Kitabı oku: «Armas-of-the-Lake», sayfa 4

Armas’ eyes were shining. Achternberg felt veneration for the boy’s capacity for enthusiasm. He could vividly visualize him in neat cadet-uniform with captain Cook, hanging on every word of the famous British explorer in flaming admiration, who, in social intercourse, wasn‘t exactly easy. Or how he, as glowingly enthusiastic secretary, would’ve travelled with Humboldt in South America.

„And what else are you fond of doing, I mean, just a bookworm you solely won’t be, right?”

„Nope, I‘m not.“ Armas made a brief pause as if to bethink whether he ought to tell. „Err, I do love to sing, I draw and paint, and, err, I don‘t know whether to tell just yet …“

„C‘mon, spit it out. Nobody will have your head!“ Achterberg smiled at him encouraging, poured another fresh OJ through the sieve and put the well-filled glass before Armas.

„Oh, thank you.“ The boy again gulped a good swig.

„Err, well, I, err, I ... “

Achternberg again nodded encouraging utilizing his laughter lines along with.

„Well, err, I also write … a little.“

„Really? Whatever next! A fellow wordsmith!“

Armas beamed, undoubtedly caused by honourably being named a „fellow wordsmith“, and he blushed.

„No reason for blushing!“

The fact that Achternberg so distinctly had noticed it let Armas blush even deeper, and he developped red spots of irregular shape on his neck and chest.

To Achternberg it was another welcome sign that he was facing a sensitive human being.

„And what are you writing about?“

„Shall I really say?“

Armas suddenly appeared shy and he lowered his gaze before he equally sudden resolutely locked eyes with his host.

„Tender love stories and brutal murder.“

Armas seemed to be relieved that it was „out“.

Achternberg appeared completely placid, showed himself in no way irritated.

„And just why these two subject areas?“

„Um, I‘m interested in the contrasts. On the one hand people are so incredibly tender with each other on the other hand they‘re able to hideously butcher themselves out of void reasons. And sometimes it happens between two people who once were in love with each other − that I find especially disturbing and fascinating as well.“

„Did you publish anything yet?“

„I tried but publishers I contacted altogether declined. I‘m probably not good enough.“

Armas looked a little sad.

„You mustn‘t let yourself made bewildered by ignorant readers. Same happened to me in the beginning. It wouldn‘t fit the program, their intake capacity was limited − and yet in most cases it‘s the limited ken of so-called decision makers. Soon they briefly nod, they already bounce against …“ Armas grinned. „… some at least were honest enough to let me know that they in total didn‘t like the manuscript.“

„And how did you make it after all, then?“

„Via ebooks edited by an online publisher. All of a sudden the penny dropped and publishers of printed books were interested after an agency in Berlin took charge of it.“ Achternberg made a pause and took a good swig of the fresh orange juice. „But say, may I read some of your manuscripts?“

Armas looked utterly amazed at Achternberg.

„You really would be interested?“

Achternberg smiled.

„Of course, else I wouldn‘t say it.“

„And what would you like to have? Crime novel or erotica?“

„Both of it. As for crime novels, do you write solitary stories or some series?“

„As well as. Angus Ludwig McPherson Berghuber is my Anglo-Bavarian detective inspector, but yet I also created two individual cases.”

„And with erotica? Are you interested more in heterosexual or homosexual eroticism?”

Armas blushed an inch deep. He cast his eyes. Achternberg was surprised that his completely normal question in such a way abashed the boy. But the following surprise was even better.

„Bisexuality I do find exciting.”

Armas looked squarely into Achternberg’s eyes, who in return noticed in the boy’s eyes some fear he could be criticed for that.

„Why exactly that?” Achternberg arched his right eyebrow.

„It‘s but kinda witty that there are humans who obtain their share of kindness and affection from both sides, right?”

„If you say so. One could take for something peculiar and strange, singular at least − but also enviable.”

„I still don’t know what to think of it but I’ve seen a class-mate smooch with girls as well as with boys. Shall I feel sorry for him now because he can’t decide himself or envy him that he’s capable to browse on both shores?”

