Cavalcade of mediocrity extravaganza

I N G EL

2010-11-09T13:06:00.000-08:00

“Miks ometi nii?! Ma ei sobi ju sõjaväkke!” Iga kord sama lugu, mõtles Eduard Rimó. Karjuvale neiule tundus justkui leidub põhjust halada ja vaielda, kuid selline juba oli Riikliku Rektoraadi otsus, nii et võib kindel olla otsuse õigsuses. Ainult lollid inimesed kurdaksid.
“Preili Kupits, teie mõttelaad ja oskus teha kiireid otsuseid olid RR’i silmis märkimisväärsed ning seetõttu oli vähe muid valikuid kuhu teid määrata.” Rimó tegi seda allest teist päeva, kuid juba suutis jätta mulje vilunud diplomaadist, kes oskas alati vastuse leida. Nädala eest pidi ta ise läbima protsessi. Kõigepealt psühholoogiline test arvuti taga suures laohoones tuhandete sarnaste 18 aastastega. Sellele järgnes individuaalne ülevaade spetsiaalse komiteega, mis kestis kokku üle kümne tunni, millle käigus arutati kandidaadi elu ja seniste sündmuste kohta viimse detailini. Viimaks tuli ka see sama ootamine, seistes selles samas ruumis, rahvamassis, küll aga nüüd on Eduard teisel pool barjääri. Kuiv, tuim ja mehaaniline, täpselt nagu talle üteldi:
“Härra Rimó, teie külm närv, deduktiivne mõtteviis ja objektiivsuse püsivus ei andnud Riiklikule Rektoraadile muud valikut, kui määrata teid Riikliku Rektoraadi Elukutse Keskusesse, ehk siis minu kolleegiks. Õnnitlen.” Too ametnik tundus Rimóle amatöörlikuna, kuid rohkem nad ei kohtunud enam kunagi.
Kõlab vali kell, tööpäev lõppes. Ametnikud sulgevad barjääri turvaaknad ning koristavad raske tööpäeva jälgi. Rimó lahkub, töölaud puhtam kui uus.
Istub bussi peale ja sõidab koju. Kortermaja, kümnes korrus, kahetoaline korter, üks tuba täiesti tühi. Õhtusöök, konservid, riiklik uudiste kanal teleris. Aeg magama minna. Rimó lamab ja mõtiskleb Preili Kupitsa kohta. Ei ole ju head ega halba elukutset, või isegi head või halba elu. Riiklik Rektoraat tagab kõigile võimetepärase elu. Ta vaatab oma toas ringi. Hall lagi ja seinad, äratuskell diivani kõrval, aknast on näha kuidas kustub tänavavalgus. Uni.
Päike paistab läbi pilvetekki. Hoonel on suurte tähtedega:
RREK
“See on sinu elu”

