The Death Of Three Men. Novel E-Book

Carlo Schäfer

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

Seitenzahl: 126

Beschreibung

Like a Hall of Mirrors at the fairground, this book is a piece of grotesquerie which takes ignorance, repressed rage and self-centredness to absurd extremes. Karl Karst anticipates the end of his life with airy nonchalance. No, he is not in the least at odds with the swelling-up of his not-inconsiderable girth, which is now ballooning on a daily basis. In the end, he bursts. Carlo Schäfer takes up the pen where Nikolai Gogol, Franz Kafka und Daniil Charms put theirs down. He writes about our mad, grotesque world: the work is by turns concise, precise, bizarre, humorous and hard-hitting. We have here a novel which subtly weaves miniatures into a real firecracker. “The Death Of Three Men: Concerning the going home of Karl Karst, of Fat Herr Konrad, and of the one calling himself David; also medicine, Protestant lay missionary work, pest control and theodicy” – to give it its full title – is a roman noir without any apparent crimes, yet rooted in the illicit depths of the human soul. “Carlo Schäfer has succeeded in creating a perfectly wonderful literary gem!” Anne Kuhlmeyer, Wort & Tat

Leseprobe

About this Edition

Karl Karst anticipates the end of his life with airy nonchalance. No, he is not in the least at odds with the swelling-up of his not-incon-siderable girth, which is now ballooning on a daily basis. In the end, he bursts.

Carlo Schäfer takes up the pen where Nikolai Gogol, Franz Kafka und Daniil Charms put theirs down. He writes about our mad, grotesque world: the work is by turns concise, precise, bizarre, humorous and hard-hitting. We have here a novel which subtly weaves miniatures into a real firecracker.

»The Death Of Three Men: Concerning the going home of Karl Karst, of Fat Herr Konrad, and of the one calling himself David; also medicine, Protestant lay missionary work, pest control and theodicy« – to give it its full title – is a roman noir without any apparent crimes, yet rooted in the illicit depths of the human soul.

Like a Hall of Mirrors at the fairground, this book is a piece of grotesquerie which takes ignorance, repressed rage and self-centredness to absurd extremes

»Carlo Schäfer has succeeded in creating a perfectly wonderful literary gem!« Anne Kuhlmeyer, Wort & Tat

About the Author

Carlo Schäfer, born 1964, lives and works in Heidelberg. Five of his detective stories have been published by Rowohlt (four have been translated into Russian). Rowohlt have also published a lexicon, written by Carlo Schäfer under a pseudonym (our lips remain sealed!) Edition Nautilus also published one his crime novels. Der Verlag an der Ruhr has published two of his young adult detective stories. In CULTurMAG/CrimeMag Carlo Schäfer writes the »Carlos« column, which tackles an eclectic range of topics. He is a frequent contributor to anthologies from a variety of publishing houses and was nominated for the Glausur Debut Award for the best first work by a German-language crime writer.

Carlo Schäfer

The Death of Three Men

Concerning the going home of Karl Karst, of Fat Herr Konrad, and of the one calling himself David; also medicine, Protestant lay missionary work, pest control and theodicy.

Novel

Impressum

First Edition: © CulturBooks Verlag 2015

Gärtnerstr. 122, 20253 Hamburg

Phone: [phone], [email protected]

www.culturbooks.de

All Rights Reserved

eBook Cover Design: Magdalena Gadaj

eBook Production: CulturBooks

Day of Release: Mar, 1st, 2015

ISBN 978-3-944818-79-5

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Chapter 1: The last ten days of Karl Karst’s life prior to his death by bursting

Chapter 2: Fat Herr Konrad on a journey of love

Chapter 3:

For Dorit – affectionate, patient, witty, melancholy, clever and naturally beautiful.

Chapter 1

The last ten days of Karl Karst’s life prior to his death by bursting

Karl Karst spent the morning of the tenth day before his bursting in a very relaxed, happy frame of mind. He ate ham and eggs, a white bread roll, a wholemeal one, and his coffee had turned out particularly well. He prepared his coffee himself, by hand, and was proud of his ability to do so. For some time he had been aware that he was becoming slightly more rotund – in a peculiar sort of way: his weight remained constant. This didn’t bother him in the slightest. He had grown very easygoing and even-tempered as the years went by.

After breakfast Karl Karst went to the bus stop. Apart from him there was only one old lady waiting, with a mangy poodle.

“It’s getting worse and worse,” said the old lady, shaking her head.

“What?” asked Karl Karst. “What is getting worse and worse?”

“The buses are late, then they’re early, then they just don’t turn up at all,” said the lady. “Who knows how long we’ll be waiting!”