„That depends on one‘s point of view,“ Achternberg opined. „Many a person perhaps simply decline it being envious or non-daring or being trapped in their own bourgeois conventions from which one cannot disengage qua education or doesn’t want to. Funnily enough, girls and women aren’t that resented for fooling around with their own sex from time to time than boys and men. When I was young, I’ve seen women dance with each other and nobody did think anything of it, but men should’ve dared dancing standard with each other − hell would’ve broken lose. That’s being looked askant at up to today, I guess. Certainly looks kind of strange, to be honest. However that may be, I haven’t seen it as yet. In a gay bar it might be different, no savvy! But how are you going to write on bisexual eroticism being unexperienced as you are, and if I got you right, you still a virgin. You’re absolutely unfamiliar with sex except doing it with yourself, right?”

Armas lowered his head, blushing. It was obvious to Achternberg that this was the boy’s sore point. In his adolescence all class-mates, himself included, of this age had still been virgins, across-the-board. He only knew of two girls − one of them a beauty with a partner several years older than she was, the other as pretty as unrestrained and skittish − that they had sex, but that was it. One did obtain „knowledge“ from teenage magazines with legendary adviser columns, from then as stimulating felt but in adult age only as ridiculous discerned „Schulmädchenreporten” [Schoolgirl Report; 12 West German soft porn movies, 1970-1980] and from later on as almost iconic-like perceived sex education films by Oswalt Kolle. All of it of agreeable harmless kind − in only one film scene at the beach some real erection was to be seen in semi-darkness. A nothing in comparison to the excessive sex and pornography offers Armas and his generation were coming in for − if he had a look, what Achternberg most certainly took for granted.

This overload he again deemed pitiful to dangerous for teenagers who thereby were led to a false image of erotic reality. But wherefrom should they get it after all? From clinically clean sex education lessons in school as he had experienced it at 16 years of age shy by a religion and study of economics teacher or by parents who weren’t capable up to the present to talk about it with their pubescent children unblushingly? There might be laudable execptions but he knew of none. After his sex education lesson it was clear to him he’d never do that since it was much to complicated. How would that ever work, urinate and ejaculate semen through the very same pipeline? What if he’d need the lavatory and his cream was triggered gushing … ? Questions upon questions. All of it quite bizarre and impracticable! Fortunately, he later resolved on being game of the fun and to practise it whenever opportunity afforded itself with a cute girl-partner.

„Is it possible for a writer to only draw on out of self-experience or can‘t he also by observation and his powers of imagination?”

Armas slightly cocked his head and arched his right eyebrow on his part.

„It depends on from which sources one‘s capable to draw on,“ Achternberg replied. „One basic rule conveys one ought to write only about something one‘s familiar with. But no crime novelist can be expected to test some criminal acts in the field before he could write about criminal cases qualified. That would mean to exaggerate professionalism. For that there are public relation offices of the criminal investigation departments available who in most cases are delighted to be of help and often stress not to write about realistic police work − that‘d be far too boring. One must let one‘s dark side get a chance to speak which one successfully oppresses in real life for the most part.“

„Do you have a dark side, then?“ Armas was agog.

„Most certainly,“ Achternberg crisply replied without hesitation. Thereafter he had a good swig of fresh OJ as if to buy himself some time for the wording of a detailed answer. And Armas probed into.

„What does it look like, your dark side?” He cocked his head.

„Oh, fairly simple, as with most human beings. I already committed some murder in thought, quite apart from my crime novels. In doing so I ferociously send disagreeable contemporaries to kingdom come. And you, what does the dark side look like in you?”

„Düüster, heel düüster [Dark, very dark],” the boy said in Low German all of a sudden and grinned.

Achternberg smiled. Armas obviously wasn’t willing to tell. Achternberg made no attempt to further urge the boy. Armas would for sure be coming out with it sometime.

„But say, how‘s your way of writing? Do you pinpoint the framework of your whole plot beforehand and fill it scene by scene or do you write scenes as they come to you, like Michael Ende did, putting them together chronologically afterwards?”

„No, I think up a few characters which shall be part of the story from the very beginning, an opening scene as well, and then I turn the story loose just as it’s gonna happen out of itself. I actually never know how it’s gonna end. As in real life, or do you know how your stories are going to end?”

