Tafani E-Book

Herwig Baumgartner

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 557

Beschreibung

The author combined real events from his own memory with fictional scenes and tells the story from his Agenda de Liaison. However, the central characters, even if someone thinks they recognize themselves, are almost exclusively the product of the author's imagination, with the exception of historical figures. Anyone who thinks they can find more between the lines than in the text is welcome to join The dead poets' club. Anyone who suspects that the places named and scenes described belong to other periods should congratulate themselves. Those who nevertheless persevere to the end must be considered consistent. Have fun!

Leseprobe

The work of romantic poet Joseph Eichendorff "From the Life of a Good-for-Nothing" served as a model for this modern picaresque novel with its verses:

"To whom God wills to show right favor, he sends into the wide world ..."

The author combined real events from his memory with fictional scenes and tells the story from his "Agenda de Liaison". However, with the exception of historical figures, the central characters, even if someone thought they could recognize themselves, were solely the product of the author's imagination.

If you think you can find more between the lines than in the text, welcome to 'The dead poets' club'. Anyone who suspects that the places named and scenes described are from other periods should congratulate themselves. Those who nevertheless persevere to the end must be considered consistent.

Have fun!

Comment:

The loosely tried translations of the German language poems will not really satisfy a poet and are only kept in the book for the reason of completeness. It is nearly impossible to additionally translate the message in between the written lines.

Contents

Prologue

Gaudeamus igitur

Sacré-Cœur

Safari

Au pair

Consigliere

Evolution

Consilium

Mañana

Papillon

Boudoir

Kismet

Aventures

Epilogue

Prologue

He woke up again. Dimly, his thoughts flashed back hours to the moment she had come. Unexpectedly, all the impressions came back to him, the flabby skin, the tired movements, the suddenly empty feeling in his stomach. The nagging continued to echo in his ears. As if he were standing in the Swiss mountains, where mountains and valleys trumpet back every sound until each note echoes over the others.

Just like in parliament, with the only exception that only women debated here. He thought he was dreaming until he blinked slightly and caught sight of the small group that had occupied his holiest of holies, the combined study and living room, at 10:30 in the morning. Sighing, he staggered into the bathroom, where he recognized by the position of the toilet seat who must have done their work there last. It was not folded up. The enemy had left his mark, the ominous sign pointing to high emancipation school.

Was it already that far? Had he already allowed himself to be domesticated to such an extent that he no longer carried out his genetically determined actions in a chain of instincts and reflexes? Had it perhaps already turned into one of Konrad Lorenz's gray geese, like the one in Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis after the Awakening? Or had one of the occupants of the living room been forced to leave her scent mark within the first few minutes of entering, like an old male dog who pees on every street corner, still setting territorial boundaries. This in his bachelor pad! So the women see the raised toilet seat in his own castle as a macho totem pole and react instinctively.

Sighing, he looked at himself in the mirror. He noticed maturing temples, but still firm skin. Stubble that indicated careful handling of the knife appeared to be just over three days old and framed his grin. As he wiped the steamed-up mirror clean, it happened. His face smiled at him in an almost alien way, his breath annoying him, smelling as if he had drunk from the toilet bowl.

He carefully took the toothbrush, squeezed a white blob of paste onto the bristles from the tube, which of course had never been screwed shut, and chased the prairie dog away, remembering the enchanting movie "Coyote ugly". He finally woke up as he foamed at the mouth. Sighing, he assessed the taste of spearmint and completed his daily grooming routine. After a quick rinse, he smeared shaving soap on his face with the badger hair brush, grabbed the three-blade Gillette Sensor 3, an ancient piece, and got to work on the stubble. He scraped the undergrowth from his cheeks and chin to the base of his neck, where cheeky stalks ran wild. He thought he could still smell the telltale scents of the night and stepped into the shower. Soon he would feel like a human again.

Then the memory swept him off his feet.

Something terrible had happened, an unbelievable mistake had happened to him, to him, the long-time and absolute bachelor. Not before the extremely heated battle. No, afterwards, when he had long been preoccupied with more important matters, a certain phrase had crept onto his otherwise closed lips, sneaky and intriguing, had slipped away, escaped into the real world before he could be stopped. "Do you want to move in with me?"

This explained the crowds in his temple, the sanctuary of a notorious bachelor pad, this place of successful debates on the optimal use of contraceptives, alternatives during a visit from the red aunt or voluntary arbitration in the event of unexpected demands for wreath money. He hated these in particular, like the medieval plague.

Who would seriously suspect that a girl over 23 did not yet know the secret of Ali Baba and sesame only from sweet pastries from Morocco? The unavoidable and irrefutable marks on the altar testified to her confession. His legitimate question as to why she had offered herself as game was cleverly circumvented by her lamentation over the shame of having been seduced and mentally abused.

This in the 21st century. In modern times like these, should the inside of the 'Brazilian waxing zone' still have been covered in organic cling film? This with a face for a set card and the ravishing body of an accomplished concubine in slinky sheaths, strutting on red Manolos, making any stallion concerned about his reputation go into heat?

But by then it was already far too late. Anyone who allows themselves to be hindered by cheeky gate wings when attacking the moated castle does not deserve to be called a warrior. Moreover, by retreating ignominiously, he would either have committed a mortal insult or been labeled a softie. What a disgrace for a conqueror. Both were absolutely beyond consideration and therefore out of the question. So he had stormed the supposed fortress at the first attempt and left no prisoners behind. He had mercilessly tidied up the remains of the defense, of whose former existence only a few dark stains still bore witness.

At first, the damsel had been theatrically coy, but soon offered what the kitchen and cellar had to offer and showed the future bailiff, or rather his bare weapon, the respect he deserved, cleaned his lance and made it shine again. After all, as the new bailiff, all doors were open to him. If they were still slightly jammed at the beginning, this would be remedied by walking through them several times.

He had broken through the brief phase of slight resistance with his usual means. Should he ask each time whether he was allowed to enter the conquered bower, the chamber of his desires? His strong hand had made it clear that only one person was in charge, only one person wore the pants and the one with the lowered pants recognized his own role. At least that was to prove true at the beginning.

