Kafka On The Beach
1
‘And I’m telling you for the umpteenth time there is no Coast of Bohemia.’
‘And I’m telling you for the umpteenth time there is. It’s in black and white, Shakespeare, A Winter’s Tale, Schlegel, a classic. Words don’t lie, especially words by Shakespeare as translated by Schlegel.’
‘And just because I sell tickets doesn’t make me ignorant.’
‘I never said you were. Max, has the word ‘ignorant’ at any time passed my lips?’
‘I – ‘
‘I am educated, I read, I enjoy music.’
‘Indubitably.’
‘Franz. My friend is – ‘
(‘Max, please, don’t do me any favours.’)
(‘The man is right, Franz, stop playing the fool.’)
‘I know who Schlegel is,’ said the smartly uniformed ticket seller. ‘I know who Shakespeare is. You’re not dealing with a bumpkin.’
‘You’re in Prague. You speak German. If you’re in Prague and you speak German you’re not a bumpkin. QED. And you’re wearing a pince-nez. If you were wearing a monocle I’d
be suspicious.’
Early morning, 1913, Prague Central Station, and Max and Franz were trying to get away for the August Bank holiday, to ‘The Warm South’, or at least to that portion of ‘The Warm South’ which came under the jurisdiction of the Habsburgs.
‘You’re holding up the queue, gentlemen. Have some consideration for the others
patiently waiting to buy their tickets, who know where they’re going.’
‘Two first class to the Coast of Bohemia.’
‘Jokers,’ said the smartly uniformed ticket seller, slapping two tickets down on the counter, the pince-nez slipping off his nose.
‘Trieste. Do we want to go to Trieste, Max?’
‘You have no choice,’ the smartly uniformed ticket seller said, waving them off with his pince-nez, ‘take your act elsewhere.’
‘And I’m telling you for the umpteenth time there is no Coast of Bohemia.’
‘And I’m telling you for the umpteenth time there is. It’s in black and white, Shakespeare, A Winter’s Tale, Schlegel, a classic. Words don’t lie, especially words by Shakespeare as translated by Schlegel.’
‘And just because I sell tickets doesn’t make me ignorant.’
‘I never said you were. Max, has the word ‘ignorant’ at any time passed my lips?’
‘I – ‘
‘I am educated, I read, I enjoy music.’
‘Indubitably.’
‘Franz. My friend is – ‘
(‘Max, please, don’t do me any favours.’)
(‘The man is right, Franz, stop playing the fool.’)
‘I know who Schlegel is,’ said the smartly uniformed ticket seller. ‘I know who Shakespeare is. You’re not dealing with a bumpkin.’
‘You’re in Prague. You speak German. If you’re in Prague and you speak German you’re not a bumpkin. QED. And you’re wearing a pince-nez. If you were wearing a monocle I’d
be suspicious.’
Early morning, 1913, Prague Central Station, and Max and Franz were trying to get away for the August Bank holiday, to ‘The Warm South’, or at least to that portion of ‘The Warm South’ which came under the jurisdiction of the Habsburgs.
‘You’re holding up the queue, gentlemen. Have some consideration for the others
patiently waiting to buy their tickets, who know where they’re going.’
‘Two first class to the Coast of Bohemia.’
‘Jokers,’ said the smartly uniformed ticket seller, slapping two tickets down on the counter, the pince-nez slipping off his nose.
‘Trieste. Do we want to go to Trieste, Max?’
‘You have no choice,’ the smartly uniformed ticket seller said, waving them off with his pince-nez, ‘take your act elsewhere.’
Max and Franz stepped away from the queue, examining the tickets, imagining their destination.
‘Trieste – it sounds so sad.’
‘Or a good place for a ‘tryst’?’
‘Good point, Max.’
‘Or a good place for a ‘tryst’?’
‘Good point, Max.’
2
In the middle of their journey it dawned on Max that they were going the wrong way. The passing signs and railway signals all pointed in the wrong direction, or the right one if you were on the right train, which they were not.
‘We’re going the wrong way.’
Franz was scribbling away, head down. The passing scenery passed him by. ‘Do you mean that in the theosophical sense, Dante’s “la diritta via era smaritta”?’
‘I mean we’re on the wrong train.’
‘Is that all? For a moment there you had me worried.’
‘Look, it’s – there’s the ticket taker, I’ll ask him,’ Max said, hailing a smartly uniformed ticket taker into their compartment.
‘Is this train going to Trieste?’
‘Trieste? I wish.’
‘Well, where are we going? Where does this train terminate?’
‘Denmark. Vikings.’
‘Hamlet,’ said Franz.
‘Was he a famous Viking?’