Rimó istub oma kohale, kõlab kell, turvaaknad avanevad. Ruumis on suur hulk inimesi, paljudel sureva inimese pilk ees. Rimó vaatab neid kõiki tuima pilguga. Tulevased täisväärsed ühiskonna liikmed. Esimene kandidaat astub Rimó akna ette.
“Tere. Mina olen Kristjan Sera. Eile sain teate ja tulingi kohale.”
“Tervist. Teie kaust on juba siin, lubage ma -” Avades kausta nägi Rimó kõigest tühje lehti. Ainus asi, mis eristas seda tühjast kaustast oli kaas pildi ja nimega.
“Üks hetk palun.” Ka arvutis ei olnud midagi, kuid seal oli kindlameelselt märgitud ‘Protsess läbitud’. Rimó võttis telefoni kätte ning hetke pärast seletas situatsiooni oma juhatajale. Pannes toru ära vaatas ta Kristjanile pikemalt otsa ja lausus:
“Kahjuks tundmatul põhjusel on teie protsessi andmed kaduma läinud ning mind instrukteeriti läbi viia erakorraline üleavatus.” Rimó tundis endas nõrkust kuna ta ei olnud kunagi ise ülevaatust läbi viinud. See tunne kadus niipea kui tal tuli meelde, et sahtlis oli ülevaatuse instruktssioon, kuid see oli seni kinni köidetud. Rimó lõikas selle lahti ning näitas Kristjanile suuna eraldatud ruumi poole. Kristjan üritas vastu vaielda juba tol hetkel, kui sai teada, et andmed on kadunud, kuid sügaval südames ta teadis, et sellest ei ole kasu. Ta sammus Rimó järel kartes hirmsamat. Ta arvas, et teda kahtlustatakse riigireetmises justkui astuks ta vaikuses oma elu viimased sammud. Kristjan veetis öö magamata moraalselt valmistudes kuulda sõnu, mis määravad kogu tema järgneva elu. Uks avanes kergelt kraapides põrandat. Nad astusid sisse. Ruum oli suurem kui väljast võis tunduda, rahulikes toonides seinte ja mööbliga. Seal oli laud,viis tooli selle juures, kaks tugitooli, seinal peegel ja uks väiksesse tualettruumi. Kristjan vaatab ringi ja nähes Rimó sulgemas ust paneb silmad kinni, kuid ei lööki ega pauku ei tule, vaid hoopis Rimó pakub talle istet ning võtab nähtavale kausta, mida Kristjn nägi oma protsessil. Korraga ta tunneb hingerahu. Asi ei ole nii tõsine nagu arvata võis. Rimó ja Kristjan valivad tugitoolid ning Rimó alustab ülevaatuusega. Kõigepealt tuleb eluloo analüüs, kus Kristjan tuletab meelde kõik oma lapsepõlve sündmused ning arutleb nende tähenduse üle tema iseloomu kujunemises. Kristjan rääkis oma lapsikutest mälestustest varastatud karumõmmist, mille üle ta kurvastas iga kord kui meelde tuletas, vanaema kootud kampsunist, mis oli talle nii kallis, et ta kartis seda kanda ja kasvas sellest välja, koolipäevast, kui ta sai noomituse võttes sõbra süü endale. Ta rääkis oma uhkest hetkest, kui ta võitis jalgratta võidusõidu ning oma esimesest armastusest, millest ta mäletas kõige rohkem, kuna see oli talle kõige lähemal südamele. Tutvumine, esimene suudlus, salaja kohtumine öösel pargis, eemaldumine, kaugus, teine. Rimó kuulas hoolega uurides instruktsiooni ja aeg ajalt kirjutas kausta. Ülevaatus kestis neli tundi. Uks avaneb ja nad astuvad välja. Rimó naaseb oma töökohale, Kristjan barjääri taha. Rimó kohendab kausta ning lausub:
“Tänud koostöö eest. Tulemuse saate teada homme, palun tulge õigeks ajaks.”
Kristjan noogutab ja lahkub. Tema näost võib välja lugeda pilku, justkui ta oleks kadunud oma mõtetes. Rimó jätkab oma tööga. Päevast saab õhtu, tööpäev lõppeb. Rimó sõidab bussiga koju, muutumatu näoilmega. Kodu, õhtusöök, teler. Rimó lamab voodis silmad pärani lahti. Vaikus. Kivistunud pilk lakke. Üksik pisar laskub paremat põske mööda alla. Kristjanil oli tõeline elu. See ei ole sama mis paberitega tegelemine, see ei ole lihtsalt otsuse langetamine. Kristjan on minust ainult kaks nädalat noorem, aga selle sama ajaga jõudis ta kogeda niivõrd palju rohkem, kui ma eales ette kujutada suudaks. Ta on tõeline inimene. Tunded, rõõm, viha, armastus, kurbus, kaastunne, lootus. Kõik see on praegu minu käte vahel. Ma pean tegem otsuse, mis muudab selle inimese elu. Ta ei ole enam kunagi sama. Miks ometi mina? See ei ole õiglane. Selline vastutus ei tohi kuuluda ühelegi inimesele. See rebib mind tükkideks. Ma pean põgenema. Ei. See ei aita. Kogu see süsteem on väärastunud. Kõik need inimesed ... minu ümber ... miks? Ma ei suuda.
Järgneval päeval leiti Eduard Rimó surnuna tänaval, tema enda maja ees. Öösel ta hüppas aknast välja suutmata taluda südametunnistuse valu. Enne hüppet jättis Rimó kirja akna juurde. Sellele ta märkis kolm sõna: “Kristjan Sera - Ingel”.