The strange relationship with Suzette, as she wanted to be called by him, had already lasted a few weeks. She couldn't smell her baptismal name and it didn't really suit her personality. Not to such a self-confident creature who seemed to want to end his bachelor life abruptly.

Nothing remained of his dreamy ideas of being available as a wise old man in voluntary asceticism for young people seeking experience, as a kind of lexical oracle and competence center. There would be no story to tell about how it had been founded, nothing about the true

Genesis of his asceticism.

We warn against overtaking on the sidewalk!

He was fascinated by the sway of the hips, the staccato of the high heels on the pavement, by the attraction that a well-built female figure-eight exerts on men.

Conversely, he appreciated the pencil test and taut lines, so that hardly a second glance was needed to assess the rest of the surroundings. Women were thrilled that he looked them in the eye and openly addressed their hidden qualities rather than deep-digging into their cleavage. Unfortunately, a handicap prevented him from acting really successfully, as an instinctive compulsion caused disappointment every time.

Anyone who risks a glance at the front when overtaking enthusiastic rear views will notice again and again that the distribution of gifts is in balance, that nature favors no one. So throughout his life he was faced with the agony of choice, the choice of agony to decide, until he ended up as a withered bachelor. This is how poor prioritization and polite hesitation develop in the opposite direction to the attractiveness of one's own characteristics, until asceticism remains in the end.

He would not become the hag pride of an Adalbert Stifter, who could prepare himself for life with 72 Huri in seventh heaven with lustful virgins, no time as an ageing playboy was destined for him. Sooner or later, he would probably be thrown into the wedding machinery like a Charlie Chaplin in 'Modern Times', devoured by it and resurrected as a henpecked husband, like so many before him, comparable to an Odysseus with Circe.

The good-for-nothing of his years of roaming the world unattached would turn into a respectable pater familiae if he didn't manage to elegantly turn the corner once more. Just one more time. As long as there was still time. As long as he felt young, at over thirty.

Gaudeamus igitur

He had never been obedient to authority. None of his relatives could remember any such character trait in him either. Let's just call him Martin, our Strawanzer, who in later years would come to be known as an almost faultless nil. For him, prohibitions were intended as an invitation to find a direct, feasible way or a way around, a loophole, whether in the fence to the black and red sweet cherries in the neighbor's garden or in the law.

The old student song - 'gaudeamus igitur' - calls on us to rejoice in our youth until the earth wants us back in our old age. After that, after ageing has molested us. Youth resembles the Golden Age - the 'aurea prima' - of Publius Ovidius Naso, whose rules were not cast in bronze letters like those of childhood. „Don't get unnecessarily excited and don't get caught doing anything dubious," was how the parental legislator of childhood summed it up best in the 1980s.

The pranks were harmless, if a little daring. Tickling bare-footed Germanic tourists in the park, producing water bombs from Parisian balloons or deliberately misleading bossy Germans asking for directions in a fat Mercedes were as much a part of country life as water is to fish.

Apart from the fasting cod or rare, 'stray' rainbow trout from Alpine streams, these were usually only available as roast herrings, which were carried home in a large jug with the freshly tapped beer from one of the eight surrounding inns and eaten in the evening, usually accompanied by hot, freshly cooked, floury potatoes.

The years passed until it became clear that Martin was suitable for grammar school, which, however, could only be reached by the early shift workers' train, some 20 km away from the small town where he had spent his childhood and elementary school.

Habits quickly became established that revealed a creative approach to the rules of life and the authorities. As the last train for lunch left at 13:50 after the sixth lesson, but the lesson didn't end until 13:40, the harried students had to leave at 13:25, otherwise they would have had no connection until 15:20 without lunch. With a travel time of around 50 to 120 minutes, the authorities considered this unreasonable.

The student who left home at around 6:15 a.m. to go to school did not get home for lunch until around 2:45 p.m., eight and a half hours later. The premature departure made sense to all the professors, especially those who wanted to leave on the train themselves and had become victims of this Federal Railways regulation due to their job. The railroads saw the problem and a year later adapted the timetables to the teaching times.

However, the smart learner drivers did not change their departure times. For years, this saved them a good twenty minutes of boring lessons in the last lesson, or even up to thirty minutes for some gullible teachers. After all, there were also disabled pupils who had to be assisted and kept company on the way to school, or who were offered other bullshit excuses in abundance.

The morning and especially the first lesson were particularly hated. It had become customary for pupils to be tested unexpectedly in the first 5 or 10 minutes, which was to be avoided. Who likes to go under the pedagogical hatchet unprepared? Ideas buzzed around the creative circle of time scouts and soon - again - the state railroad company offered an ingenious solution.

In addition to the workers' train, which stopped at every station as a quasi-collector, an express train also stopped in the town at around 7:10 a.m., which made it possible for the student to arrive at class on time as he hurried towards the educational institution, opening up an opportunity par excellence. One professor even used this connection, which was the only one possible for him, so that there could not be the slightest doubt about the veracity of the external circumstances, arrival time and usability for students.

In the end, several groups of hopeful waiting passengers formed at the main station of the school and university town, who happily welcomed the almost daily delay of this connection, as it offered the chance to avoid 5 to 15 minutes of lessons and exam stress in exchange for a cozy chat with like-minded, moderately education-hungry people. Everything was rock-solidly secured by the inconvenience caused by the public transport companies due to these timetable deviations and joyfully applauded, occasional total breakdowns of the fast train. But then there were the much-loved official confirmations with a magnificent official seal, which consoled the pedantic authorities for the missed minutes of instruction.

This meant that those hungry for education missed around 30 to 50 minutes of lessons a day, almost a whole hour of school on a good day. Only a few clever teachers were malicious enough to study the timetables and put obstacles in the way of the prospective students' time management. As we all know, the exception proves the rule everywhere.

Martin was a bright little boy who used his time on the train to finish all his homework so that when he arrived home he would be relieved of such tiresome duties and also to prevent his parents, who were sometimes interested in education, from gaining an insight into the secrets of further education and training at home to consolidate the subject matter.

