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Pia
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The sky is a faint blue, half yellow. The Baltic’s flood rolls softly over Zoppot’s strand. Nobody is yet awake. The carriage’s wheels trundle towards the house on Hubertus Allee. Gisela’s already waiting, silently under the porch. Brangane sleeps. Five minutes later and she’s stepping onto the morning platform. The far end. She looks around; no-one has seen her. She looks again, past the bundles of sacks containing yesterday’s postcards and holiday letters. In the distance she sees someone she knows. She steps behind a pillar. It’s Melot, and there is someone else with him, she can’t be sure, but she thinks.... The train’s pulling in all steam and smoke and she jumps aboard as fast as she can into the first class carriage at the front. She breathes slowly and long and thinks of the journey ahead and how she wants to see her love. The leather smells of old tobacco and hair oil and the talk of Hansa business and she feels a bit strange to be a young girl on her own, but soon a suited man arrives and settles down with his weekly journal and the share prices in Hamburg and Rotterdam and his pencil and she relaxes and the steam hisses and slowly they roll towards Danzig.
P
Pia
Guest
“Wrap the bandage tightly Konstanze. Yes, that’s it, wind it around again. Ow! Ow! Ooh it does hurt a bit but it will be alright. I’m sure it will. Good. Now fasten it. Good.”
“Tristana, please don’t do this... You know the doctor said you shouldn’t... Please stay here until she comes.”
Tristana kisses Konstanze on her head and tells her again that she will be alright. But she knows it isn’t true. Her chest is hurting her, a dull aching pain that won’t go away. She tries hard not to let it show on her face; tries to breathe normally. She knows that Konstanze can see through her acting. She swings her feet over the side of the bed and tentatively stands, holding onto the matress to steady herself.
“Now, get me my summer dress, the white one with the embroidery. Yes, that’s it. I need you to help me; I can’t do the buttons on the back Konstanze. Hold me while I step in. There, you see, I’m quite alright, aren’t I?”
Konstanze frowns.
“Good. Now I need you to fix my hair. I look such a mess. And my earrings, can you pass them please? They’re on the dressing table. Yes, those, the pink and the black, my favourites. Perfect. How do I look Konstanze? Am I beautiful? I want to be beautiful for her.”
“You look... you look lovely. But you’re so pale. I’m scared Tristana. Oh please don’t do this. It’s insane! She’ll be here soon, why not wait for her?”
“I have to go to her Konstanze. You’ll just never understand. You can’t understand, but I have to. Have you ordered a cab? I should leave now I think. She’s arriving at eleven isn’t she?”
“I’ll call it now. Yes. Eleven. Do you need me to help you down the stairs?
She grasps the bannister, her fingers tight on the rail as the hallway swims below her. A feeling of nausea fills her body; she tries to breathe slowly and steadily but every gasp tears through her. Konstanze is outside with the driver of the motor cab and Tristana leans heavily against the door-frame of the vestibule, her eyes fixed on Konstanze’s turned back.
“I’ve paid him, Tristana. And he’ll wait to bring you both back. Oh sweet girl! Can’t I go and collect her? It would be so much better! You...you look so tired. You really should stay and rest here. Please let me...”
“I have to go. I have to. Right, help me to the cab, just while I get it. I... We’ll be back soon. Don’t worry Konstanze. Don’t worry.”
The cab drives along the familiar roads, through the Tiergarten, over the Spree, along the Paulstraße and right into Alt-Moabit, then comes to a sudden halt. Tristana peers through the side window. She can see the Hauptbahnhof ahead and the clock showing seven minutes to eleven. The road is blocked. A throng of carriages and motors standing nose-to-tail. She looks at the driver in panic. Nothing is moving.
“I have to be there for eleven. Will we make it?”
“I don’t think so miss. Looks like an accident or something up front. You can walk faster I think. I’ll wait in front when I get there miss. Is that alright? It’s not far. Just a hundred metres or so. I’ll watch out for you and your friend, alright?”
She looks around again. The cab’s surrounded now by other traffic. It’s hot and horns are sounding out, but nothing is happening. She bites her lip.