Reprise

2010-03-08T00:32:00.000-08:00

PREVIOUSLY

It's been two months. First two weeks passed as a very long attempt of suicide by alcohol. I must be too well mannered to actually succeed. I tried to return to my normal life, but with this "unfavorable political climate" I was unable to do anything. I couldn't even teach music any more because they only let government approved people near anything related to culture. My apartment was searched several times, but luckily I disposed of anything that might have made me look suspicious. It felt unsafe, or rather more unsafe to walk down the street because I had been stopped and questioned several times for "suspicious behavior" or in other words just for looking like a person who prefers aesthetics to efficiency. They even resorted to public humiliation and physical violence, like beating a person in the street. That was not their worst. Twenty people were killed for crimes they had not committed. I knew many of those people. I could not stand for it. It was unbearable. So I began searching for a way out of the country and now I'm here, on a train station, waiting for the train heading to the Swiss Alps. Switzerland is the safest place to go from what I hear. I had a drink with one of the soldiers and he told me that this is the only viable transport out of this broken clockwork. I'm going on the train as a propaganda writer and spokesman. That's the only disguise I could take without raising suspicion. On this train my status is plankton, I have an excellent chance of blending in. Let's see now. I don't have much luggage, just a case with some propaganda posters I managed to obtain so as to prove the validity of my disguise. Also I'm bringing my violin along. Why can't a spokesman have a hobby? The train station is somewhat empty. Probably because there's some armed men guarding on every corner. It's not very pleasant, although it used to be such a beautiful place. I am a bit scared, those armed men don't seem to like me even in this disguise. Can't blame them, it's a cold, wet morning. I think I'd better get on the train before I catch a cold. And what a train it is. All of the copper pipes on the engine are cleaned and polished. There's five separate cars: the baggage car, two passenger cars, a dining car in the middle and another passenger car with the German army for protection. Luckily I also got a genuine ticket, so there won't be any hiding in the baggage car. Let's see: first passanger car ... and fifth compartment. How delightful, it's a lot more comfortable than those meant for civilians. It's like my own little functional living room, or rather a studio apartment, but pleasant regardless of it's size, which is unusually large for a compartment. Nevertheless it's modest and somewhat strict. I even have my own unified lavatory-bathroom, well ain't I happy now. If I'll find a piece of Swiss chocolate I might consider living here. I think I'll make myself comfortable. Put away my luggage, if you can call this amount of things luggage. Take off my overcoat. The scarf will stay, it's a bit cold in the corridor. Let's see now, what book did I bring with me this time? I sometimes like to take a random book from the shelf and only see what I chose when it's too late to go back. A tome of La Comédie Humaine by Honore de Balzac. What a wonderful choice. Depicting the true nature of people through various subtle details. He's more of a philosopher, than a writer. Objective observer would be an accurate description. For some reason as good as the book may be it seems rather boring to read just now. I'll just put this away for now. It's a long trip, I'll finish it later.
A loud steam whistle, some rumble, a sudden jerk and I see the platform moving away ever so further into the distance. The train keeps accelerating with the constant rhythmic knocking which is so soothing. It's rather enchanting, as if hypnotizing, creating a feeling unique to traveling by train. A cup of hot chocolate would add to the experience quite nicely. The spicy kind I mean. It will wake you up and give a little spark that will liven the dream-forest just outside the window. And indeed the view from the window looks similar to a fairytale: tall dark trees and illuminated grassy slopes with a hint of the morning mist. I can almost see a faun cautiously walking between the trees in search of his lost flute. Dear God, I am having hallucinations. I haven't eaten a while and apparently my body is trying to inform me. I'm not quite sure if I packed any food with me. It seemed such a pointlessly elementary thing to do that I just forgot and didn't bother. Still that just leaves me with a suitcase full of propaganda posters and an empty stomach. Now I remember. There's an entire restaurant attached to this train. Excellent , I'll go there.
This place isn't all that bad considering that it's a train, not a building. Dark wooden interior, chiseled wooden furniture, red drapes at the windows, Indian carpet floor, the room half lit... This feels awfully British. I'll just have a seat here. Well well, a young lad with a menu. For me? Why thank you. Let's have a look.
"Yes, I'd like the pork roast. Rare please." I prefer rare because it doesn't leave any room for disappointment.
"Very well. What would you like with it? May I suggest oven baked potatoes?" Germans...
"I was thinking more along the lines of vegetables. A raw salad perhaps? I'll let the cook decide."
"An excellent choice sir. Anything to drink?" Should have started with that choice.
Wait a minute now. I need to act German aswell. What was it they like to drink?
"I'll have a nice glass of ... milk." Almost said beer, but Germans don't drink beer in the morning. Something I like about them.

Apparently there aren't many passengers on the train, or at least in the dining car. There are some very indistinguishable people sitting at different tables. Nervous bureaucrats. Can't get through a business trip without a touch of alcohol, despite them being German, they're still paper pushers. Closed-minded and so thoroughly ignorant that it seams as though they actually have depth. And I'm disguised as one of them. I find it very convenient because I lack any further words to describe them and for that reason it's perfect.

To think I could be at home in Paris. Oh the things people could do given the chance. Unfortunately humans are such boring creatures that very few actually do something great, the rest simply continue to live their lives in fear of making decisions, because it might somehow change something and God forbid if that would ever happen, or society would have to evolve.