This was successful in almost all objects, except for Geometric Drawing, as the rattling of the train prevented sufficiently clean lines or the straightforward use of circles. The time spent at the stops was also too short. As a result, only a few of the required construction drawings were produced on the school bag on my knees, which meant that the few homework exercises in the limited free time were tolerable.

As time went on, the young inspectors, mainly from the first rows of seats, decoded the squiggles and abbreviations of the individual professors in their notebooks, so that nervous classmates could be informed in good time of any impending danger of exams, which seemed particularly helpful with the translations that were currently on the agenda in Latin class or with math problems. This allowed the average grade to be raised, creating a classic "win-win situation".

"Don't learn for school, learn for life", the professors' motto was adapted accordingly, Martin practiced the pragmatic-practical application of this motto in effortoptimizing creativity. And so the school years went by until the Matura put an end to the drama and the educational institution sent the successful graduates on their way to university.

In the meantime, the athletic youngster had made his breakthrough and had won Austrian runner-up titles in several disciplines in a fringe sport. This led to service without a weapon in the army's sports company, where he spent a year getting to know the big city and was given a further education in life than the provincial plant he was taken for in the army.

Perky, long-legged girls on high heels on the way to the barracks offered enough incentive to throw themselves into a friendly called fried potato relationship between a matron and a young student that brought fresh meat to a mid-thirties girl and Martin practical experience in the exchange of intensive body care.

They say that the big city makes young people mature faster. For a country bumpkin, the gain in experience was exponential and so he grew up unexpectedly quickly, becoming more resourceful and resourceful when it came to time and cost-saving solutions, as his financial resources were severely limited. Above all, he got to know the mentality of the capital city's inhabitants better and reported back home on various aspects of daily life, because that's what you get in this cultural capital alone, a Golden Viennese heart

This character trait of the Central European leading power with its idols Faymann1 and Spindelegger2 is world-famous. In terms of popularity, it is not even beaten by the "Golden Viennese Happiness", the wet dog excrement on the sidewalk, which is said to bring true happiness. This is where this euphemistic term comes from.

Representatives of this species with a golden heart are often heavyweight matrons who bring the weight of their usually more than 40 years of age panting into everyday traffic, scrambling for space for butts the size of coachman's horses, their voice a threatening tone, like the engine noise of a caterpillar. This is primarily in the daily struggle for a seat on the so-called 'Bim', the Viennese streetcar, and on all other public transport.3

Equally magical and fairy-like, primary school girls enliven the scene, as their school routes often intersect with the shopping and working routes of the busy Viennese people. It should also be noted that the majority of the natives can point to a historical migrant background. It is hardly difficult for them to adapt to the special culture of life as foreigners, or already fully integrated as citizens. The morning migration of peoples is sometimes amused by theatrical scenes such as those that take place on public transport.

Like Donatelli's putti, sculptures that adorn the altars of churches in a golden and childishly enchanting way, elementary school children go to the trough of knowledge and delight the public on public transport. Many passengers stand during rush hour, as seats are relatively scarce.

"First come, first served" and occupies the coveted armchair, which no Viennese would give up at any price in the world. Neither frail old people nor heavily pregnant women or mothers with small children are granted the pleasure of resting. The scout's honor ends at the seat. Gluing on an chair became famous as the world's best-known characteristic of the trained Viennese.

Manners are available to buy if required. The 'Neue Ellmayer', successor of the German Knigge, is supposedly bringing in record sales again, but offering your seat to someone in need is of the utmost rarity in the city on the Danube. Only lively old men with St. John's instinct sense their chance to ingratiate themselves with pretty girls or racy ladies in a gentlemanly manner. To do so, they pull this gesture out of their treasure chest of forgotten memories of the manner befitting a gentleman, accompanied by an implied kiss on the older ladies' hands.

This is what happened one morning in a traffic jam when a cute little girl of primary school age was sitting on line 6. This streetcar line runs from Simmering via Favoriten to Westbahnhof, crossing the adjacent working-class districts with their local neighborhood cultures.

At about the level of Absberggasse, i.e. on the border between the 10th and 11th 'Hieb4 ', shortly after the Geiereckstraße station, the massive body of a sweating battle tank in battle readiness had heaved itself up to the front rows of seats and hissed at the dark-haired foreign woman who was just preparing to occupy the last seat with "that's my seat!".

"Honor your age", this gesture of courtesy is still taken to heart by migrants, so the young lady gave way to the violence of flabby femininity. Heavy breathing after a successful battle regenerated the heavily athletic body. Soon afterwards, the living moral began to salivate in the best Favoriten dialect that young people today had no manners and were stealing seats from hard-working mothers. In fact, they no longer even intended to support the hardest-working people in living respect for the wisdom of old age.

The little angel in blonde across from her scrutinized the mega-angel with a long, critical gaze.

"Brat, what's wrong with you?" Miss Coachman's Horse snapped at the fairy-like girl. "You're also sitting and stealing the working people's well-deserved armchairs!"

The little girl was pensively silent, her smile blown away from her childish lips.

"They have no education, no manners these days. Probably some kind of foreign bastard who is preventing our children from succeeding at school," continued the paragon of grace in the Viennese lady's fur.

Suddenly the child lifted its pretty little head and beamed fervently at its counterpart. Her delicate mouth opened and she whistled: "Blade5 - fuck off!"

Without a change of expression, the angelic apparition closed her lips. Absolute silence fell in an instant. The entire carriage froze. For seconds, the scene resembled a silent movie sequence from a Buster Keaton film.

Then the excitement broke out. The tension erupted into raucous laughter. Jokes were cracked at the expense of the brewery horse's backside of the fair lady who had previously given such educational suggestions.

In the masses, the Viennese fellow travelers mutated to parade bullies and suggestions to the living fighting machine sounded from all corners and throats, with diet suggestions or sports tips from the lowest drawer of milieu-related idioms.

