Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Short S. > Kaiserwalzer
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1178 guests online and 5 members online |
Shorts
| print friendly version | |
| Kaiserwalzer | |
| By Henry | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| 19 November 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Another one from a collection of stories "Jokes of Fate", 3'980 words.
Dearest Jeanie,
this is your pet Bonzo writing to you from sunny Spain! It is really nice here and I'm going to stay on for a few days although I nearly got killed a couple of days ago, but you know that I'm indestructible and that I'm always lucky or I wouldn't have met you in the first place when you had that skiing accident in Schruns, and here is how it went: Great! I've even made it to Granada and I've been walking in all these Arab palace buildings of the Alhambra, and I loved it all and I would like to shoot your boss because he didn't give you the time off to go on this trip with me. But believe me, next year we'll make this trip together and you'll be thrilled with everything, I promise you that, and I'll be your personal travel guide during the day and everything else during the night. The train from Granada took ages: Ronda is nice and pretty, but there are not many tourists, which I don't understand because this is the place to be. A fabulous old bridge spans a canyon and there is a shallow creek down there which smelt awfully yesterday, but it was okay today and I enjoyed standing on the bridge. They told me that underneath the pavement of this construction there are a number of cells and in the old days that was the town jail and I suppose if the creek stank every day same as yesterday, the poor blighters in there must have gone bananas after a couple of weeks. And during the Civil War, the local dignitaries were thrown from the cliffs into the canyon, which I learned from Mr. Hemingway's Spain book, but nobody here in the hotel wants to discuss this subject. Two days ago I felt that I needed a haircut and I thought I would allow myself the luxury of a nice shave as well, as there was this establishment around the corner from the El Tajo Hotel. I guess that it's important to get a feel of the place where I nearly lost my life and as I'm unlikely to forget that joint for the rest of my days, and you never know for how long you have to hang around in this crazy world, and with you by my side, I don't mind to live until I'll be ninety, if that's all right with you too. Is it not wonderful to be able to talk about our future and this love thing and whatever, and I really wish that your boss contracts leprosy or worse, and I miss you so. You enter the barbershop through the corner door and there are two departments, so to speak, on the left hand side the ladies get their treatments and on the right hand side your pet Bonzo got his close shave, if you can follow me. There are wooden chairs on either side, two rows of six chairs each, starting at the door, with magazines and newspapers handy. It is a clean and well-lighted place and in the air is the atmosphere of serious work being performed. It is always agreeable to observe people who are good at what they're doing, and the silent nods of approval by the various clients when the staff take the hand-held mirrors and show them the completed work on the back and on the sides of their heads are as essential to the scene as are the sunflowers in old Vincent's painted vases. On either side of the shop, in the centre of the white ceiling, huge revolving brass fans stir the perfumed air quite nicely, more sweetish on the left hand side, and with a fresh and tangy touch on the right hand side, and you'll get both smells in your nose at the same time when you enter and later when you leave and pay as the cash desk faces the entrance, with a wonderful antique brass NCR on top, possibly from the same year of manufacture as the revolving fans. The walls are covered with large posters and photographs as you would quite rightly expect from a barbershop, depicting all sorts of beautiful hairstyles, but they don't look well on all people, and perhaps you'll remember your last visit to the hairdresser's in Rotherhithe, when they tried that posh Sassoon style on you. How miserable we both felt, don't you remember, but anyway, let's not dwell on that. There are big windows and they let lots of the crisp mountain light in, and people can look in and check who's having their hair done, and if they recognize, say, Elvira from next door, then they know immediately that her husband is in funds again, or maybe the daughter with her snotty fiancé are due for a visit. On the other side of the street there's the pub "Dos Estrellas", with the white painted door left wide open, and it was possible to have a peek into the bar. On the glass top of the wooden counter they've had a transparent cheese cover containing a big pale chunk of Manchego, and two or three huge brown Serrano hams were suspended from the ceiling. Occasionally, a man would enter the bar but I did not notice anyone coming out. At the bottom of the steep street a very old man appeared, dressed in dark brown clothes and with a grey cap on his head, and he was leaning heavily on a black walking stick. He