“Alright. I’ll go then. Wait for us, yes? In front of the station.”
She steps onto the pavement and immediately staggers, grabbing out for a lamp-standard, her mouth opening wide to suck in the air. There are people everywhere. Her vision blurs then clears and she focuses on the entrance to the station. It really isn’t too far. But the minutes have ticked by and now there are only three left.
Tristana starts to walk. Five paces, then pauses and puts her hand to her breast. It feels as if the knife is being pushed in again and turned and twisted. She gasps in pain. A woman in crinolines brushes past her and turns her head to look. In front of her she sees a group of men in their dark suits, a small boy in a sailor outfit. A girl with gold curls carrying a hoop. She looks at the clock above the station entrance. She tries to walk faster, breaking into a jog. It hurts so much now; she looks down. Her white dress is stained pink around her chest. Her fingers touch her breast again. The cotton is wet; turning red where she has laid her hand. She’s burning in pain.
She runs. The sun is beating down on her, the crowd seems to grow and press in on her. Into the shade. She can feel blood running down her chest, the bandages are soaking now, her dress sticks to her. She staggers forward, desparately searching for the arrivals board. There! She pushes past dark dressed travellers waiting for their trains, blind to their stares, spinning from one pillar to another, a cloud of white and red in a sea of darkness and smoke and steam.
Gisela rises from her seat and moves along the rocking train to the end of the carriage. The plaform rises from the track-bed, the canopy suddenly spills its shadows and amplifies the surging sucking hissing clanking engine as it screeches and rattles to a halt.
Tristana looks anxiously from carriage to carriage, then instinctively tries to run toward the front of the train. Four steps, then collapses onto the plaform. She doesn’t hear the gasps from the onlookers. She forces herself up again. Now her whole dress is soaked crimson. Her fingers touch her mouth, wipe away a froth of blood. She can see Gisela; she’s getting down from the first carriage, the guard is passing her bag; she’s looking around.
“Gisela! Gisela....!”
She coughs and grasps her chest, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she pants, coughing blood with every breath. She can hardly shout Gisela’s name.
“Tristana!”
Gisela stares, then runs forward as the crowd parts.
Tristana falls to the floor, heaving and coughing, blood oozing between her fingers as she grasps herself tight, her right arm extended, imploring.
Gisela falls to her knees, grapsing Tristana’s shoulders, pulling her face to her own, staring into her dark eyes, cradling her in her arms.
“Tristana! No! No! Don’t leave me Tristana! I’ll never leave you Tristana! Don’t leave me!”
She kisses her lips, kisses her eyes, her ears, her own clothes becoming dark with Tristana’s blood.
At the far end of the platform Markus and Melot climb down from the train. They see the commotion ahead, the crowd around the two girls slumped on the ground. They run.
Gisela looks up from Tristana’s still face. Kisses her once more. Then stands. Tears and blood mingle on her face. She looks to the ground, to Tristana. To her pearl earrings under her dark curls. She looks up. She sees them coming. A whistle sounds. The engine comes to life, smoke forcing up into the canopy, then swirling downwards over the platform. Gisela looks once again at her Tristana, then steps forward.
A woman screams. A whistle is blown furiously and the engineer slams the regulator shut, the wheels howling against the rails. Across the plaform a company of grey-uniformed soldiers turn, wondering what is happening, then, joking, board their train bound for exercises in Königsburg in the East.
“Tristana, please don’t do this... You know the doctor said you shouldn’t... Please stay here until she comes.”
Tristana kisses Konstanze on her head and tells her again that she will be alright. But she knows it isn’t true. Her chest is hurting her, a dull aching pain that won’t go away. She tries hard not to let it show on her face; tries to breathe normally. She knows that Konstanze can see through her acting. She swings her feet over the side of the bed and tentatively stands, holding onto the matress to steady herself.
“Now, get me my summer dress, the white one with the embroidery. Yes, that’s it. I need you to help me; I can’t do the buttons on the back Konstanze. Hold me while I step in. There, you see, I’m quite alright, aren’t I?”
