The Victoria Boulevard of broken dreams

Things can no longer go on like this. That is why they organized the emergence meeting. Because it has been buzzing around the street for a while. In the street? In the neighborhoods, in the city. It seems like no topic is more important. The news about earthquakes, climate disasters, floods, wars, economic crisis, shrinkflation, it has been pushed into the background. Not even the latest sports results are being discussed. There is hardly any gossip anymore.

The first idea must have been suggested somewhere. As a result, a group had been formed. A team. Maybe a task force? Who knows. But one day the proposal became a reality. Suddenly it is in black and white. It is no longer a vague thought. It has become an agenda item at the meeting of the mayor and council members. It is in the minutes of the local political fractions. Short texts on the subject are even being written in the local newspapers. A care home for the mentally disabled will be newly built in the Victoria Boulevard.

An outsider will shrug her shoulders when she reads such a message. A care home for the mentally disabled. Newly built. Victoria Boulevard. But any city dweller with even an ounce of empathy will understand how sensitive this subject is. The Victoria Boulevard is also known as the Gold Coast. The classic, imposing, stately but above all expensive houses stand next to each other on the wide tree-lined road like precious icons from the past. From a time when barons, notaries, professors, and majors were still in charge. When aristocracy tasted like fine brandy.

And although everyone realizes and understands that we live in a very different time, in an era in which equality is written in large letters on everyone's forehead, most residents of the Victoria Boulevard secretly feel it differently. They surreptitiously believe that they are indeed above the rabble, the common people. Their little sheltered life is one of wealth and privilege. Everyone is equal, but they are still a bit more equal than the others.

That is why they sit together. The residents who have lived in this neighborhood for more than fifty years, the ones who have just bought a house on the Victoria Boulevard. That is why feel most of them pretty indignant, scared, powerless, anxious.

But what makes the desperation greatest is that not everyone supports the opinion of the initiators. The ex-board members of the Business University had thought that there would be a unanimous vote against the arrival of the care home. But nothing turns out to be further from the truth. A small group appears to have no difficulty with the arrival of fellow people with a mental disability. Their voice is represented by a well-respected  and highly regarded artist with jet black hair, bright eyes and a mouth as sharp as a knife.

“Just think how much the prices of our houses will drop if we have to live among those feeble-minded people,” snorts the man with the bow tie in a last attempt to change the mood. To achieve a certain unity. To secure the foundation of the old world. The word 'feeble-minded' floats around the room like a lazy mosquito.

The residents are guests of the artist. Her studio is the size of a gym. The colossal sculptures she is working on or has worked on are standing against the walls. Taciturn gods and demons. The residents sit on small wooden chairs. Like they are back in school.

The door swings open. A little boy comes in. He carefully carries a bowl of baked cookies. But it is not the cookies that gets all the attention. It is the child's head. It is too big, too convex, too distorted. Just like his eyes, his ears, his cheeks, his forehead.

“Very good, Jonathan. Now you can give everyone a cookie. And you can tell them all that you baked the delicacy yourself.”

The artist smiles at her son. He smiles back at her even more enthusiastically. Although he is now at the age to realize that he has his limitations, he beams with pride when he goes down the line. It is now dead quiet in the room. So quiet that you can hear the birds chirping outside as the late afternoon light pours in in full blocks through the large windows. Differently, honestly, lively.