fought against the cobble stones, struggled step by step. He came nearer now and I perceived his dark tanned face, wrinkled and with stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was breathing heavily when a lady in her fifties, all in black, came up from nowhere and bleated at him but he ignored her completely, didn't even look at her. Eventually he made it to the entrance of the bar and he shouted something, and the landlord came out and helped the old man to negotiate the two stairs leading into the bar. The old guy told him something and both were cackling like mad while they vanished inside, towards the cheese and ham department and undoubtedly towards a cold glass of San Miguel or some white Valdepeñas. The street went quiet, not even a lazy cat prowled about. I turned my eyes back to the shop interior. The floor was covered with dark red plastic tiles, to make it easy for the employees to sweep the cut hair away. Maybe you don't see the blood when someone cuts into some poor bugger's ear. Little did I know. There were Spanish magazines and newspapers only, so I didn't read anything, just took a seat on one of the wooden chairs and let the place grow on me. I always like the smell in this kind of enterprise, the hair lotions and the shaving creams and all that, coupled with a professional atmosphere, and that is very pleasant and it makes you feel at ease. Soon it was my turn and the guy who asked me to pop over to his working area was an elderly Spaniard who was maybe five and six tall, if you trust my estimate, the Ben Turpin type without the crossed eyes, and he didn't have a lot of hair on his head but there was a huge moustache right under his nose and I'm sure that he was very proud of that thing. The hairdresser's chair was of the traditional type with a chromium frame and with burgundy coloured leather cushions and headrests, and the guy turned the seat cushion as it was still warm from some other customer's ass, which was a nice and considerate gesture and my positive feelings towards the transaction of getting a haircut and a luxury shave increased awfully. What was missing, to complement my feeling of contentment, if I may put it this way, would have been a glass of dry Fino, but as you don't approve of drinks, I'll just treat that as a passing thought. "Hola!" the Ben Turpin guy said. With the description of the shop you should be in the picture now, it's the same when you go to the cinema and the movie starts and you sort of get acquainted with the set, and this is more or less the same idea here. Very soon that guy discovered that I was not Spanish, especially when he asked me something right after the "Hola!" programme and I had to show him a blank face because I had not understood a word of what he had said. And this was the moment when we discovered English as a common link, and I concluded how wonderful it was, to be in an Andalusian town as a tourist from Austria, about to get a haircut, and to speak the language of my darling Jeanie to tell the barber to keep the ears clear of long hair and that I don't like hair spray, for instance. I felt so close to you on account of the language, oh, I love you so! "So, my friend, you are English?" he asked me while he selected a pair of long and sharp-pointed scissors from the breast pocket of his immaculately clean white work coat. His round eyes peered at me in the most benign way and I felt a very strong bond developing between this figaro and myself. "I'm German," I said and I can visualize your raised eyebrows and maybe your lovely mouth forms a round and regular circle when you exclaim "Oh!" and I wish you would use the Chanel lipstick and the nail polish I gave you for your birthday, the colour shade called "Adventure" as it would look absolutely smashing on your mouth when you say "Oh!", with the skin of your lips slightly creased, a dark opening, teeth invisible, obscured, and it makes me feel very, very so and so, you know, don't you, but as you don't care for the Chanel, things are different, and I didn't mean that you should use the nail polish on your lips, the way you could construe from the lines above, but I don't want to throw this page away and write another one, as I believe that personal letters are something you write on the spur of the moment, stream-like maybe, some of the terribly important writers do that all the time and get away with it, and there is no point to change things and words in a personal letter, although there were a few alterations in your letter which you sent me last year, the one and only letter I've ever received from you, and I know how hard it was for you to write it, all twenty-eight lines of it, I've counted them, don't you see how precious your letter was to me, although I did not really care for a full size British weather report, anyway, to receive something from my heavenly darling was a wonderful experience, and I carried your letter with me for a long time and I showed the stamps on the envelope to everybody who wanted to see or maybe not, but let me get back to your lips and the "Oh!" which escaped from them, willingly or unwillingly, and have you ever scrutinized your lips in the mirror, these two tantalizing targets of tender tissue, transfer these erotic lips to any other woman, and she can