splinter of night E-Book

Roland Reitmair

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Marcel, the protagonist of the novel, lived all his youth at his uncle Robert's home and was raised in the tense athmosphere of uncle's petit-bourgaise character and Marcel's furtive love to aunt Sabine -Robert's wife. When aunt Sabine died due to her husband's action in a tragic moment Marcel started to feel completely displaced. He could have stopped the murder before: In a cold winters night his uncle once lay in the snow uncounciously. Marcel had saved his life... if he had not, Sabine could still be alive...

Leseprobe

Roland Reitmair

splinter of night

To all who suffered from domestic violance.BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Chapter I - "personal view"

1

In recent weeks the autumnal weather has been damp and cold. It even came up with snowflakes now and then. But today, pleasant balmy south wind, the “Föhn,” changed the temperature to an almost spring-like.

It feels good to be on the balcony after a sleepless night, leaning at the railing, breathing fresh air, sipping hot coffee, while the day perks up.

Orange and pink fog clouds veil the red sky, enclosed gaps shine turquoise. Darkness still bites between the rows of houses. The sun at the horizon glowing like embers in the diffuse morning light, stuck above the rooftops for a short moment, before it gets ignited to a ball of fire. Must have something to do with the Föhn... a lot of dust in the air is supposed to create a gloriously colorful sunrise.

Pigeons up on the gable preen feathers. Crows on the ledge of the chimney casting shadows to the roof gutter.

The paperboy is late and closes the car door exaggerated loudly before he rushes to the front door of the building. He's always in a hurry, running the engine while depositing his papers in the mailboxes. Every morning his car bends in the street. Stops in the middle of the roadway, neutral gear, handbrake. He leaps out of the car, slams the door, disappears for a minute under the little porch of the house entrance, then trots back, first gear, too much gas.

The ritual is repeated twice within a hundred yards, before he stops right below my balcony. I am bothered by his frantic, hectic movements. They do not fit to the soft contours of the morning.

Once I spilled coffee. Involuntarily I shrank back, as he looked up angrily.

It could have been as well that I poured out the cold coffee by mishap without realizing it - or intentionally not suspecting that someone could be underneath.

I’ve lived here for more than four years now and since the first day his hustle and bustle bothers me. The coffee missed him and his bundle of newspapers narrowly, but spread out in thick brown drops on the windshield and hood of his car. He probably operated the wipers only after he had delivered the newspapers. I can’t imagine that this man has a sense of art.

Sometimes I consider doing it again. I need calm, peaceful silence in the morning, when the city is still asleep or just awakening ... the street deserted, hardly a car.

There was a time when I felt the need for a cigarette just after the coffee. Strange. Habits are changing. I used to inhale greedily then, flicking the half-finished cigarette from the balcony, waiting until it landed on the asphalt, and rushed to the office. Five floors, no elevator. Sometimes I’d trod the dump on the road. Sometimes I thought that this would be the place to hit, if one were to fall from my balcony. Police would come and mark the spot with white chalk. Perhaps the paperboy would still stop here just like every day - despite the chalk. Here the coffee dispersed at his car. Here the blood would spread on the black tarmac.

Together with my sister’s children we once threw different things from the balcony just to see what happens. Some items bounced off, but rotten fruit spread on impact in a star-shape. Guess it was four years ago. When I flicked the cigarette from the balcony the kids threw small globe shaped clay from the hydroponics. Even by observing accurately, one could hardly see where they landed and - I admit - it was not a very good idea: We would see an apple certainly better. The caretaker filed a complaint and reported it to the police. I nearly had to move out of the flat again.

*

The first time I stood on this balcony, seeing the identical units, the same balconies row by row from the roof down to the sidewalk, with always the same kitchen window next to it, I felt alone and observed. It took a while until I realized that this anonymity also offers some kind of shelter to hide oneself. Not only because strangers usually get hopelessly lost in the uniform corridors of different floors, corridors with the same ugly blue carpet and the same smell of cleanser.

