E-Book, Englisch, 242 Seiten
Lederer / Michael The Great Game
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-3-941524-56-9
Verlag: PalmArtPress
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Berlin-Warsaw Express and Other Stories
E-Book, Englisch, 242 Seiten
ISBN: 978-3-941524-56-9
Verlag: PalmArtPress
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Michael Lederer was born in Princeton, New Jersey in 1956. He grew up in New Haven, Vienna, New York City, and Palo Alto, California. He now lives in Berlin and Dubrovnik. His first novel, Nothing Lasts Forever Anymore, was published in Barcelona in 1999. His first play, Mundo Overloadus, was produced at New York's PS122 in 2010. He is the founder and Artistic Director of Dubrovnik Shakespeare Festival.
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A Father and A Son
The City Café had not changed much for half a century. The cane backed chairs and round tables and long mirror on the wall. The wrought iron railings and wooden bar, and the shiny copper espresso machine. It all looked pretty much as it always had in the memory of the old men who gathered every morning in the corner beside the large window overlooking the square. They would sit together and sip coffee and remember things, and then they would share stories about what they remembered. It used to be this, she used to be that, they used to…and so on. Somehow everything said was ever new enough to be interesting, while at the same time familiar enough to be a comfort to men who had known each other when they were not old, but whose days now were measured more in yesteryears than tomorrows. All knew it, though they didn’t talk about it, except for the occasional joke at which they would all laugh before falling silent for a moment or two.
One of the men was an old doctor named Teo. After the others had gone, he would always stay and keep talking as if he was not alone. The locals did not look at him then because they knew him, and they liked him, and they would even protect him if anyone bothered him, though no one ever bothered him. Even the tourists passing through would look at him only for a moment and then turn away, somehow understanding that he was as much and as natural a part of the City Café as any of it. The waiters would bring Teo his sherry, and espresso with two sugars no milk, and his still water, and when he left there was never a bill, just a “see you later.” Then off he would go for lunch and a nap and a shower, before coming back to the café in the evening for another sherry and espresso with two sugars no milk, and a still water. The waiters never asked what he wanted. They would just bring it.
He had thick glasses, and white hair long like an artist’s that was cut nicely. His clothes were clean, and he always wore a tie even in summer. Because he talked to himself, the impression given was that somebody must take care of him. A wife perhaps, or a housekeeper, or maybe he had grown children with families of their own, and someone in the family took care of him. Because talking to himself like that, it was easy to think that he could not take care of himself.
The oldest waiter in the café was named Marko. He had started work there as a young man when his uncle was chief waiter. It was the only job Marko had ever had. Now his uncle was long dead, and Marko himself had become chief waiter. When he was not serving, Marko liked to stand in one corner of the large room with the high ceiling and the brass chandelier and all the people. He would look around “his” café with sharp brown eyes that saw and understood everything. One thing he could see was that because of all the electronic devices everyone carried, old Teo was often not the only one sitting alone while talking. Many people talked through their phones, or their phones, yet somehow even without any kind of device the old man looked more natural doing it. He would hold a cigarette in one hand and wave it as he talked, though the cigarette was never lit because smoking was not permitted inside the café. Still, he would hold the cigarette and wave it elegantly while staring at the empty chair across from him and talking to it.
Summer now was over. The days were growing cooler and the winds stronger, and everyone except those who absolutely had to smoke sat inside. The smokers who couldn’t not-smoke would huddle in the corners of the wide stone terrace outside, with their collars up and their backs to the wall. Old Teo clearly had issues, but a slavish addiction to tobacco was not one of them. He would sit inside the large window, where there was still a good view of the square, and it was enough for him just to hold the cigarette and wave it elegantly as he talked to the empty chair.
One morning a young American came into the café. He crossed to the back and sat alone at the table furthest from the door. Marko came to him. The young man ordered a double espresso. When Marko left, he pulled a laptop computer from his shoulder bag, opened it, and looked around the room.
The young man’s name was Jack. He had decided to write a great novel, and so had done what many of the great writers he admired had done before him. He had bought his generation’s equivalent of paper and pen, and moved to Europe. Hoping that what had worked so well for them would work for him, he had settled on this old café as the place where he would commence his life’s work.
Marko brought his coffee. As he drank it, Jack looked around the room while waiting for his great novel to make its appearance. An idea finally struck him. He started to write about a cat he had seen the night before in one of the cobblestone alleys of the old town. The cat looked hungry and alone, and the story started well enough, but then it reached a dead end when Jack couldn’t decide where the cat had come from, or where it was headed. After awhile he gave up. He figured that was a false start. He looked around the room again and tried to think, which is different than thinking. The idea of a cat led him to the idea of a dog, which led to the idea of a boy, which led…nowhere. Oh well. He would try again the following day. He paid his bill and left.
The next morning he returned, and sat in the same chair at the same table and ordered his double espresso from Marko. As Marko walked toward the bar, the young man already felt like a local. He wondered how many times he would have to come, and how many espressos he would have to order, before Marko would also start to think of him as a local. He took his laptop from his bag and opened it, and like many young men then, now, and forever hoped that anyone looking at him would understand he was there to do great things. But great things didn’t happen. Not yet. So after half an hour, when an idea for a great novel had not come to him, he leaned forward against the table and rubbed the sides of his head, and looked around the café.
The old man by the window was there again with his friends. Jack had noticed him the day before. Now, as his friends stood to go, he wondered if the old man would start to talk to himself again. He did.
Both as a traveler and as a New Yorker, Jack had seen and heard enough people talking to themselves. On park benches and church steps, at bus stops, and one winter day he would never forget on St. Mark’s Place when he thought some foam-at-the-mouth nut was screaming at him. But then he got into a cab and looked over his shoulder, and it turned out the guy was just screaming.
This old man was different. He looked normal, clean, measured. Not loose like the others, but put together tightly and correctly. It even looked as if he was having a regular conversation, just that the other half of it wasn’t there. It seemed like it was more the other person’s fault for not showing up, rather than the old man’s fault for talking to air.
Jack watched him carefully. After awhile he tried to write again, but for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about this old man who was talking to himself. Finally, as he had the day before, he gave up and paid his bill and left. As he walked out the door, he overheard the old man say:
“I wouldn’t tell you these things, except you need to know them.”
The next day, Jack came back to the café. He was about to sit again at the same table, when he noticed the old man by the window, already alone, already talking to himself. Jack decided to sit closer to him so that he could listen.
Marko came over and Jack ordered his “usual,” and as he sat waiting for it he heard the old man say:
“If you want something from someone, don’t think they’ll know it. Ask them, or tell them, but don’t just wait for it, because if you wait for things they will never come.”
The old man took a sip of his sherry, waved his unlit cigarette, and then said:
“A little boat gets smashed about by the waves, while a big ship cuts through the waves and gets to its destination. You want to be that big boat, not the little one.”
He added:
“And remember, a girl’s breast is a beautiful thing, but never let it hide her heart. To be truly happy, you must consider both.”
The coffee came.
“Marko?”
He knew the waiter’s name from his name tag.
“Yes?”
Jack lowered his voice so the old man would not hear him.
“Who’s the old man?”
“His name is Teo.”
“Who does he think he’s talking to?”
“His son.”
“Where’s his son?”
“Dead.”
A pause.
“How?”
“Motorcycle. You want something else?”
“No. Thank you.”
Marko left.
Jack kept listening. It didn’t stop. One gem of advice after another.
“If you don’t...
