Free Auto-da-fé by Elias Canetti

'thank you'; then never even gave his arm to the old stick, and as for the kiss, the kiss on which the cobbler lived for weeks — a kiss by proxy was worth twenty of his own — the kiss which he'd have paid good money for, the kiss which was the 'business' hung up on his workshop door; the public kiss under official eyes; the bridal kiss; the kiss for all eternity; that kiss, that kiss had never happened at all. When they parted the cobbler refused his hand. He disguised his resentment under a hideous grin. 'Just a moment please,' he giggled, like a photographer, while the Kiens hesitated. Suddenly he bent down towards a woman, chucked her under the chin, smacked his lips loudly and with eager gestures outlined her opulent figure. His round face grew rounder and rounder, his cheeks blew out to bursting, his double chin splayed out far and wide, the lines round his eyes twitched, tiny nimble snakes; his tensed hands drew ever broader curves. From second to second the woman grew fatter. Twice he looked at her, the third time, encouragingly, at the bridegroom. Then he gathered her into his arms and felt with his left hand shamelessly for her bosom.
    True, the woman with whom the cobbler was fooling was not there, but Kien understood the shameless dumb show and drew the watching Thérèse quickly away.
    'Drunk even before lunch!' said Thérèse, and clamped herself to her husband's arm; she too was indignant.
    At the next stop, they waited for the tram. To make it clear that one day — even a wedding day—was no different from any other Kien took no taxi. The tram came up; he mounted the step before her. One foot on the platform, he recollected that his wife ought to go first. His back to the street, he stepped off again and collided violently with Thérèse. Exasperated, the conductor rang the bell. The tram went on without them. "What's the matter?' Thérèse asked reproachfully. He had certainly hurt her a good deal. 'I wanted to help you up — that is, to help you, my dear.' 'Oh,' she said, 'that would be a nice thing.'
    When they were at last seated, he paid for both of them. He hoped this would make amends for his clumsiness. The conductor gave the tickets to her. Instead of thanking him, she grinned broadly and nudged her husband with her shoulder. "What?* he asked. 'The things people think of!' she giggled and flourished the tickets at the stout back of the conductor. She was making fun of him, thought Kieh, and he said nothing.
    He began to feel uncomfortable. The tram filled up. A woman sat down opposite him. She had, in all, four children with her, each smaller than the next. Two of them she clutched tightly on her lap, two of them remained standing. A gentleman, sitting on Therese's right, got out. 'Over there!' cried the mother, pushing her little brood across the gangway. The children made a rush for it, a little boy and a little girl, well under school age, the two of them. From the opposite direction an elderly gentleman was approaching. Thérèse put out her hands to protect the tree seat. The children crept underneath it. They were in haste to show they could manage by themselves. Close by the seat, their little heads popped up. Thérèse flicked them away like specks of dust. 'My children!' screamed their mother, 'what are you thinking of?'
    'I ask you,' countered Thérèse and gave a meaning look at her husband. 'Children last.' By this time the elderly gentleman had reached the goal, thanked her, and sat down.
    Kien understood the look in his wife's eyes. He wished his brother George were here. He had set up as a gynaecologist in Paris. Not yet thirty-five years old, he enjoyed a suspiciously high reputation. He knew far more about women than about books. A bare two years after he had completed his studies, society had placed itself in his hands in so far as it was ill, and it was always ill, all those sickly women anyway. This outward sign of success had earned him Peter's well-deserved contempt. He