The manuscript found in the Lunigiana E-Book

Stephan de Groote

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 176

Beschreibung

Enchanting love stories in Egypt, hikes through forests shrouded in legend and supernatural figures with a penchant for heavy metal: there is something for everyone in these short stories. With a great deal of imagination, the characters whisk the reader away to distant worlds. And there are great tests ahead of them: Will Godefroy pass the naturalization test? How does Ole cope when he meets his second self? What will city dweller and entrepreneur Matthias do when he gets stuck in a remote village with engine trouble? And will Rinuccio manage to find true love in Egypt? These and many other questions are answered in the ten exciting stories by Stephan de Groote.

Leseprobe

The streets that are loud and empty,

are streams of shadow and flow into the sea

(Manuel Maples Arce, Mexican poet, *1900, †1981,

Foreword

All the stories in this volume are certainly quirky. Nevertheless, they are different in their basic tone or, shall we say, in their dramaturgy. It begins with - hopefully - humorous and playfulness, and stays that way for quite a while. It then becomes bitterly serious at the end via various nuances. Readers will of course notice it if they decide to read the book to his end, which I would of course be very happy about.

The Engine Damage

The idea for this story came to me while reading Johann Peter Hebel's little master story "The Cured Patient" from the "Schatzkästlein des rheinischen Hausfreundes".

Matthias' car had an engine damage. Even in the middle of the wilderness. The ADAC had to be called.[The german associacion for roadside assistance. Translator's note. In what follows TN]. The mechanic at the garage frowned worriedly. The engine was over, he said, it had given up the ghost and attempts to revive it were futile. A new engine was needed. But he didn't have it in stock. Ordering it could take a while. Four days, maybe five or six. We don't know it exactly and have to hope. In any case, it would cost a really hefty sum. Maybe it would be better to buy a new car right away? But Matthias - Matze to his friends - had grown fond of his car like a good old buddy. Had he not often savored the delights of love in its back seats? Scrapping his comrade was out of the question for him. After all, it was a tuned BMW with a retrofitted sound system, including subwoofer and bass module, with whose headlight flasher he chased other highway users like frightened chickens off the autobahn, his autobahn.

What should Matze do? Struggle with his fate? Lament? No, that wasn't his style. He decided to make the best of the situation under the circumstances. Otherwise he would have had to take the train there and back and he didn't know how to do that. Taking some time out, getting away from the same old treadmill for a few days, might not be a bad idea, he thought to himself. Appointments were quickly canceled. After all, he was the boss and didn't need to ask anyone for permission. The alcohol level in his small, medium-sized company would probably rise over the next few days and they would finish work much earlier there. When the cat's away ... But so what? Weren't they all nice guys? Let them enjoy his absence for a few days! The place wouldn't burn down.

Now the small town in which he was stranded didn't exactly offer much in the way of diversion and entertainment. A few inns - called "Zum Ochsen", "Zum Bären" and "Zum Schwan"[At the ox, at the bear, at the swan. TN]- with tiled stoves, rustic furnishings, stern-faced old men with cheeky beards or stags at dawn in massive carved picture frames and hearty meals, at least this. There was also hoppy, creamy beer from the local microbrewery, founded in 1831. But should he now spend four days or more drinking beer and eating roast pork? One or two perhaps, but not more. Reading had never been Matze's thing either.

As luck would have it, the place enjoyed a certain popularity among eccentric outdoor-loving hikers. Because of its unspoiled nature, its wooden paths over foaming streams, its enchanted gorges that seem to have fallen out of time, its secluded places to linger and so on. Matze had often covered long distances on foot. But as a teenager, before he had his first car. After that, he would have driven to the toilet by car if possible. Walking or using public transport was a thing of the past, not even to get bread rolls around the corner. I'm dependent on my car, he cursed every time he heard about petrol price increases. He didn't let the grumpy, unhappy Greens from the Prohibition Party spoil the fun of driving his combustion engine. Then these grumpy cereal-brains also wanted to introduce speed limits! Hello, are you still there? Good thing there was the FDP[the market-liberal Free Democratic Party. TN]. Free travel for free citizens!

