chapter one
The Golem and the Bible Man -
All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again (Ecc.1:7) ' the wind picked up, he sat alone with a black beaten weather worn bible held tightly in his hand. He was a man of interminable age, severe and watchful, watchful of the grey waters and the ducks, the world and himself. He had sat upon the bench for incalculable time; inexplicable epochs had passed, such as the long dark millennia's before God had resolved to create the earth. He had grown weary and jaded. Had God grown weary and jaded, did God play games? He considered this for a short while yet became inexplicably fearful. Glancing at his bible, he opened it once more to a random page and read the Scripture there on. He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the clouds shall not reap (Ecc.11:4). He closed the bible. Something dreadfully commanding compelled him to watch the wind, and regard the clouds, yet he dared not; some force of will beyond his control hesitantly reached inside his pocket; he shook his head and calmly withdrew his empty hand.
Chapter Two
The Illusion of History -
The feral warbling of distant ducks startled him. Like remote machine-gun fire. He thought eyeing the ducks fearfully; as if in agreement, a chorus of duck laughter peppered about the river. The waiting was not irksome, for he had no idea what or whom he was waiting for, yet the dank weather tainted his blood leaving him with a sense of an imminent something, an imminent something which refused to arrive. If I dare to deny God, which I do not, what then? He said out loud to a curious looking coal black raven. The revelation will escape us both, you see. He inflected with a note of caution; the raven paused before him and eyed the apparition with distrust. Franz Mann eyed the grotesque bird fearfully. Eyes like the abyss, you presage of iniquity, so monstrous a tempter! Franz reluctantly kicked out at the creature, the raven skipped and totted backwards disdainfully. Then flew off to the left, Franz followed its eloquent flight up into the opaque distance, where he saw the shadowy twin towers of a Cathedral. Franz Mann had lived in a town that had had a Cathedral, a town with effortless people, a town remarkable only for the incredible percentage of its population that fled the nest into the world. Franz Mann thought of those uncomplicated folk, those souls, a bedraggled dead slave workforce, a Diaspora of biblical magnitude. This delighted him, that he could picture his town so perfectly, he pictured it gladly in his mind. The yellow paint on the brick houses hit you in the eye, while the wooden houses were of a more modest dark grey. The houses were of one, two, and one-and-a-half stories. The memory displeased him for reasons he could not articulate, and he decided none of that really concerned him. All his life he had been rather unconcerned, an orchestra without rhythm or rhyme conducted by some potent dream or golem that existed where he believed himself to exist. Yet he had been born, and he had had a childhood and a family, he thought about this; the uncompromising father and the desperately pious mother. I think more is hidden on the wind, than the wings of a raven, what became of their memories? He asked himself and it made him feel feeble and frail in his limbs so suddenly heavy, he left the fate of memories to the wind and returned to his father, Herr Mann. A zealous yet unsuccessful entrepreneur; yet he had been noted as a first rate amateur historian.
Chapter Three
The mother's infidelity -
His father enjoyed nothing more than to research the life and times of Louis XIV of France, second only to the study of history his father adored to fish. I abhor both history and fish, how unlike him I am. The air was mute of all its wind and bird song. Franz Mann scratched irritably at his scalp and vaguely recalled a conversation with his father. I told him a secret and lost a locket. Suddenly his heart sank and he felt ill at ease, the crane loomed. Yes I have long detested the crane. A strong wind trembled along his body the sharp gusts sneaked beneath his long blue soldier's cloak; he muttered something about the unpleasantness of playing games. Nothing to be done today, I am as idiotic as a duck. He brooded pathetically. Inside his mind he sensed the approach of an untouchable vague space, and in this he knew slept horrible creatures, ever crooning. He knew this, in the same way in which, when one enters a dark room one immediately senses if anyone else is present. He stirred irritably as the wind blew, and the dappled cerulean sky left him wanton and staring across the wide river, at the far moss heavy bank, where ducks were to be seen. Is a duck really a bird? He pondered. On the opposite bank was an awkward construction site, he glared at it sadly. Such an ungainly lurching crane, a man could die upon that, with its ugly grotesque facade bleeding the town of its quaint innocent merriment. He suddenly remembered an old memory from his youth; his mother and he when a boy on a journey to visit uncle Silenus. Mother was so very fond of Uncle Silenus. On the station platform; his mother who could never resist religious trinkets and Franz remembered that on one occasion she purchased a bronze locket from a diminutive bold headed friar. The locket held a fading picture inside, his mother was pleased with it, Franz remembered being in awe of her transparent joy. Only years later did Franz learn that it was Mathis Gothardt-Neithardt's painting 'The Temptation of St Anthony' Franz recalled a young gentlemen. Myself as Werther dressed in blue like Mathis's 'St. Anthony' ah ho my mother being clawed at by devilish nymphs and ghouls, with a fantastic hawk like creature with a club raised above her, as God and father watch joyfully from high, in a sphere of yellow splendour. Possibly a dream I had? He pondered this and found the conclusions unsatisfactory. He recalled another dream he had had the night previously. How silly dreams are, just a game our unconscious plays upon the conscious mind. He thought about this idea and the dream.