„You‘re not going to believe this but I do keep it exactly the same way. I almost always let myself be surprised by the end of the story. I basically just take notes of what my characters do set which mostly develop a life of one’s own fairly quickly. I, for example, also could have guessed you coming to me overland by bike and find you sun-bathing on my terrace in the nude as well as I have no idea how it’s going to continue with us.”

Achternberg scrutinized Armas. Both drained their glasses. Armas put his down first.

„Are we a ,we‘ and ,us‘ then? And did it bother you that I settled down at yours in a careless way and that I also here am rather in the buff?”

„If you‘d bother me you wouldn‘t be here, young man,“ Achternberg decidedly got it straight. This made a happy smile flash over Armas‘ face whereby it wasn‘t discernible whether he was glad about being welcome or being called „young man“. Assumedly both.

„That you love to be in the buff also around here doesn‘t bother me just as little as uncommon as it is, but that is you and you are a sight for sore eyes, a living work of art of nature one just gets to see as cold statue made of bronze or marble in a museum.“

„Do I look a museum piece?” Armas wanted to know with a sly smile. Saying it he got up, stepped back a little and took, like rehearsed, the posture of a Greek youngling’s sculpture, perfectly judged, with an according facial expression which he couldn‘t maintain for long since he had a giggles over it.

Achternberg thoroughly eyed him as if he was seeing him for the first time that very day.

„You‘re a beauty,“ he calmly said in a sounding voice, „and every museum, every art gallery could consider itself fortunate to own a true-to-life painting or a classical sculpture of yours. You’d be a crowd puller, that’s for sure. Both I’d realise right now by first sketches of you but unfortunately I’m only a wordsmith, unable to draw or paint representational what I now regret more than ever before. But perhaps I’ll be shooting photographs of you, may be for a calendar or a picture book. How would that strike you?”

„Not a bad idea,“ the handsome youngling relaxed without further elaboration and again took seat at the kitchen table. „But I can draw and paint. May I paint you while you read, write, fish?”

Armas gave Achternberg an encouraging look which Achternberg returned affirmative.

„I certainly will not bother you. You mustn‘t heed me at all while I make my sketches. Maybe I’m allowed bringing my scaffold, canvas and utensils for painting?”

„Bring whatever you need to work. You won’t bother me at all. From a certain point on, I am no more oblivious of my surroundings while writing. Except I write about you − then I take your presence as an additional inspiration, you know.”

Armas was visibly astounded.

„You‘d write about me? I‘m not interesting at all, am I?”

Armas’ right eyebrow sought higher position.

„I reveal something to you,” Achternberg replied. „I’m already writing about you. I outline you, I do paint and sculpture you with words.”

Armas blushed instantaneously and lowered his gaze only to look at his opposite square and in curiosity the next moment.

„And how do you accomplish that? You barely know me.”

Achternberg booted his computer up, searched for the manuscript in progress on the handsome youngling, offered him his seat and let him read − something he not even had permitted his reader as yet.

*

One day later

Next day, Achternberg had gotten up quite early, early according to his common circumstances. It primarily was curiosity on what Armas might be doing that very day, in case he’d show up at all.

After Achternberg had satisfied his beginning of the day rituals, he sat down at his old desk, dealt with some routine internet queries and looked for his e-mail. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel the urge to walk at the lake awaiting the boy there. After the wording and forwarding of an electrograph of minor importance he checked on his terrace whether everything was in order with the sun-chair, put out some good sun lotion ready for Armas and spread out some bathing towel on the bolster. He felt quite certain that the boy would come to visit him that day, overland again. Perhaps he’d be keen to sun-bathe first before painting − what Achternberg assumed sort of given. Meanwhile he’d commenced writing and wouldn‘t let himself be bothered as well as he wouldn‘t bother Armas in his turn. Thusly forenoon passed by. Achternberg forgot about time and the perception of his surroundings.

When he consulted his watch after all. He murmured to himself he ought to have a look-see whether …

… and lo and behold, Armas had come. He was lying in the sun as if’d be the most ordinary matter of course in the world, well lotioned and covered with beads of sweat − dozing.