But why not go on an adventure that he could talk about at home afterwards to everyone's amazement? The very next morning, he bought Gore-Tex hiking boots and a walking stick made of real wood with a carved root man. The sales clerk also persuaded him to buy a traditional hat made of thick, gray felt with a folklike ribbon and natural feather trim. This is what the hiker of today wears, but it is also timeless, a classic. So he set off perfectly equipped.

He soon ran out of breath, but so much more. The sun was burning, the yellow pig. His shoes weighed him down, he ran into a blister. There was no breeze. Sweat poured over him. He had thought of an outdoor equipment from the mountain lover online store, but not of a water bottle. Compassionate fellow walkers gave him a cool, refreshing drink. Out of sheer malice, he crushed cute ants that crossed his path. Other hikers scurried past him like chamois. He shouted at a chirping bird to just shut up. Young things asked him if they should support him. "Only after the second stroke," moaned Matze. But that didn't sound convincing. He wanted to ask hikers who greeted him and wished him a good day whether they were taking the piss. But just the look on his face made them back off. Only once did he overtake a couple, but that was only because they were holding hands and snogging each other for all the time in the world. However, none of this would have been enough for his overtaking maneuver if they hadn't suddenly disappeared into the brushwood. That's how full of storm and drive youth can be. Some time later, however, they passed him again. The root man on his walking stick seemed to sneer at him. With the feather on his hat, he felt like a complete laughing stock. A boy, whom he asked how long it was for God's sake to the excursion restaurant (with a wonderful view over the dark, rolling forests), replied: "It will probably be another two and a half kilometers, in two or three hours you can get there." He had to laugh very much at that. The boy, not Matze. At the end of his crossway, he realized with impotent rage that the restaurant for hikers was closed for the day. So there was nothing to eat or drink. All the way, he had had some odd freshly tapped beers and herbal liqueurs in front of him, with a hearty snack, only this thought had kept him going. And then the way back! He couldn't call a cab. "That we don't have here," he was told. He was also stuck in a dead zone. He had never felt so abandoned. The lady at the tourist information office would get to hear angry words from him. He needed to let off steam. He found the pork knuckle in the evening tough. He almost shouted at the waiter when he asked Matze if he liked it. He left the dumplings half back, something he had never done before. What kind of hell had he fallen into?

Now human life is sometimes a strange thing. The next morning he woke up more rested than ever, his nose tickled awake by the first, still tentative rays of the rising sun, the benevolent one. Matze hadn't slept well for ages, weighed down by his problems - the greedy tax office, complaining customers who wanted their money back, late payers with all their nasty tricks, the relationship that had fallen apart but hadn't been that great before and much more. The psychotherapist couldn't help him either. He put Matze's problems down to the fact that he had probably once watched his parents having sex as a small child. Matze didn't want to spend any more of his hard-earned money on shit like that. He told the psycho this straight to his face, who seemed depressed and perhaps also needed psychotherapy afterwards. Even with alcohol, Matze could only drown his sorrows temporarily, because these beasts could swim. Frustration eating only made things worse. He even felt less and less understood by his FDP. A snob with a three-day beard and branded sneakers as chairman, who had only declared bankruptcy in the free economy and then saved his unworthy existence in politics. Nah, that wasn't his world. But he couldn't vote for the AFD either[the right-wing populist party. TN]. Deplorables, especially from the East, who blamed everyone and everything but themselves for their misery and seriously believed that he, as a westerner who had built everything himself and who had been given nothing, owed them anything. That didn't work with him at all. That was his gloomy, cloudy view of the world.