Chapter Four
This Meaningless Dream -
It began with a young Franz standing before the crane near the river; a naked rotting corpse was nailed to a high crane, the voluptuous corpse had the face of his mother. Suddenly the corpse would scream at the young Franz, and chastise him for forgetting his proverbs. He sniffled quietly almost shyly. Proverb one - ten, she would demand. A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother. He had said almost choking on his frustrated grief. Proverb one ' eight, the corpse would persistently demand until he answered! My son hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy mother, Franz complied in a childish weeping voice. Franz shook his head violently, as the words '¦but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother¦' bled in sharp syllables from his parched lips. Fatigued with time and impossible doubt, chill from the early evening air, he huddled deeper into his bench. A dream, what means a dream to me? He asked himself, and half expected the ducks to answer. The games of mother are the same as mine, he said hesitantly. This struck him as important. He remained long upon the words ' the games and rhymes of mother - he shuffled upon his bench of warm wet grime. I wonder sometimes, was mother talking about something horribly important, yes the walking theory game! He became aware of the sky, and he pictured it as a vast implausible ocean, above him it was infinite, a vast chasm of hoary fluffing, streaked with the dull wan embers of the sallied sun. The thought passed delicately, tip toeing almost and his concentration waned, and soon he was back to contemplating the hideous industrial crane, on the far side of the river. How horribly malevolent the crane looks such things should be buried not gleefully erected. He chided himself suddenly, for it was a silly whim to think buildings could look anything but inanimate. To project emotion, it would have to suffer emotion, and buildings did not suffer emotion, yet they are replacing fact with fiction; it's insane it's intolerably insane. He said softly and sat darkly, a fatigued mind, upon a bench, by the grey river, under a wet putty sky, in the early evening, alone but for the ducks and occasional swift bird. His chest began to ache, in the damp cold evenings his chest always ached; he pressed his left hand into his shoulder and closed his eyes. Of course the pain of the old wound. Helpless and drowsy his mind drifted like flotsam, suddenly memories haemorrhaged with inexplicable swiftness over his eyes, he was transported.
Chapter Five
The Decline of Author-
I found myself in a strange bed, it was warm but this I put down to the large brown dreadfully smelling sheets that covered me, I glanced around. It appeared to be some old building, an ecclesiastical catacomb with its half roof, and a shattered timbre frame like a sun bleached whale skeleton on a beach one sees in adventure stories. A small fat bespectacled man, with distinctively feminine features stood beside and above me. I could hear tin pans being clanked together, and the murmur of men, like the sound of arguing ducks it came to me, and I thought it most humorous. I felt thirsty I picked up a wooden cup from the table adjacent to my bed it was empty so I spoke out.
-Cecilia waits in the wind, and her nipples are soft. I enquired.
-Franz Mansch you wake. The fat bespectacled man said, pronouncing my name incorrectly, his smile rather unsettled me. Franz Mansch I am Doctor Maximilla, welcome to the lord's hospital, you are a miracle, with your wounds and you still write in you're little book; let me see what it is you write. Suddenly he put the black book in his pocket, and I discerned from his face, that something had perturbed him. Well, you are good in the body at any rate. I was curious as to what exactly he had read in my book, and so I resolved to ask him promptly.
