Tiergarten Tales

G Grossi Paolo

Description

Boys and men of Berlin. A captivating journey through their lives, love affairs and misdemeanours across the city's turbulent history. Felix and Walther bestride a deep class divide, forging an enduring bond in 1890s Prussia. Kaspar and Max navigate the fraught upheavals of the Weimar Republic by skilfully marketing the only commodity in demand. Young Kazimierz leaves his impoverished Silesian village and sets off on an epic journey to the Prussian capital, the seat of an ageing Frederick the Great. His heavenly beauty, endearing naivety and, ultimately, fate will transform his life once through the gates of the city.Echoes within echoes. Circles within circles. Wealth, poverty and moral compromise. The privilege and toxic masculinity of the Prussian officer class.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: The Conrad Press
• Date de parution: 14 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781839782787
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Tiergarten Tales
Berlin. Its boys. Their stories
Paolo G. Grossi


The Tiergarten Tales
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: [phone]
www.theconradpress.com
[e-mail]
ISBN 978-1-913567-75-0
Copyright © Paolo G. Grossi, 2021
The moral right of Paolo G. Grossi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk Cover design inspired by Gebhard Fugel self portrait 1890 and paintings of the Tiergarten by Lesser Ury between 1900s and 1910s.
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.


Unlike the puerile loyalty to a conviction, loyalty to a friend is a virtue - perhaps the only virtue, the last remaining one.
Milan Kundera