be the greatest bitch on earth, but when she's got a beautiful and red mouth, everything is forgiven, oh Jeanie, my Jeanie, here I go again, but let's face it, you don't really care for Madame Coco's products, and the great bitch was of course a metaphor only, and before you grab hold of the Oxford Illustrated Dictionary which I sent you some time ago, so that you'd have at least one book in your room, let me point out that although it sounds obscene, the word "metaphor" is not and it means that the said bitch was a comparative expression, and I don't feel ashamed at all at using that word, but I promise that I'll never use that kind of language in the presence of your parents, for example. The only thing is that when this "great bitch" term comes to my mind, immediately the image of your mother pops up, although I know that's not fair to her, but in psychiatry they teach you about "associations", but that is a private joke and please ignore it, and again, I love you terribly much and I wish you were here. When I embarked on the subject of your lovely lips, surely you wanted to know why I renounced my Austrian nationality: you see, suddenly I recalled various instances when I was travelling and very often people asked me "Ah, really, you're from Australia? I always wanted to go to Sydney," and things like that. For example, when I did that job in Riyadh, long time before I met you, I even wrote "Al-Nemsa" on the envelopes which was Arabic for Austria, because invariably my letters would go to Melbourne, Perth or possibly Darwin before they would reach Innsbruck or Vienna, would I simply have written "Austria" on them, and talking about Innsbruck, that reminds me of the mother of a lady I was in love with, even if you don't like to hear about my previous life, I'm really sorry, but it is not the Innsbruck lady I want to discuss but her blasted mother who managed to wreck our love affair, and was she not a great and ugly bitch too, maybe she'll hang herself one day, preferably on the cherry tree in her garden, wouldn't that be nice, oh, Jeanie, I'm so sorry, you feel hurt again, don't be upset, I know that you would have preferred me to have been pure and unused, the way you were when I crashed into you in Schruns, and later, two weeks after the hospital you told me that I was the first man who had ever crashed into you, although I could never figure out what you meant by that, yes darling, I miss you so! So I thought that I was tired of all that Austrian stuff and I decided to have everything nice and easy and that was my luck, so I told him that I was German, what the hell, I thought. "Ah, los Alemanes," my personal figaro declared and quite skilfully, he cut that particular strand of grey hair you always disliked. "Bach and Beethoven and Händel," he continued. "Were they not wonderful? Do you like music? Real music, nice music, civilized music, not this hip hop rubbish?" I told him that I liked real music, and to keep the ball rolling, I mentioned Bruckner and Schönberg and Mozart, and for good measure I threw Mahler and Schubert into the bargain. The figaro stopped in his movements and showed surprise. "You mean that you know all these composers? But they were mostly Austrians," he said and an eerie note had crept into his voice. He peered at me searchingly, perhaps a bit belligerently. "So, what's wrong with that?" I ventured. "Mozart was completely overrated, and so were Schönberg or Alban Berg." He glanced into the large mirror and I noticed his big Ben Turpin eyes again, and his moustache quivered with emotion, and he said quite cooly, "They screwed Vivaldi, you know, and they threw him into a poor man's grave, and nobody can light a candle at his grave, because today there is no grave. - These Viennese shit eaters!" "I see," I said. There was a green transistor radio and tape player on the work top beneath the mirror, and I realized that our dialogue had developed an unpleasant touch and I asked him would it disturb the other clients if he switched the radio on and he grinned at me. "There is only one great Austrian composer, and yes, you are lucky, just by chance I've got this lovely tape with me, and I'm sure you'll love this music as well." I was curious now and watched him press the play button, and do you believe it, the tape was Strauss and the piece was "An der schönen blauen Donau" and you could have knocked me down with a feather had I not been sitting in that comfortable chair, and the guy was grinning broadly and his eyes were shining and he moved the long pair of scissors in time with the damned waltz, and suddenly I was convinced that Ben Turpin was bonkers. "I was with the orchestra," he told me and he returned the scissors to his breast pocket and took something from the drawer unit. It was a viciously looking razor blade. "Philharmonisches Orchester in Wien, you know!" "How very interesting," I said rather lamely, "and what did you do there?" "I played the violin for two years. I played the works of Strauss. All of them. I was an expert. Are you familiar with the great works of the eminent Johann Strauss?" he wanted to know, eyes still gleaming. "Oh, sure, yes," I said, although I hate that stuff, but now I felt that it was better to go along with him on that subject. Never contradict a man who