-My leg is long timber across the bleeding river, my lung is pierced, Nicolo like David shot himself down by the river amongst the flaccid reeds.
-Oh yes of course, you have one lung and a wooden foot, of course you do. He said still smiling at me. In a sudden daze and excruciating panic I immediately felt my legs, they were not wooden. I saw him smiling benevolently and it seemed this was some joke of his.
-But you survive. He said softly as if I were some difficult child intent on mischief. I could not recall how I came to be here and why this fat man was telling me I had a wooden leg. I feared this fat man. The fat man wept, suddenly he fell over me, he kissed me on the cheek, he was scented rather womanly, he kissed me on both cheeks in fact, and he dabbed his thin fingers about the glass lid of a gin bottle. After swallowing an impossibly large gulp he pattered my lips with his gin soaked fingers, it was sharp tasting the scent was nauseas and I could only smile. I wished to thank him, and ask him a great many questions. Yet I knew this fat man to be unstable and rather peculiar, so I spoke slowly and with care and consideration for his apparent psychological shortfalls.
-I think my mind is in the womb of God, Moses says we must keep our boots clean hee hee a voice will free the insane. Somehow this disconcerted him, he frowned and rolled away. I tried to call him back. This sepulchre kitchen of the mysterious Lord somewhere, maybe he was actually insane you know. Somehow this caused a roar of laughter from all the wounded parishioners in my ward. I heard a sound quite peculiar; it startled me so suddenly, that I had to sit up. I could hear the vague voice of a far away women, a nurse possibly asking me to forgive her and lie back down, the sound that startled me was that of a duck, a duck in a cathedral, quite impossible.
Suddenly from all around Franz Mann came the insane warbling of ducks. Ach, machine guns again, ta tat ta tat ta tat. Franz involuntarily screamed, as he ducked, motioning his hands so as to hold an invisible machine gun, imaginary foes seemed to swoop down from the heavens and this caused an explosion of latent memories to surface into thoughts. Franz Mann peered up at the drizzling sky; the memories of war cut him to the quick. He sullenly peered down at his feet; they were covered in leaves from a nearby tree. Ah ha my old army boots. He thought resolutely, peering at his boots. Best boots I ever had, thick fine leathered things they are. He had not kept them in good condition, for the tips were frayed and grey with the repeated scuffing of the road that came about from his bad posture and lumbering frame. The heal guards are spent, being partly severed from the boot heel main, just like two half amputated chins I shall have to replace them. He thought happily to himself. Chins left to clap flip flap heavily; each time one tries to congratulate the other on the long road walked. Yet walking any road is impossible. Suddenly Franz Mann sat bolt upright, he repeated out loud to himself. Yet walking any road is impossible. He wrapped his soldiers cloak about his thin body, and began to think in earnest. He repeated ¦ walking any road is impossible¦ he wondered where he had heard that phrase before; he could not remember where. It was not one of fathers; a sudden flash of blood shattered skull and a precious known face, yet so painful was the memory that it vanished as an imperceptible flicker in his mind. Some part of his memory teased him with the suspicion that the phrase was incomplete; he had not remembered it in its entirety. Once more aloud ¦walking any road is impossible¦ he said again, slowly chewing over every word, tasting each syllable as if it were some rare Arab delicacy, at once awful and spicy, yet irresistible and compelling.
Chapter Six
Who Tells the Tale? -
To spy the bridge a little way down the grassy bank, where a wears wagon ambled along, pulled by a sallow old sagging pack horse. Upon the steering seat, sat two dark figures, huddled phantoms barely humans. Friends and ghouls have come to tempt me! Old deeply married gypsies of the road, lovers and haters of each other, ever mumbling the road away, and mile after loving mile they go, singing their long phantom song so beautiful. He wanted to murder them, he wanted to call out to them, tell them he forgave. I wonder if they ever use trains. He pondered as he watched the wagon bob over the bridge and then away out of sight round the bend of the river. Its wheels rhythmically pounding the cobble stone; a train, like an old steam train. His mind with the swiftness of a theatrical scene change was transported.
