Before The Kettledrum Stroke

Of course, I know that great composers like Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms were strongly warned against beginning a symphony with a Kettledrum Stroke. But I did it anyway. And of course, I’m not an idiot — I wouldn’t dare compare myself to these cultural giants. I wanted readers to sit up and take notice right away and ask themselves, “What on earth is this!?” And then, once they’ve calmed down, they can enjoy the story.

And don’t underestimate me — my reaction is usually a mix of sweet and sour, sweet and venomous, and downright sour. Of course I know what a Kettledrum Stroke is, so don’t complain. Please. The otherwise unassuming gentleman in a tailcoat and bow tie raises his timpani mallet high, far behind his head, his eyes fixed on the tip of the conductor’s baton. Of course he knows exactly when to strike the timpani. But the devil take him if he didn’t fix his eyes on the quivering tip of the baton and wait until the maestro flicks his little stick upward. That’s the signal; just a thousandth of a second later, the timpanist strikes the drumhead — which is made of plastic these days — with full force. That’s exactly how the good old Haydn wanted it, back in London in 1792. “The monocles must fall from the dignitaries’ faces,” the maestro instructed the timpanist back in those days.

That’s how — and only that way — you handle the Kettledrum Stroke. You don’t just pound away like an unmusical donkey, no! The symphony surges and glides majestically up and down, lulling the well-fed dignitaries to sleep, playfully inviting them to drift off into a gentle slumber. The Nereids caress the noble gentleman with their moist, soft arms and smile as the good man gently drifts off. And then comes the moment of silence. The baton twitches, the timpanist strikes, and the monocles fall. That’s how it’s done. So let’s begin with the symphony, and wait with bated breath for the moment of complete silence — the moment of the timpani crash.

Our protagonist’s name is Julia Herrnthaler. She’s 20, soon to be 21. Fascinated by the pantheon of ancient Greece, she’s studying history through a distance learning program. Yes, distance learning, because she uses a wheelchair, and universities aren’t really accessible. She is a quite pretty young woman, slender and well-proportioned. She usually wears her dark-blonde hair down and shoulder-length, even though that requires a lot of care and frequent washing. But it’s the hairstyle she feels most comfortable with. Her symmetrical face is reminiscent of the classical faces of ancient statues of Greek goddesses; her nose is straight as a sword, yet not overpowering. Her eyes are sometimes light blue, sometimes gray-blue, depending on the weather and the color of the sky. One would be well advised to look into her eyes instead of gazing out the window to check the weather. She wears only light makeup when she goes out, and she uses only a colorless lipstick, for her lips are naturally beautiful, full, and a vibrant shade. Her body is, on the whole, beautiful, well-proportioned, and truly shapely.

She usually wears semi-transparent blouses without a bra, because she’s proud of her small, firm breasts with their pointed nipples, which she likes to show off. Let them stare! Her lower body and legs are usually covered with a plaid blanket with a Scottish pattern when she’s out of the house. It’s safe to assume that both her lower body and her legs are shapely, although her legs probably aren’t very muscular because of the wheelchair. At home, she wears computer glasses because she works at a computer a lot. She calls her electric wheelchair her “Ferrari” because of its bright red color. In her apartment, she walks freely on her own two feet because she knows exactly where to hold on; she only uses the wheelchair when she’s out and about.

Strictly speaking, Julia is an orphan; but she has a wide circle of relatives, so she has plenty of “family.” She knows her parents only from photos — they died in a car accident when she wasn’t even 2 years old. She has a few friends, but only one “best friend,” Yvonne. Yvonne is already 26 and has a series of romantic relationships, which provides plenty of conversation topics between the friends. Yvonne is working on her doctoral dissertation in philosophy; she is very cultured, well-educated, and bisexual, so she and Julia regularly become very close. Yvonne comes to visit only once a week and spends Tuesday afternoons with Julia. No, you can’t say that Julia is lonely like many other women in wheelchairs.

Almost every day, Julia drives her Ferrari to the pond in Vienna’s Stadtpark and spends an hour there, whether in the sunshine or the rain. She brings along a paper bag filled with crumbled stale bread, which she tosses to the ducks and other waterfowl in the pond — and, of course, she smiles indulgently when the sparrows squabble with the larger birds over the breadcrumbs. She loves watching the birds so much, and Julia knows why. The birds are kindred spirits — they could fly away, but something keeps them tied to this pond. Birds that don’t fly are, in a sense, also wheelchair users: their little legs certainly aren’t designed for walking. Julia looks at the plants, beautifully tended by the city’s parks department, the pond, the bushes, and the birds — her little paradise in the middle of the big city.