Konstanze frowns.
“Good. Now I need you to fix my hair. I look such a mess. And my earrings, can you pass them please? They’re on the dressing table. Yes, those, the pink and the black, my favourites. Perfect. How do I look Konstanze? Am I beautiful? I want to be beautiful for her.”
“You look... you look lovely. But you’re so pale. I’m scared Tristana. Oh please don’t do this. It’s insane! She’ll be here soon, why not wait for her?”
“I have to go to her Konstanze. You’ll just never understand. You can’t understand, but I have to. Have you ordered a cab? I should leave now I think. She’s arriving at eleven isn’t she?”
“I’ll call it now. Yes. Eleven. Do you need me to help you down the stairs?
She grasps the bannister, her fingers tight on the rail as the hallway swims below her. A feeling of nausea fills her body; she tries to breathe slowly and steadily but every gasp tears through her. Konstanze is outside with the driver of the motor cab and Tristana leans heavily against the door-frame of the vestibule, her eyes fixed on Konstanze’s turned back.
“I’ve paid him, Tristana. And he’ll wait to bring you both back. Oh sweet girl! Can’t I go and collect her? It would be so much better! You...you look so tired. You really should stay and rest here. Please let me...”
“I have to go. I have to. Right, help me to the cab, just while I get it. I... We’ll be back soon. Don’t worry Konstanze. Don’t worry.”
The cab drives along the familiar roads, through the Tiergarten, over the Spree, along the Paulstraße and right into Alt-Moabit, then comes to a sudden halt. Tristana peers through the side window. She can see the Hauptbahnhof ahead and the clock showing seven minutes to eleven. The road is blocked. A throng of carriages and motors standing nose-to-tail. She looks at the driver in panic. Nothing is moving.
“I have to be there for eleven. Will we make it?”
“I don’t think so miss. Looks like an accident or something up front. You can walk faster I think. I’ll wait in front when I get there miss. Is that alright? It’s not far. Just a hundred metres or so. I’ll watch out for you and your friend, alright?”
She looks around again. The cab’s surrounded now by other traffic. It’s hot and horns are sounding out, but nothing is happening. She bites her lip.
“Alright. I’ll go then. Wait for us, yes? In front of the station.”
She steps onto the pavement and immediately staggers, grabbing out for a lamp-standard, her mouth opening wide to suck in the air. There are people everywhere. Her vision blurs then clears and she focuses on the entrance to the station. It really isn’t too far. But the minutes have ticked by and now there are only three left.
Tristana starts to walk. Five paces, then pauses and puts her hand to her breast. It feels as if the knife is being pushed in again and turned and twisted. She gasps in pain. A woman in crinolines brushes past her and turns her head to look. In front of her she sees a group of men in their dark suits, a small boy in a sailor outfit. A girl with gold curls carrying a hoop. She looks at the clock above the station entrance. She tries to walk faster, breaking into a jog. It hurts so much now; she looks down. Her white dress is stained pink around her chest. Her fingers touch her breast again. The cotton is wet; turning red where she has laid her hand. She’s burning in pain.
She runs. The sun is beating down on her, the crowd seems to grow and press in on her. Into the shade. She can feel blood running down her chest, the bandages are soaking now, her dress sticks to her. She staggers forward, desparately searching for the arrivals board. There! She pushes past dark dressed travellers waiting for their trains, blind to their stares, spinning from one pillar to another, a cloud of white and red in a sea of darkness and smoke and steam.
Gisela rises from her seat and moves along the rocking train to the end of the carriage. The plaform rises from the track-bed, the canopy suddenly spills its shadows and amplifies the surging sucking hissing clanking engine as it screeches and rattles to a halt.
Tristana looks anxiously from carriage to carriage, then instinctively tries to run toward the front of the train. Four steps, then collapses onto the plaform. She doesn’t hear the gasps from the onlookers. She forces herself up again. Now her whole dress is soaked crimson. Her fingers touch her mouth, wipe away a froth of blood. She can see Gisela; she’s getting down from the first carriage, the guard is passing her bag; she’s looking around.