Karl Karst turned it over in his mind. He hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the public transport lately. The lady went on and on; he wasn’t listening. He was cogitating about the weather: grey sky, a light wind – hardly noticeable – the temperature outside the same as just now inside his flat. He couldn’t prove it of course, but that was how it seemed to him. He decided that there wasn’t really any weather that day, so to speak. The bus came.

There were people sitting in the bus: a blind chap with a white stick who was kneading his private parts, two pale youths, the lady with the poodle had already sat down. Karl was still standing, undecided about where to sit. The bus set off. He almost fell over. At the station he dismounted, took a deep breath, and realised that right now, nothing – absolutely nothing – interested him.

Once he’d arrived at the station pub, The Station, he sat as usual at the small round table by the window. From here he had a good view of the glass frontage opposite and could keep an eye on things happening in the station concourse. People were walking to and fro. The pub landlord, Fred Geist, nodded to him. Karl Karst nodded back.

“That’s half the day gone again!” said Geist and held up a pils glass to the light for inspection, then polished it one more time. “Crazy how time flies! What’s the family up to, Karl?”

“Haven’t got one.”

“Ah, that’s right. Sorry!”

“Sorry? Why sorry?”

“Because I ... your family ...”

“It’s not something bad, not to have a family.”

“Of course.”

“And what’s your family up to, Fred?”

“The old girl’s the same as ever. Jaqeline and Piffel, too. Beer, Karl?”

“As ever!”

“Piffel’s real name is Patrick,” said Geist, drawing the beer with great deliberation. “Heaven only knows how we ended up with that nickname.”

“Another of life’s mysteries,” said Karl Karst.

“Anyhow, I don’t know how we ended up with that nickname.”

“Can’t know everything,” said Karl Karst.

The landlord placed the pint on the round table.

“You’ve put a bit of weight on,” said the landlord.

“It only looks that way,” said Karl Karst.

“You’re a right one, you are!” said Fred Geist.

“I am a one!” Karl Karst agreed.

A while later Geist pointed across to the glass frontage.

“Just don’t end up like him, that’s all!”

Karl Karst turned his head. Sure enough, there was a very fat man, leaning on a stick, struggling along, he was dragging a heavy case and wheezing like an old nag.

“I’m not turning into one of those,” said Karl Karst. “I’m only getting rounder, not heavier.” The landlord raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Instead, half an hour later, he said, “He’s neither use nor ornament.”

“Who?” asked Karl Karst.

“Piffel,” said Fred Geist.

An hour later Karl Karst said, “I’ll have another beer.” The landlord nodded. “There’s hardly any trains stopping here now. Don’t get many people in. I’ve been thinking about changing the name from The Station to The Big Bang. What do you think?” Karl took a mouthful of beer and said, some time later, “I’m afraid I have absolutely no thoughts either way.”

A few hours later he was back home again and staring at the wall for ages. Ate three pieces of bread with something or other on, and then that was the day over.

The second day of the last ten prior to his death by bursting began like the one before, so there’s no need to go into detail. Just to mention: instead of the lady with the mangy poodle there was a young couple forever kissing, waiting for the bus with Karl Karst.

So, in the bus we had Karl Karst, the young couple, who – now that they were sitting – were kissing likes things possessed, an assortment of Turks, whom Karl Karst had since time immemorial never been able to tell apart (he was the same with Blacks and Asians), a man who was probably addled, with a bent neck, calling for a naked Englishwoman – sometimes demandingly, sometimes pesteringly, sometimes angrily, in desperation, and last of all a curmudgeonly old bloke who was constantly griping at the driver about accelerating or braking too jerkily, going too slowly round bends and also cutting them, but in general about driving too fast.

Once he’d reached Fred’s, Karl Karst ordered a pint. After drawing the beer and fetching it to Karst’s round table, Fred Geist said, “You really are putting weight on fast, Karl!”

“I am not putting weight on,” Karl Karst countered friendlily. “I am just getting more and more circular.”

“How do you know?” asked Fred Geist. “Do you weigh yourself every day?”

“Well,” Karl Karst laughed cheerily, “if anyone knows what I weigh, it’s got to be me.”

Geist shook his head, “Well, you’re a right one, you are!”

Karl Karst counted to ten, then said, “I am a right one!” An hour later he said, “I’ll have another beer.”

“So, what does your wife think about it all?” asked Fred Geist, putting the beer on Karl Karst’s little round table. “About all what?” asked Karl Karst. “About the beer?” “No. About ... how did you put it? About getting more and more circular?”

“But Fred,” Karl Karst shook his head, “we had this” ... he counted briefly ... “twice yesterday. I’ve no wife and I’ve no family.”

“Right!” Fred Geist slapped his forehead. “And you have absolutely no thoughts either way about whether I should change the name of my pub to The Big Bang.”