One joker wanted to see whether the battle tank might also roll on tracks or have twin tires to transport the calories it had eaten, while another thought it would be ideal as a life raft on the banks of the Danube, as fat is known to always float on top, and more.

It took just under a minute for Miss Adipositas to lift her megatons into the air and leave the unfriendly surroundings, get out with an Oscar-winning expression to the derisive laughter of the mob, and then make a Bambi Award-winning dash towards the Bohemian Prater.

As an innocent bystander to this event, Martin documented the trilogy of gold in the heart, verbal happiness and curls of a Viennese elf. He had no trouble imagining her, herself around 40 years older, in the role of her opponent. After all, the generational trap in the inheritance of physical and character traits always strikes mercilessly.

The scene had achieved one thing. Normally there are only grumpy faces on the public transport, but many people were laughing and joking. To experience this in Vienna was an unimaginable stroke of luck. The fact that the kick in the verbal feces had provided the occasion for this shows that the legend of the Golden Viennese Happiness speaks true.

It may have been a twist of fate that brought a spontaneous halt to xenophobia here with a dog turd that had become a word.

More devout people would assume that the migrants' guardian angel may have snapped and used the figure of the innocent elf. Well, the end justifies the means.

After serving in the army, which mainly consisted of avoiding being in the barracks by constantly attending training camps at home or traveling to competitions, the young athlete chose to study to optimize his life goals.

A real career opportunity, a return to the capital and a 'Plan B' if the project failed were the three must-have criteria for his choice of subjects. This meant that sport or sports science were out of the question, as he could never imagine working as a frustrated animator for pimple-faced exercise abstainers. A compulsory second subject, which did not appeal to him in the slightest, was something he would only have thought of completing as an alibi anyway.

This led him to choose the business administration course with the option of teaching at commercial academies or other vocational schools if he could not find a job in the real world. Without the risk of dismissal - should he fail in the private sector - he would have to teach in a school. Therefore teaching offered a belt he was aiming for in parallel with suspenders to keep his trousers in place. Moreover, this course of study was only offered in Vienna or Graz, which fulfilled three of his premises.

Satisfied with the optimization, he presented his parents with the goals of an academic career that his brother had already embarked on, promising a smooth discussion. He was accepted, which enabled him to leave the nest at home and be forced to do so. He freed himself from narrow provincial thinking and clucking care.

As a formal dance enthusiast even in small village events, he learned to devote himself to pure fun at ball events and experienced his second era of risk-free game-hunting, for example in the Vienna Hofburg, decked out in a tuxedo and a jacket, for example at the Rose Monday.

The Rudolfina-Redoute is one of the most interesting ball events in the Hofburg. On Rose Monday, when the city center of Cologne becomes hormonally and alcoholically contaminated with around 20,000 women and just 5,000 searching guys, the last living bat operetta goes live in the ball city of Vienna.

The carnival idea from bygone days of carnival hustle and bustle still exists as a retro event, reminiscent of times when little else delighted young academics and their ancestors.

The charm of this special masked ball can be admired every year, usually on ORF TV, in one of the old, kitschy productions on New Year's Eve. All the ladies appear in evening dress, but with masks, and its ladies' choice until midnight. At the stroke of the witching hour, if they are still present, the beauties of the night unmask themselves and reveal their true identities.

For friends of burka and chador, this is actually nothing special, apart from the fact that, according to the prevailing fundamentalist customs, the fair wife has to sacrifice her head of hair out of respect for marriage and husband and her bald head shines towards the master of her house on her wedding night.

Until midnight, i.e. for about 21/2 hours after the opening by the states ballet, the ladies alone command the favor and their choice of tailcoated gentlemen may be watched suspiciously by some partners, should jealousy be involved. But other motives can also prevail. This was Martin's experience when he once again sought to experience the delights of the 'taxi dancer'.

The beauty of this festival is that the colorful round dance also occasionally provides a dance master for every lady who is considered to be a bit of an oddball or other frightful woman with a veiled appearance. As a result, the turnout is more than slightly lady-heavy, at least until midnight. Schnitzler's 'Traumnovelle' is the intellectual continuation of the underlying idea of this frivolous masked ball.

In 'Kölle am Rhein', Cologne, on the other hand, the laws of married life are considered to be suspended between the Thursday of Weiberfasnacht and Shrove Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. Generally speaking, population statistics also show that births are more frequent around nine months after Ash Wednesday and that interdependencies are therefore clearly demonstrable. The consumption of 'Kamelle', the sweets thrown into the crowd during the Rose Monday parade, is also said to be enormous, as are the balloons of various designs. It is said that you catch mice with bacon.

The fact that such conclusions could also be drawn about the birth register in the Danube metropolis is prevented both by the limited capacity of the Hofburg halls and the achievements of chemistry in medicine. At least as far as statistically reliable statements are concerned.

In any case, good dancers are in great demand and it wasn't just Martin who found himself constantly in close combat with an odalisque in a mask, but also every single one of his acquaintances who had also fallen into the vice of dance mania.

A fantastic little figure with a passionate temperament was just having fun with him, dragging him from hall to hall, from one dance to another. The racy ballerina enchanted him with her youth, sporty aesthetics and overwhelming charm. She cast a spell over him and loved to be swayed around to the beat.

Her gypsy mentality was expressed in a brightly colored evening dress, gorgeous black hair and a divine bottom. With South American temperament, she drummed her samba steps on the dance floor, the swing of her hips and the quivering of her globes testified to her fiery passion and caught the eyes of many a gallant.

She spoke French with Martin, although a Viennese accent came through audibly. Nevertheless, she played the foreigner, the incomprehensible naïf, whenever covetous rivals came on to her in German. He secretly christened her "Ma chére Joséphine" in memory of the infamous Creole mistress of the Roi of the French and called her "ma petite Haitienne", as she stood barely more than 1.66 m high on her stiletto heels.

At some point, she suddenly pressed herself very close to him and played 'la grande tempteuse', trying to 'seduce' him in public while dancing. Her cheek nestled against his in a clinch, so that they glided through the hall as little more than a couple than Siamese twins.