The lodger
G rey sky. It has been so for the last few days, or weeks, months perhaps. It had been his decision to move here so there is no one else to blame. That irks him no end, no one to blame, no one to shout at.
Up here on the sixth floor one can barely hear the traffic below and there is never much of it anyway; it’s early morning and he lives on a quiet and leafy street, upmarket, expensive, unaffordable for most people.
The air is warm and all he wears is pyjama bottoms; he prefers to walk around the apartment barefoot though he misses a soft thick carpet. But more often than not homes come with beautiful wooden parquet here: beautiful but uncomfortable for his feet which have lost some of the supple elasticity they used to have. Age, always age; he wishes he could log out from thinking about ageing.
Coffee time. He walks back inside through the French doors and inserts a capsule in the machine, the mechanical noise reassuring, another morning with the same routine.
Frau Greta is on her way and he needs to get out. It’s his rule number one or, rather, hers: get out of the cleaning lady’s way, you’re just a hindrance and when she took on the job she dropped a few stern hints which allowed no debate. Very German, he smiles.
No breakfast at home; he’ll walk to the Bismarck Bistro for mid-morning brunch. The temperature is warm enough to sit outside with just a light jacket and watch the world go by.
Except that it never does. The bistro is quaint and the fare of good quality but it never seems to be that busy, though the lack of a crowd has lately developed into a pleasure rather than a shortcoming.
Either way the bistro is close, reasonably priced, and on the edge of that vast and wild forest in the centre of the city peculiarly described as a ‘garten’.
He’s ready now and he feels pleasantly casual: slacks, a polo and a light blue jacket. A scarf around his neck protects him from the light breeze.
And sunglasses. He has spent a good chunk of his previous life in a part of the world where everyone wore sunglasses, outdoor and indoor. You could never see anyone’s eyes. Beautiful eyes, old eyes, blue, green, black, it didn’t matter; they were all behind dark lenses. All the fucking time.
But he has kept the habit; perhaps one day he’ll lose it. Habits come and go.
He strolls along the oak-lined paths before turning towards the bistro. Empty roads. Is that Sunday? Perhaps not, but the roads are always empty here anyway. Which he loves. Or not. He’s not yet sure.
When he reaches the bistro, he lazily scans the area: a few tables outside, almost empty as usual, one middle-aged guy tapping away at his laptop in the far corner.
He takes a seat and then remembers the free newspapers inside so he gets up again and strolls in to pick up a copy of the Morgenpost.
Ella is at the till. The owner greets him in a low voice and with a smile. She must do that with all the regular customers, he thinks, but he likes it as it makes him feel special even if he is dead sure he isn’t.
After three years his German has improved dramatically. He has subjected himself to a gruelling and eye-wateringly expensive blitz of private tuitions. He can now finish reading long-winded and often completely irrelevant opinion pieces. Nothing much ever seems to happen here anyway. He prefers books to news but he forgot to bring one along.
‘Good morning sir, what can I get you today?’
Not Ella’s voice. It sounds soft and warm, young, almost female though clearly not.
As he turns, a young man of perhaps less than twenty stands there with a smile and detectable eagerness. The eagerness of the new employee, the excitement of a new job, the freshness of a new chapter.
The boy gently shifts the wheat blond fringe along his forehead; a pair of black framed spectacles sits on his angular nose, the thick prescription lenses magnifying his light blue eyes.
‘Good morning, let’s see: a cappuccino for a start, I haven’t decided on the food, may I have a minute?’
‘Sure, sir, I’ll get the drink ready for you, take your time.’
The manners are calm and polite. Unassuming, he ponders.
After a few minutes the young man returns with the cappuccino and briefly stands there, clearly waiting for the order but with no impatient insistence.
‘Oh, thanks, how embarrassing, I still haven’t decided. Sorry.’
‘There is no worry, sir, give us a shout when you’ve chosen. I’m Karl, I’ll be inside.’
‘Very kind, thank you. I’m William. I’m quite a regular here, you must have just started today.’
‘Yes, first day. Part-time. Or, more precisely, when I have the time available I call them and come to work.’
‘Student?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nice to meet you Karl, I’ll take a look at the menu, I almost know it by heart anyway.’
A little laugh of approval, not the most original humour but still something, he thinks.
He’s back at the Bismarck after a couple of days and Ella comes to take the order. He chooses not to enquire about Karl though from time to time over the last few days he has sprung unannounced into his mind; fleetingly, pleasantly and most conspicuously never sexually. He has felt no enthusiasm for picturing him naked or walking around in his underwear, or any other vaguely lewd fantasy. Most of the times it does happen. He has mostly recalled his voice and his few words, the not yet deep tone of his voice: neither a boy nor yet a man.
Then business calls and he has to fly back to his former workplace. He has virtually retired but his expertise is prized and they never discuss the fees of his consultancy; sometimes he receives his first class return ticket before Jack, his former boss, even calls him. They are busy men.
Karl freely floats in and out of his mind but in his mind only. He remains rather puzzled at the thought of a geeky young man failing to arouse his low instincts. The voice and the smile stay lodged, though he can hardly remember his body. Did he actually look at it?
After a few weeks he’s back and finally taking full advantage of the much improved weather. He can now idle outside in a polo shirt holding the Morgenpost wide open in front of him.
‘Good morning, Herr William.’
He lets the paper fold in half and looks at Karl unsurprised as he did say he was to work whenever he was free from university. He knew that one day or the next he would have seen him again. That never worried him.
‘Good morning, young man.’
‘How are you, sir? We haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘No, indeed. I had to go abroad for a week.’
‘Where to? Anywhere nice?’
‘California. But on a business trip.’
‘Thought you had a start of a tan. Had a few breaks between work then?’
‘Yes, thank you. I managed to have a couple of days at the beach.’
‘Lucky you, sir. Would love to see California. Love swimming. Is that where you are from?’
‘Boston actually, only worked there.’
‘Your German is cool.’
‘Still a strong accent though, and my cases are rather deplorable, I’m afraid. Sorry.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Thank you, what is it?’
Karl throws an engaging laugh, friendlier than ever before.
‘It’s the “thank you” and “sorry”, you put one of those every three words.’ William reddens a bit. ‘It sounds funny. We don’t really apologise or thank so much.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
Karl opens his arms and his eyebrows lift: ‘That’s what I mean.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Oh no, don’t. It’s funny but cool. Cappuccino?’
‘That would be awesome.’
He thinks he should stop interjecting Americanisms in his German; he has been living in Berlin for three years and, except for business phone calls , his conversations are mostly in German, though everyone here speaks perfect English anyway. Karl seems to rather like the term ‘awesome’ though, as he repeats it with a thumb up. And a smile. That smile.
He has come to realise what is so attractive about that smile: it lacks malice. It seems bereft of a second motive and it is neither forced nor flirting.
The following day Karl comes to the table with a cappuccino on his tray. He loves the fact that he no longer needs to order and he makes him feel like part of a family. Patently absurd yet harmless.
‘I haven’t asked you what you are studying.’
‘Chemistry, uber-nerd.’
‘I am, well, was, in IT, that’s the Silicon Valley bit. Kind of retired but still offering my services from time to time.’
‘You’re dead young to be retired, perhaps I’m studying the wrong subject.’
‘Not that young.’ And he worries about Karl asking his age: just shy of forty-five though fit and healthy and with all his greying hair; Karl remains oblivious to it anyway.
‘Do you live with your parents?’
‘Student hall and a nightmare if you ask. Loud, not that clean, drinking and shouting, had enough already.’
‘How come you don’t join in? I did.’
‘I said I’m a nerd?’ They both laugh, first time together, almost in unison. ‘That is why I got this job, would l