‘He was a regicide.’
‘Don’t joke with the man,’ Max said, ‘this is serious. We could wind up in Ostend.’
‘You have to change trains for Ostend.’
‘Do they have beaches in Denmark?’
‘They have shores. Dark and lonely shores.’
‘We need to change at the next station, Max. I want to go to the beach, not to some dark and lonely shore.’
The smartly uniformed ticket taker moved on, a shade disappointed. He loved his work, lived for it, and sincerely wanted to show them where to change trains for Ostend.
‘That was decisive.’
Franz looked at the passing scenery that had hitherto passed him by. ‘Kafka on the beach, yes, Kafka on the shore, never.’
In the middle of their journey it dawned on Max that they were going the wrong way. The passing signs and railway signals all pointed in the wrong direction, or the right one if you were on the right train, which they were not.
‘We’re going the wrong way.’
Franz was scribbling away, head down. The passing scenery passed him by. ‘Do you mean that in the theosophical sense, Dante’s “la diritta via era smaritta”?’
‘I mean we’re on the wrong train.’
‘Is that all? For a moment there you had me worried.’
‘Look, it’s – there’s the ticket taker, I’ll ask him,’ Max said, hailing a smartly uniformed ticket taker into their compartment.
‘Is this train going to Trieste?’
‘Trieste? I wish.’
‘Well, where are we going? Where does this train terminate?’
‘Denmark. Vikings.’
‘Hamlet,’ said Franz.
‘Was he a famous Viking?’
‘He was a regicide.’
‘Don’t joke with the man,’ Max said, ‘this is serious. We could wind up in Ostend.’
‘You have to change trains for Ostend.’
‘Do they have beaches in Denmark?’
‘They have shores. Dark and lonely shores.’
‘We need to change at the next station, Max. I want to go to the beach, not to some dark and lonely shore.’
The smartly uniformed ticket taker moved on, a shade disappointed. He loved his work, lived for it, and sincerely wanted to show them where to change trains for Ostend.
‘That was decisive.’
Franz looked at the passing scenery that had hitherto passed him by. ‘Kafka on the beach, yes, Kafka on the shore, never.’
Franz was scribbling away, head down. The passing scenery passed him by.
‘What are you writing?’
‘A letter to my father.’
‘Are you still writing that thing? You’ve been writing that ever since I’ve known you.’
‘I’ve got a lot to get off my chest.’
Max was about to make a crack, then thought better of it.
‘Why don’t you ever write your mother?’
There was barely a flicker from Franz.
‘It doesn’t have to be a novella, Franz. Drop her a line. Tell her you’re feeling fine.’
Franz erased something from his letter.
‘Tell her what you’re seeing, if you can look at what you’re missing. If you can be bothered.’
‘Forests. Fields. Mountains. Lakes. Cities. Towns. One-horse towns. Hovels. Petticoat junctions. It’s the same everywhere.’
‘It’s not the same everywhere. We’re on our way to ‘The Warm South’.’
‘Goethe?’
‘I forget. I know he loved Rome. Those poems. Phew.’
‘But of course, he loved to roam,’ smirked Franz.
‘It’s a disease with you.’
‘’Only the perverse fantasy can still save us’ – from Eckermann.’
‘You’re telling me. Look, send your father one of these postcards. It’ll curl his hair.’
‘Nothing can curl that Franz Josef of his – I say, Max, where’d you get this?’
‘Through Opals.’
‘A most precious gem,’ said Franz, inspecting the image.
‘Used to be Amethyst. Change of name. Police crackdown.’
‘A real pearl this one,’ Franz said, sliding the postcard into his breast-pocket, ‘a bit like Hansi. The body, not the face.’
‘Really? Let me see.’
‘What? So you can get ideas? Not on your life.’
‘I just want to see if it looks like Hansi.’
‘You’ve only seen her with her clothes on. Damned if I’m going to let you see her with her clothes off.’
‘But it’s not Hansi, Franz, you just said it looks like Hansi, the body, not the face.’
‘Do you always repeat what others say? That could be neurological.’
‘A letter to my father.’
‘Are you still writing that thing? You’ve been writing that ever since I’ve known you.’
‘I’ve got a lot to get off my chest.’
Max was about to make a crack, then thought better of it.
‘Why don’t you ever write your mother?’
There was barely a flicker from Franz.
‘It doesn’t have to be a novella, Franz. Drop her a line. Tell her you’re feeling fine.’
Franz erased something from his letter.
‘Tell her what you’re seeing, if you can look at what you’re missing. If you can be bothered.’