“Gisela! Gisela....!”
She coughs and grasps her chest, her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she pants, coughing blood with every breath. She can hardly shout Gisela’s name.
“Tristana!”
Gisela stares, then runs forward as the crowd parts.
Tristana falls to the floor, heaving and coughing, blood oozing between her fingers as she grasps herself tight, her right arm extended, imploring.
Gisela falls to her knees, grapsing Tristana’s shoulders, pulling her face to her own, staring into her dark eyes, cradling her in her arms.
“Tristana! No! No! Don’t leave me Tristana! I’ll never leave you Tristana! Don’t leave me!”
She kisses her lips, kisses her eyes, her ears, her own clothes becoming dark with Tristana’s blood.
At the far end of the platform Markus and Melot climb down from the train. They see the commotion ahead, the crowd around the two girls slumped on the ground. They run.
Gisela looks up from Tristana’s still face. Kisses her once more. Then stands. Tears and blood mingle on her face. She looks to the ground, to Tristana. To her pearl earrings under her dark curls. She looks up. She sees them coming. A whistle sounds. The engine comes to life, smoke forcing up into the canopy, then swirling downwards over the platform. Gisela looks once again at her Tristana, then steps forward.
A woman screams. A whistle is blown furiously and the engineer slams the regulator shut, the wheels howling against the rails. Across the plaform a company of grey-uniformed soldiers turn, wondering what is happening, then, joking, board their train bound for exercises in Königsburg in the East.
THE END OF GISELA’S FOURTH STORY
RacingRodent
Consul
Well that is a variation on a classic contrived with great subtlety and delivered with stunning climatic force.
P
Pia
Guest
The Fourth Story and the whole saga up to now.... without all the side conversations!!!! (and with a few corrections... and probably more to make still...) - Hope you enjoy!
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Attachments
P
Pia
Guest
The Fifth Story – 2015
“Gisela, we’re going… Are you ready? Come on, time to pack up for today… Get a shower and head over to the van, alright?”
She raised her head from her work, Mario’s voice just audible over the rain steadily falling on the grey plastic of the tent over her head, then glanced at her watch. Yes, it probably was time to be finishing up, she thought. Carefully she removed one final layer of the softer earth where it intersected the dark line of harder ground, then cleaned her trowel on her leg, made a photo of where she had reached and eased herself up. The rain really had been incessant today, filling the tent with a warm, pungent humidity; she pushed her thick tangled red curls back from her forehead, wiping away the sweat, leaving a trace of soil clinging to her face. She was satisfied with the day, but everything took so long and there seemed so little to show for the painstaking efforts. And now, in a moment, the exhaustion of her labours seemed to overwhelm her. She licked her lips, wiped her hands over her no-longer white t-shirt and sighed deeply.
P
Pia
Guest
“Get a shower” she thought, and laughed silently to herself. The only shower she’d get on this site was walking back to the van. She loved her work but it wasn’t exactly a desk-job and she had become inured to the dirt and mud and weary limbs that came with the sense of doing something special. She looked around the tent, at the neat trenches and the marker poles setting out the dig, and felt satisfied. They were making progress. Gathering up her things, she stepped carefully onto the boards and made her way to the open flap, peering across the now-muddy field to the van, parked on the track beneath the dripping trees. The rain was heavy now and she’d get her shower for sure. Mario wound down the side-window and shouted to her to hurry up, smiling broadly. Gisela ducked back into the tent, then dashed out into the downpour, her feet slipping and sliding over sticky earth and sloshing through puddles, her rain-dampened shirt outlining the curves of her body.
The door swung open and in one movement she was in, shaking the water from her hair and sliding it back from her face, wiping the dampness away from her eyes.
“Why does it have to rain now? All day long I’ve been sweltering under that tent and it’s been dry and then, right at the end… Pwfff… Down it comes! It’s so typical! Look at me! Ugh!”
“Well, like I said Gisela, you got your shower!”
“And now I need a proper one! Come on Mario, let’s get the others and go. I’m done in for today. Come on!”
