"No," I replied. "Haven't time for experiments.
I want to get drunk."
"Then take sweet liquors.
Had a row?"
"Nonsense."
"Don't talk, baby.
You can't kid your old father Lenz, who is at home in all the recesses of the heart.
Say yes, and get drunk."
"A man can't have a row with a woman.
You can be annoyed with them at the most."
"Those are too fine distinctions for three o'clock in the morning.
I've had rows with every one.
If you don't have rows it's soon over."
"Right," said I. "Who leads?"
"You," said Ferdinand Grau. "My dear Bob, you have Weltschmerz.
Don't try and fight against it.
Life is gay but imperfect.
But I must say, for Weltschmerz you bluff wonderfully.
Two kings are pretty steep."
"I once saw a hand where there were seven thousand francs against two kings," said Fred from the bar counter.
"Swiss or French?" asked Lenz.
"Swiss."
"Lucky for you," replied Gottfried. "You wouldn't have dared interrupt the play for French, eh?"
We played on for an hour.
I won a good deal.
Bollwies lost steadily.
I drank, but only got a headache.
The brown, waving handkerchiefs refused to come.
Everything only became sharper.
My insides burned.
"So, now stop and eat something," said Lenz. "Fred, give hirn a sandwich and some sardines.
Pocket the money, Bob."
"One more hand."
"All right.
Last round.
Double?" "Double," said the others.
I bought rather rashly three cards to the ten king. They were jack, queen, and ace.
I won with it against Bollwies who had an eight-high straight and raised it to the moon.
Cursing he paid me over a pile of money.
"You see," said Lenz. "Flush weather."
We sat down to the bar.
Bollwies asked after Karl.
He could not forget how Koster had beaten his sports car.
He was always wanting to buy Karl.
"Ask Otto," said Lenz; "but I think he'd rather sell you a hand."
"Well, well," said Bollwies.
"You wouldn't understand that, of course," replied Lenz, "you mercenary son of the twentieth century."
Ferdinand Grau laughed.
Fred too.
In the end we were all laughing.