"Sorry that I'm abusing you right now," she whispered in his ear, "the one opposite with the red bolero jacket is my husband's current mistress. The scoundrel really did invite her here and didn't tell me that he was already back in Vienna. He was still on a business trip, he lied to me."

Martin had become curious, albeit slightly irritated. "Then why doesn't he recognize you?" he asked, unsuspecting of female cunning and applied acting.

"Because he doesn't know this dress and I've dyed my hair a new color. I'm naturally auburn. It will end up being expensive for him. The bill alone for the hairdresser, Balenciaga evening gown, accessories and the high heels with all the other frills amounts to several thousand euros. He will also find the jewelry on his credit card. The bill will teach him that a resourceful wife comes at a high price when he smiles at a random mistress."

Now his hunting instinct was awakened. "How long have you known about his adultery games?" he wanted to know.

"Well, as long as the bimbos change regularly, I don't give a damn," she confessed, "because I'm no wallflower either and I love the custom of French women to have a good time. I only sense danger when it's regular and experience teaches me to do something about it in good time. This one is probably quite new and mentally simple, as she succumbs to his charms at the ball, as you can easily see. Her dress is expensive enough for her to be married, as the shine on her ring finger confirms. So any danger seems to be averted, because such a wardrobe costs money. The possible thought of England's prince instead of your own frog in the marriage bed as a reward for the regular expansion of your bank account usually prevents a nerve-wracking separation. In any case, I have gained some enlightening insights."

With that, she pulled her dancer into the neighboring hall of mirrors and let herself be pirouetted, enjoying the fiery music. As midnight approached, everyone rushed towards the main hall to witness the unveiling of the secrets after the ballet interlude.

In the midst of the turmoil, Martin realized that his race wife was slipping away from him. He lost her in a group of ladies through whom she had gracefully meandered. Obviously not unprompted, the phalanx of robes did not move one foot to keep the beauty's secret.

Only after a long time did he manage to resume the search, but to no avail. Cinderella had left the place at the witching hour and no glass slipper allowed her to be tracked. La Criolla remained missing. Whether for her husband's sake or to avoid temptation was to remain forever unexplored.

The colorful butterfly had fluttered on and left a gap in Martin's heart. Only much later, after various dance partners, did the carefree pleasure return with an enthusiastic ballerina. He devoted his charm to her and told her about the pitfalls that a poor husband must be aware of in his wife's harness. That he had been abused by the aforementioned beauty of the night, a Scheherazade, who seemed to have been told to live her life with stories. As if he were the Sultan Sharyâr of legend, convinced that there is no faithful wife on earth.

The difference between Cologne on the Rhine and the Hofburg in Vienna is that the beer named Kölsch is to be weighed against champagne and the bitter winter cold against cozy Hofburg alcoves, but the royal and imperial descendants near the Orient are not expected to party mercilessly from Weiberfasnacht until Shrove Tuesday at midnight.

Both cities are exhausting in the hustle and bustle of carnival. The masquerade in tails is contrasted with the carnival costume. Statistically, women outnumber men in Cologne's city center by a ratio of 5:1, with alcohol levels and the degree of overcrowding in the trendy venues scoring similarly high.

The Globetrotter's advice is that everyone should get to know both, because travel is educational and in both cities the rules are different on Rose Monday than they are for the rest of the year. Sometimes it even stops afterwards.

1 Chancellor of Lipizzania

2 Vice-Chancellor of Lipizzania

3 Public transportation

4 Bezirk - Viennese dialect term for the working-class districts

5 Viennese dialect for: 'very obese'

Sacré-Cœur

Her grandmother disdainfully called them as tabernacle swallows, the strict nuns who taught the adolescent girls. School uniform was compulsory, with a dark skirt and light blouse, because the chaste housewife had to look feminine and neat, fulfill her duties and keep the house, garden and husband in good order. Embodying the traditional ideal of Marianismo in its purest form in the early 21st century with the woman at the stove.

The only rays of hope at the Catholic boarding school were the vacations spent with her grandmother, who, though suffering from the post-war period, was nevertheless shrewdly getting through life. She didn't have a good word to say about the church, which got her into a lot of trouble in the hypocritical province of Tyrol, where Sunday is dedicated to the public exhortation to go to church together by those Christians who wear their religion as if it were the Lord's Day. Occasional processions, such as for the celebration of the 'Sacred Heart of Jesus', forced the of the Sacré-Cœur to suffer with the Savior when, as teenagers in their school uniforms, they had to endure the pitying grins of the pimply-faced boys without makeup.

When Suzette reached puberty, she got to know a whole new side of her grandmother. She didn't mince her words and passed on her wisdom to her granddaughter unvarnished. A hundred years earlier, she would probably have been labeled a suffragette. But even long after the flower power era, the offshoots of the hippie movement, she made an effort to pass on some of her helpful chutzpah to her descendant and to get her interested in everything that the school, which was obsessed with girlish shyness, elegantly avoided.

By no means did she want to turn her granddaughter into a modern, affluent waif. She motivated her with a gentle hand and unconsciously modeled her little girl after her. This is what her management style would be called in modern management journals. At the same time, she encouraged Suzette to approach every culture with open eyes and not to simply call anything nonsense without dealing with it first.

She rebuked any dismissal á priori with the remark: "A previously unrecognized jewel lies with the treasure of the Nibelungs. If you don't look for it, you won't get really rich." To be found is a true gem.

"Ugh," Suzette scolded and threw the book on the table, "how can you talk such nonsense and call it art?"

The reason for her displeasure lay in the fourth act: Shakespeare's King Lear says to Gloster: "See there the dainty lady, her face whispers snow in her lap; she spreads herself virtuously and turns away, she only hears lust called and yet polecat and hottempered mare are not so impetuous in their rutting."

"You've found it, you've found the key to the treasure!" Clara, her grandmother, looked at her granddaughter with a smile. "Look at the marker in the text." The word 'petite' was colored yellow.

The high school graduate, uncomprehending: "What are you saying?"

"Interpret the text," the old lady asked her.