The van jerked along the rough track, turning a corner where a coppice pushed into the ploughed field, coming to a halt by a second tent where the two other archeologists stood waiting under their shelter. The rainstorm was coming to an end, just light drizzle floating in curtains across the landscape, disappearing east towards the far-distant Elbe. Soon they were onboard too and Mario was heading towards the road, splashing the van through hollows of yellow-brown water until they climbed the little rise and were on the paved roadway. A few minutes later the empty fields gave way to the little village of Hachelbich, and then they were headed south, towards Erfurt and Weimar.
The door swung open and in one movement she was in, shaking the water from her hair and sliding it back from her face, wiping the dampness away from her eyes.
“Why does it have to rain now? All day long I’ve been sweltering under that tent and it’s been dry and then, right at the end… Pwfff… Down it comes! It’s so typical! Look at me! Ugh!”
“Well, like I said Gisela, you got your shower!”
“And now I need a proper one! Come on Mario, let’s get the others and go. I’m done in for today. Come on!”
The van jerked along the rough track, turning a corner where a coppice pushed into the ploughed field, coming to a halt by a second tent where the two other archeologists stood waiting under their shelter. The rainstorm was coming to an end, just light drizzle floating in curtains across the landscape, disappearing east towards the far-distant Elbe. Soon they were onboard too and Mario was heading towards the road, splashing the van through hollows of yellow-brown water until they climbed the little rise and were on the paved roadway. A few minutes later the empty fields gave way to the little village of Hachelbich, and then they were headed south, towards Erfurt and Weimar.
P
Pia
Guest
Gisela waved as the van pulled away from in front of her little flat, Moritzsraße 36. The air had cleared and the sky above was a brilliant, shimmering blue. Above the grey stone and plate glass of the ground floor, the pink stucco and window-boxes filled with summery flowers felt welcoming. She slung her bag over her shoulder and, taking the two short steps into the shaded recess of the doorway, fumbled for her key then clicking the lock open, stepped inside, climbing up the stone staircase to the second floor. A few moments later she was inside, kicking off her muddy boots, pulling off her t-shirt and slumping onto the little sofa, exhausted from the labours of the day.
She eased herself into the shower, then out again, enjoying the sensation of the towel on her skin, then pulling an old, beloved, oversized jumper over herself, letting the stretched grey woollen knitting fall down and pull out across her knees as she crouched on her sofa. This was a nice time. The week over, time to relax. It had been a good week, some progress, slow, but some progress. She felt good and entitled to the glass of white wine held between her fingers as she gazed out through the two windows over the street. Relaxed and satisfied, a good way to feel on a Friday evening she thought. Her left hand reached out for the remote and flicked on the CD player. Some favourite music filled the little room. She lay back further over the cushions, letting the jumper ride up, letting her fingers find herself below, slowly and rhythmically enjoying the sounds, letting her hair fall over the sofa’s edge, her fingers now finding out her own body, first here, then there.
It was dark when she awoke again, the street lights casting their shadowed gaze through her windows. That awful guilt of having slept too long embraced her, distracted her, but only momentarily. Shaking her head she roused herself and checked her watch. Still early. Late but early. Time for some fun. Quickly changing and checking her phone she remained unsure where her friends would be. It was a shame IS:IX had closed, after all, Paulstraße was even walking distance and it had been a great club, but nothing stays the same, she thought. She looked at herself. Then changed again and made up with a bit more of an angsty look. It always worked better that way she thought. And she wanted some fun tonight. But she wasn’t going to ride her bike or take the bus. Tonight a taxi she thought. After all, the Presseklub was not exactly next door, not at all. All the way down to Luthersraße and the Juri-Gagarin-Ring… how strange that road name sounded now, she thought. Still, Juri Gagarin: why shouldn’t he be a hero? He was the first man in space and she remembered how her mother kept a postcard of him by her bed all her life, he was a beautiful man too, she thought. So, it was good that it was still his road. But whatever the name of the road, she wanted some fun and hoped she’d find it there tonight.