"Good day." Wait what?
"May I join you?" Stiller! How? Why? He must be on to me. Or perhaps not. I have to keep focused on my act. Stay calm. Look at him with confidence, don't smile, don't show any strong feelings unless ... no, just don't.
"Of course."
"Thank you. I find that food is best enjoyed with company." Ok, I'll play your game. I just hope that my disguise will fool him. Now that I think of it, it's not much of a disguise. I kept my French manners, I have no idea how to respond to anything he might through at me. I'm lost here. He is right in front of me, looking into my eyes, as if reading these very thoughts. I'm afraid to move a muscle, because I'm sure I'll start shaking all over. I must be pale. This is turning into an awkward silence.

Um .... oh right. "Isn't it interaction people are hungry for rather than food. I for one feel a lot more satisfied if I have a proper conversation, than when I eat lunch." There. That wasn't so hard. Just make sure it's believable. He's starting to get comfortable. Taking off his hat. His face as monotonous as it was in the concert hall. I can't tell if he's furious or calm and that's a troubling thought.
"Let's not forget, that as well as it is with communication, one must always make sure that the food isn't poisonous, as the poison is usually reluctant to leave it's victim." Oh no. He must surely be on to my act. I think I'm starting to sweat.
"Right you are. For it is in the minds of our own people that we battle this war." He looks at me for a slightly longer moment than usual and reaches out his hand.
"Gruppenführer Hans Stiller." I reach out my own hand. Carefully, delicately, not too fast. I shake his hand. A good strong shake. Formal. So very unnerving.
"Heinrich Pappelbaum, writer for hire. I mostly work on propaganda posters and flyers." This can't be right. Is that a smile I see?
"Oh, then you must be one of the people I'm going to be working with in the coming months." Oh God no! If there is a list of his future colleagues, and no doubt there is, they are Germans mind you, then essentially I'm done for. It's over.

"And what would you like to order?"
"Frankfurters and mashed potatoes." No comment.
"Anything to drink?"
"Coffee please." Coffee with that? No no no. I'll just keep quiet.
"Well then. Heinrich. You do know what you will be working on, or has it been kept secret as usual?" Dammit. I'll have to improvise something.
"All they said was that they were impressed by my work and that this job will require my skills to be completed."
"I wasn't part of the committee that chose our colleagues. Would you happen to have some of your work here with you?" Oh bloody hell! The flyers in my suitcase aren't exactly my own work so I can't use that as a cover. Let's try something else.
"Just look around Hamburg and you'll see."
"Alright then." Another smile. So it wasn't just a spasm."I'm not exactly entitled to tell you our further work, but all I can tell you is: this is going to be big." So they're planning some sort of propaganda attack. In Switzerland? This is interesting. I mustn't stress the subject or he might get suspicious.