Mother was terribly agitated which was quite unlike her, we rushed through the crowded station, and I could see the flicks of rain pattering on the roofs of the dark train carriages, fat rats feet.
-Mummy I am tired. Complained I with some justification.
-Hurry Fran, it is a game a wonderful game.
-Really, then what is its name. I insisted, because for a game it was awfully difficult.
-The Impossible, well, I mean, that is, it is the theory of impossible walking, we run but we can't escape, hurry it's a fun game. I suddenly saw our neighbour Herr Caineve I waved happily. Mother stopped and struck me on the back. I began to weep at the abrupt injustice done to me, mother held me gently briefly, and positioned me with my back to a brick roof support, she knelt before me. Hanging on in quiet desperation is the way.
-Fran you mustn't really, how naughty of you!
-But mother its only-!
-I am aware who it is, yet how dare you, please Fran please you mustn't for mummy's sake, do you want mummy to be in trouble. Mother pleaded desperately. The panic in her voice stunned me to silence. I looked at her beautiful face, now twisted with an anxious dread I could not comprehend. I shook my head and wiped my tears with my sleeve, I shall always fear journeys.
-I am sorry.
-Fran, now promise in Gods name that you will not tell daddy about our secret journey today, promise on this beautiful locket mummy has bought. Promise!
-I promise on the locket. I said fearfully at this strange mother, I began weeping out of confusion, as mother held me tightly, and whimpered ever so softly on my shoulder; a mournful sound, like when aunt Sashay had died yet I was sure only the fat cat had died recently.
Franz returned to himself and instinctively plunged his hand into his pocket and withdrew a faded old locket. He gazed long at it, as drizzling rain settled upon his head, and as the sky brooded away through the showery cloud. He sadly looked up at the wearisome sky, and put the locket away again. A sudden down pour blurred his vision. Whilst holding the locket he often imagined the plight of his own temptation. The crane of enmity, of course the voice of insanity, no, that is not right, Anthony! St. Anthony of course, and that creature, that hawk, or was it a crane? Continued Franz Mann, he grew animated and the ducks waddled away noisily, he grew increasingly agitated. He felt in his heart that something incredibly delicate was faltering. He considered this for some time. The creature would have no chains and like a somnambulist, or some golem it would wreak havoc through the insane night. He paused for thought, and yet could think of nothing but fish. He grew very cold and weary, a heavy unpleasant sea sick sensation settled in his stomach. I can not recall when I last ate. He tried to recall if he had or not, but he simply could not. Flesh is not fish and thought is not fish. The stomach groans for food, and the heart moans for romance. He said softly, suddenly he vaguely remembered a young girl's pleasure. A pleasure I had known well? His mind was down by the river, where a duck fell heavily into the water. There go the bombs! He remarked out loud glancing in the direction of the sound; where ripples of dim coloured burnt wood water was disturbed. He unconsciously began groping at his old soldiers cloak and then anxiously rubbing his legs with his hands, he shuffled nervously to the end of his bench, and it began to drizzle again. How like tears the rain is today and the water how like charcoal it is today, and tearful visitors in broken cathedrals. Orated Franz manically, thrusting his cold wrinkled hand repeatedly in and out of his pocket, at once holding something precious, and then releasing it as if it were intolerably hot. Franz Mann suddenly resolved to stand, and cautiously he stood up, in the chill, shaking violently maybe to pace a little to his left, wander hither and thither, yet he dared not, and so he sat back upon his bench. Crossing and uncrossing his legs with slow deliberate meticulousness.