‘Forests. Fields. Mountains. Lakes. Cities. Towns. One-horse towns. Hovels. Petticoat junctions. It’s the same everywhere.’
‘It’s not the same everywhere. We’re on our way to ‘The Warm South’.’
‘Goethe?’
‘I forget. I know he loved Rome. Those poems. Phew.’
‘But of course, he loved to roam,’ smirked Franz.
‘It’s a disease with you.’
‘’Only the perverse fantasy can still save us’ – from Eckermann.’
‘You’re telling me. Look, send your father one of these postcards. It’ll curl his hair.’
‘Nothing can curl that Franz Josef of his – I say, Max, where’d you get this?’
‘Through Opals.’
‘A most precious gem,’ said Franz, inspecting the image.
‘Used to be Amethyst. Change of name. Police crackdown.’
‘A real pearl this one,’ Franz said, sliding the postcard into his breast-pocket, ‘a bit like Hansi. The body, not the face.’
‘Really? Let me see.’
‘What? So you can get ideas? Not on your life.’
‘I just want to see if it looks like Hansi.’
‘You’ve only seen her with her clothes on. Damned if I’m going to let you see her with her clothes off.’
‘But it’s not Hansi, Franz, you just said it looks like Hansi, the body, not the face.’
‘Do you always repeat what others say? That could be neurological.’
‘Let me look.’
‘Get away.’
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘Speak for yourself, you’re the one who’s acting childish.’
Max stuck his hand in Franz’s breast-pocket.
‘What are you doing?‘
‘Got it!’
‘Give it back, Max.’
‘Not until I’ve had a good look.’
‘You saw it before you gave it to me.’
‘Not really…‘
Franz made a grab for the postcard; Max snatched it back. In the struggle that ensued the unveiled temptress was rent in twain.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘If you’d let me look.’
‘Hansi ripped apart, thanks to Max the Ripper.’
‘Not to worry, old chap, there’s more where that came from,’ said Max, rummaging through a legal folder he kept for such emergencies.
‘A first: a bull with his own china shop.’
‘Voila,’ said Max, producing an equally dirty postcard.
Franz inspected the image closely.
‘Nice, eh?’
‘It looks a little like my sister.’
‘No. Really?’ Max sort of fancied Franz’s sister. He sort of fancied everyone’s sister.
‘The face, not the body, I don’t know about the body. She is my sister.’
‘Can I see?’
‘No,’ said Franz, slipping the postcard into his breast pocket.
‘Don’t be childish.’
‘Speak for yourself, you’re the one who’s acting childish.’
Max stuck his hand in Franz’s breast-pocket.
‘What are you doing?‘
‘Got it!’
‘Give it back, Max.’
‘Not until I’ve had a good look.’
‘You saw it before you gave it to me.’
‘Not really…‘
Franz made a grab for the postcard; Max snatched it back. In the struggle that ensued the unveiled temptress was rent in twain.
‘Now look what you’ve done.’
‘If you’d let me look.’
‘Hansi ripped apart, thanks to Max the Ripper.’
‘Not to worry, old chap, there’s more where that came from,’ said Max, rummaging through a legal folder he kept for such emergencies.
‘A first: a bull with his own china shop.’
‘Voila,’ said Max, producing an equally dirty postcard.
Franz inspected the image closely.
‘Nice, eh?’
‘It looks a little like my sister.’
‘No. Really?’ Max sort of fancied Franz’s sister. He sort of fancied everyone’s sister.
‘The face, not the body, I don’t know about the body. She is my sister.’
‘Can I see?’
‘No,’ said Franz, slipping the postcard into his breast pocket.
3
‘A magnificent repast,’ Max said, working a toothpick, ‘best brisket I’ve ever had. Must remember this place.’
‘Buffet da Pepi,’ said Franz flourishing a card.
‘Good as anything I’ve had in Prague. Better.’
Franz shrugged.
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘A magnificent repast,’ Max said, working a toothpick, ‘best brisket I’ve ever had. Must remember this place.’
‘Buffet da Pepi,’ said Franz flourishing a card.
‘Good as anything I’ve had in Prague. Better.’
Franz shrugged.
‘What was wrong with it?’
‘It’s practically an abattoir. There was hardly anything I could eat.’
‘Abattoir my eye.’
‘They’ll eat that, too, Max, if you’re not careful, pluck it right out of its socket and add it to the minestrone.’
‘Which was good you’ll admit.’
‘Which, the minestrone or the eyeball?’
‘There was no — it’s that crackpot diet of yours, that’s what it is. That Nordic nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense. It’s a healthy regime. You should try following it yourself.’
‘And that American nonsense about chewing. What’s that called?’
‘They hardly had any vegetables at all.’
