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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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210609 6M p3 |
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Letters From the Golden Cage And Other Stories by Roger Pelegrino |
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LETTERS FROM THE GOLDEN CAGE The story is set in diplomatic circles of West Berlin, before the abolition of the Wall.
CHAPTER ONE The first letter from the Baroness von Schmiele was rather like the message in a bottle of a shipwrecked person. The finder was the first Secretary of the Military Mission of Westenmark in West Berlin, who in his capacity of Head of Chancery, found all incoming mail deposited on his desk, unless this was expressly addressed to the Head of Mission personally. The addressee was a certain “Hans Baron von Schmiele, Ambassador of the Royal Military Mission of Westenmark”. The name was unknown at the Westmarkian Mission and the phraseology too flowery, making it probable that the letter would be channeled to the file dreaded by petitioners, bearing the name: “Gibberish”. The first Secretary, however, possessed a hidden inclination to eccentricity and, moreover, his name was Percival Doubleton Schmale. He had been struck by the vague similarity of surnames and, catching a free moment, had set about to read the letter he would otherwise have dismissed forthwith and laid in his “OUT” tray, after jotting on it with green pencil words to the effect indicated above. The letter ran as following:
“Mein lieber Hans, It has been so long since I have heard from you. Your silence goes back to that fateful separation, for which to this day, I find no real explanation. Today, I am giving in to weakness and can no longer resist the impulse to write to you, in order to know how you are, what you are doing with yourself, what your plans are for the future. If you knew how often I dream of those bygone days, when we used to go for long walks and to hunt together in the Brandenburg countryside. Are you achieving your life dreams, Hans? How is the government treating you? Are your responsibilities not too heavy for you, sometimes? Does Westenmark realize all you are doing for them? Through your priceless contacts with German nobility and the allied military commandants, I am sure you are doing a remarkable job. And meanwhile, I sit here in the abode to which I have been confined, also by you, dear Hans! I do not want to sound bitter my dear, but the truth must be said. The matron is a difficult person, but Schwester Helga is far worse. She sometimes really makes an inferno of my life. I am much in need of a new dress, Hans. Enclosed you will find some clippings from magazines, showing you what I am in need of. I know I am leading a retired life, but my station does require a certain minimum, Hans, please realize this. I would be most grateful if you could also send me some stockings. You remember my size, don’t you? This is all for today, Hans. Don’t let me wait too long for the answer I am yearning to receive. Fondly, Constanze.”
Percival stared at the letter-paper containing this message of his near namesake and felt as if someone had stuck a pin in his trouser seat. He did not know why, but this strange epistle had somehow shaken him in no uncertain manner, after which some inner cord had transposed him into a deep reverie. Many years later, transferred to distant shores, he still would remember the feeling that had taken possession of him when he had returned to his Berlin home that evening. He had driven himself to his house, taking the Avus-Stadtautobahn through the Grunwald Forest region, and, once home, he had tightly shut the windows in the frosty early winter night and with a sandwich had listened to classical music. He had felt, with elation and yet with a sensation of peace, that he had made a great discovery. Ridiculous as it may seem, he had come across a distant kindred soul. That night he woke up suddenly and set bolt upright. Some time later he lay down again and turning around, went into a profound sleep until the next morning. The following day, driving to his office on the far end of the Kurfürstendamm, he made up his mind to write a letter to the Baroness, with no intention, however, of ever bringing it to the post. “How shall I address her?” he thought. “My dear Baroness” would be the correct from, but he was duty bound to start his letter with “My dear Constanze”. Even though his chief, Minister Vön Bender, was an accommodating person, it was evident that Percy would not find the time or right mood to compose such a difficult letter during office hours. That evening at home, in his study, he proceeded as following:
“My dear Constanze, It was indeed a surprise to hear from you, but I can honestly say that your letter afforded me great pleasure. It is true, that between the lines I felt that you were subject to a certain amount of bitterness. I know I am partly to blame for this, but it would seem that fate willed it so. Rest assured, dearest, that I too, despite appearances, am suffering silently as a result of the outrages to which I am being subjected by the darts of fortune. Do not worry, as regards the government of Westenmark. They are showing that they realize the importance of the modest services I am rendering to the Kingdom through my high-placed relations. What is bothering me, yes, slowly eating my entrails, however, is a spleen and tedium identical to that which seemed to emanate from your letter. You doubtless will remember that I am a man of extravagant ambitions, a sybarite who is devoted both to the senses and to spiritual pursuits. Apart from snips and snails and puppy-dog tails, suchlike is what, according to me, men should be made of. To this, one may add the quality of having control over one’s surroundings, which generally means: possessing a personal fortune. I know, of course, that there are other types of men, such as religious, social men, or the man of action, but to me the noblest by far is the Renaissance man, the huomo universale, that I have just described. Reflect for a moment, Constanze, and it will be evident to you that life in a measly office with lots of papers, a telex and telephones is a ludicrous caricature for anyone striving to satisfy the basic appetites of human existence. Only through the satisfaction of these, can man reach the complete realization of himself. Did not Aristotle say that it would be strange indeed, if a man should choose to live not his own life but another’s? No doubt he as referring to the risks involved in public life. I know, you will say: it is the profession you yourself have chosen. But please stop to consider why. The alternative would have been remaining in Westenmark, a prospect far from relishing. Do not forget, in the sixties, the Cultural Revolution was sweeping over the whole of Europe. Consequently, in Westenmark, the destruction of the bourgeois society of 1939 has been complete. The Universe of the