Foreword

I was sitting by the pond in Vienna’s Stadtpark. For an older man with a walking stick, it’s a blessing to find a bench where you can rest. I was alone, but I wasn’t the only one here by the pond.

Across from me, on another bench, sat a young girl. No, actually a young woman, about 35. She had a paper bag on her lap, from which she took pieces of stale bread and tossed them to the pond’s inhabitants — the waterfowl. They were old acquaintances: mallards, great crested grebes, coots, and three majestic gray heron ladies.

Of course, I watched the young lady very closely, since I don’t need glasses for distance vision yet. She was young, very slender, and well-proportioned — to sum it up briefly. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders like a wavy cascade of water. She was wearing a short, floral summer dress that revealed both her bare shoulders and the curve of her full breasts. In this sweltering heat, everyone was wearing as little as possible — only we older gentlemen were sweating in our long black jeans, with belts and suspenders, of course. The young woman with the sad look was tossing pieces of stale bread to the birds and talking to them. That was unusual; few people talk to animals — thinking, I suppose, that they’ll be understood.

Her snow-white knees fascinated me. In my mind, of course, I’d been working since that morning on coming up with an idea for a new book suitable for all ages. It was getting on my nerves that everyone was making such a big deal out of the fact that I hadn’t yet managed to write a book suitable for all ages. Thousands of people read my more than 40 novels because I’ve posted them online for free. But that wasn’t the point. Could I even write anything suitable for all ages anymore, or had my old brain already rotted away so much that I couldn’t pull it off? Last year, with the best of intentions, I wrote a mystery novel, and at first it really and truly was completely suitable for young readers. But as I wrote, my pen slipped, and the mystery ended up reading much better and more fluidly with a sequel that wasn’t suitable for young readers. It was exasperating; was I really incapable of it?

It all started when I turned in my German Matura essay; the topic was “Goethe and His View of Women.” I, chasing after an “A” or “Excellent” and without the slightest clue what the master poet thought about women in general — let alone in particular — cheekily filled the entire booklet right down to the last page. The prompt made it clear that the young man wasn’t gay, and, unwisely, they left it up to my overactive imagination to herd one woman after another into his private chamber with him — and once I got started, there was no stopping me. Of course, it earned an “A,” since an “Excellent” had long since ceased to exist by then. Imagine my astonishment when the old German teacher — whose declared favorite I had been all those years — had me summoned to the teachers’ lounge. I had to read my essay aloud to all my teachers, both male and female. Oh, good Lord! The gym teacher — a former Olympian, no less — shook his head and rolled his eyes, just as the Prince of Poets himself might have done. I read on, falling into a state of sacred rapture over the thoughts, life, and feelings of love of the divine Privy Councilor Wolfgang von G. — and my French teacher wept her eyes out with emotion, which, unsurprisingly, led to a full-blown fling shortly thereafter. I was confused for a moment; had I discovered a golden path that led straight to the unspeakable? — But I digress.

She had delightful knees, that young lady whose sight gave me such pleasure. My gaze followed that of the mallards, who, from a perfect, more advantageous position, traced the delicate lines of her snow-white, delightful inner thighs. Ah, Leda and the swan! I am a forever depraved old man; I will never be able to write a G-rated novel to prove that I’m capable of putting more than just dirty stuff on paper.

It must have been the god Hermes who stepped in at that moment. A young couple walked past us, by the pond. A young girl in a Ferrari-red electric wheelchair and her bald boyfriend. Holding hands and chatting happily, the two walked and rolled along, the Ferrari humming softly. Oh, Hermes, you’re the best!

An idea took root. A red wheelchair — Ferrari red — a disabled girl and her boyfriend, chatting happily and holding hands. The idea flashed through my mind. An alien — that young guy with the shiny bald head, like it’s so trendy these days? An alien? No, that sounded wrong and cliché. A time traveler? Oh yeah, brilliant — that was it!

The young woman across the way, who spoke to the birds just as Saint Francis once did, looked so unspeakably sad that it really tugged at my heartstrings. She told the birds about her suffering, her sad story. Yvonne — yes, I’ll call her Yvonne — had just dumped her Alessandro from Argentina, because she was a child of the 21st century and not some medieval girl who’d let herself be enslaved by a macho man. The young woman defiantly wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and the mallards nodded approvingly. If you have backbone, you don’t give in to a macho guy from South America! The young woman smiled despite her sorrow when our eyes met. I let my gaze radiate cheerfulness and encouragement. Oh, I should sit down next to her, put my arm around her, and listen to her troubles. But that’s not who I am — I don’t sit down next to a beautiful young woman uninvited and offer her grandfatherly comfort, even though I certainly could.

Hermes, you're a friend! I had everything I needed for a little story — maybe it'll just be a short story with family-friendly content. But wait — my time traveler was, after all, a sexologist, recently widowed, and had taken some time off to think things over. Here, in our time?

Yes, all the ingredients were there. The Ferrari and the girl, the bald boyfriend, and Yvonne. Gods and goddesses from ancient Greek mythology — and I’ll even find a way to squeeze in my special friend, Caliph Harun al-Rashid, as a mischievous old man. Suitable for all ages. You can count on it.

My friend Hermes smiled. “István, I just bet Dionysus — whom you also know as Bacchus — a small barrel of schnapps that you’ll make it this time. So pull yourself together and don’t make me lose!”

Yes, exactly. I promised that Yvonne’s snow-white inner thighs would stay out of the story — just to keep up the pretense that, surprisingly, the text would be suitable for all ages. — Because, oh gods and goddesses, it will inevitably be about — naturally, G-rated — sex, from the first chapter to the last.

Sorry, Hermes!

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István Rudas
Vienna, August 29, 2026

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István Rudas
4 Stiegengasse
A-1060 Vienna
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