‘Hardly any raw vegetables, Franz, they’re not serving rabbits.’
‘You’re right, they’re serving rabbit.’
‘ — ’
‘Consider the artichoke. The nutrients are lost when you marinate them, the goodness. It’s— it’s like smearing makeup all over a fresh-faced virgin. The bloom of youth despoiled. It’s disgusting.’
Max mulled this one over. ‘You sure saw a lot in those artichokes.’
Franz paused. ‘Well, well, what have we here?’
‘How convenient. The Bourse.’
Franz giggled. ‘I wasn’t thinking of minting coin, Max, I was thinking more of “La mattina una messeta, l’apodisnar una basseta, e la sera una donneta.” We can skip the mass, and the piquet. And why wait until tonight?’
‘You’ve gone native.’
‘When in Rome do as the Venetians.’
‘They’ll eat that, too, Max, if you’re not careful, pluck it right out of its socket and add it to the minestrone.’
‘Which was good you’ll admit.’
‘Which, the minestrone or the eyeball?’
‘There was no — it’s that crackpot diet of yours, that’s what it is. That Nordic nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense. It’s a healthy regime. You should try following it yourself.’
‘And that American nonsense about chewing. What’s that called?’
‘They hardly had any vegetables at all.’
‘Hardly any raw vegetables, Franz, they’re not serving rabbits.’
‘You’re right, they’re serving rabbit.’
‘ — ’
‘Consider the artichoke. The nutrients are lost when you marinate them, the goodness. It’s— it’s like smearing makeup all over a fresh-faced virgin. The bloom of youth despoiled. It’s disgusting.’
Max mulled this one over. ‘You sure saw a lot in those artichokes.’
Franz paused. ‘Well, well, what have we here?’
‘How convenient. The Bourse.’
Franz giggled. ‘I wasn’t thinking of minting coin, Max, I was thinking more of “La mattina una messeta, l’apodisnar una basseta, e la sera una donneta.” We can skip the mass, and the piquet. And why wait until tonight?’
‘You’ve gone native.’
‘When in Rome do as the Venetians.’
‘Pepi? Pepi!’
‘But we’ve just come from there,’ exclaimed Franz a touch theatrically.
‘Pepi! Pepi?’
‘Don’t worry, Franz, she doesn’t look like a sausage vendor.’
‘No, from the looks of her I’d say she’s an artist, or an artist’s model.’
The artist or artist’s model in question had traipsed into the sunlight from a narrow side street and was adjusting her orange summer hat.
‘The girl in the photo, Max.’
‘It’s your lucky day, Franz.’
‘It’s fate.’
‘But we’ve just come from there,’ exclaimed Franz a touch theatrically.
‘Pepi! Pepi?’
‘Don’t worry, Franz, she doesn’t look like a sausage vendor.’
‘No, from the looks of her I’d say she’s an artist, or an artist’s model.’
The artist or artist’s model in question had traipsed into the sunlight from a narrow side street and was adjusting her orange summer hat.
‘The girl in the photo, Max.’
‘It’s your lucky day, Franz.’
‘It’s fate.’
‘Let’s not get carried away.’
‘Allow me the honour of escorting you to the Buffet da Pepi,’ said Franz doffing his boater, galant’uomo.
‘Pepi is my little dog. He’s gone astray.’
‘Did you hear that, Max? Her little dog has gone astray.’
‘He has,’ the orange summer hat nodded.
‘You better help her, Franz.’
‘Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?’ Franz chirped, joining in the search, ‘Oh Pepi? Pepi?’
Max covered his ears.
‘Christ, no one is ever going to confuse you for Caruso,’ a statuesque woman announced emerging from the same narrow side street into the sunlight, her violet summer hat obediently in place. ‘Has that damned mutt of yours run away again?’
‘Stop calling him a mutt. He’s a poodle.’
(‘She’s a Gibson Girl, Franz.’)
(‘An Amazon, more like.’)
The violet summer hat obediently in place gave them the once over twice. ‘Who are you two dogcatchers? Why are you whispering? Are you soliciting?’
Max straightened up. ‘We are gentlemen and scholars!’
‘You hear that, Mitzi? They say they’re gentlemen and scholars. And around here no less, where all you get are mashers and moneychangers, usually one and the same. Personally I think they’re on the piss.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Max, shoulders back.
‘What, you don’t click your heels? For you it’s Frieda.’
‘I hope you’re not too much of a gentleman,’ Mitzi giggled, feeling with a buyer’s touch the material of Franz’s bottle green tie. ‘Silk. Nice.’
‘Pepi is my little dog. He’s gone astray.’
