Cabaret of the Nameless (III)

Erich Kästner, besides his newspaper article of 1929, left a description of the Cabaret of the Nameless, this time in his novel Fabian, from 1931. But here he calls it: Cabaret of the Anonymous. Establishments of this kind apparently also existed in other cities, such as Paris. I had the opportunity to know such a place in the Raval of Barcelona, back in the 1970s. I don’t think it exists any longer.

Suddenly Labude stopped and said, "I cannot go home yet. Come, let's go to the Cabaret of the Anonymous. "
''Never heard of it. What is that?"
'' I've never been there either. A smart guy has made up his mind to put some crazy people together and to get them to dance and sing. They get a couple of marks and they let themselves be mocked and insulted by the public. They probably do not even notice it. It seems that the place is always full. It's understandable, after all. Many people are relieved by the sight of others more crazy than themselves. "
Fabian consented. He turned to look at the hospital, above which the Big Dipper was shining. '' We live in a great age, 'he said,' that grows greater from day to day. '

A great number of private cars were parked in front of the cabaret. At the entrance, a big man with a red beard, a hat with feathers on his head, held a giant halberd and shouted: "Come on, ladies and gentlemen, take place in the padded cell!" Labude and Fabian entered, left the coats in the cloakroom and , after long research, they found a place at a corner table in the crowded and smoky room.

On a rickety stage a girl was jumping, smiling to herself with a dull look. She was probably a dancer. She wore a green dress, clearly made by a housewife, carrying a bunch of artificial flowers in her hand; at regular intervals, she tossed the bunch and herself. On the left, on the stage, a toothless old man strummed on a clunky piano the "Hungarian Rhapsody".

It was not clear whether there was any relationship between dance and music. The audience, all very elegant people, drank wine, chatted loudly and laughed.

"Fräulein, telephone. It’s important!" a bald gentleman shouted. The audience laughed even louder, but the ballerina was not distracted and continued undaunted to smile and jump. Suddenly the piano was silent. The rhapsody was over. The girl at the scene threw an angry look at the pianist and continued with the hops: the dance was not over yet.

"Mom, your baby is crying!" croaked a lady with a monocle.
"Yours too," said one from a table farther away.
The lady turned around. "I have no children!"
"Lucky for them!" shouted a voice from the back.

"Silence!" someone else shouted. The exchange ceased. The girl continued to dance, despite her probably sore legs. Finally it seemed to her that it was enough, she landed badly, smiled more stupidly and spread her arms. A fat gentleman in a tuxedo stood up. "Good, good! Come again tomorrow, to beat the carpets! "
The audience applau

ded, making a great noise. The girl continued to bow in reverence. Finally, a guy came out of the scenes, grabbed the ballerina who did not want to leave and dragged her away, then returned to the spotlight.

"Good ,Caligula!" shouted a lady from a front row table.

Caligula, a plump young man in tortoiseshell glasses, turned to the gentleman who sat next to the woman. "Your wife?"

The gentleman nodded.

"Then tell her to keep her beak shut!" Caligula said. Great applause. The gentleman in the front row turned red like a poppy. His wife was flattered.

"Silence, fools!" Caligula shouted again, raising his hands. There was silence. "This dance ... was it not a memorable event, a sublime thing?"
"Yes ... Yes!" the audience roared.

"But we have something even better. Now I will introduce you to Paul Müller from Tolkewitz, Saxony. Paul Müller speaks Saxon and is believed to be a fine reciter. Presently he will recite a ballad. Prepare yourself for something extraordinary. Paul Müller of Tolkewitz is, if his appearance does not deceive me, completely insane. I have not spared any expense in order to hire this number for my cabaret. Because I cannot tolerate that there are screwballs only in the audience.

"This is really too much!" said a spectator with scarred face. He had jumped on his feet, indignantly stretching the flaps of his jacket.

"Sit, sit!" Caligula ordered and grimaced. "Do you know what you are? An idiot!"
The gentleman with an academic title was gasping for air.

"Calm down," continued the cabaret owner. "Besides, I do not use the word ‘idiot’ to offend you, only to describe you."
The audience laughed and applauded. The scarred guy's friends forced him to sit and tried to calm him down. Caligula pulled out a bell, shook it hard and called: "Paul Müller, come out! " Then he eclipsed.
From the back came a tall, incredibly pale-faced man in worn-out clothes.

"Hi, Müller!" They shouted at him.

"He grew up too fast!" Someone exclaimed.

Paul Müller bowed defiantly, ran his fingers through his hair and then pressed his hands over his eyes, as if to concentrate. Suddenly he pulled his hands away from her face, stretched them out, spreading his fingers, opened his eyes wide and declaimed: "The race to death - by Paul Müller."

From Fabian, by Erich Kästner. My translation. 

The man goes on with his pathetic recitation, people laughs at him and throw him lumps of sugar. He loses patience and attacks somebody in the audience. Caligula drags him away, asking the audience to excuse Paul Müller while at the same time insulting some spectators.

Fabian and his friend leave. “This is an international phenomenon”, he says, “I’ve seen a show like this one in Paris.”