She only glances superficially at other people — mostly passersby or retirees. There’s a reason for that, too; she used to enjoy striking up conversations, but they were usually very superficial or meaningless. Having grown older and wiser, she no longer felt the urge to strike up a conversation with everyone and anyone. She followed world events through newspapers and TV news; that was all she needed. It was hard enough as it was to tell real news from fake news. She wouldn’t miss those little hours by the pond — neither the weather nor her studies nor her reading could keep her away. Even when it rained, she would throw on a cape — not even that kept her away from the pond. And the birds’ behavior in the rain was particularly interesting.

It was here, by the pond, that she had also heard the pick-up line of the century. A pimply-faced boy — certainly no Adonis — had been staring at her for a long time from a park bench across the way; from behind his thick glasses, the 14-year-old or so was trying to trace the contours of her inner thighs beneath her miniskirt, since she wore neither a thong nor anything else in the summer. Now he had moved over to the park bench next to her Ferrari, cheekily placed his hand on her knee, and leaned forward curiously to look at her crotch. Visibly disappointed that she’d quickly pressed her thighs together, he muttered, “Can you even have sex with a woman in a wheelchair!?” No one had ever come at her with such a stupid line before — for heaven’s sake! She’d shot him an icy glare straight from the Arctic and muttered back, “You’ll have to ask my dad about that, my dear, because he lies between my thighs night after night and obviously thinks it’s perfectly possible — and that you have to water the little plant diligently.” The guy felt a chill run down his spine and a flush rise to his cheeks, and he quickly took off — that insolent lout.

Her interest in the world of ancient Greek gods was sparked by her grandfather, as this was his pet subject. Grandpa and Grandma treated her with the utmost care, because little Julia suffered from brittle bone disease. Julia never suffered a broken bone while in their care — that didn’t happen until later, in kindergarten and at school — but she quickly learned how to avoid such injuries. She often spent entire afternoons sitting on Grandpa’s lap while he read her stories, legends, and fairy tales from thick books about ancient Greece. Since the gods were very sexually active, Grandpa had to educate her thoroughly about sexuality at a fairly early age — Julia listened with her mouth agape, for it was highly strange and interesting what the gods and goddesses got up to among themselves or with the poor human children.

Grandma, who was sitting in the other armchair knitting, coughed a little sheepishly when Grandpa answered the girl’s questions about his own sexuality openly and honestly — including the part about the neighbors. Grandma coughed, but she wasn’t really opposed to it. Patiently, Grandpa explained how and why boys and girls were sexually active; now Grandma’s coughing grew louder, and with it she slowed the flow of her grandfather’s speech. “I won’t send our granddaughter out into the world with the same ignorance that our uninformed parents had to deal with!” he exclaimed indignantly, and rescheduled the sensitive topics for a time of day when Grandma was out at coffee with her friends. Grandpa lovingly made sure that “his girl” knew everything there was to know about sexuality as soon as she left the nest.

Of course, she immediately noticed the friendly man who had been coming to the pond at the same time as her for days now and sitting down on one of the empty benches. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. What struck her first was that he had no hair at all — none on his head, no eyebrows, and no facial hair. On his bald, round head he wore a small cap made of dark blue velvet, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread, which was apparently just a piece of headwear and didn’t seem to have any religious or other special significance. Just like her, he watched the birds intently, and only now and then did he cast a quick glance her way, but she pretended not to notice. His clothes — a shirt with an open collar, a sleeveless doublet, and light-colored long pants — showed that he must have been slender and athletic. Unlike her, he didn’t have a paper bag of stale bread with him, but when he took a sandwich out of his pocket for a snack, he tore off a few pieces of bread and tossed them to the waterfowl and sparrows. Julia smiled to herself; it seemed as though he was trying to get her attention with this little gesture. He arrived every day at about the same time as she did.

A few days later, the weather was overcast, and a light drizzle was falling. Julia took a break from her studies and got ready to go out. She grabbed her cape, a plaid shawl, a small fold-able umbrella, and the paper bag with stale bread. From her apartment on Coburgbastei, the drive in the Ferrari took exactly 7 minutes to reach the pond in City Park. The young man was already sitting on his bench; he had put on a clear raincoat, was holding a small bag of stale bread, and was generously feeding the waterfowl and sparrows. She pulled the Ferrari up to her usual spot, and when their eyes met, he gave her a brief nod in greeting. Julia remained frozen in her seat; they were the only two people in the midst of this flock of food-hungry birds. They both fed the birds without it looking like a competition.