‘Did you hear that, Max? Her little dog has gone astray.’
‘He has,’ the orange summer hat nodded.
‘You better help her, Franz.’
‘Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?’ Franz chirped, joining in the search, ‘Oh Pepi? Pepi?’
Max covered his ears.
‘Christ, no one is ever going to confuse you for Caruso,’ a statuesque woman announced emerging from the same narrow side street into the sunlight, her violet summer hat obediently in place. ‘Has that damned mutt of yours run away again?’
‘Stop calling him a mutt. He’s a poodle.’
(‘She’s a Gibson Girl, Franz.’)
(‘An Amazon, more like.’)
The violet summer hat obediently in place gave them the once over twice. ‘Who are you two dogcatchers? Why are you whispering? Are you soliciting?’
Max straightened up. ‘We are gentlemen and scholars!’
‘You hear that, Mitzi? They say they’re gentlemen and scholars. And around here no less, where all you get are mashers and moneychangers, usually one and the same. Personally I think they’re on the piss.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Max, shoulders back.
‘What, you don’t click your heels? For you it’s Frieda.’
‘I hope you’re not too much of a gentleman,’ Mitzi giggled, feeling with a buyer’s touch the material of Franz’s bottle green tie. ‘Silk. Nice.’
‘Questa o quella…!’
‘Where are you taking us? As scholars and gentlemen I think we’re entitled to know.’
‘It was gentlemen and scholars earlier,’ Frieda recalled, ‘though you look more like Max and Moritz to me.’
‘I prefer The Katzenjammer Kids,’ said Franz.
‘Who are they?’ Mitzi asked.
‘Why, Max and Moritz in America of course, change of names don’t you know, Max and Moritz, Hans and Fritz. A fresh start in the New World, Land of Opportunity, streets paved in gold, yippee-ki-yay!’
‘So smart,’ giggled Mitzi, taking Franz’s arm.
Max made a face. ‘I never feel lost so long as I know exactly where I am. And it is gentlemen and scholars, my mistake.’
‘Not too gentlemanly I hope,’ Mitzi giggled, clinging to Franz.
‘No fear,’ said Franz, enjoying the giggling and clinging.
‘I’m taking you two jokers to the beach.’
‘That’s why we came here, ‘The Warm South’,’ said Franz, getting into the holiday spirit.
‘I’m not taking you to the beach to get a tan. It’s not much of a beach anyway.’
‘Sand, sea and sun is all I want,’ Franz said, not listening, ‘Lux et Voluptas.’
Frieda smirked. ‘There’s a photographer there. We need your pictures taken, in case we need to identify you later.’
Max squinted. ‘Surely you jest?’
‘I had my purse stolen once, by a sailor,’ said Mitzi.
‘You can put your mind at rest, my little lambkin,’ said Franz, ‘we’re landlubbers, Max and I, if it’s a salty dog you’re after I can recommend Buffet da Pepi.’
‘Dog. Yes,’ said Mitzi distrait, remembering her little dog lost, a stirring in her big beating heart, ‘Pepi? Pepi?’
‘Not that again,’ said Frieda.
‘Oh where has my little dog gone? Pepi? Pepi!’
‘I don’t believe you have a little dog,’ Franz said, ‘you’re just trying to lure us to the rocks, to our doom, like the Sirens of Odysseus.’
‘She has a little dog all right, a little black poodle, a right devil too.’
‘A black poodle?’
‘Yes, Franz, a little black poodle, she just said.’
A tear rolled down Mitzi’s pouting face.
‘Oh stop, he’s probably gone back to the flat like the last time,’ said Frieda, ‘that dog is smarter than you.’
(‘You know what this means, Max, this little black poodle? A dog of ill omen?‘)
(‘What? What are you talking about Franz?’)
(‘Faust, Max! Mephistopheles first appears to Faust in the form of a little black poodle, surely you –’)
(‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Franz. Everything with you is signs and symbols and allusions. The world is not a book.’)
‘So smart,’ giggled Mitzi, taking Franz’s arm.
Max made a face. ‘I never feel lost so long as I know exactly where I am. And it is gentlemen and scholars, my mistake.’
‘Not too gentlemanly I hope,’ Mitzi giggled, clinging to Franz.
‘No fear,’ said Franz, enjoying the giggling and clinging.
‘I’m taking you two jokers to the beach.’
‘That’s why we came here, ‘The Warm South’,’ said Franz, getting into the holiday spirit.
‘I’m not taking you to the beach to get a tan. It’s not much of a beach anyway.’
‘Sand, sea and sun is all I want,’ Franz said, not listening, ‘Lux et Voluptas.’