Chapter Seven
Outside the Whale -
He paused and pondered private recollections of his own, faces and town, secrets and follies only he could know, in a perplexed malaise did Franz Mann glare out at the river, which appeared unknowable. He peered at the crane, and he pictured a Christian martyr, and a daemon. He reflected upon his own private dwelling places and then laughed out loud at himself. I must have contracted Werthersim. Pausing for breath in mid-sentence momentarily he thought about many private promises. He felt quite muddled, and shifted awkwardly on the bench in agitation. Does God wonder at me? He thought. My eyes are watching God, I am watching you, and you sit in deep discomfort. He turned his head into the icy breeze and peered fearfully at nothing. The sky had brooded in that long solemnity of day end, and with each passing moment the lean envelope of scarlet glow, that still peaked immeasurably on the horizon lessened considerably. This he would have gladly noted and appreciated if Franz Mann had cared to leave off the ducks and notice the sky. Beside the river an old man sat aghast and terrified, he shivered as a duck flew low and hasty past him, swooping and hushing its wings. I heard war Aeroplanes, and they are beautiful. Franz Mann whispered at the sky, and the sky loomed immense. There is no up, or down, they are just words some one invented, words someone built and nailed to the voids that would seem to hold our feet, and conceal the lack reality. Hurriedly he took a small, almost gone, pencil from the frayed side pocket of his cloak and then a scruffy writing pad from his other pocket. He flicked hurriedly past a dozen or so pages of unintelligible scribbling, crosses and lascivious pictures of phallus women, he wrote in big black lead letters.
Nailed to the voids that would seem to hold our feet,
and conceal the lack of reality.
I am author, and that is my novel. He said happily, he paused to look at the sky, but he now knew there was no sky, just vague sentences, streaming across his mind. He sat as a self imposed stalwart martyr against the vindictive wind, before the river, below the immense nothing called a stage.
Chapter Eight
History is Borrowed Theatre -
The day had been hushed, as usual the shelling began early and ended around noon, and as usual we retired in the evening to the officer's bivouac which harboured more creatures than officers, and so drinking and discussing we spent our evening.
-Long labours have tired me out' Moaned Nicolo under his breath, almost as if the effort to remain tangible before us was a gargantuan effort in itself, and that the flesh I took for granted, he had to maintain through an intolerable effort of the will; or else he would fade as long standing coal.
-What was that? An unusually curious Captain Lermontov.
-I have no understanding of scriptures (Nicolo said, disguising his discomfort well) this I concede to you, yet it is remarkable all that men can swallow. Lieutenant Nicolo Borgia said with his usual gusto and pleasing certainty. I sat comfortably listening to the officers, debate the word.
-But God, how do we understand God Signor Borgia? Asked Captain Churchill a tall handsome English aristocrat, who spoke excellent German, it was rumoured; he was the illegitimate son of Baron Von Oudenaarde, and that was how he gained his commission in our army.
-Now signor, the story of Abraham has the remarkable quality that it will always be glorious no matter how impoverished our understanding of it, we must labour and be heavy laden with understanding! Dr Heller remarked in between sips of coffee, ever so softly and calmly.
-Efforts to Understand God are superior to your mortifications aimed at moving him. Replied Nicolo as he lit his pipe, and took a gentle puff. I thought for sometime about Nicolo's concept of God, and it occurred to me that I had heard that phrase before '¦mortifications aimed at moving him¦' yet as to exactly where I did not know.
-But I must ask you Signor, what about the very spirit of God?'
-These questions of spirit of God and of Fate are confusing the very issue of importance. Nicolo said fervently, I watched with an intense emotion and a glad admiration for this epic man of mine.
-We are asking you the very thing?
-One must trust in God! Lermontov offered shyly.
-What fictions we spin tonight, creating angels of ourselves! Shouted a thin consumptive corporal he looked remarkably like myself and was largely ignored by all except me, yet how unwilling he is to have me see him.
-I must stress once more gentlemen that I know nothing of the scriptures; one must put God above all things human! Affirmed Nicolo, I found myself in a state of confusion. For the corporal seemed to have vanished, and I knew the scriptures were of the utmost importance as the word of God. Nicolo looked at me, imploring me, almost saying. Franz you agree, for you and I are very much alike, we agree without pause or thought. I shook my head; suddenly I became quite stunned and amazed.
-You would not think it possible for ducks to sing and live in this wretched place! I said straining my ear.
-So faith is unnecessary? Enquired another young officer, who gave me a rather irregular glance, I smiled.
-Please be quiet all of you, please, now Signor Borgia I implore you to answer me!