"It seems the old lecher is making fun of those who seem to defend their virginity by all means, until it's all too late, they get white hair. These everywhere, to put it vividly. Obviously a key to success, because what self-confident woman would want to enter the eternal hunting grounds as a withered youngster? The gallant uses all the verbal means at his disposal to persuade the fair lady to make love, in a medieval way," Suzette said, "and he is clearly irritated by the dismissive manner in which his beloved plays coy, although both of them realize that it is all a pretext. The good girl seems to want to be extremely willing, but shies away from the risk of being blessed with an illegitimate brat, because there was no pill and all that back then!"

"Well, not that much has changed to this day. If a woman is looking for a husband, a strategy will be necessary, because by jumping into bed when the mood takes her, the girl often gets fun, but rarely a groom who is still seriously thinking about an engagement," sighed the old lady.

"And what are you babbling on about treasure and all that?" the granddaughter wanted to know with sparkling eyes. It's probably impossible to escape such fantasies, and after all, you can still have fun with your grandma or even want to believe in fairy tales - regardless of your age.

"Depending on what you see as a treasure," smiled the old woman. "One wants a treasure that can be represented in money, another means a certain goal in life, a third believes quite profanely that a man should first put his finger in an engagement or wedding ring before he is allowed to go apron hunting. There are many possibilities."

"That sounds like a reminder to stay unharmed for as long as possible," chided the curious woman.

"No, why?" grinned the old woman, twirling the beautiful ring on her middle finger with relish. "That means no real gentleman wants an engagement ring back. How else does a poor girl get some nice jewelry?"

"Grandma!" the little girl fixed her ancestor with wide eyes. "You're not saying that ..."

"Suzette, do you think your generation has now discovered the philosopher's stone by exhausting all pharmaceutical options?" chided the old lady, looking thoughtfully at the gold-set, deep blue sapphire on her finger and continuing: "Sparrows are much easier to catch when they're sitting on your hand. You can hardly get close to the swan on the pond. With machos, that means the pigeon in your fingers is far better than the pigeon on the roof. Especially because it can't hear you."

Now the granddaughter was speechless. "Grandma! Does that mean that you ...?"

"Honor the age," she demanded: "Believe me. Even in the old days, on bitterly cold winter nights, a warm cloth duvet with toes on it turned out to be much more comfortable and cozy than a hot water bottle that slowly but steadily cooled down."

"You're spoiling me," Suzette laughed and asked, "which treasure am I supposed to be looking for how much should I adorn myself to present launch rings as jewelry for my fingers like a gunman of the Wild West cuts notches into the handle?"

"Pretty fingers adorn only two rings. The one on the ring finger. They are called engagement and wedding rings. So it's not worth going hunting ringed like a pigeon. It's better to keep the space free for the only handcuff a girl is allowed to accept from her gallant if she wants to remain independent. What else he puts on her until he gets his hoop depends on the wisdom of his fiancée. She should also wear this adornment only sparingly, so that there is always a gap to fill, on the ear, neck or wherever it can give pleasure and embellish."

"Clever idea" - Suzette rubbed her nose thoughtfully. "The whole thing is nothing more than a simple instrumentalism of the old wisdom that men love to quote: Fall in love often, get engaged rarely, never get married!"

"Not necessarily the latter, but you should only marry once or twice, depending on the success of the marriage," replied the old woman. "However, you should always be aware that a man who wants to put his finger in the ring will only do so voluntarily if he believes that he won't get bored of the sight in the long run."

"Now we've probably reached the second part of the quote," the granddaughter concluded from her grandmother's expression.

"Well, it's not without reason that the chilly-looking ladies are said to glow hot as lava between the sheets. Even though they act so aloof. Or precisely because they know what happens once they get going. Turning away is like the mare inviting the stallion to bite her on the neck. If you compare the cultures, you will see that the missionaries acted very wisely. Someone who looks his victim in the eye is less likely to act out his feelings than someone who is giving 'la mort douce'. In this way, the ambassadors of the hypocritical church are trying to pass on their own prudery instead of handing out forbidden condoms in place of the Pope's blessing."

"It's all so understandable," mused Suzette, "but why does everyone act differently today, does every party end in bed?"

"Because people often confuse two things. The so-called fun society doesn't really have fun. If you ever wake up with the feeling that a polecat has nested in your mouth and someone is lying next to you and you look at them with horror, you know what's wrong with pleasure. There is no more catharsis, the period between expectation and fulfillment of desire. If you don't value your jewel as a girl, you won't enjoy brushing it and making it shine. That it - rarely done - will evoke enthusiasm and represent the most beautiful jewelry a young lady possesses."

"I see, that's why the ladies at court used to get married so they could be free afterwards." She had caught on. "In some periods of time, it was said to be indecent to sleep with your own husband. Today's marriage law hasn't changed that. A marital child comes from the marriage to a high percentage, but that is only to be understood in temporal terms.

" The little bits of wisdom from the women's movement brochures had firmly lodged themselves in the young woman's brain. "The brood must be provided for, that hasn't changed. Whoever donates the sperm last usually doesn't matter if the lady of the house chooses skillfully. If you're married, you can do whatever you want. His wedding ring is the treasure, the jewel with the 'get out of jail card', the key to liberation. So nothing has really changed. Only today, self-confident women often recklessly leave it to their own devices to provide for the future breadwinner of their litter in good time."

"People never change, the battle of the sexes has never been fair to men," grinned the old lady. "But if you want to keep your husband in your own bed, remember King Lear's last sentence. Floor tiles and husbands are easy to maintain. They just need to be properly flattened first. Swap jewel for jewel, and you'll always keep your treasure, only the preciousness changes."

Later, in bed, Suzette reflected on what she had learned. Not only that the old Brit spoke brashly in his plays, but that it was worth looking behind the scenes of such dull plays. After all, fools used to be the welcome advisors of prudent kings and popular plays were the guides to morality and a sense of justice.

Today's court counselors are therefore hardly comparable to the court jesters of old, as they knew how to help the ruler, while the latter are helped by ripping them off on their own account. In any case, the girl decided to put her knowledge to good use and silently thanked the wisdom of old age.