She eased herself into the shower, then out again, enjoying the sensation of the towel on her skin, then pulling an old, beloved, oversized jumper over herself, letting the stretched grey woollen knitting fall down and pull out across her knees as she crouched on her sofa. This was a nice time. The week over, time to relax. It had been a good week, some progress, slow, but some progress. She felt good and entitled to the glass of white wine held between her fingers as she gazed out through the two windows over the street. Relaxed and satisfied, a good way to feel on a Friday evening she thought. Her left hand reached out for the remote and flicked on the CD player. Some favourite music filled the little room. She lay back further over the cushions, letting the jumper ride up, letting her fingers find herself below, slowly and rhythmically enjoying the sounds, letting her hair fall over the sofa’s edge, her fingers now finding out her own body, first here, then there.
It was dark when she awoke again, the street lights casting their shadowed gaze through her windows. That awful guilt of having slept too long embraced her, distracted her, but only momentarily. Shaking her head she roused herself and checked her watch. Still early. Late but early. Time for some fun. Quickly changing and checking her phone she remained unsure where her friends would be. It was a shame IS:IX had closed, after all, Paulstraße was even walking distance and it had been a great club, but nothing stays the same, she thought. She looked at herself. Then changed again and made up with a bit more of an angsty look. It always worked better that way she thought. And she wanted some fun tonight. But she wasn’t going to ride her bike or take the bus. Tonight a taxi she thought. After all, the Presseklub was not exactly next door, not at all. All the way down to Luthersraße and the Juri-Gagarin-Ring… how strange that road name sounded now, she thought. Still, Juri Gagarin: why shouldn’t he be a hero? He was the first man in space and she remembered how her mother kept a postcard of him by her bed all her life, he was a beautiful man too, she thought. So, it was good that it was still his road. But whatever the name of the road, she wanted some fun and hoped she’d find it there tonight.
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P
Pia
Guest
Because I am kind.... her pretty flat:
P
Pia
Guest
P
Pia
Guest
My mother really did keep exactly this postcard by her bed all her life! She thought he was amazing! I still have the postcard somewhere, I thought he was just a guy..... I guess..... but I suppose he is rather pretty.... so sad he died so young, but he did die flying fast planes, which is what he liked.... I guess that is better than dementia...
P
Pia
Guest
I keep looking at him... he is totally beautiful - like a Greek god - I.... well, I like other Greeks, not gods, but I can see his beauty.... I think, strangely, there was an odd purity in the 1960s - i think the old divide was bad, but the East must have felt so good when he went up and came back.... don't you think? Oooh - soppy sorry1
P
Pia
Guest
Whaaaaa! Sorry! Sicky soppy! crying all the time, even if I see a kitten!
P
Pia
Guest
Hmmmm....didn't really like some of the last bit, so done a tiny re-write and added on some more.... bear with me!
P
Pia
Guest
It was dark when she awoke again, the street lights casting their shadowed gaze through her windows. That awful guilt of having slept too long embraced her, distracted her, but only momentarily. Shaking her head she roused herself and checked her watch. Still early, late but early. Quickly changing and checking her phone she remained unsure where her friends would be. It was a shame IS:IX had closed; after all, Paulstraße was even walking distance and it had been a great club, but nothing stays the same, she thought. She looked at herself in the mirror and then changed again, picking a more gothic look; sensing that a hint of angst might make for a little more fun. She checked her watch again; she wasn’t going to ride her bike or take the bus: the Presseklub was not exactly next door, so she’d splash out on a taxi this time. All the way down to Luthersraße and the Juri-Gagarin-Ring… how strange that road name sounded now, it seemed to her. Still, Juri Gagarin: why shouldn’t he be a hero? He was the first man in space and she remembered how her mother kept a postcard of him by her bed all her life; he was a beautiful man too, Gisela felt, so, it was good that it was still his road.