Frieda smirked. ‘There’s a photographer there. We need your pictures taken, in case we need to identify you later.’
Max squinted. ‘Surely you jest?’
‘I had my purse stolen once, by a sailor,’ said Mitzi.
‘You can put your mind at rest, my little lambkin,’ said Franz, ‘we’re landlubbers, Max and I, if it’s a salty dog you’re after I can recommend Buffet da Pepi.’
‘Dog. Yes,’ said Mitzi distrait, remembering her little dog lost, a stirring in her big beating heart, ‘Pepi? Pepi?’
‘Not that again,’ said Frieda.
‘Oh where has my little dog gone? Pepi? Pepi!’
‘I don’t believe you have a little dog,’ Franz said, ‘you’re just trying to lure us to the rocks, to our doom, like the Sirens of Odysseus.’
‘She has a little dog all right, a little black poodle, a right devil too.’
‘A black poodle?’
‘Yes, Franz, a little black poodle, she just said.’
A tear rolled down Mitzi’s pouting face.
‘Oh stop, he’s probably gone back to the flat like the last time,’ said Frieda, ‘that dog is smarter than you.’
(‘You know what this means, Max, this little black poodle? A dog of ill omen?‘)
(‘What? What are you talking about Franz?’)
(‘Faust, Max! Mephistopheles first appears to Faust in the form of a little black poodle, surely you –’)
(‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Franz. Everything with you is signs and symbols and allusions. The world is not a book.’)
(‘The world is a book, Max, it’s just one you haven’t got around to reading yet.’)
Frieda halted. ‘Here we are, boys and girls.’
‘Don’t say it, Franz,’ said Max, anticipating a god-awful pun and Frieda’s withering gaze.
‘What, that old ‘Buoys and Gulls’ pun? Really, Max, even I wouldn’t trot out such a hoary old line, give me some credit.’
(‘You just did.’)
‘…You two lovebirds done? This is our beach, such as it is,’ Frieda said, indicating a bathing area behind a disused lighthouse.
‘…It’s all rocks.’
‘Pebbles — and there’s our photographer.’
Standing beside a bulky brown box was a small sallow man in a dirty smock. A mock-up of an aeroplane lay flat on the ground.
‘Come for your picture? With these gentlemen?’
‘I don’t know about gentlemen,’ Mitzi giggled, ‘hope not.’
‘Gents, if not gentlemen,’ said Frieda.
The small sallow man’s gap-toothed face lit up. ‘Gents, eh? On the make?’
‘Close your mouth, Giuseppe,’ Frieda said, ‘you’re attracting flies.’
‘Thought I caught a whiff of sulphur,’ said Franz.
‘So, you two, how do you like my equipment? Nice and big, eh? Don’t let her age fool you, my Angelina can still do it,’ Giuseppe sprayed, draping his arm affectionately over the bulky brown box, caressing her sides, showing off the old workhorse. ‘She’s never let me down, you bet.’
‘Yeah, yeah, we know all about your equipment, Giuseppe,’ Frieda said taking charge,
‘we just need a picture in case they run off with Mitzi’s purse or commit Breach of Promise. In the aeroplane if you please.’
Giuseppe pulled the mock-up into position. ‘What an aeroplane, eh? We’ll show the Hun what stout Italian hearts are made of when war comes, eh, I mean we’ll show the Russkies, and the Frogs too, blacken their eyes, bloody their noses, you bet.’
‘I don’t know if I should mount this contraption,’ Max joked, ‘it doesn’t look safe to fly.’
‘Max and I went to an air show in Brescia,’ Franz informed them, helping a giggly Mitzi into place, ‘do you remember, Max?’
‘Oh, yes, that was six, seven years ago, with my brother Otto. They were just crates then.’
‘They’re still crates,’ said Frieda, brushing off Max’s clumsy hand, ‘paws off, buster.’
‘I was merely – ‘
‘Do you think there’ll be a war?’
‘…There already is a war. In the Balkans.’
‘Don’t say it, Franz,’ said Max, anticipating a god-awful pun and Frieda’s withering gaze.
‘What, that old ‘Buoys and Gulls’ pun? Really, Max, even I wouldn’t trot out such a hoary old line, give me some credit.’
(‘You just did.’)
‘…You two lovebirds done? This is our beach, such as it is,’ Frieda said, indicating a bathing area behind a disused lighthouse.
‘…It’s all rocks.’
‘Pebbles — and there’s our photographer.’
Standing beside a bulky brown box was a small sallow man in a dirty smock. A mock-up of an aeroplane lay flat on the ground.
‘Come for your picture? With these gentlemen?’