"Rare pork roast with steamed vegetables and milk." Finally! I was getting too hungry to think properly.
"Tell me about yourself. I'd like to know the people I work with." Should I go with the almost cliché like German stereotype or some classy and even more improbable made up personality?
"I was born and grew up around Rein. It was a quiet and peaceful childhood."
“No no, I'm much more interested in your personality as it is now. Childhood memories can have a strong effect on our lives but we never really look back from an objective standpoint. You do know that we only work with the best, so please tell me: what makes you so good?” Alright. I'll see what I can come up with.
“I can think like the general public and understand what moves them. That's why I'm good at what I do. I know how to get into the mind of the people. There's always a personal touch involved.”
“Well then I see that our project is in good hands.” I honestly don't wish to discuss the subject any longer.
“Coffee, Frankfurters and mashed potatoes.” For some reason it looks better than I though it would. Nonetheless it is still disgusting.
“You wouldn't happen to know how long this trip will take?” Just out of curiosity.
“Already bored? As far as I know we will cross the border in the afternoon. I know a great way to pass the time. Games. Would you like to play?” Now this is something new. I'll go with the flow.
“You have my undivided attention. What exactly do you have in mind?”
“You see Herr Pappelbaum, I know a game with the help of which I can get to know the real essence of a person I play with. It is a game of question and answer, but the actual answers do not matter.”
“I see. A mind game.” Or should I say an interrogation?
“Indeed. Care to have a go at it?”
“Alright. I have a feeling this is going to be interesting.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps you doubt my ability?”
“No no, go on. I'd love to see how this turns out.”
“You are so nervous that you didn't even notice the game has already begun. Now then, what would you do if one morning you were to be placed under arrest for a crime you know you have not committed?” I'll go with the honest answer.
“I could try standing trial, but how can I be sure they're not trying to frame me, since I have not committed a crime as far as I know. In that case I would try to disappear and leave the country. Then there is a chance that I actually committed the crime, but either had no knowledge of my actions being a crime, or maybe I knew it was a crime and did it in spite the consequences. Either way there is no easy way out of this situation, but if I take the later chance into account then I might not need a way out because I have already accepted my fate and already won the battle.”
...
He is just sitting there and staring at me.
“You are truly a master of your work herr Pappelbaum. You knew exactly the words I wanted to hear. There is never a straight answer but you managed to expose as many possibilities as could a trained SS investigator. As for getting to know your true way of thinking, I think we can discuss that over a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon?”
“You have good taste herr Stiller.”
“Well then, shall we go to my compartment?”
This could be a trap but he seems very sincere. It would be bad tone of me to reject the offer.
“Indeed, let us go.”
He is leading me to his compartment. I really had no choice because it would have been very suspicious and seeing how he likes to get things done he would have investigated further.
“Here we are.” Two doors away from my own compartment.
It looks almost the same as mine but he has a few more cases with him than me.
“Go on. Have a seat over there.” His voice is a bit different.
“Monsieur, I do not know how you managed to get on this train, or why you are doing this but you see, I am curious. I must admit that your disguise is very nice and your German is almost perfect, your manners and subtle behavior nuances match the stereotypical German, but I regret to tell you that there isn't a single German who would follow the stereotype so precisely. You have quite the skills of a spy but you were too nervous. I could actually see your heartbeat echoing off your jacket. You are, or at least were pale when I sat at the table. Monsieur, I would like to congratulate you on such an achievement and as promised I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.” My God. All this time he knew? How could I have been so ignorant? This is it. I signed my own death pact when I came on this train. I wish this was just a dream, but no. This is real. Hans Stiller is right in front of me bending down to reach for a bottle of wine which will be my last. His gun-holster is open. I need to do something fast. I'll grab the gun and point it at him.
“Now now, calm down. That is unnecessary. Wouldn't you rather be holding a glass of wine?” He is somewhat startled. He puts the bottle down and reaches behind his back.
“Back away! Don't move or I'll shoot!” He pulls out his knife. The very same.
“I'm sorry, I didn't even ask your name.” Hes eyes are digging a hole in my forehead.
“It's Francois Perren.” My hands keep on shaking.
“Francois. Think of what you are doing. You are on a train restricted for high importance officials and high rank officers. There is an entire car full of soldiers with their guns ready to fire. I want you to put down the gun and sit down.” What was I thinking? I can't win this.
“No! You put the knife on the floor and step away!”
“I'm sorry but I can't let you do that. You don't really have a choice. Either you kill me and alert everyone with the shot or you give me the gun and you'll live.” There must be another way! He starts slowly walking in my direction, his hands slightly elevated. This is insane! I wish I was back in Paris at my old apartment with the view to the street lit up at night. I would be sitting on the window frame writing a story about some young lady I see walk by in the street. She would never know that she became my muse for a moment.
“No! I said stay back! Don't come any closer!”
He rushes. Gunshot. His face is an inch away from mine. He falls to his knees and then to his side. The searing pain in my stomach. The room is turning blue, darker, darker.

###

I died running away from the demons of my life. The life that I wasted trying to live. Now I'm in a better place. A place with white ceilings and nurses wearing red crosses. No. That's not a red cross.

Phantom of the symphony

2010-02-23T13:25:00.000-08:00

[PREVIOUSLY]

I keep thinking back to the day at the post-office. Dreadful. Why? What is the point, of forcing people to play by their rules and abide to their limits, when they're trying to win hearts and minds. I cannot understand why they expect us to accept them in our home when they basically force you into a corner where nothing but perish awaits. I wonder what would a random person say, if I took his life's work, his very essence and crushed it until his soul shattered. The notebook was all I had left. I have no family, no friends, just loneliness, which I embrace thinking that I am free. That notebook contained everything I ever thought of, it was my own little world, where I found a home of my own. Then they came and destroyed it. It could have been avoided. I read the propaganda poster before I asked Beatrice for my notebook, I could have thought it through. But no. I was in too much of a hurry. And now my work is lost and Beatrice is being held in some interrogation room, or concentration camp, or dead. How can such a vast majority of people do this kind of nonsense, like proclaim everything different from their standards bad? You cannot force ultimate rule on so many different people without somehow neglecting their interests or needs. Well of course they care only for their own interests. Since the only way they can get their point across is by their actions, the only way for them to get a point is by counteractions. I hope this Stiller fellow will be taken care of. I once promised myself that I would never get involved with politics, I hope I won't need to break that promise.