Julia struggled with the little umbrella, whose ingenious designer had come up with the smartest folding mechanism but hadn’t anticipated wind, crosswinds, or even shear winds. But now a gusty, hot southwesterly wind from the Sahara swept through Vienna’s Stadtpark, trying to yank the umbrella out of Julia’s hand — and in an instant, the precious canopy flew several meters across the asphalt. Quick as lightning, the man was on his feet, darted after it, and caught the wayward umbrella just before it reached the bushes. He brought it to Julia and handed it to her.

"Thank you very much, sir!" said Julia, delighted, as she folded up the unruly cloak. “It’s just a light drizzle now, so my cape will do,” she added, throwing back the hood; her hair flowed down to her shoulders like a golden waterfall.

"That won't last long either; it's already getting lighter back there," he said in a beautiful, melodious voice. He held out his hand. "My name is Alfred, but everyone calls me Alfie," said Alfie.

Julia looked at his hand. “I can’t shake your hand, Mr. Alfred; I have brittle bone disease, and you might break my fingers. And my name is Julia — everyone calls me Julia, just Julia.” She smiled at his hand.

Alfie thought for a few seconds. “Just put your hand on mine,” he said, holding out his open palm, “no bones will break, Julia — just Julia.” Julia placed her hand on his open palm for just a moment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Alfred! And please, just Julia — no ridiculous suffix, please.”

Alfie smiled. “In Scandinavia, everyone is on a first-name basis — everyone, every single person — so why don’t we just do the same? And just call me Alfie or Alfred; I left ‘Sir’ and the 'Mr.' at the coat check at the park entrance.” He smiled warmly and charmingly.

Julia smiled subtly; that's how conversations usually started at the university, too, if you were open to it. "So you're not from around here — maybe from Scandinavia, Alfie? I hear a slight foreign accent."

"No, from Huntington Heights, a suburb of Chicago. My parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents are originally from Germany, from the Hanover area, and all of us kids had to learn flawless High German — it’s an almost ironclad family tradition that comes in handy when I travel to Germany or Austria. In Switzerland, it’s more of a disadvantage to be mistaken for a German, but so be it.” Alfie sat down on the nearest bench. “Brittle bone disease, you said? I read something about it once, but unfortunately I don’t remember much of it anymore.”

This wasn't the first time Julia had explained her condition. "Brittle bone disease is so named because your bones break very easily. It's a congenital genetic disorder that is primarily passed down through the female line. Thank God I have a specific variant; I don’t suffer from nausea, headaches, or a reduced libido like so many others with the same condition. However, I will likely not live to see my fortieth birthday. I’ve known this for a long time, and I’m preparing myself for it.”

Alfie leaned forward. "You've already been given a death sentence? — By God, that's unimaginable! Come on, isn't there a cure, any medication, or even some kind of hocus-pocus?"

Julia shook her head. “Yes, I take medication for all sorts of things, but I don’t take the libido suppressants. My libido is fine just the way it is.” Julia lowered her gaze; she had to put on the brakes here. No further exploration of her libido with a stranger.

Alfie shook his head. “That can’t be right; I can’t just accept that without saying anything. We fly to the moon, we manipulate genes with gene scissors — and yet we can’t do anything about brittle bone disease? Or is it just because the market is so small that it isn’t profitable for the pharmaceutical companies? Not profitable!? — ‘Only in a degenerate society does one weigh human lives in gold and silver,’ said the wise King Hammurabi of Babylon, millennia ago.” Alfie was truly deeply shaken.

Julia said nothing. Of course she knew who Hammurabi was, and the fact that this statement had likely been necessary three or four thousand years ago to starkly underscore human depravity said something about humanity. “I’m studying history at the university — with a focus on Hellenism, mind you — but I know exactly who Hammurabi was.” She didn’t even know why she said that. “You may not be studying anymore, Alfie, but the fact that you can quote Hammurabi so well is a testament to your broad humanistic education.” Finally — just get away from this topic of medication and illness. That didn’t belong in a casual, relaxed conversation with a stranger.

Alfie nodded. "Yes, Julia, I received a really good — and, above all, thorough — education. My grandfather declared me his favorite grandson and left me a generous savings account for my education. Without him, I wouldn't be where I am today."

Julia couldn't help but jump in. "And where are you now, Alfie? On vacation, apparently, but other than that?"

It took Alfie a few seconds to reply. "Yeah, it looks like a vacation — I took a sabbatical year. I'm a curator — sort of like a librarian, I suppose that's what they'd call it in Austria."

Julia took a small packet of sweet pastilles out of her purse. “Would you like one, too? Sugar-free, of course.” She handed him a piece of candy. “A librarian? I guess my idea of a librarian is pretty old-fashioned — a little gnome plagued by gout, with thick glasses perched on his nose and constantly coughing from the dust of centuries. But you don’t look like that at all, Alfie!”