But now? When was the last time he had slept so well? In those distant times when the world was still young and he still believed in love? After a hearty breakfast - how mouth-watering fragrant the crispy bacon on the scrambled eggs was, how delicious the fresh cow's milk tasted - he set off again with light feet. He had treated his blister with a plaster and cooling ointment provided by his innkeepers, who were very concerned for his well-being. Without any additional charge! Remembering his experiences the day before, this time he also thought of mineral water and a bottle of raspberry brandy. And the best part? Everything came from the region! The early fog soon lifted. When had he ever noticed how fresh the morning dew on the grass glistened in the early rays of the sun, how red the poppies in the corn were and how invigorating, stimulating to the senses and the mind, just-mown hay smelled? Never before. The bright blue sky, dotted with just a few clouds in the shape of cute sheep or dragons, caressed the lush green earth. Fir trees rustled. A waterfall gushed in cascades. The wild, impetuous stream foamed. He cooled his feet, which were serving him so well today, in water like flowing blue steel and feasted on it. Trees murmured. Birds chattered. Cows munched. Roots entwined. Field flowers beguiled him with their scent. He lifted his hat to all hikers he encountered with a cheerful "Hobts noch oan schenan Doog!"[in strong dialect: Still have a nice day! TN]. He had picked up this phrase in the inn. His cheerfulness was infectious. He helped an ant across a rivulet with a leaf. He had to take breathers, yes, and not a few. But Matze had wisely thought of the raspberry spirit. It spurred him on. Interested, he read a sign from the Association for the Protection of Nature and Birds. He wanted to join. Fuck the FDP!

As he turned a corner, she suddenly stood in front of him. No, not a forest fairy, a ruined castle. Rather, what was left of it after the villagers had misused it as a quarry for centuries. The remains of the walls were overgrown with thick moss, giving the place an aura of mystery. It must be spooky there at night. The foundations of a Romanesque capital. Robber baron Kuno had lived there, as an instructive plaque revealed. Then various blue-blooded castle lords. Rumor had it that a treasure lay buried there, guarded by goblins. The further decay of the ruins was stopped. Windswept remains of a tower called a keep. "No trespassing! Danger of collapse," a sign on the iron-clad wooden gate told him. Matze was just about to shake it when it was opened for him from the inside. It was an old, huddled man who introduced himself to Matze as "the earth spirit". A joke, of course. A wondrous fellow, quite curious to look at with his time-honored roast skirt and powdered wig. We chatted animatedly about God's or the Big Bang's glorious creation. The earth spirit told anecdotes and charades about subterranean life in the deep forests in a pleasant and amusing manner in his old-fashioned German, just like in Klopstock's time.[A German poet from the 18th century. Klopstock means stick for thrashing. TN]. Then he had to move on. His duty called. Who else, if not he and his army of gnomes, would keep the gurgling streams flowing and guide exhausted hikers who had strayed from their path safely home to their cozy bed? As he continued on his way, Matze was surprised to see that his bottle of raspberry schnapps, which he thought he had emptied completely, was full to the brim again. Dwarves with miner's lamps and soot-blackened faces emerging from their mines crossed Matze's path and cheerfully wished him "Glück auf![Luck at the top! The greeting of the miners. TN]."

The restaurant for bikers exceeded even his highest expectations. A cute wild boar carved in wood awaited him at the entrance and Matze reverently tipped his hat to it. Well-kept beer garden culture with typical regional delicacies in a rustic ambience. The menu was also translated into High German. Tourists and weary hikers were still appreciated here, and freshly tapped beer was served with gentian to round off the meal. How fragrant the pine forests smelled! A mild breeze was blowing. The air was filled with children's laughter from the nearby forest playground, the "Paradise of the Goblins", with its tree house, sandpit and slide. And then there was the view of the crystal-clear lake in the hollow, shivering from the refreshing cold, and the farmhouses with their thatched roofs, which looked like miniatures from up here! Smoke billowed from some of the chimneys. Busy country folk worked their toy tractors and plowed furrows. The distant sound of a church bell wafted over to him. There were no such views in Matze's flat home in the lowlands, and poetic feelings rarely arose there either. What would it be like to soar above it all like an eagle? He decided to save that for after the sixth or seventh gentian.

Matze found it pleasant that the Romanian waitress wasn't wearing a dirndl. He didn't want to exaggerate the folklore. But she was pretty. She also spoke better German than the locals. At the end of an hour-long stay, Matze thanked her with a generous tip, for which he was rewarded with a beaming smile. He also met some nice Dutch hiking friends. They were already well acquainted with the mountains of their homeland and wanted to set off for new shores or, rather, heights. That there are nice Dutch people! So far, Matze had only known them as tailgaters or, conversely, lane blockers with caravans on freeways. They also liked white vine and cherry schnapps, it didn't always have to be Heineken and jenever. At the end, they bid each other farewell with a big hug. They were also Facebook and WhatsApp friends now. They would see each other again. At the restaurant for hikers. Their restaurant.