-The spirit I can tell you is that which can only be described as a fathomless illogical melancholy; I dare say you all agree, so if the human spirit is a reflection of God, and God is life and life is an illogical horror, well there you have it put quite nicely Herr Lermontov! Nicolo stressed. A few soldiers just that very moment in from the cold promptly left again, murmuring under their steamy breathe something about foreign philosophers. We soldiers (continued Nicolo then stopped suddenly, as he saw Herr Heller a reporter from Germany, they exchanged knowing eyes) Nicolo continued happily, shaking his fist and gravely examining his audience with dark features and mysterious febrile eyes. We soldiers are priests now, it is a weight insurmountable this inhumane parade, we dear lunatics! Nicolo turned to me, and fixed his eyes onto mine, the look on his face put me quite off the conversation. He then turned his back to the crowd and began rummaging with an air of importance through a stack of unimportant papers.
-What is he saying? What do you mean exactly Nicolo? Asked a despairing youthful voice from entrance that was remarkable for its likeness to my own; it was a voice without body a perfect voice.
-Temptation to murder, we are all guilty, and we have all been tempted to assassinate God. This is what I am saying. Nicolo began in a rational tone as he bit into a barely green apple. Immediately the congregation of officers became flustered and doubtful. A few men jeered at him. Oh ho, I mean to say that to kill God is innate. Nicolo slapped his pipe upon his knee, smiling amiably.
-Temptation to kill God, nonsense man's love of God shall prevail! Stated Captain Lermontov as he raised his fingers to his drooping black moustache, he looked indignant.
-Like Flaubert's St Anthony? Said I softly to no one in particular, I huddled into my muddy offices cloak.
-Flaubert, I am certain not to have made his acquaintance, I insist you stick to the topic at hand. I knew my friend was lying, yet I admired him so, I did not care at all.
-So you say it is possible to conceive a crime rationally, justify it rationally, and execute it so? Enquired Captain Pomyalovksy sceptically, a short almost unnoticeable man, if it were not for his deep baritone voice.
-No, no my friend, you are quite wrong; all saints are fascists, this I know because I have met the finest of men in the land.
-How do you come by these profound ideas, Nicolo? I smiled congenially, as the Lieutenant caught my eye momentarily; we shared the briefest of moments. He began to gesticulate maniacally with a slice of old cheese in his dirty hand and a morsel of bread in his mouth which he suddenly spat into a bucket.Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days. Nicolo said with my voice, I gasped at his face (Ecc. 11:1); he chewed with the feral earnestness of a cat in the dark.
-All saints and prophets are political; I should imagine bakers are too no doubt. Retorted Lermontov in derision; a few officers sniggered from the damp dark across by the old tin stove. A samovar steamed.
-No only saints, this is true if you have ever been to Leipzig, in Leipzig I knew two Barons named Hadeburg-Naiad and Von Aschenbach, each would say to me "Nicolo my loyal Captain, I must be a saint, or else I shall die a very bad death yes they said such things regularly. The names of the Barons sounded oddly familiar to me, yet my mind was suffering from fatigue and simply refused to pin point just why. A few disbelieving mumbles broke out amongst the damp men warming themselves by the fire. A few other soldiers had gathered around to smile and listen; the stench of dirty men perturbed me, as the rain patted aloofly above, upon the cold iron, which leaked always. Occasionally in the hasty dark of early morning, the dance of rat's claws could be heard splattering over head.
-Like old Knights on new rats jousting! I explained pointing at the roof. This caused a brief hiatus in which the officers glanced quizzically at Nicolo then rather cautiously up at the roof.
-Are all Italians such fantastical liars? Someone called out from the cadaverous looking mass of soldiers near the door, who had now huddled into a tight rank out of the sudden icy rain, a great wave of laughter erupted in response to the unseen officer's quip.
Nicolo spat the bread from his mouth onto the damp muddy floor, and to me he appeared like an embittered raven at once livid and unknowable.