###

I have to go to my least successful but ambitious students home once again for his music lesson. I guess putting up with him is almost a fair trade-off for the money his parents pay me. At least I'll know that there's one more person educated in the fine art that is music. Here we are. The usual slightly awkward greetings, walking to the next room, having a seat next to the kid. This job get's quite repetitive from time to time. Let's start the lesson then, shall we? Speaking German to teach music is like using a wooden stick to chop meat, it just doesn't work. Music should be taught in either French or Italian, the way it's supposed to be. Luckily I speak all three quite fluently and can even say a few phrases in English, although with an atrocious accent. When your job gets repetitive you start noticing things completely unrelated, like your surroundings. Wait a minute. It seems that my students parents are talking in the next room about a very interesting thing. I could have sworn I heard the name Stiller fly by.
"...Hans isn't all that bad." I knew it!
"He is a very cruel man." I would sure say so.
"You must understand, he may be cruel, but he's doing the right thing. Anyway he was planning to go to a concert, I think it was about Haydn's music, or something." Intriguing...
"Don't tell me you're planing to spend your own free time with him?" Wait what?
"No of course not. He may be my superior, but I would do it even if he ordered me to. Oh, by the way, since he's going to that concert on Thursday, I'm having the day off." Thursday eh? But that's tomorrow. I was thinking of going there anyway.

###

This is the big night. The concert hall awaits. I don't think I'll be enjoying the music tonight. I'll take a walk.

It's getting dark. There isn't much to look at. Some alley cats running across the street. I'd rather keep a blank mind right now.

Large entrance welcoming me to the concert. Ehh... No, no, I'd much rather just have a good time and listen to the music. I think I'll do just that. Let's see, the ticket says my seat is in the third box to the left. Up the stairs. A curtain dividing the corridor and the box. I am alone, I hope it stays that way. The arena is slowly filling up. The orchestra is waiting to go on stage, where their instruments and chairs await. There goes the third bell. A short applause aught to remind the orchestra about their jobs. Lights go slightly dim, the musicians take their place. Conductor as well. Music starts to play.

So soothing. Finally I am at least slightly relaxed. Beautiful. Not quite Mozart, but still.

The first act is over. Applause. Light becomes brighter. Oh my, I recgonise quite a lot of people. I don't wish to speak to them right now, so a quick trip to the lavatory will be the only trip I make here.

Second half is starting. Once again lights change. But wait. There is no orchestra, or conductor. This is strange. But you can't blame them. Playing music is indeed tiresome. Someone is entering the stage. Hans Stiller!? The bastard just can't stop can he? Trotting on stage, throwing chairs around, very fast movements, but his face is very serious. Frightening to be honest. Now he's yelling something:

"Enjoy the music! Please enjoy it! But remember that there are people, such a bohemians, that want to demoralize you and create an anti-government movement! Do not give in to their ways, report anything suspicious to an SS officer as soon as possible! Now for all you bohemians that are here today: you may be stubborn, but let this be a lesson to you all...!" There's two German soldiers pulling a woman on stage...wait...is that...no! Beatrice!
"Keep away from me you pigs!" She's been tortured. This is madness!
"This! Is!... the way we will treat each and every enemy of the Third Reich!" He's pulling Beatrice by her hair. She screams. The audience is shocked and silent. He reaches for his officers blade, it gives a slight glare. He shows her the blade, I can hear crying. Slowly the blade moves closer to her neck. She is having a hard time breathing, she is gasping and looks very close to fainting, but her eyes keep looking at the audience with more to say than she might even begin to tell. Hans pulls her by her hair even harder. She is shacking and closes her eyes almost as if she's trying to tell Hans not to waste time. His face doesn't change, or flinch at all. Suddenly she opens her eyes and lips revealing clenched teeth while the blade moves along, or should I say through, her neck. Blood starts to ooz from her neck and mouth. It's all over her dripping on the floor. She falls on the floor with her face down and slightly turned towards the audience. Again her eyes want to tell the world everything that has been left unsaid, but all she can do is twitch and cough up blood straight through her throat.
Hans is standing in the scarlet puddle with his face still unchanged, the knife still in his hand.
"May you all be warned."

He turns around and leaves.

###

My hands are bleeding. No, this is no sick hallucination, my hands are really bleeding. When I was in the concert hall, and....it happened...I gripped the chair so tight that I ripped the skin on my palms. It doesn't hurt, not a bit. I barely have any healthy skin on my palms, but it still doesn't hurt. I need some of that Scottish stuff from the far corner.