Achternberg regarded the handsome boy askance, without addressing him. Armas truly seemed to feel comfortable without indicating by another erection what at the most would’ve caused Achternberg a shake of his head, smiling. He considered this physical reaction on emotional well-being witty as well as strange, undoubtedly having slid the boy into akward situations from time to time. He was certain of it. Not all people reacted amused and tolerant to the showing of male qualities − au contraire, despite the fact that each and every human without exception owes his existance to some successful erection. Undeniably.

Achternberg hadn’t yet found out what would be so threatening to a phallus soon it was erected in arousal while it, being flaccid, having changed to its complete contrary, often enough became object of derided consideration. But sometimes also in excited state not presenting itself in gently upward swung elegant and straight position of attention but like some Turkish scimitar pointing downward or by coming along like some to the left or right around a corner peering. Quite a lot was demanded of the female flower to counterbalance such whimsical jokes of nature since the path to paradise was just a straight one and not around the corner although the road as far as there could be quite a winding one. Regarding this, Achternberg had got his good and proper share concerning life and love lessons. Armas was yet in shore for all this. At least, he’d got a pleasant nature and was exquisitely equipped physically.

Achternberg decided not to disturb Armas and to return to his desk. After all, he caught himself thinking how nice it’d be having such a boy for his son.

With Carin he yet could have a thirty-year-old and with another one exactly one of Armas’ age. All of a sudden he came to think of her. What might have become of her?

When he’d entered his house, he let the French window ajar, ventilatory, since it had become very hot again − and to let Armas enter unhindered whenever the boy had enough of sun-bathing.

Achternberg fairly quick had forgotten the time again when he noticed a movement from the corner of his eye. He briefly looked up. Armas had positioned himself in some distance.

He stood − dressed in a formerly absolutely blue pinafore, now colourfully blotted − behind his scaffold, focussed at work. Achternberg had been unaware of his entrance. Armas obviously was able to moving around pussyfooted, something not exactly difficult on carpeted-floor when being barefooted. He didn’t want to throw the boy out of his concentration and turned to his own work again. So he was unaware of Armas’ peeking past the canvas, thoroughly viewing Achternberg again. Their silent glances had almost met. What they possibly would’ve felt in doing so?

Achternberg was missing children, his own unborn children, with everything that comes with that: first screaming after birth, shit-loaded diapers, the first crawling, the first standing up, the first clumsy steps, the first babbled word, that gleeful child’s laugh … pride and joy of a father.

He sensed that this uncommon seventeen-year-old male teenager had selected him a kind of compensational father − well, perhaps not the same as a „father” but as some new male psychological parent. And Achternberg found it enjoyable having been chosen. The boy needed this kind of social contact in the line of his becoming human and a man, and he, Achternberg, was ready to give and teach him all that he as a grown-up was capable to provide this young life with.

He couldn‘t help but peering past his PC screen and watch Armas at work. The boy faced the canvas in full concentration. He obviously already had completed his basic sketch since he held the painter‘s palette in his left hand by what his left upper arm was tensed making his biceps distinctly bulge. It seemed as if he could be looking up any moment to view the object of his creative art thoroughly again but it looked as if he had everything on his mind intently bringing it into the shape he’d envisioned.

Achternberg confessed to himself to being curious. He never before had been drawn or even painted.

Which style would Armas prefer? Impressionism, expressionism, naturalism, surrealism, in the end even cubism? With two eyes on the same side of the face à la Picasso he wouldn‘t love to see himself be depicted, or with an oversized quill for phallus and an inkpot for chalice in Dalí style − certainly interesting in Freudian sense but not exactly his personal palate. He regretted not to have talked about it with the boy. Now he would have to put up with how Armas’ artists eye would see him. Hopefully not only as stickman with a red dot for belly-button or as an accumulation of dabs of paint going along with abstruse excessive explanations which in any gallery or museum would let every painting hop off the wall and run away could it ever hop off the wall and run away. But Achternberg tamed his curiosity and remained seated.

When he glanced across next − shadows already had become longer − Armas had disappeared. Achternberg hadn‘t noticed. Time and again he had the strange feeling this boy just was a ghost − as noiseless as he could absent himself.

