Читать книгу Mahler in love with Monroe? - C.-A. Rebaf - Страница 5

On a warm late summer's day, I was about to go to the nearby town. The path, which used to be a paved country road, was today just a collection of potholes. I just left my village, passed the last ruined house on the road. Then the open fields , of which only a few were ordered, popped up in front of me. Between them grew conspicuously high bushes, from which a few giant trees stood out. The radioactive fall-out after the disaster is said to have caused such a growth. When these giant trees had first appeared, they had wondered. Today, they are already part of the normal landscape: trees like tropical jungle giants here in Upper Bavaria. In Hiroshima also over-sized flowers are said to have flowered after the bombing. But that was long, long before the catastrophe that few people had survived. Most, however, had died of their consequences, not of themselves. Today after that, we still suffered a lot from the impact. But most of them have arranged like me. My parents survived the disaster. They were among those who had a natural tolerance to radioactive radiation. Only such people survived. But my parents have died in the meantime, too. By contrast, I had been very small when it happened, and I have inherited her resistance genes.

There was something golden metallic glittering next to my way out in the field in the midday sun. A sharp beam of light, a reflection hit my eye. I paused and went to the field: the top of a cylinder sticking out of the ground. Obviously the object had been thrown to the surface by the last plowing, but had not been noticed. Quickly I began to dig with my bare hands and held shortly thereafter a barely a meter long cylinder in his hand. It was made of bronze or copper, and verdigris covered almost the entire surface. Why did a small area of the metal at the top remain exposed, allowing me to see the light phenomenon? The cylinder was divided in half; the middle worked so that you should be able to unscrew it. I tried, but I did not succeed. Without further ado, I put the thing in the backpack and went my way. What would be in it? Gold? Diamonds? Papers?

From afar, a burnt-out bell tower loomed out of a pile of wall fragments. That was it, the nearby small town or better, it used to be. Only a few houses were inhabited. We did not need the other ruins anymore. It lived today, after the disaster, maybe one percent of the people, maybe less. Nobody knew that exactly. We were back in the Middle Ages, living in small groups, without networking. My parents once told me something about traveling. We did not really know that word anymore because you could not travel anymore. There were no means of transport and no roads. It used to be possible to move through the air like a bird. I could not imagine that at all. We only used to walk and put back distances that we could do in one, two hours at the most. Longer you should not stay at one piece outside.

It was quiet here on my walk, and I was able to devote myself completely to my thoughts. Only the birds were twittering. From a distance, behind me, I heard one of my neighbors picking a field with his Paco-Paco. I knew the engine noise. After the disaster, a surviving South American built this type of vehicle out of old junk cars and gave it the name of his native tongue. "Paco-Paco" was as loud as the sound of the diesel again. These monsters consisted of an old engine powered by a wood gasifier. Wood grew in abundance here after the disaster. We needed it for heating and for the little light in the evening. Usually we got up with the sun, and when it went down, life went out and we went to sleep. In my backpack, I felt something hard pressing my ribs. "Oh yes, there is still the enchanted metal cylinder!" I remembered.

Only our neighbor in the village owned a Paco here. Once every family should own a car. They had sold fuel for it at petrol stations. I can not imagine that. Where did the devil stuff that drove the cars come from?

I was carrying potatoes on my back that I wanted to trade in the city. There were traders there, roaming the area, finding useful things from earlier times: a saucepan, a stovepipe, an oven. This stuff lay in abandoned house ruins. The shopkeepers collected everything and offered it in the market for exchange.

I was just about to go to Mr Mayr, the dealer in the neighbor town. He recently bought a Paco as well. His business seemed to be going well - his influence even reached Munich. But that was extremely dangerous, because it was still highly contaminated. This circumstance he had to accept - occupational risk. Besides, it was very difficult to get on these roads with a Paco. More than walking pace was not possible at all.

I strolled, lost in thought, and just passed the first ruined house in the city. Most houses burned to the ground. In former times the so-called ‘Italian quarter’ of Weilheim stood here. Today it looked like the excavated Pompeii. Only the stone walls with the hollow window holes protruded like over-sized skeletons into the landscape. Giant big elderberry bushes with heavy fruit umbels had covered the blackened walls. I remembered the metal cylinder again. What was in it? But I still had to be patient.