Cowards. Filthy cowards! Murderers. I am filled with rage. There is no way I can bring Beatrice back. She was innocent! The cold-hearted murderer. Stiller must be stopped! Ugh. What was that? Who hit me?! Oh. I stumbled and hit my head on the shelf. What's this then? A bottle. I'll drink to that. Monsieur Mendeleev: You are a genius. Who would have thought that vodka's correct proportion is 45%. I'm pathetic. I need to drink some more to drown the sorrow.

[CONTINUED]

Our benefactors

2010-02-19T13:28:00.001-08:00

[PREVIOUSLY]

What a beautiful morning, what a... what a horrible screeching sound my student creates trying to play Edvard Grieg's "Morning mood". This is beyond dissapointing. I have other students to attend to that I actually want to teach, but a job is a job and this student has at least some potential and will try to be better. No, no, no. This is just awful. I am not the kind of teacher that snaps at their students, but I have my limits.

###

Beatrice is yet to be seen. I didn't realise that in time I would feel the need to get my notebook back to write some more music or just read what's already written. I want it back.

###

Stamps. A neat hobby. Collecting stamps, trading them with other collectors. Seems useless if you first think of it, but think about it, a lot of effort is put into releasing a stamp with a moderately indulging image. And now I am on my way to purchase one. I need to send letter to my patron. My rent is late, but it will be payed in full. The post-office is not a pretty place, but I like the feeling. It feels enchanting and even magical when you get past just automatically writing your letter and sending it without thinking about the process itself. You write the letter filling it with your own thoughts and ideas, as if you're writing the worlds smallest book. You put it in the postbox trusting a person you have never seen before, yet you can be sure that the letter will arrive at it's destination without a doubt. Amazing how it seamlessly works. I'd like to think it's magic. The post office is too far. I'd better take a car. Here's one, but there is a person underneath. I think I'll ask him.

"Excuse moi, might I inquire about a ride to the post office?"

"Bien sure! My Mercedes-Benz is the best around. I forced 200 break horse power out of the engine, so don't worry about being late anywhere!"

"Quite. In that case shall we give it a road-test?"

Never again will I trust a person who takes away a cars comfortable suspension to gain slightly better left turns. My back hurts like it's been hit by a sledgehammer to the base of the spine. At least I'm here. A cue to the cashier, I'll wait. There's some posters and announcements on the wall. Haydn's symphonies. Might just have a look see. "Joseph Goebbels film festival", no thank you, I'd much prefer a book, or a play. What's this? Yet another propaganda poster. What are they up to this time? "Dignity is a virtue. Stop the bohemian plague!"..."Bohemians are amoral, unpredictable and direct enemies of the Third Reich! Any contact with undesirable individuals is prohibited and will be punished. Actions will be taken against public gatherings of undesirable individuals." I can't say I'm surprised, since they have already banned a lot of beautiful things like certain music and poetry, so why stop there. Of course I'm not happy, how would a person feel when the government calls him a direct enemy. So now I see, why a lot of cafés and restaurants have been closing down. Even the one where they played some good music. Unsettling, but interesting. Let me see. "All operations coordinated by Gruppenführer Hans Stiller." What else could I expect, the right hand of Goebbels.

"Francois?" Who? What? Ah, yes of course.

"Beatrice if my mind doesn't deceive me."

"What brings you here in this time of day, when you could be sitting on a bench in the park, where I found you?" Isn't it obvious...

"I was going to buy postmarks for a letter."

"Oh, look, Haydn's symphonies. Wish I could go, but I'm going away for a few weeks. I'm going to meet my parents in Marseilles."
I can hear noises in the street, but I can't be bothered.
"Say, Beatrice: you wouldn't happen to have my old notebook here with you." Here's hoping she does.
"As a matter of fact I do, here it is."
"Nein! Das ist verboten!" Suddenly an SS officer emerges from the entrance and grabs my notebook from Beatrice. I am speechless, Beatrice is downright scared and the officer keeps getting angrier the more he examines my notebook.
"Do you not know that this is not allowed?! I will need to see your papers! I see the author of this profanity was stupid enough to sign his work."
We both reach for our documents and hand them to the SS officer.
"Frau Seranne, I'm afraid I must take you for questioning. You Herr Perren are free to go, but take this as a warning not to contact undesirable individuals."
He ripped my notebook apart several times and trashed the twisted paper mass that I used to call my thoughts, my dreams and my sanity.
...
I need to get that letter sent as fast as possible.

[CONTINUED]

Ahem...

