Streets of Berlin
I must leave you soon
Oh, will you forget me
Was I ever really here

He is still a German. After all these years - decades only, not centuries, not for him - he is still that. Tall. Erect. Seeming never to bend except by force. The metal blade put back into its sheath until called upon again unless broken.

Some would say that he has been broken. Some would say that a blade which has been broken can never regain its former strength.

The eyes which meet the mirror are the colour blue. They are the colour of ice. They meet the world stolidly and at a bit of a distance, everything held in reserve of judgment or opinion. Is he capable of warmth? Some wonder...

Father, I wonder if you would recognise me today. Who I am. Who I am becoming.

It is not what he had in mind, of that Hansl is certain. Glacier eyes regard the canvas without seeing it, even as careful hands work to prepare it for photographing.

Find me a bar on the cobble stone street
Where the boys are pretty
I can not love for more than one day
But one day is enough in the city

He has changed. The pale gold of his hair has been allowed to grow from its military cut. It is no longer shorn so short that it could not be grabbed; it is not long, but it has grown long enough to become a bit spiky, and the cowlick has begun to show in front.

He is dressed simply. White dress shirt with a high collar. Black trousers. Polished black shoes. All of it expensive. All of it exquisite. But French clothing cannot disguise that he is still ... German ...

I wonder, father, what you would say if you saw me now. I do not fast. Boys come to me and I feed from them when I am hungry. I use the red pools of their life to satisfy myself even as I do not deny myself their flesh for my other ... appetites. I find temporary satisfaction, and then I turn it all into my art.

Temporary satisfaction only. Was he right in that? Johannes Arnaul, Saint-Protector of Saarbrucken. He who could not be tempted, or so it was said. But even he had his lovers, his ... temptations. He became as stone, and in the becoming, he became broken.

The careful hands continue their task. Everything must be attended to personally. Art breathes. Art bleeds. Art will know if it is relinquished to another's care. You are not yet big enough, Hansl, to be entrusting your art to someone else's diapering.

Find me a boy with two ocean blue eyes
That show no pity
Take out his eyes he never needs to see
How they eat you alive in the city

The package is lifted, carried to the front of the small suite. He pauses; he finds himself in the mirror. My eyes were bluer, once. Like the ocean instead of like ice. I held warmth inside of myself - even despite the Reich. A fine hand, an artist's hand lifts and covers those eyes.

What happened, father? Did I threaten your view of yourself? Did you not trust yourself with me? Or ...

Did my approaching you, my confession ... make you believe that it was here I belonged? That my weakness was fatal for Saarbrucken - for you, for me?

It does not matter any longer. You are dead. The final, true death. Your heart does not beat. Your hands are gone. You are consumed by the final stage of entropy.

And I am here, left to think about it.

He smiles, a faint curl of full lips. Amused despite himself. To brood about it, let us be truthful, Hansl. You do not think. You brood.

The package is addressed in a neat hand, the labels affixed, the postage pre-paid. A brief letter is on top, as is only polite. Guillaume d'Angevin, the recipient; care of a London studio address.

It is an honour I have been given. I am tired of struggling to allow myself to be considered worthy, father. I have been given opportunities - because of you, or because of something you saw in me.

I do not wish to be ruthless or caged.

But, perhaps I might be permitted a few crumbs? I am not you, father. I am not a knight as I was never truly a soldier. I never wished to be. I was caught up in others' fates; the Fuhrer's, then yours. All I ever wished to be was an artist.

My dreams were golden with the ideal of fame and fortune. No longer; darker threads have woven through. But...

But what? Hansl shakes his head slightly, that faint smile still twisting up the corners of his mouth. The package is lifted easily, despite its weight, tucked up on one shoulder as he tugs the door closed behind him. It will be taken and sent express. The cost will be paid in cash; the receipt, filed back at the flat. Accoutrements will be added - jacket, a tie, perhaps. Little else. And then he will go and attend the court. And watch with an artist's eye...

With an eye to his own desires...

Posted by Maire at October 15, 2005 06:49 PM