‘I don’t know about gentlemen,’ Mitzi giggled, ‘hope not.’
‘Gents, if not gentlemen,’ said Frieda.
The small sallow man’s gap-toothed face lit up. ‘Gents, eh? On the make?’
‘Close your mouth, Giuseppe,’ Frieda said, ‘you’re attracting flies.’
‘Thought I caught a whiff of sulphur,’ said Franz.
‘So, you two, how do you like my equipment? Nice and big, eh? Don’t let her age fool you, my Angelina can still do it,’ Giuseppe sprayed, draping his arm affectionately over the bulky brown box, caressing her sides, showing off the old workhorse. ‘She’s never let me down, you bet.’
‘Yeah, yeah, we know all about your equipment, Giuseppe,’ Frieda said taking charge,
‘we just need a picture in case they run off with Mitzi’s purse or commit Breach of Promise. In the aeroplane if you please.’
Giuseppe pulled the mock-up into position. ‘What an aeroplane, eh? We’ll show the Hun what stout Italian hearts are made of when war comes, eh, I mean we’ll show the Russkies, and the Frogs too, blacken their eyes, bloody their noses, you bet.’
‘I don’t know if I should mount this contraption,’ Max joked, ‘it doesn’t look safe to fly.’
‘Max and I went to an air show in Brescia,’ Franz informed them, helping a giggly Mitzi into place, ‘do you remember, Max?’
‘Oh, yes, that was six, seven years ago, with my brother Otto. They were just crates then.’
‘They’re still crates,’ said Frieda, brushing off Max’s clumsy hand, ‘paws off, buster.’
‘I was merely – ‘
‘Do you think there’ll be a war?’
‘…There already is a war. In the Balkans.’
‘There’s always a war in the Balkans,’ giggled Mitzi.
‘What did Bismarck say about ‘Balkan sheep stealers’? It still applies,’ said Franz, nudging Mitzi, who nudged back giggling.
‘No, I mean a big war, with all the big boys piling in, Russia, France, England, our big
brother Germany?’
‘The question is not whether there’s going to be war but whether there’s going be peace,’ declared Franz with sudden authority. ‘War is not the aberration, it is the constant, it is the normal state of affairs. Peace is the aberration. History teaches us that.’
‘You think so? Would you go and fight?’ asked Mitzi not giggling.
‘Naturally,’ Franz carried on, ‘don’t let my meek and mild manner fool you. Not only am
I a scholar and a gentleman I am also a warrior and a writer. So is Max, not as much as me of course…’
‘My hero,’ Mitzi giggled.
(‘Is your philosopher friend in the War Office?’)
(‘No, he works in insurance, Generali for a time.’)
(‘So he stands to make a killing, selling policies to wives and mothers and little sweethearts.’)
(‘That’s cynical.’)
(‘I call ‘em as I see ‘em), hey, Giuseppe, what’s taking you so long? It’s nearly tea time.’
‘Capital idea,’ Max said, ‘I saw a rather elegant café on the way to Buffet da – ‘
‘I’m looking for my gelatine,’ Giuseppe said, ‘I seem to have mislaid it.’
‘Have you checked in the front of your trousers?’ Frieda hollered, startling the sheep.
‘Speak up, Frieda, I don’t think they heard you in Venice.’
(‘Frieda could’ve been an opera singer, you know.’)
(‘With pipes like that she could’ve have been the whole chorus and the rest of the company besides.’)
‘I know the place,’ said Frieda sotto voce, ‘but our café has chambres séparées.’
‘Better,’ said Max, rubbing his hands inside his head.
Frieda glared at Giuseppe. ‘Have you found that bloody gelatine yet? Maybe you ate it by mistake.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Giuseppe stumbling about, looking under a newspaper, under his chair.
‘What’s this in your breast-pocket?’ Mitzi asked Franz, swiping the postcard Max had gifted him on the train.
‘No, please!’
‘Look at this Frieda,’ she squealed, ‘looks just – ‘
‘What did Bismarck say about ‘Balkan sheep stealers’? It still applies,’ said Franz, nudging Mitzi, who nudged back giggling.
‘No, I mean a big war, with all the big boys piling in, Russia, France, England, our big
brother Germany?’
‘The question is not whether there’s going to be war but whether there’s going be peace,’ declared Franz with sudden authority. ‘War is not the aberration, it is the constant, it is the normal state of affairs. Peace is the aberration. History teaches us that.’
‘You think so? Would you go and fight?’ asked Mitzi not giggling.
‘Naturally,’ Franz carried on, ‘don’t let my meek and mild manner fool you. Not only am
I a scholar and a gentleman I am also a warrior and a writer. So is Max, not as much as me of course…’
‘My hero,’ Mitzi giggled.
