You and me, Mr Weinberl?
WEINBERL The merchant class.
CHRISTOPHER Ah yes.
WEINBERL The backbone of the country. The very vertebrae of continental stability. From coccyx to clavicle—from the Carpathians to … where you will …
CHRISTOPHER The toe-nails …
WEINBERL … the Tyrol, from Austro to breakfast, and Hungaria to lights out, the merchant class is the backbone of the empire on which the sun shines out of our doings; do you ever say that to yourself?
CHRISTOPHER Not in so many words, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL (pulling Christopher’s forelock) Well you should. What is it after all that distinguishes man from beast?
CHRISTOPHER Not a lot, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL Trade.
CHRISTOPHER I was thinking that.
WEINBERL What would we be without trade?
CHRISTOPHER Closed, Mr Weinberl.
WEINBERL That’s it. The shutters would go up on civilization as we know it. It’s the merchant class that holds everything together. Uniting the deep-sea fisherman and the village maiden over a pickled herring on a mahogany counter …
CHRISTOPHER You’ve put me right off me rollmop. (He has been eating one.)
WEINBERL … uniting the hovels of Havana and the House of Hanover over a box of hand-rolled cigars, and the matchgirl and the church warden in the fall of a lucifer. The pearl fisher and the courtesan are joined at the neck by the merchant class. We are the brokers between invention and necessity, balancing supply and demand on the knife edge of profit and loss. I give you—the merchant class!
CHRISTOPHER The merchant class!
They toast.
WEINBERL We know good times and we know bad. Sometimes trade stumbles on its march. The great machine seems to hesitate, the whirling cogwheels and reciprocating pistons disengage, an unearthly silence descends upon the mercantile world … We sit here idly twisting paper into cones, flicking a duster over piles of preserved figs and pyramids of uncertain dates, swatting flies like wanton gods off the north face of the Emmental, and gazing into the street.
And then suddenly with a great roar the engine bursts into life, and the teeming world of commerce is upon us! Someone wants a pound of coffee, someone else an ounce of capers, he wants smoked eel, she wants lemons, a skivvy wants rosewater, a fat lady wants butter, but a skinny one wants whalebones, the curate comes for a candy stick, the bailiff roars for a bottle of brandy, and there’s a Gadarene rush on the pigs’ trotters. At such times the merchant class stands alone, ordering the tumult of desire into the ledgerly rhythm of exchange with a composure as implacable as a cottage loaf. Tongue.
During the speech Weinberl has folded his letter and put it in an envelope. Christopher sticks out his tongue and Weinberl dabs a postage stamp on the tongue and slaps it on the envelope. He seals the envelope with satisfaction.
CHRISTOPHER How is your romance, Herr Weinberl?
WEINBERL As well as can be expected of a relationship based on pseudonymous correspondence between two post office boxes. One has to proceed cautiously with lonely hearts advertisements. There is a great deal of self-delusion among these women—although I must admit I am becoming very taken with the one who signs herself Elegant And Under Forty. I am thinking of coming out from behind my own nom de plume of Scaramouche. The trouble is, I rather think I have given her the impression that I am more or less the owner of this place, not to mention others like it …
CHRISTOPHER At least you’re not a dogsbody like me.
WEINBERL Dogsbody? You’re an apprentice. You’ve had a valuable training during your five years under me.
CHRISTOPHER You see things differently from the dizzy heights of chief sales assistant.
WEINBERL Christopher, Christopher, have a pretzel … The dignity of labour embraces servant and master, for every master is a servant too, answerable to the voice of a higher authority.
ZANGLER (outside) Weinberl!
Without seeming to hurry Weinberl instantly puts things to order.
WEINBERL I thought you said he’d gone.
CHRISTOPHER He must have changed his mind.
Zangler enters from the house.
ZANGLER Ah, there you are. Is it time to open the shop?
WEINBERL Not quite, Chief. I was just getting everything straight.
ZANGLER What about this pretzel?
WEINBERL The pretzel defeated me completely. (to Christopher) Put it back. Are you going to the parade, Herr Zangler?
ZANGLER No, I’m going beagling. What do you think?
WEINBERL I think you’re making fun of me, Chief.
ZANGLER How does it look?
WEINBERL (tactfully) Snug.
ZANGLER Do you think it should be let out?
WEINBERL Not till after dark.
ZANGLER What?
WEINBERL No.
ZANGLER Are you sure?
WEINBERL I like it, Chief.
CHRISTOPHER I like it.
ZANGLER I can’t deny it’s smart. Did you notice the spurs?
The spurs announce themselves every time Zangler moves.
WEINBERL The spurs? Oh yes …
CHRISTOPHER I noticed them.
ZANGLER I’m rather pleased with the effect. I feel like the cake of the week.
WEINBERL That’s very well put, Chief.
ZANGLER I don’t mean the cake of the week—
WEINBERL Not the cake
