“The idiots can’t see my genius—yet. And the finest quality of my genius is hunger. Yes, I am a genius by the grace of god. No one has ever known hunger in all its stages as I have.”
He moved his jaws, his eyes wandering around the room.
A knock at the door and a maid entered with a tray of steaming coffee and several rolls and butter.
Krebsfleisch stared at the food avidly.
“You must be a millionaire,” he said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “A fur coat, a warm room, steaming coffee in the morning. Are you a poet or a publisher?”
“Just a poetic genius like yourself,” laughed Albert.
Krebsfleisch looked suspiciously at his host. There was something in Albert’s voice that was always puzzling. One could never tell whether he was jesting or was in earnest.
“You can’t possibly drink all this coffee alone?” said the visitor.
“No, I ordered enough for both of us,” responded Albert seriously. And he removed the cup from the saucer and filled them both to the brim.
“Which would you rather have, the cup or the saucer?” he asked.