2010-01-25T11:54:00.000-08:00

[PREVIOUSLY]

Ah, Montmartre - a place I call home. The trees give a pleasant shade on this sunny day. The cute small houses create a feeling of freedom when walking down the street, it's as if they're designed by some impressionistic artist who clearly wanted to paint happiness. I think I'll go listen to some music. There is a great little park near by and many street musicians like to play there. Having to go to a destination through Montmartre is a lot more enjoyable. How convenient, it's right around the corner, but I'll just take a slightly different rout. And hearing the street music echoing off these beautiful walls is enthralling. Here we are. A bench looking so welcoming. There. Wait, no. There's something missing. My book. "Drei Kameraden" by Erich Maria Remarque. It is not the kind of book you enjoy, but it has such a deep, well written message that I have only my sentiments to blame.
"Bonjour Monsieur," said a young miss coming towards me.
"Bonjour. How may I help you?" I was too relaxed to listen for the answer, but it was slightly more interesting than I expected.
"I saw you a few days ago. In the Café near the square. You left your notebook."
I was indeed in a Café a few days ago and also had my notebook where I draw sketches and write some music I sometimes happen to imagine. I guess I didn't notice the absence because either I haven't been inspired since, or have just been too occupied with other things. She reached into her bag and a slightly scorched old looking book emerged. She handed it to me.
"I am sorry, I had a look inside", she said with a truly guilty face.
"Did you like it?"
"What? Oh. It was. Beautiful." wrong answer.
"No. Did you like it?"
"Yes. I liked it." How cute.
"Keep it." Oh my, she's blushing.
"No. No I'm sorry, but I can't. Don't you need it?" A fair question. I will indulge her with an answer.
"You're the only audience I have ever had, so what would my audience think if I took away something they like."
"Thank you Pierre-"
"Francois."
"It said Pierre Poisson in your notebook." Indeed it does.
"My artistic alias. It's Francois Perren by the way."
"Beatrice Seranne." She reaches her hand.
"Charmed." I kiss it.
"I will be on my way. Perhaps we'll see at the Café." She smiles and starts walking past.
"Au revoir."
"À bientôt."

###

What's this? A strange sensation I have been feeling for some time now, but it just doesn't give up. I feel hungry. The café I like is close so there's no point choosing a substitution. It has been a while since I went there. Beatrice never actually showed up, even though I wasted several afternoons at that café. Oh well. I was honestly looking forward to having a nice chat with a person who appreciates my useless hobbies, even though I don't. Here we are, but... Where is the café? It was right here last time I came here. It looks as though a storm went through specifically this café and nothing else and apparently the storm had a few matches and an axe. This will not do.

[CONTINUED]

Gentlemen?

2010-01-22T15:13:00.000-08:00

"What would you like? Tea? Coffee?"
"Coffee and a pack of cigarettes."
How disgusting. Tea. How could he even offer me that fowl liquid the English so much crave? I never really understood why they have a daily tea-time, like just drinking tea at your own recall, as in all the time, isn't enough so they had to make it official. And to think of it, what do they have with tea? Porridge. A food so atrocious even their pets refuse to eat it. I sometimes wonder how could an entire nation have such bad taste. There is an old saying: "Don't choose your meal, choose your wine and let it tell you your meal." The English of course have never heard of wine so they drink beer. The Scottish I sometimes understand. Whiskey has it's place in the world, but a very small one, in the corner, alone.
"Ah, finally. My coffee."
Coffee. A drink I would categorise under "a stiff drink without alcohol". The smell and taste are overwhelming, strong, lasting. It is as some might say, an uncut gem, with rough edges, but a beautiful heart. Although it's not the same as it used to be, but this cup is the best I have had in a long time. From now on I will only drink coffee in this Café. It has a nice view. An open street, some small shops, a news stand, a small square but not many people walk here. The only ones that walk, do so very slowly. No, they don't walk. They wander. I understand. This place has an unusual atmosphere, almost like a daydream. The architecture of the buildings is very beautiful, although you can't really see it under the big red and black banners hanging from the walls.

[CONTINUED]

"Typical first post title"

2010-01-05T05:53:00.000-08:00

Pointless stuff to say to introduce you to my blog and maybe create interest so you might return.

An emo might say: I am depressed and my heart is pulsing with razorblades so don't read this cause i'd rather die alone...

A popularity whore would say: PLZPLZPLZ FOLLOW MY COOL BLOGG!!!1!

Napoleon says: Zis iz noonsence! I shal conquer le woerld wis zis blog!

Freud would say: He has issues, mhmmm...

House would say: Do an MRI!

Rick Astley would say: We're no strangers to love

When I say : HAyaaaayaaaa-eh-ay, HAaayaaaay-ay. I said HAY! What's going on?!...
*music fades out*

EDIT: And to add length to my first post:
Boingo boingo whoopsy knickers