Suzette's mother had died young and she still had vague memories of her mother, as she had grown up with her grandmother. Before her graduation ball, however, the past had regained its power over the girl. Some encounters remain unforgettable for generations.

Dancing mice

"Grandma, I did it, I called him." The lively teenager scurried excitedly around the lady with the white hair.

"You hopeless romantic, tell me!" she urged the girl, caressing her granddaughter with curious glances.

"He called me 'Martin', his voice sounded nice, young, but he must be well over thirty, 'I'm Charlotte's daughter'.

There was a long silence, then came 'that's not possible'. His amazement was palpable, after all, more than ten years had passed.

'I want to thank you, you made my mom laugh again'. I couldn't help it, I had to tell him," the girl confessed.

'How is she' came the question.

'You wouldn't know it, Charlotte died shortly after the ball, she was terminally ill. Her last words were 'I was his Capa'. I thought you should know that. My mom went very happy to her eternal sleep'. Then I hung up. What do you think, Grandma?"

"It must be a wonderful feeling to have been worthy of a dying person's last beautiful thought." She hugged the teenager. "I'll never forget it. Charlotte really wanted to go to the Viennese Zuckerbäcker Ball again before she died. Your resolute aunt didn't hesitate and turned up the PC. You played with Barbie and Ken at the court with a ball and you went wild as usual.

'Dancing mouse, a little less wild', your mom fended you off.

That's when the penny dropped and the title of the ad appeared before my eyes.

Both girls said 'crazy' in unison.

'And what you want should be normal,' I replied."

"That's how it all started, the whole story you've told me thousands of times," the little girl rejoiced. "I couldn't go to my graduation ball without calling him, there was no other way."

"Charlotte died happy, it was all worth it," sighed both grandma and granddaughter with moist eyes.

Martin

He was shaken. It had been so many years and he had never been able to forget her. Dreaming about her felt as if it had all happened yesterday. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of burgundy, sat down on the terrace and surrendered to his memories.

He was bored, the young user of the website love.at, so he rummaged through the lust search, which, often disguised as a relationship search was intended to arouse the curiosity of the opposite sex.

The treasure trove of funny to annoying advertisements of frumpy princesses and model guys was quickly filtered. The "fish looking for bicycles" category, the search for "real men at eye level" undoubtedly provides little information about the respective personality structure of the girl scouts.

"With jeans and evening dress for stealing horses" warns urgently against confronting the advertiser with real nature or even animals, unless it happens in the form of a solid gold leopard pendant on a slave necklace of the same carat weight by Bulgari.

The supposed stallion is then stolen from Mami's stables so that he can be prepared as a willing mount for the Principessa, especially through the shopping streets of the fashion metropolis.

This means throwing "pearls before swine", because "men are pigs", as the emancipation camp, whose inmates would of course never use such sites - more often than daily.

Eureka!

There it was, the 'black pearl', the jewel in the depths of the 'Sea of Wishes'.

"Two dancing mice looking for dancers" was the title of the advertisement, sounding serious, cheeky, yet ambiguous enough to attract flies that could have their legs ripped off.

Marin read out that two mature ball rats in their thirties wanted to be led to the dance, as a duo, to protect themselves from the evil wolf with mutual governance. His reply matched the flippant tone: "I love it, whether in the country or in the Hofburg, I'm attracted by flair and movement in time to the right musical accompaniment. With charm and similar size, important for boogie and figure dances, to romp across the parquet, to leave the sole impression at court with - still - familiar steps, I find an excellent idea. Thank you for your idea, I'll definitely go there, to one or more ball events, that's what I've been missing. Single dancers are already extinct today, only known from nostalgic films, so I work alone for God's reward, rewarded by the grace of my dance partner and the athletic aspects of aerobics in a tailcoat or tuxedo."

The advantage of internet dating is the quick response and anonymity of the baskets. But lo and behold, a last-minute meeting in a café near Mariahilf brought them together. Both, brunette, about 1.65 cm on high heels, Ulrike, slim, businesswoman type and Charlotte, more feminine, similarly inconspicuously dressed, calmer-looking, awaited Martin, blonde, about 1.70 cm in shoes, casually dressed in a sporty jacket and jeans.

The ladies seemed to be about thirty years old each and his youthful charm was effective. None of them were bothered by his 25 years. Both sides' general preying patterns seemed to fit. They got closer in conversation and he freely described his ideas and reasons for his interest.

"I already liked going to balls as a student. The atmosphere in an evening suit is great. The dapper guys who try to maintain their dignity even after midnight - mostly through alcohol - willingly leave their dance-hungry wives to every gallant. An Eldorado for dancers like me, who enjoy music, have stamina for close combat in public and offer the starving spouses and their daughters' incentives to let off steam with relish."

Concealing the true thoughts. "Public acts on the dance floor with tango or mambo, truly a copulation in costume, dry orgasms of sexually irritated ladies accompanied by Latin American rhythms, open the heart and others, without the danger of marital jealousy. The husband, as the master of creation, even congratulates himself when the 'best of all wives' (thanks Ephraim Kishon, for that phrase) is swung in a circle, the dancer's mastery of centrifugal force becomes his duty and his spouse is spared the sweat-inducing gymnastics. It is also worth mentioning that the consequences of the tempestuous joy of movement can largely help to exculpate one's own hidden liaison if the hot melee in the ballroom continues in other arenas, which is why certain dances used to be forbidden. Leading two tasty ball rats to the music feeding trough is immense fun, as there is no compulsion to go all the way if it doesn't work out with the neighbor."

Prelude

"We want to go to the Zuckerbäcker Ball in the Musikverein hall," Ulrike briskly laid out the direction of travel, visibly waiting to be asked why.

"I love this venue with its fantastic acoustics, which is an experience every year at the New Year's Concert," said Martin happily. "What other results did your search bring up?"

"Oh God," Charlotte slipped out. It was easy to see from her expression that the mail server must have been filled with everything from 'sensitive cowboys' to bossy 'penetrators'.