He got up and walked over to the scaffold. When he noticed that Armas had veiled the painting he − shrugging − murmured to himself that he’d have to be patient a little and returned to his desk.

*

Another day later

Achternberg for a change had become awake early, although, as usual, he had been writing until late at night. It was shortly after 7 o’clock. He slightly ungraciously blinked at his alarm-clock as if it’d be responsible for showing this time of day. According to Achternberg’s cast-iron opinion it bordered on malicious injury to wake up that early. Anyhow, nature reported immediately. So he kind of grumpy sought the bath-room including toilet and finally the kitchen to drink his multivitamin juice at the least. He couldn‘t bring himself to having breakfast yet. At this time of day? That would mean to cause cosmic order to totter. His cosmic order. To him it was as firmly established as the never to tumble walls of the Incas.

But for a couple of days something new had entered his life − some young life. It had taken seat in his life as a matter of course like Amen in church − and more than that. It actually seemed to have the intention not only to bide awhile in order to rest from its wanderings exploring life and recharge its batteries but to linger on with him as if it had arisen from his crotch.

Armas!

Achternberg contemplated for a moment whether he might have been dreaming all of this. But when he, a few yards distant from his desk, detected the veiled scaffold he could exactly remember − next to it on a chair the discarded formerly completely blue now colourfully blotted pinafore − it was clear to him that Armas was present. Not physically at the moment, the handsome teenager stuck out a mile considering his sheer body height of 6 ft 2 − but his spirit was around.

Achternberg came up to the closed terrace door and let the shutter run up. The morning sun which prior could send just some diffused light through the curtains of the sideward windows now filled the entire room. Achternberg thrusted the French window open and stepped outside. Contrary to his usual custom, he’d thrown on a dressing gown. Secretely he’d envisaged Armas’ early attendance, and since he himself was no teenager anymore he considered an optical competition in both of their nudity for abundantly daft. He didn’t feel a must to compete with anybody anymore, let alone this youngling, who might feel compelled to picture Achternberg to himself having sex − an absolute joke to a seventeen-year-old, regarding that he harboured no illusions at all. Although, would the boy just rudimentally know how awesome it could be, he’d be wide-eyed with amazement − but putting it to the test would never happen like Armas for himself had excluded any „fucking show” to offer to those young-manly scandalmongers at his school merely not to take him for being gay.

Achternberg wondered again at the difficulties the boy had with those suspicions − but peer pressure, this dear cruel peer pressure. It hadn’t come to any betterment since his own school days, it even had changed for the worse was his impression. In his days one had it out with another one in the schoolyard, at worst within the clique, and that was about it. Now the beans were being spilled in asocial networks or passed on slandering and the victim was pilloried worse than in the worst sort of medieval marketplaces it ever could’ve happened. One village over or in the next city, nobody would’ve known anything about it. Unless one had been a well-known personality being sullied by some lampoon or malicious caricatures after the first printing presses had been going into operation.

Now, the new day’s sky was blue, the sun was shining, morning chill was still there but the approaching warmth of the day was in the offing. Achternberg was in cheerful spirits, despite the early hour, and he enjoyed life. And he was looking forward to meet Armas again.

He put the sun lotion for the boy to the sun-chair, then he drew the terrace door without bolting it, pressed out the juice of two oranges, poured it to a large glass, covered it against the inevitable flies, spooned the pulp − and went to bed again. He was certain that Armas − in order to continue his work − would come as pussyfooted during forenoon as he’d left the day before.

Three hours later.

Achternberg had done his morning toilet and noted in the kitchen that the large OJ not only had been finished off but the glass had been put back to the table, washed up. Armas had been coming.

Achternberg took his frugal breakfast, went to his bedroom and dressed down correspondent to the midsummery temperatures before he made himself some new green tea and went to his desk with the steaming tea pot in his hand.

Armas didn’t show up but he must’ve been inside the house. The scaffold wasn’t veiled anymore.

Some intense impulse of curiosity flashed through Achternberg to take a look at the painting in the making but he hadn’t got Armas’ permission − and so he contained himself. Only out to the terrace he looked. But there he couldn‘t discover Armas either. The sun-chair stood there unused. The plastic bottle of sun lotion hadn’t been touched.