holds a straight razor in his hand. He went to work on the sideburns, gently and skilfully, the way he would operate the bow on his violin, I would assume, but I did not want to ask him why he had cancelled his musical career in order to become a hair artist, instead. Maybe there was a sinister reason behind that move, and I did not want him to get excited on a possibly touchy subject. "Don't you wish to know what had happened to me?" he asked after a silence of one minute or two. Here we go, I thought. "Okay, so what happened?" There was a new piece on the tape and my figaro turned the volume slightly up and I identified the first bars of the "Kaiserwalzer", which also was a standard at the New Year Concerts and that must have been Ben Turpin's favourite as he began to breathe heavier. I can't really claim that I got scared at that juncture, but there was an uneasy feeling at the back of my mind, and I estimated that it should be advisable to be careful. I waited for his reply. "I got the sack," he announced quietly and seriously, and our eyes met in the big mirror and for a moment he stopped in his work, with a creased face and a half open mouth, with yellow and irregular teeth, the huge moustache, the bald patch on his head, the wrinkled ears – and his right arm was suspended in the air and his hand held the vicious razor blade, and it pointed at my throat. I mused that it would be a good idea to switch the conversation to soccer or to the merits of Spanish brandy or to the new Picasso museum at Málaga, but I was kind of worried, and the image of my personal barber in the mirror began to take its toll, bonkers or not, and I couldn't help myself. Although – there are at least ten other people around and possibly it is an entirely normal day at this shop and possibly it is the two hundred and eightieth time that he recounts his story, English or not, and don't be nervous, I told myself, this is the real world and not nightmare country, you are here to have a good time and to enjoy yourself, you're on holiday, don't be an idiot, and perhaps the bloke will carry on with his job right away, Strauss or no Strauss, and I was in need of a Fino very badly. "By the way, my name is Emilio." I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. "I don't like Austrians," Emilio declared and fumbled with the razor blade in front of my face again, "in fact, I hate them. I wish to kill them all!" The music blared still and one of the other barbers came up and went to the tape machine and switched it off. He mumbled something in Spanish. Emilio was quiet now and continued with his job. He never spoke to me again which was all right with me. Soon he finished and I got up and went to the front desk and paid. With a feeling of relief I left the shop and returned to the hotel to have my lunch. Two days later the scandal broke: Another tourist from Austria had come to Ronda and he visited the same barbershop, and don't you remember what I told you about the Law of the Duplicity of Events, that many coincidences are none at all, and this was the case here as well. Who would have thought that within two days two tourists from Vienna would visit the same barbershop, that they would draw the same chap, only this time the other tourist cheerfully told him that he was from Vienna, all the way from the nineteenth district, and Emilio went over the top and took his razor, sharpened the old blade with love and care, and while the tape machine played the "Kaiserwalzer", he aimed carefully and with a friendly smile on his face he cut the Austrian's throat, neatly from left to right, and while the poor chap writhed in the chromium and red leather chair and with blood all over the place which splashed on the tiled floor and squirted all over the basin and the mirror, my friend Emilio danced through the hairdresser's saloon, among his petrified colleagues and between the panic-stricken customers, the razor blade still red. Soon the guy in the chair was dead. It was the same chair I had occupied during my haircut two days earlier. The police came and took Emilio away. He was very calm and did not resist, still humming and singing his Strauss melodies. Just now, there was a news programme on local TV with Emilio's wife sobbing into her handkerchief. "He was such a nice and gentle person," she said, "always in love with his music..." My dearest Jeanie, people tell me that I'm going to have a long life, because when you have escaped from mortal danger, your life is going to last particularly long. What did I say about living until the age of ninety, with you by my side? Tomorrow I'm going to Málaga by private car, as there are a few guys who'll give me a lift. Will write to you from there, ok? See you soon, and with lots of love and many kisses, Chanel or no Chanel, from your pet
B o n z o."
Editor's Note, This unposted letter has been found in a wallet which apparently was hurled from the Ford Escort which crashed on the N-340 near Torremolinos. All occupants died in the fire when the vehicle burnt out completely. So far, only two passengers have been identified.
*******************************************************
Marbella, May 1993
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||||||||||||||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|