They always say that traveling educates, but that's nonsense. How many times had Matze been to Antalya and once to the Seychelles? Had that somehow educated him? Not a fart. Hiking educates, that's what it should be called! There are also scientific reasons for this. You experience everything much more intensely the more time you give yourself to it. So don't fly or drive, walk instead. But you can also take the train, preferably the slow one. Perhaps he should also try hitchhiking. But who would give him a lift? Perhaps with a good-looking female companion and him at first hidden behind some bushes? But where would he find such a companion? He thought of the Romanian waitress. Yes, that would be something. But she certainly wouldn't run off with him. What a pity, really. And driving again? Nope!

At some point, it got dark and night fell. Stars twinkled for all we were worth. We don't know how Matze found his way back to the inn. As our readers already know, there were no cabs up there. A benevolent angel must have accompanied and guided him. Or was the root man the good spirit? Matze thought that was very likely.

The next morning, Matze got up at half past four - the alarm clock on his cell phone made it possible - so as not to miss the sunrise that his obliging landlady had told him about. Basically, everything has already been said about the sunrise down there. The sea of mist that is gradually disappearing, the still red sun, its reflection on the peaks with battlements like a fortress, burning clouds, the melodious sound of the first cowbells, the calm, the feeling of peace that overcomes the observer. You've read it all a thousand times, but it still remains true. Matze imagined the many vacations he would spend here, in his place of longing, his Shangri-La. In the same inn, that was certain for him. But in order to expand his radius and get to know new things, he would also stay in other, eco-certified places. But he wouldn't be buying a tent. Or perhaps he would? He could give it a try. He would only rave about the restaurant for hikers to his best friends, it would remain his secret tip. Others went to church to be awakened, but according to Matz's impression, that didn't seem to work. It had only taken him one day in the countryside.

Afterwards, Matze had another breakfast to nourish body and soul. This time, however, he skipped the bacon on the scrambled eggs. A pleasant physical sensation had overcome him and he thought he had lost a few pounds. His Dutch friends greeted him on his cell phone with cookies of a sprightly rambler in a chamois hat and two glasses of what must have been a digestible drink. Perhaps gentian. Or perhaps jenever. He returned the greeting with a selfie of himself and the rising red-flame sun above the billowing, already tattered a sea of clouds in the background. Invigorated, he then set off. In the meantime, he had completely forgotten about his car, or rather had completely suppressed the memory of it, like of something that had left a bad taste in his mouth. Then he received a fateful phone call. On his cell phone. From the mechanic. The engine had arrived earlier than expected and had already been installed, the car was ready for collection, so to speak. With a heavy heart, Matze went to the garage. Was his new happiness about to melt away like sand in the clock named after it? Was the motorized nightmare going to grab him again with its merciless claws? No, Matze could not allow that to happen!

He couldn't tell the mechanic the real reason, he probably wouldn't have understood it. In vivid colors, Matze described to him the agony he had endured when the engine was in its final stages and in the end only rattled and finally died. He now had a car phobia and needed psychological treatment. The mechanic listened deeply moved. Wouldn't he - the highly esteemed mechanic - like to buy the car? He would give him a good price, they would surely come to an agreement quickly. And so they did. To seal the deal, the man in blue, his benefactor, poured them a glass of cherry brandy. Matze didn't even look back at his former car as he left. He walked out into the bright sunshine and his new life, exhilarated. He blessed the engine failure and considered walking the few hundred kilometers home. Well, at least part of it. Because he was really looking forward to his next big adventure: the train journey! But he wouldn't be taking an Inter City Express, only regionals. He wanted to choose the ones with the most transfer stations and the longest waiting times. And he made another far-reaching decision. He would buy a book! He would ask the obliging lady at the tourist information office for a volume of stories about hiking and legends from the forest. Both gladly with atmospheric drawings or photographs. She would certainly have them all in stock. He had also learned that you should always have something refreshing to drink with you. As a law-abiding citizen and driver, he had always missed out on these pleasures. What a fool he had been!

He would never vote for the FDP again. And if many others followed his example, climate protection would also work.

The Naturalization Test

Godefroy Amílcar1