I carried potatoes, that had grown in my garden and wanted to exchange them for a oven at Mr. Mayr’s shop. Only a few kilos as a quality test, I wanted to show him. Mayr should then come with his Paco, bring the oven and take the three bags, I intended to invest. Owning a large potato field and I myself needed only a few potatoes for me and my little boy during the winter. So we had a surplus. A second oven for our bedroom would have been a great relief for the cold season.

I dreamed in heavenly silence, when suddenly an unfamiliar rattling startled me: An unknown red Paco-Paco with a body made of plywood around the passenger compartment laboriously made its way out of the city in the direction of my village and came to meet me. As he drove slowly besides me, I saw a driver in the front and an another unknown man on the backseat. He greeted me with an horsewhip in his hand and a inter-penetrating dominant smile. I was instantly thrilled. The glance of his eyes created floating tensions around my belly bottom and deeper south towards my female ‘Y’. I never felt such feelings for the last years.

Immediately the thought flashed through my head, to have seen this face before. But where? The stranger nodded to me and already the vehicle had passed me with the front-two-cylinder diesel engine on which the letters M.A.N. were still clearly visible. At the back, on a kind of loading area, were logs and the behemoth of furnace, under which a fire burned – just a typical wood gasifier. Was there really a traveler here? Here in the ‘Pfaffenwinkel’? What did someone want here in this Upper Bavarian ruin desert? Someone greeting me with his horsewhip?

Many questions! I wandered on my way, wondering how this face, with its round nickel-rimmed glasses and high forehead, seemed so familiar to me. But – with no result. Mr. Mayr - a friendly Upper Bavarian, who would have been called ‘g'wampert’ in the Bavarian dialect meaning potbellied; in the northeastern parts of the Germany around the capital his body would have been called ‘Mollenfriedhof’ in free translation beer-schooner-graveyard. He was never experienced unfriendly. His sunny mind was always brightened by his daily two to five pints. But despite all his optimism and lust for life, he was not easily overcome, because he was a guy with the philosophy "beer is beer and schnapps is schnapps"!

He examined my potatoes in the backpack thoroughly and waited for what I would offer him. "Of that I have stored at home three hundredweight, which I would like to exchange for a sturdy stove." "Ah... ...interesting...", was his terse answer, me still cunningly leaving the speech. After all, I wanted something from him, so he left the conversation to me. "Did you already stock up on supplies?" I tried to lure him out of the reserve. "What do you mean?", it came out of him, and he suddenly did very absent-mindlessly. But even I hardly felt like pushing further into him, because suddenly the stranger and the metal cylinder came to my mind again. The unknown, who had met me with his driver in the red Paco: What did he want? A traveler on the way to polling? I stared into space, and the conversation stopped suddenly. Mayr suddenly became visibly uncomfortable, as I refused to continue. "Very nice, your potatoes." I was very surprised to hear his voice so clearly, which almost tore me out of my brooding. "Isn’t it?", I beamed at him and tried to look at him with my most seductive bedroom view from the side! Did I reached him now? "Yes, what kind of oven would you have thought then, madam?" Aha, my eyes had an effect! It worked again and again, the beautiful game between the sexes! "Well, one of iron for our bedroom. Since it is always so cold in winter. We have enough wood for heating." "I've got something for You. But three hundredweight are not very much! And the stove is still an old quality! "Was not deep enough, my gaze, and I knew it was not much use now; now I had to move. "Unfortunately I do not have potatoes anymore. We need the rest of ourselves." "Well, my dear, more fried mashed potatoes in the next winter would not be bad too… and the after next as well!" "Next year!" I gasped in surprise and swallowed. "Do I know how the crop will be? I can not promise you that in good conscience." Now another seductive smile was announced, and I gave it to him. He gratefully accepted it. "So, well. Six hundredweight until next year! Since I can not move any further!" Aha, now haggling began!