„He must have gone to the lake to swim his laps,“ Achternberg murmured to himself and decided to spread out a large bathing-towel for the boy before he started his day work.

About three quarters of an hour later he noticed a movement on the terrace. Achternberg stepped to the window. Armas had returned, dripping wet, just discovering the towel with which he began to dry off himself. He watched the handsome youngling for a moment − and again saw himself. The gestures were strangely consimilar, this entirely being with himself, forgetting everything around oneself. Then Armas paused for a moment, dropping the bathing-towel, he stretched himself, closed his eyes, folded arms behind his head which he’d put back and held his face in the almost scorching sun shining down on him. Time and again he appeared like a Greek statue of a youngling come to life.

Achternberg reflected. Of course! A Greek youngling‘s bronze sculpture, which, for what reason ever, comes to life. There he had the new idea for another story.

It had been a matter of instants for Armas to relax when he looked for the sun lotion, thoroughly slathered his forefront and lay himself down as if that would be the most normal thing to do on a terrace which wasn’t the one at his parents’.

Achternberg smiled and returned to his desk at which he soon was immersed to his work.

Sometime later …

„I‘m hungry …“

Achternberg looked up, slightly irritated.

„Say again?“

„I‘m hungry. Hello, Herr von Achternberg.“

Armas stood, dressed in his formerly completely blue now colourfully blotted pinafore by Achternberg‘s desk − and smiled.

„Hello, me boy. When you‘re hungry, we gotta do something about it.“ They both shook hands. „Go and see to the kitchen. I‘ll be right there.“

Achternberg closed a file and followed the boy, his posterior view under his nose. He couldn‘t help smiling. It looked kind of funny. Armas felt comfortable − what was there to say against it? Nothing.

In the kitchen Achternberg garnished a matie sandwich for each of them and put mineral water onto the table Armas indulged in by a large glass, being thirsty.

„Are you getting on well? I mean, with the painting?“

„Oh yeah. One can work pretty good at yours. It‘s so agreeably easeful. The light is good and you don‘t move too much. That makes it easy.“

„Great. I‘m really pleased.“

Achternberg cleared the table. „Would you care for ingesting something light a little later? I‘m mostly having lunch not until 2 to 3. p.m.“

„I‘d love to,“ Armas nodded affirmative.

„Alright, then I‘ll be making some pan-cooked vegetables with extra corn und rice, if that suits you. I may also chop some Vienna sausage to it for you.“

„That certainly‘s gonna taste good, and I don‘t need anything more till evening then. I don‘t eat very much in this heat anyway.“

„Okay, agreed. And now back to work.“

Achternberg stood up and looked out of the window. An unexpected rain shower was just pouring down and some gorgeous rainbow embellished the sky.

Armas got up, too, quickly put the rest of the dishes into the sink and both left the kitchen. They were in for a surprise.

Next to Armas‘ scaffold stood two supernal beautiful beings. Naked, sun-tanned, their laps merely covered by large golden shimmering acanthus leaves.

The girl and the boy acted as approximately eighteen- to twenty-year-olds and both were black-haired with a light bluish cast.

She was of dainty shapeliness with full firm apple-breasts. Her butt-length great shock of hair would‘ve redounded to Lady Godiva‘s honour.

He was a tall adonis with a curly shoulder-length mane, some as if by an ancient carver sculpted body and finely chiselled features.

Both expectantly gave Achternberg and Armas a smile while these two looked at each other in surprise.

„We are the siblings of beauty,“ said the beau in a pleasant baritone voice. „Sandrina, my sister, does stand for the beauty of words, and I, Sandrino, do stand for the beauty of the image. We like to getting to know you since the two of you are servants of beauty.“

It seemed as if Achternberg and Armas couldn‘t wonder enough. Did they fall victim to phantasms? They‘d had merely some OJ and mineral water, no alcololic drinks. Achternberg all of a sudden had certain doubts in regard to his much preferred green tea.

„Where are you coming from?“ Armas found his tongue again.

„From the Island of the Rising Sun, the Golden Island. We live where beauty rules, being the measure of all things, where happiness and contentment are bestowed upon humans,“ Sandrino drescribed their origin.