"It was very mixed, so to speak," Ulrike summarized and quickly changed the subject so as not to have to explain the scope for interpretation of the advertisement title in more detail.

"I think it's important to have a rehearsal beforehand to test the mutual understanding of movement and beat to the music. The Hofburg with its numerous halls and bands at balls, now Saturday at the Vienna Business Ball, is the ideal venue. I get the table, everyone gets their own ticket. It is essential to harmonize at the dance, it would be a shame to only discover problems at your dream ball. Temperaments that don't get along when dancing or both of a couple who want to lead at the same time destroy any chance of having fun," Martin suggested.

It was decided and after a long chat about God and the world, leaving out anything too private, the trio parted company. The hectic pace was palpable. For women, having to attend two balls is a challenge that causes them fear and anxiety, especially when it comes to clothing and hairstyle. Conferences between friends and across generational divides are necessary to discuss all aspects of the problem, until finally, for cost reasons, wearing the same dress instead of borrowing one and neighborly help versus a visit to the hairdresser are weighed against each other.

The shrewd gentleman arranges drop-off and pick-up appointments with the dry cleaner, briefly checks whether the hairstyle is still short enough or whether a trip to Edward with the Scissor Hands is in order. Depending on his partner's rating on the perfect 10 scale. Machismo crowns every gifted dancer. Without dominance, the leading of the partner is not really visible through 'method acting', the most important aspect of the role of Tarzan in tango and mambo.

As much as emancipated ladies detest these characteristics in and of themselves, they long to be presented to the audience in the arms of a dance partner as a kind of showpiece. Exhibitionistic, mentally naked before the crowd, Evitas's erotic grace lies in her movements. Like Eva Duarte in Juan Perón's clinch during a tango.

If you can make your diva glide fluidly in pirouettes, the front and back of your Margot Fonteyn like Rudolf Nureyev or, like Fred Astaire, deliver your Leslie Caron to the greedy gaze that rutting Adams want to pounce on their rib clone, you can conquer your lady's heart and more, collect your reward, because the fortress is shot to storming point. The favor of the hour seems boundless.

The moment a couple understand each other so deeply that the harmony of their movements is publicly applauded, all reason is suspended. The lady looks like a cat after reaching into a pot of cream, everyone can feel it. Anyone who watches ice skaters or dancers on television will be familiar with this intense aura of lived intimacy between the two.

'He's ripe,' says her expression.

Training is everything and now it's just a question of time and opportunity to find out whether Mr. Macho can also prove his strength on the dance floor in other situations in life. Women love the go-go bar as a body-shaping training tool. As long as it is firmly anchored and there is no risk of falling off.

This sport toughens essential muscle groups and shapes the body in harmony with the soul and accompanying music. In this way, the dancing mouse species endangers itself and the presumption of innocence applies to the dancing master, who, as a victim of female instincts and passion, is actually to be pitied if he does not also perform his duty on the dance floor in the all-important free dance when the ball rat is hot on the pirouette and tango cradle. Every Eve becomes a praying mantis, it's genetically pre-programmed.

Gallop

In the Hofburg, the home of the magnificent Lipizzaner horses, the restaurant was preparing for the ball. The table he had ordered was in an adjoining room and Martin was waiting for his ladies' duo there, in a very cavalier manner. He was sure they would arrive in time for the polonaise. Women are punctual when external constraints affect them or exhibitionist motives lead them to shine in the background.

"Like St. Martin sharing his coat, I'll divide my dances fairly between the two of you," suggested the caped dancer as he checked the ladies' gowns out of the corner of his eye to see if they were suitable for dancing. Ulrike was wearing a low-cut evening dress with a corset top, matching her appearance as a self-confident manager. Charlotte, on the other hand, teased the viewer's imagination with soft lines that revealed rather than concealed her curves. Both thus retained their original appearance. Ulrike unmistakably dominated the action.

"Rose bushes left and right, I feel like a winner," he joked. "Shall we watch the opening? The state ballet is dancing today."

Interestingly, both ladies held back from commenting afterwards, an admirable achievement considering the performance of the young debutants, some of whom really struggled with the left-hand waltz, especially the boys.

"The body connection is missing" thought Martin "the inner inhibition threshold with central enemy contact makes the pelvis naturally stiffen, a hollow back follows and the necessary follow-up movement to the step of the leader can then be more guessed than really felt. Only experienced dancers or lovers lack this shyness in the waltz clinch.

This is immediately noticeable, regardless of the individual's dancing skills. The thigh announces the next step to the partner's pelvis. This intimate communication must first be tolerated before harmony can be achieved. That's why experienced women move much cuddlier and respond eagerly to every nod from their leader. Mature instruments sound the most beautiful, the Stradivarius is the best example," her dancer was once instructed by his own teacher.

At the start of the audience dance, Ulrike grabbed her cavalier and pulled him onto the dance floor.

"Three dances and then change," Martin suggested, "both the lady and - according to taste - the dance hall, and therefore the style of music. Only disco gymnastics in tails doesn't suit me."

We started with a foxtrot in the main hall, followed by a waltz and polka. As expected, Ulrike wanted to lead and was fully in control, stiffening slightly at every attempt by her dance master to introduce a slightly more unconventional dance step. It was difficult to get a conversation going, the lady was too focused on style and step. Nevertheless, the showgirl gene was evident in her and the dancing posture would have been appropriate for any British tea party, he grinned to himself.

"Are you going to keep this up until the end?" she teased him.

"If you two don't give up before then, I'll dance you into the ground before dawn," he promised, again without any real success in easing the tension. So he quickly exposed the crux of the situation. "A dance school evening, extended," Martin judged in his mind. He assumed Ulrike was thinking along similar lines, as words continued to flow haltingly between them. "This is going to be quite exciting," his subconscious warned.

"And it came to pass," as the Bible says. Charlotte smiled kindly as he led her onto the dance floor.

"You've taken on a lot. Where do you get this stamina from?" she moaned after Landler, Galopp and Quick-Step.