opportunity.”
    “Who can say, Mr. John Dillinger? Perhaps no, perhaps yes. If no, then I’ve wasted nothing but an hour drinking beer with a new friend and that is no waste at all. If yes, then perhaps we can both profit.” He rose, walked to the window and looked out past a thick curtain. “I think it is safe for you to leave. . . . Whatever you are doing in our vibrant city, I may be just the man for you. I know many people here, people in important places—no, not the men at the top. I mean the people it is best to know for those in our line of work.”
    “What people?”
    “The little people, well placed. Did you hear the joke about the town in Bavaria that replaced its weathervane with a civil servant? Why? Because civil servants know better than anyone which way the wind is blowing. Ha!” He laughed hard. Then his face grew solemn again and he finished the stein of beer. “In truth, I’m dying here. Dying of boredom. I miss the old days. So, leave a message or come see me. I’m usually here. In this room or at the bar.” He wrote the address down on a napkin and pushed it forward.
    Glancing at the square of paper, Paul memorized the address and pushed the paper back.
    Webber watched him. “Ah, you’re quite the savvy sportswriter, aren’t you?”
    They walked to the door. Paul shook his hand. “Thank you, Otto.”
    Outside, Webber said, “Now, my friend, farewell. I hope to see you again.” Then he scowled. “And for me? A quest for yellow dye. Ach, this is what my life has become. Lard and yellow dye.”

Chapter Nine
    Reinhard Ernst, sitting in his