Karl Karst nodded and for the first time noticed that this was getting a little more difficult. His neck was now really quite taut. “But how’s your family doing?” he asked the landlord, Fred Geist, in a friendly tone.

“All much of a muchness,” said Fred Geist and allowed himself a herbal liqueur, which he occasionally did but not to excess. “Apart from Piffel. Piffel’s neither use nor ornament, which is pretty normal, but now he’s gone and failed his driving test, too. Ran into a nun. Who’s going to pay the compensation, I’m wondering? Piffel’s a complete nutcase.” Karl Karst said nothing.

A few hours later he was back home again and then spent a long time looking at the wall. Ate three pieces of bread with something or other on, washed the plate from the day before and from that day, which was then over.

The next day, too, began normally. Karl Karst found it a trifle annoying that he was no longer able to use the ancestral kitchen chair because of the arm rests. True, he could just about still squeeze himself into it, but this really lessened his enjoyment of breakfast and so – this calmed him down once again because there was one, after all – that left the corner bench. He ate heartily; as per usual the coffee had turned out well. This new prospect - of that wall of the small kitchen which the green wall units were fixed to - was surprisingly pleasing. It was not long before he stopped missing his customary view of the orange Seventies wallpaper.

Today too there was hardly any weather deserving of that name. As one could not keep doing the same thing, day in and day out, he wondered whether he shouldn’t stop by The Bavarian Snug instead of Fred’s pub. But then he reached the conclusion that, at the end of the day, beer is beer, no matter where, that in fact everything is pretty unceremonious actually. He went to the bus stop. He had the stop and the bus completely to himself. He liked this, and in no time he was at Fred Geist’s.

“Piffel calls himself Pi now,” the landlord growled and let his shoulders sag. “Meant to be more cool, as if that’s going to make any difference. He’s still the same bloody arsehole he always was. He was an arsehole even as a kid. Takes after my brother-in-law: the one who messed up the car horn factory. The whole of my wife’s family are idiots – accidents, every one of them: split condoms. Beer, Karl?”

Karl Karst now suffered the same misfortune as at home: he no longer fitted into the chair. He had to admit it: there was absolutely no way he would. That morning – just now in fact – he had been able to sit in his armchair (the seat of which projected at least as much as on Fred’s comfy seating). It had been a struggle, it had even been uncomfortable and, as mentioned, he had only subjected himself briefly to it. Now there was no way he could get his backside anywhere near the actual seat of the chair. It would seem that his swelling up was gathering pace.

“I’ll stand up for the beer, for a change, Fred,” he said, and debated whether this shift in years of practice actually made any difference. If it did, it wasn’t a lot. He never would have thought that it made so little difference whether he stood or sat. Particularly since – this was odd – he was even feeling lighter by the day. Yes, now it crossed his mind that he had been dreaming the night before that he was a yellow balloon, floating in a cheery blue sky. He hadn’t had any dreams since childhood, and his childhood was now so distant that if in doubt, he’d have said he hadn’t actually had one. Had he, Karl Karst – always comfortable with who he was – been born like that?

He had to stop all this musing: he could barely concentrate on the lovely beer, yet there it stood, at his disposal, so to speak. Geist looked him over. “Karl, the way things are looking, you’re going to need to get new clothes every day. How are you going to pay for them?”

“What?”

“Your clothes.”

“What about them?”

“Your trousers, your shirt, that sweater. How are you going to afford it?”

Now Karl Karst understood and he gave it some thought. Actually it was amazing! Every item of his clothing had undergone the swelling process, too. He thought briefly how difficult everything would be if they didn’t do this, then said, “It’s fine.” To be on the safe side he checked his shoes. They too had swollen to twice their size. He sipped his beer contentedly.

An hour later he said, “I’ll have another beer.” Another hour after that Fred Geist said, “Piffel.”

Otherwise nothing at all happened that day. At home, after looking at his wall for a long time, Karl Karst was feeling pleasantly tired when he realised that he had not eaten, yet was not the least bit hungry. Then he fell asleep. Three days of his last ten had gone.

Next day he left the house for the last time. People he went past would turn, increasingly so, but it was not in any way bad. At the bus stop stood a man wearing a hat, the old woman with the poodle, a female dwarf and a young man with a green Mohican haircut.

“You are fat!” said the young man to Karl Karst, who made no reply.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” asked the old woman.

“Not as such,” said Karl Karst.

He could no longer fit into the bus, so he walked to the station. He wasn’t bothered.

Fred Geist looked him over, concerned. “No need to worry!” said Karl Karst.

“What does your wife say about it all?” asked Geist.

“I don’t have a wife.”

“Oh yes, yes! What am I thinking of!”

“A beer, please.”