(‘Is your philosopher friend in the War Office?’)
(‘No, he works in insurance, Generali for a time.’)
(‘So he stands to make a killing, selling policies to wives and mothers and little sweethearts.’)
(‘That’s cynical.’)
(‘I call ‘em as I see ‘em), hey, Giuseppe, what’s taking you so long? It’s nearly tea time.’
‘Capital idea,’ Max said, ‘I saw a rather elegant café on the way to Buffet da – ‘
‘I’m looking for my gelatine,’ Giuseppe said, ‘I seem to have mislaid it.’
‘Have you checked in the front of your trousers?’ Frieda hollered, startling the sheep.
‘Speak up, Frieda, I don’t think they heard you in Venice.’
(‘Frieda could’ve been an opera singer, you know.’)
(‘With pipes like that she could’ve have been the whole chorus and the rest of the company besides.’)
‘I know the place,’ said Frieda sotto voce, ‘but our café has chambres séparées.’
‘Better,’ said Max, rubbing his hands inside his head.
Frieda glared at Giuseppe. ‘Have you found that bloody gelatine yet? Maybe you ate it by mistake.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Giuseppe stumbling about, looking under a newspaper, under his chair.
‘What’s this in your breast-pocket?’ Mitzi asked Franz, swiping the postcard Max had gifted him on the train.
‘No, please!’
‘Look at this Frieda,’ she squealed, ‘looks just – ‘
Frieda didn’t look. ‘What is it, a picture of his sister?’
‘Please be careful with that. Max?’
‘What?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Mitzi giggled, ‘it looks just like – ‘
‘It’s not my sister,’ said Franz, swiping it back.
‘He says it’s not his sister,’ said Max blithely.
‘Do you want to step outside, Max?’
‘Out of the aeroplane? Not really.’
‘Naughty but nice,’ giggled Mitzi, mothering Franz, which he didn’t mind at all so long as it wasn’t his mother doing the mothering and Mitzi was definitely nothing like his mother.
She was nothing like his sister.
‘Found it!’ shouted Giuseppe, back in business, stamping his feet. ‘It was in my lunch pail. Lucky thing I didn’t eat it.’
Max teased Franz about the time he’d unknowingly eaten gelatine. ‘My warrior-writer friend eats only raw vegetables,’ he told Frieda, who had figured Franz for a crackpot.
‘Are you a vegetarian?’ asked Mitzi, giggling.
‘I eat only raw vegetables,’ said Franz, glum for the moment.
‘But not because he loves animals but because he hates vegetables. Ha!’
Mitzi giggled and Franz frowned.
‘A little dab here, little dab there, slide it in nice and easy, then let ‘er rip,’ Giuseppe muttered, pulling the hood over his head. ‘Watch the little birdie!’
Mitzi giggled, Max and Franz froze, Frieda sighed. A loud pop, a plume of smoke and they were soaring over the Adriatic.
‘What?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Mitzi giggled, ‘it looks just like – ‘
‘It’s not my sister,’ said Franz, swiping it back.
‘He says it’s not his sister,’ said Max blithely.
‘Do you want to step outside, Max?’
‘Out of the aeroplane? Not really.’
‘Naughty but nice,’ giggled Mitzi, mothering Franz, which he didn’t mind at all so long as it wasn’t his mother doing the mothering and Mitzi was definitely nothing like his mother.
She was nothing like his sister.
‘Found it!’ shouted Giuseppe, back in business, stamping his feet. ‘It was in my lunch pail. Lucky thing I didn’t eat it.’
Max teased Franz about the time he’d unknowingly eaten gelatine. ‘My warrior-writer friend eats only raw vegetables,’ he told Frieda, who had figured Franz for a crackpot.
‘Are you a vegetarian?’ asked Mitzi, giggling.
‘I eat only raw vegetables,’ said Franz, glum for the moment.
‘But not because he loves animals but because he hates vegetables. Ha!’
Mitzi giggled and Franz frowned.
‘A little dab here, little dab there, slide it in nice and easy, then let ‘er rip,’ Giuseppe muttered, pulling the hood over his head. ‘Watch the little birdie!’
Mitzi giggled, Max and Franz froze, Frieda sighed. A loud pop, a plume of smoke and they were soaring over the Adriatic.
The End
About the Author
Julian George’s work has appeared in the Naugatuck River Review, Perfect Sound Forever, New World Writing, Slag Glass City, Panoplyzine, Ambit, The Journal of Music, Film Comment, The London Magazine, Cineaste and Art Review. His novel, Bebe, is out now in CB Editions.