Behind each of these balcony doors hides a life story. I often think about it when I'm outside at night and stare into darkness when light shines through the curtain here or there. Others cannot sleep as well, reassuring somehow. But they might be shift workers or others just early risers. Or their children might be sick and anxious worried mothers sit in the thin nightie on the bed stroking feverish cheeks. From the outside, from the distance, there is only light that shines through the curtain.

Sometimes these stories leak out and help to relieve discontent. Seeing how other people's façade of happiness crumbles, seems to be a satisfaction. A trouble shared is a trouble halved? No. If one’s self is concerned, it hurts twice – as it was for me at the time of Aunt Sabine’s incident.

People in the countryside are different than people here in town. They know each other. Know each others father, mother or grandparents. They know each and every rumor and the circulated stories of the alleged half-brother or whatever. They spread the local news by talking in the bakery, in the small store, or in front of the church entrance…

But Uncle Robert, he would feel right at home here in this tenement. Here he could sink into indifference – back in the village he couldn’t. Perhaps uniformism would have ever accommodated him better, even earlier, before. Maybe things had been different.

The last time I saw my uncle was down at the railway bridge. He leaned against the concrete pillar and stared at the high water level of the river. He did not see me, or at least pretended not to see me. I also tried not to let on that I recognized him. Casually I turned indifferently in the other direction.

Seven years may be enough to change a man, to change his mind. But anyway I recognized him immediately, his strange expression of pity that did not suit him and only betrayed his arrogant hubris.

He glanced at a thick, white-haired woman lugging along sacks of stale bread for the ducks, swans and other birds.The animals came up quite excited and there were many of them. They fluttered and seemed to walk on water while they chattered, squawked and pecked each others eyes. On the first glimpse there seemed to be the kindness of a grandfather in uncle Robert’s look, but it was not so. Assumed understanding contemptuous. His eyes reflect disgust and empathy at the same time. He always looked like this, especially when he tried to abuse aunt Sabine. For sure he did look at her that way also on that Sunday evening...

I did not know that he had been released from prison early. He leaned against the pillar as he used to do previously outside his house against the exposed wooden beam of the porch. The newspaper in the pocket, a pipe in his hand, he always seemed to feel a little offended. An embittered man with sad eyes, who never laughed, who was calm and silent. Only sometimes on Sunday when his brunch lasted until evening, he suddenly was a different man. Then he sometimes played with us, with my friends and “his” nephew, or heshowed us old photos, telling indistinct long stories. But sometimes he came home, and then everything annoyed him. The food was cold and the soup too salty, for sure there was something to make him infuriated. Better not make oneself heard then, otherwise he could flare up quite well. And as if he had only been waiting on it, he came up with spitefulness. Sneered at my tattered jeans, which I would raise as a status symbol, like my father. Or ranting and raving against „his“ wife’s casual dress-code, her low-cut blouse. Sabine would give the impression of a fifteen-year-old girl – better button up one more, rather than strolling around so revealing.

But again I torment myself with old stories. Catherine was absolutely right on this point – „you can stand on the balcony from sunset until sunrise to rake up old stories and ponder on these occurances – just to find out, that there are still things you will never understand.“

I miss Catherine. My life is empty now without her. If I had slept poorly once again, spending the night on the balcony, scarceley beeing able to move from the cold night, she could let me forget my pain. With the dressing gown pulled tight, she brought hot coffee, and didn’t ask much. She wraped her arms around my neck and was just there.

Catherine was patient with me. She understood my problems even if finally my old stories were too much for her. I miss her even though she behaved shabbily at our separation. "Take care..." she said with glassy, sleep-deprived eyes. Her fingers touched fleetingly my back. No last kiss. No explanations. Silence. Far too long seconds. Then she was gone.

I often think of her. She has become part of my old stories. Good that she does not know.

*

The caretaker. Mister caretaker. His name escapes me again.