Wizard of Oz and of Laurel and Hardy in which we grew up, was swept away like Walt Disney’s little pigs, blown out of their houses by the big bad wolf. As a result, in Westenmark we would have swiftly shrunk to midget size, from then on mere “ci-devant”, humbly observing from the pavement the new rich pass by in their glittering mass-produced cars. The Foreign Service saved us from that, Constanze, plucking us away in the nick of time and allowing us, in Rio de Janeiro, to preserve old-fashioned gracious living. There were of course also other considerations for joining the Foreign Service, which we could discuss in further letters. However, as I saw it, this profession had at no time been a lifetime proposition. However, hard times have changed the picture and for the time being, I see no possible alternative. On this note I must leave you, hoping this letter will find you reasonably cheerful, despite the disappointments that assail us both. Yours sincerely, Hans”. The ensuing weeks were too crowded for Percival to think much about his new correspondent…
***** SAMPLE STORY PENELOPE SYNOPSIS This story endeavours to highlight one particular aspect of the ever recurring theme of the rapture between man and woman. How is one to bring under control our unruly passions? Firstly, there is the love of one particular individual but as well an adherence to what this person stands for, as member of a group, stock. The Greek hero Ulysses did remarkably well. Hence the title of his story “Penelope”, his wife. The present story tells of a young couple that, as a result of unexpected circumstances, is separated for most of their first year of marriage, a thing that obviously leads to complications. They manage to overcome these initial problems, but the question does arise: Finally, what is it that keeps them together? As said above, besides personal love, individuals need to endorse their belonging to a stock, the way Ulysses had done with his beloved homeland Ithaca … Does this go without saying? Nowadays, people from many countries do not know what we are talking about and no longer admit that they have ever possessed such a thing. Has this to do with “Globalization”? Despite this development, one can safely say that, in the absence of a sense of belonging, man is rudderless …
PENELOPE As far back as the eighth century before Christ, Hesiod wrote his Theogony, the tale of the Greek Gods. Therein he reported that Zeus created woman and gave man three choices. Either staying alone and ending his life with no one to support him, or else marrying, in which case there were two possibilities: marrying a wise and true woman, thereby balancing the bad (as he wrote) with the good, or else marrying a perverse female, in which case the bad becomes incurable. In this story, we shall stick to the first of the two options: the true woman. However, elsewhere, Hesiod warns man to be on his guard. She may be after his money, which she seeks to procure “by means of her uplifted bottom”. In dealing with desire, one is well advised to take heed of Hesiod’s words: the essence of woman’s attraction lies just there. Alain, the principle character of the story, remembered how mesmerized he had stared at a woman in the metro. As the person concerned made to sit down, she deliberately poised her backside above the seat before lowering it there on, while casting a swift glance at him, a look containing both recognition of the admiring glaze he had cast at her and a farewell, as an equally brown skinned young man installed himself at her side. After successfully concluding his studies in Brussels, Alain Brunet had secured a job with the German-French Institute for Trade and Economic Co-operation seated in Bonn. He knew little of Germany, but was willing to discover new horizons. Soon after his arrival, he had met a German family and particularly one of the daughters. He had remarked her once or twice in the quiet neighbourhood of Plittersdorf, in Bad Godesberg where he had taken residence. He had concluded that this rather charming looking young person worked somewhere in the district. He had been smitten by her slanting eyes and high cheekbones, indicating perhaps some distant Slavonic ancestry, far from improbable in country like Germany, so often overrun by hordes from the East. With some discreet enquiring Alain found out that her name was Dagmar. Alain was conscious of the fact that the primal aspect we were talking about a short while back was present in his relationship with Dagmar. He asked himself how important this was going to be. Meanwhile, he took in the beauty of the countryside, the rolling hills, the green fields and large tracks of forest. On the opposite bank of the Rhine there was the Siebengebirge, the Drachenfels and many other ruins bordering the river, giving the land a fairytale quality. The natural beauty was matched by peacefulness and a sort of general earthliness. Alain’s first experience of this kind of thing naturally had taken place in France, his home country. At the age of twenty, he had spent for the first time a summer holiday on the côte d’Azur. To get going, there was beach volley ball. “Volley, Volley” was the rallying cry. Pitch in and see what fate has in store. Before long, Alain discovered that gorgeous girls unknown to him only a few sunrises ago, were suddenly hailing him with a “Mon cher petit Alain” or “Oh que vous êtes déja bronzé, Alain!” The tone was cajoling in a way totally unknown in the latitude, where he belonged. Such a windfall would take years to come along again. Is the company of women a windfall? That’s the way it may seem to an adolescent. It increases his feeling of being alive, opening the perspective of satisfying vital appetites, at least in part, if not entirely. To return to Dagmar, however, Alain met her soon afterwards at a party. Subsequently he was asked over to her parent’s home. There he was welcomed as a matter of course by her parents and sister. Soon he became a regular visitor, for a cup of tea or glass of beer in the evenings. On weekends the encounter sometimes took place in a bower at the end of the lawn of their rather ramshackle villa, close to Bad Godesberg, bordering a wooded part of the countryside. The family spoke the juicy variant of German common to the Rhineland, Prussian angular sounds having been rounded off. Alain enjoyed Dagmar’s father chewing the fat about sundry local news. Behind the modulations, he suspected a measure of tolerance and bonhomie and congratulated himself with his good luck. Besides the family, there was that Slavonic creature that took a respectable deal of his attention. He liked her looks and she smelt nice. However, even in the shady nook, they kept their distances. When one is young, the excitement is sharing the fever of youth with talk, laughter and exchanging looks. Let’s call it rapture. That’s what this story is going to be about. Alain invited Dagmar to come swimming with him in a municipal pool bordering the Rhine on the outskirts of Godesberg... ***** |