The Presseeklub stood right on the corner of Dalbersweg and Puschkinstraße, its pink stone façade and ached windows staring wide-eyed onto Karl-Marx-Platz, casting a dancing red light over the tramlines and tangle of overhead wires. Gisela jumped from the taxi, looked briefly towards the copper-green spire of the Cruciskirche peering over the tree tops in the square, then turned and entered the glowing cavern of the club. The floor was already packed, the club full of a noisy Friday-night crowd of students and office workers and young executive types all out to make the most of the start of the weekend. Bright lights split the darkness, the music bounced from the walls. Squeezing and twisting, Gisela slid her way towards the long zinc bar and ordered herself a drink, leaning backwards as she sipped, scanning the scene, smiling. She spotted a few friends already launching into their dance moves and edged towards them, holding her glass high as she manoevered through the maze of arms and gyrating bodies, sensing eyes latching onto her and lingering a little longer than a casual glance, then suddenly feeling a hand touching her own around the glass.
“Hi... I’m Matthias…You almost dropped it.”
“What? I can’t hear you…What did you say?”
He lowered his head to hers, pushing her hair back and speaking into her ear, breathing her scent, feeling her warmth.
“I’m Matthias. I just saved your drink. Want to dance?”
Gisela looked at him. He was in his early-twenties, she thought. Nice, good looking; dark; a hint of stubble, fashionably unkempt; tall; well-muscled under his crisp white shirt.
“I’m Gisela. Sure. Let’s dance”
The music changed, they retreated to the bar and Matthias ordered, they clinked glasses.
“So Gisela. It’s nice to meet you. Love your look, really sexy!”
“Thanks! Well, you’re straight to the point aren’t you Matthias! So, what do you do anyway?”
“I’m an architect, here in town”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“Well, almost an architect I guess. I’m interning right now. What about you?”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
“Wow! I can’t say I’ve ever met an archaeologist before. What, like the girl from ‘The Mummy’ or something? Pyramids and all that stuff?”
“Not exactly Matthias. I’m more into early German history. So no trips to exotic places for me I’m afraid, just muddy Thuringian fields. Hey, let’s dance again, come on!”
The Presseeklub stood right on the corner of Dalbersweg and Puschkinstraße, its pink stone façade and ached windows staring wide-eyed onto Karl-Marx-Platz, casting a dancing red light over the tramlines and tangle of overhead wires. Gisela jumped from the taxi, looked briefly towards the copper-green spire of the Cruciskirche peering over the tree tops in the square, then turned and entered the glowing cavern of the club. The floor was already packed, the club full of a noisy Friday-night crowd of students and office workers and young executive types all out to make the most of the start of the weekend. Bright lights split the darkness, the music bounced from the walls. Squeezing and twisting, Gisela slid her way towards the long zinc bar and ordered herself a drink, leaning backwards as she sipped, scanning the scene, smiling. She spotted a few friends already launching into their dance moves and edged towards them, holding her glass high as she manoevered through the maze of arms and gyrating bodies, sensing eyes latching onto her and lingering a little longer than a casual glance, then suddenly feeling a hand touching her own around the glass.
“Hi... I’m Matthias…You almost dropped it.”
“What? I can’t hear you…What did you say?”
He lowered his head to hers, pushing her hair back and speaking into her ear, breathing her scent, feeling her warmth.
“I’m Matthias. I just saved your drink. Want to dance?”
Gisela looked at him. He was in his early-twenties, she thought. Nice, good looking; dark; a hint of stubble, fashionably unkempt; tall; well-muscled under his crisp white shirt.
“I’m Gisela. Sure. Let’s dance”
The music changed, they retreated to the bar and Matthias ordered, they clinked glasses.
“So Gisela. It’s nice to meet you. Love your look, really sexy!”
“Thanks! Well, you’re straight to the point aren’t you Matthias! So, what do you do anyway?”
“I’m an architect, here in town”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“Well, almost an architect I guess. I’m interning right now. What about you?”
“I’m an archaeologist.”
“Wow! I can’t say I’ve ever met an archaeologist before. What, like the girl from ‘The Mummy’ or something? Pyramids and all that stuff?”
“Not exactly Matthias. I’m more into early German history. So no trips to exotic places for me I’m afraid, just muddy Thuringian fields. Hey, let’s dance again, come on!”
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Some of you will have been super-smart clever and spotted my little circularity.... my little "Rosenkreis".... 