-Fiend! Come out, you coward, you Magyar. Suddenly Niccolo unbuttoned his holster and drew out his pistol, and pointed it at the door, his eyes feral, his pipe trapped in the side of his mouth, a slice of cheese still clasped tightly in his free hand, the gaggle of officers burst into mock horror, pushing and pointing at each other, like ducks vying for free bread. The lieutenant summoned the officer to appear from the shadows and he did. He was a tall handsome fellow, almost a Russian, yet with Cossack features and with gloriously blue eyes, Nicolo seemed to be quite taken aback by the man. He challenged the Russian to an arm wrestle. They began an arm wrestle. I could no more sit happily upon the old barrel. With my chill aching back to a mud wall, I began itching and I took a random flea hostage, and pressing the fellow upon the table with vicious mirth, until all that remained was a maroon smudge. I tired of Nicolo's antiques and surveyed the wall, which had a few outdated maps and orders stuck to it with nails, someone had marked out the position of our battalion in red, and drawn a grotesque scene above it, terrible feral beasts ripping the heart from a mans chest, with a waste land of ash and ruin about the slaughter. I immediately turned away, and forcefully joined in the laughing, a warm and high spirited mask was raised, in the macabre façade my very own illusion factory. I could feel rain petals falling upon my head.
Chapter Nine
Delusions
The rain seemed to have come suddenly, and heavily, Franz tucked deeper into his cloak. He felt a terrible ache behind his chest, the chill wind whipped up, a blur of memory, and he lurched backward into the damp wood of the bench, a voice in his mind. But I have never known a woman. He felt deeply unwell, and his pale tired face sank happily into the thick blue collars; a fragile head peering out suspiciously at the rain river and in particular the crane and the people. Franz Mann watched the people hurriedly scurrying home from the downpour. A familiar woman's face appeared out of the grey cold river; she fluttered tantalisingly, long brown hair hung about her shoulders, ocean olive eyes, a gentle girlish face with whims so pure he nearly choked, and the girlish desires of long lazy nights he knew now he had always known. He despaired raising his hands to cover his eyes. I have never known a woman only mother! He despaired and muttered before closing his mouth tightly. Yet he could not deny the feeling that in fact, somewhere, somehow he had. I do not wish to hear that voice; a desperate echo wild the very essence of a bedraggled mind. Glory how sweetly asking it comes. His heart remembered the voices his mind had forgotten. Bliss! Bliss! He repeated rapidly. Removing his hands from his face, he revealed a smile of contentment there. Suddenly a coarse voice interrupted. No, no damn you, no! Franz Mann tried to thwart the intruding voice; it boomed suddenly and echoed as pebbles in chasms. The flesh I can heal Miss Cecilia, but not the wounds of the heart, Franz Mansch I'm afraid has other wounds, and wounds of the mind I'd say, he'll never leave here a complete man, it is quite impossible for you to marry him. Said the voice, indistinct yet familiar. No, I am here Cecilia! Like a man in a coffin, beneath a thousand oceans Franz Mann saw himself. The fragrance of gin wafted past Franz Mann's nose, he felt drained. He remembered the ache of memory as it became unbearably clear. Yet still something within his mind refused to recall each detail precisely.
Franz Mann looked out into the grey waters, he happened to notice that the ducks had formed a vast flotilla; one ducking down into the water, a small wobbling tail, like the plume on an officer's helmet. The town regiment, with its officers, father in the long rain alone, where had mother gone? Franz Mann sat upright; he could not recall ever having been anything else. He shook his head, a cobbled Main Street in the rain and girls in cobbler's shops with shoe pins in between their thin dry virgin lips? Surely some fiction I have invented, yet how like a memory it comes to me, what memories have become fictions in my delirium? He pondered sadly and recalled a thin file, a clumsy wallet of steaming flea cotton, down the cobbled main street, stands the regiment. From steamy windows, butchers daughters sit peering, with bloodied apron and axe in hand; cobblers windows weeping girls with thin nails held softly in-between their dry garnet lips, soft white hands holding cumbersome things. Strips of fine leather over their shoulders, each a weeping Cecilia studying the boys in the rain, the heavy rain that would patter upon the assorted helmets of the regiment, drib and drably dressed; they all have green eyes and long brown hair indeed they are quite the same girl. He thought this odd, and paused momentarily; the rain came in soft waves and then stopped. His old eyes surveyed sky, long fat clouds like rotten bread dough left to drip from the bakers table, stretched after the rain. The cool lazy dreary airs scented like