An Ermine in Czernopol Read Online Free PDF Page A

contrast to the gray, close-shorn stubble on his head, they looked as if they had been pasted on, which gave him the rather implausible appearance of a stage magician. His pearly, perfectly regular teeth seemed so obviously false we were always afraid he might lose them, or, even worse, that they would declare themselves independent and start snapping of their own malicious accord while he was kissing some lady’s hand, which he did freely and with great frequency. But they were genuine, as were his eyebrows, which moved independently back and forth on his forehead, like two fuzzy black caterpillars, lending elegance to his expressions. At least their thickness was genuine, and undoubtedly their color had once been genuine as well. His blackened mustache was no less authentic, for although its delicate ends were teased out with unbelievable meticulousness, they were spun from the strong hair that really did grow from under his bulbous nose.
    In fact, everything genuine and fraudulent about Herr Tarangolian seemed transposed in an amusing, if rather unsettling way, so that what was fake seemed convincingly real, and what was real smacked unpleasantly of fraud. Perhaps this had something to do with his mesmerizing histrionic talent. He could mimic a person or a common personality type with a mere shift of countenance; he was fluent in all languages, reproducing dialects to perfection, and he neither hoarded nor squandered these talents, but utilized them judiciously to further enliven his sparkling conversation without the slightest embarrassment. He was a master of banter and wit and possessed a brilliant mind; his descriptions were striking and his logic compelling, and we loved to hear him talk, even if back then we didn’t understand half of what he was saying. He also enjoyed having us children nearby, and was always very attentive and caring, pampering us with presents and winning us over by treating us on an equal footing, as grown-ups.
    Perhaps the prefect’s overstated politeness, his exaggerated attentiveness, and his general fussiness, which at times bordered on the ridiculous, might incline you to underestimate him. Nothing could be further off the mark.
    I still recall exactly how he smiled as he once held forth on the subject of understanding human nature. “We turn to psychology in the hope of recovering what we’ve lost in the way of direct observation of our nearest and dearest. But the way we go about applying the concepts of this science, it’s as if instead of using everyday knives and forks, we set our table with forceps and surgical scalpels. No wonder we cut our own lips … Someone was recently explaining the theory of compensation to me, which reduces ambition to the manifestation of a secret inferiority, thereby diminishing any aspiration to greatness. But what if the opposite is true? What about someone who is utterly and unquestioningly convinced of his superiority, but comes to the logical conclusion that if he is to live with others he cannot advertise how superior a being he is—would that be an example of what we call Christian humility ? … I don’t think so,” said Herr Tarangolian, and his smile became theatrically diabolic behind the mask formed by his mustache and eyebrows—three thick black lines above his perfect teeth and heavy eyes. “No, that would be a heathen way of reasoning. In a Christian world such a realization has to camouflage itself, hide behind the ambiguous pose of the fool or the clown, so it can be passed off without provocation. Dealing with people, my friends, is really nothing more than a question of the price that one is willing to pay. The better you understand life, the more capital you build.”
    I’m certain that Herr Tarangolian wasn’t thinking about himself when he said that, although he was far too profound not to realize—and let show—how much actually applied to him and how much