"But, Mr. Mayr," I almost admonished him, "You do not want to cheat me, right?" And I mockingly raised my index finger. In Mayr's face I realized that he was now embarrassed. Well, I had another point for me. "I suggest you show me the stove first, and then we go on talking," I tried to raise the bar to a factual level, which Mayr gratefully accepted, even small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Gracious lady, this is a wonderful suggestion." He went ahead to his camp, which was on the opposite side of the courtyard and pulled his huge blue-and-white checked sackcloth out of the battered leather, dabbed his forehead excitedly, and wiped his hand over the bull's neck. The property was probably a very old farm with house, barn and stable, which were arranged around the square courtyard and fenced with a high wall. Due to the disaster, it was completely burned out and with tarpaulins, sheets, electricity pylons as steel girders and all sorts of other improvised material again makeshift. In the barn was his camp, in the stable were again animals, it smelled of pig, sheep and goats. His huge Paco-Paco, a three-axle with a three-cylinder diesel engine and large cargo area, stood in the yard. The wood gasifier took the place of the passenger seat in this vehicle and could be easily heated by the driver. Despite his short legs, Mayr was nimble, so I struggled to follow him. As we passed the vehicle, I rather dropped my approval: "May I ask you to take over the transport of the oven as well? You could take the potatoes with you on the way back." He pretended to ignore it, but I knew he had picked it up very well. We rummaged through the camp. Mayer got even more in a sweat, because he did not find the oven right away and had to constantly put things out of the way, because he thought he would find the oven behind it. As valuable as he did, the monster did not seem to be! He had finally found him. "Well, gracious, did I promise to much?" The stove was rather rusted, but with old cast-iron plates and embellishments. If we would clean it, he would be right. I ran my hand across the outer surface and the dust spun up. Exaggerated, I played the role of the outraged and even brought about a real sneezing. Disdainfully, I looked at the good piece and turned to my companion: "No, Mr. Mayr, you offer this bitch to me?" Mayr jerked a bit.

"And you dare to ask for six hundredweight of potatoes for it?" I looked down at him motherly-reprimanding from above. This change of role from the seducer to the stern mother was now strategically very effective. I was about to turn away when he looked me in the eye and said softly: "Five!" Now I was convinced to be on the winner side. "Four!" Came out sharply from my mouth. He pretended to have been hit and said his standard formula, "Gracious, you will ruin me!" I knew that was his okay, and added, "I'll get another pot of heat-resistant iron paint, that we can put the good piece into the bedroom after editing. "He agreed and added," I'll bring you of the object next week." We said goodbye to each other, and I was pleased internally, but concluded to have settled a good trade. It was not a mistake to have learned a lot from my father as adolescent. In addition to a great deal of knowledge about classical music, this included haggling: He taught me all the tricks, that men have on negotiating deals and cheating each other. My mother always said to him: "My God, she is a girl, you educate her like a boy!" It was getting dark, and I quickly made my way back to my village.

At home I found the metal cylinder in my backpack again and treated the screw cap with some vinegar. It hissed, and then I could open it by turning. Inside was a movie poster from times before the catastrophe. It showed a blond woman with big breasts in a white halter dress. She stood on a mesh shaft, from which a wind blew up and lifted her airy skirt. The woman's face showed that while she was frightened trying to pull her skirt down out of shame, the mischievous component of her smile clearly signaled to the viewer that she was grateful to the breeze from the shaft, which was exposing her beautiful legs and showing their perfect contours. This charms every interested man. In this way, on the one hand, she remained a shy young woman, and only the evil wind was to blame for her wickedness! The seductive arts of women are to master this balancing act between shame and sophistication perfectly. ‘The saint and the whore!’, was the reaction of the male part in me. My feminine side had only one disdainful word for it: ‘Slut!’. On the poster next to the woman was a bold signature: Marilyn Monroe.

I found a blank wall and hung up the poster. Not that I found it particularly nice. But the bare wall with the poster I liked better than without.

But suddenly I remembered the dominant stranger with the horsewhip and my butterflies dandled again down south...