wafts of warm tinder and chimney cooking dust. Oh! mother of course, broken and damp, bread and stew, and dear, loathsome mother. Ha ho the theory of impossible walking that was the game. I wonder why walking games do not grow wearisome, like mother did, like father did. He did not like knowing so much so soon, and his heart throbbed as never before. Of course playing games with mother in the damp aired morning I was sniffling and she was coughing in the thin train mists. Franz Mann paused for a moment, he could not recall if indeed there had been a thin mist, or if he had read the scene in some novel and merely attached it to his own sentimental mind. (This is a key revelation) What a dream to beguile me now, I confess I do not know that memory, only now is the wind real. He thought, the new wind flapped about his cloak and made ruffling sounds amongst the high reeds by the waters edge, where occasionally ducks would appear, with firm beaked authority and quack a volley of abuse at some passing duck, which in turn would retaliate with machine gun swift quacks of its own, and the line had been drawn, in the reeds, on the grey waters rippling, and the chill air blowing. Each ominous duck sending loud retaliatory volleys of quack-quack, heavy quacked thunderous sounds, malicious head jerking and pouncing, the waters shimmering with the recoil of quack-quack, so that the ducks could do little to remain steady upon the water. Franz Mann snatched a dry dead reed from under his bench, and used it to point out exactly what positions where of strategic importance. I would send a detachment to the far bank, have them cut of the enemies retreat. Implored Franz, signalling to the ducks with his reed precisely what they should do. Then silence, as the malcontents passed weary in the chill high watery reeds shaken in the wind. Someone was beaten with reeds, I think I saved him. (Mathew 11:7) Thought Franz Mann, and then he knew suddenly. Listlessly dropping the reed which suddenly appeared quite heavy; like a once passionate actor finally accepting the sham reality of his character and of his stage, as the audience turned to dusty ghosts. Franz Mann scratched his nose, and in a sad moment of utter loss wept quite, quite softly.
Chapter ten
Divinity, psychosis ogres and sincerity
The temptation to leave nearly overwhelmed Franz Mann, he peered in the direction of the now imperceptible Inn, which had not moved yet could not be seen. The crane paid no mind to the ducks, because it was a crane, and it had nothing to do with Jesus nor did the farmer, whose dog patted along side him. The farmer with stick in hand stomped across the stone bridge, both men fading out of sight in large due to the farmer walking and Fran not moving at all, which really is the quickest way to get away from anything. If two objects race off in the opposite direction, then in the infinite space that surrounds them, they are invariably drawing closer together, if not actually approaching each other directly, but to go in opposite directions means that in the vast infinite space of things, you are coming ever closer together. This caused Franz Mann an immeasurable degree of pleasure, and the salty tears upon his frail lips tasted like wine. Drunk with knowledge he involuntarily waved at the world. Yet if one object remains stationary, and the other moves along, catastrophe. He smiled; I have never seen a dead duck. His internal narrative colliding with the genuine and the illusionary narratives of his memory; the crane had not moved, the farmer had vanished and the sky had moved along, the river had flowed a dozen ducks had dashed off and Franz Mann had not moved at all. God as thought is motion, almost like a chamber maid, flapping the bed sheet into the morning air with the morning window open, allowing it to fall upon the morning bed. You wrinkled and ruffled God the world is a river, your prophet's sing as they are nailed to cranes and crosses. Franz Mann had learnt that in war as in life, if you remained in one place for a long enough period of time, you would either be hit by something or someone or you would be forced to hit something or someone, which really amounted to the same thing, collision. So if you do not move, and by not moving you are drawing further away from a particular object, or a series of object like things, that in turn are moving, you will invariably sooner or later hit the very object you were avoiding¦ha ha! Shouted Franz Mann, standing triumphantly, startling a pair of ducks into quack-quacking at him, from down in the deep long watery reeds. This is what John and Jesus saw, upon the river bank, which amounts to one and the same thing, collision! It struck Franz Mann that walking was senseless and all journeys internal or otherwise were quite futile, for if one remained quite still, then the journey would habitually come to them. This he called 'The Impossible Walking Theory' he opened his bible one last time - Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old time, which was before us. (Ecc.1:10) The wind picked up.