Alfie smiled. “I go for a run every morning and go — or rather, used to go — to the weight training room twice a week for general training. I take care of my health; that’s just the norm over in the States, so it’s nothing special. And as for the dust of the ages, well, of course the National Library also preserves real paper books, but where I work, we only use microfilm, hard drives, and germanium crystal storage — whatever’s modern these days. We don’t have dust here, and no gout either, thank God!”

Julia smiled slightly. “I was just speaking figuratively, Alfie. I can see you’re not some gout-ridden gnome — far from it. More like an athletic young man in his mid-thirties who doesn’t look like a librarian on the outside.”

Alfie smiled. “I’m 42, not a day younger. And the fact that I became a librarian at such a young age is really only thanks to my thorough education. Like you, I majored in history, with a focus on the turn of the millennium, and I studied and completed seven additional minors. Geometry, cosmology, physics and chemistry, geology and mineralogy, and sexology. I think that was everything. By the time I was 34, I had finished my studies, held eight doctoral degrees, and applied directly to the National Library as a curator. I was assigned to the “1968 to 2038” department and held my own pretty well in that snake pit that the National Library happens to be.”

Julia corrected him. “You slipped up, Alfie — you said 2038, but you probably meant 2018, because it’s 2025 now, if I’m not mistaken.” Alfie blinked briefly. “Yeah, sorry, I just slipped up — of course, 2018. Fifty years. 1968 to 2018 — the era of unbridled sexuality across broad segments of society.”

Julia couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right here. Alfie tossed a breadcrumb to a black-headed bird. "An American coot," he explained. Julia smiled gently. "Zoology wasn't your thing, Alfie. No, that’s a Eurasian coot; we don’t have American ones here. Over there, those lovebirds are called mallards; the cute little black ones are called great crested grebes; and the three long-legged ladies way in the back are gray herons. I’ve known them all for years.”

A long silence. Was Alfie not keen on being lectured, or were his thoughts elsewhere? Julia broke the silence. “Sexology? That really stands out from the other natural sciences — it surprises me a bit.” Alfie looked up; his mind was clearly somewhere else entirely.

"Sexology? Yes, that was an opportunistic decision on my part. I was hoping to land the job as curator starting in 1968; the curator at the time was already on his way to retirement. 1968 marked the beginning of the sexual revolution — women’s liberation thanks to the pill — and if I knew a little more than just the basics about sexuality, it would improve my chances of getting the job, and that’s exactly how it turned out. It was a good decision. I owed it to my grandfather’s memory to strive for something special in my career. And he would surely have been proud of my achievements — good old Grandpa Arthur.” Alfie looked over at the gray herons. Julia realized she had to steer the conversation in a different direction, because it had become very personal indeed.

So she dropped another bombshell. “I’m 20, turning 21 soon,” she said, “as far as I know, women in America don’t like to reveal their true age. I don’t mind — I’m 20 and unmarried, a single cripple with an expiration date.” Alfie shot her a look that didn’t seem very friendly. “Cut the crap, Julia, please! Okay, you’re twenty — fine. But I don’t see you as a cripple, damn it, and that ‘expiration date’ stuff — well, we’ll see. I’m going to stay here by the pond and toast you with champagne on your 41st birthday — deal?” He looked her straight in the eyes. “I accept that you’re suffering from an illness, but I don’t accept your ‘cripple’ remark — not at all. Look me in the eyes and tell me if you understand me.”

Julia tugged at her blanket, since she’d taken off her cape minutes ago. “That was a really stupid thing to say, Alfie. I take it back. Okay, I’m not a cripple, and I’ll bite the ass of anyone who dares call me a cripple. Deal?” Alfie nodded, “Good girl!”

He arched his back. “I’m 41, turning 42 soon. I was married once; now I’m a widower, and I have two adult children, Waltraud and Heinrich; they live in downtown Chicago, right in the belly of the beast. I live alone in Huntington Heights, a mile from the City Limits, and I don’t have a steady girlfriend — I’m not in the mood for a new relationship or a meaningless fling. Is that the information you wanted to hear?”

Julia nodded thoughtfully. "I'm sorry to hear that your wife passed away, Alfie. It still seems to be painful for you. On the other hand, it's nice to hear that your children also live in Chicago, so they're not far away." She was silent for a long moment. “I’ll probably never have children of my own — I don’t want to pass my illness on to the next generation. I’ve even thought about getting a Sterilization if I ever find a real life partner.”

Alfie placed his hand on her forearm, a look of urgency in his eyes. “Sterilization these days is irreversible. And the disease is passed down through the maternal line, so the risk is only 50 percent. Think it over carefully — maybe your future husband will want children? From what you’re saying, it sounds like you don’t have a steady boyfriend right now?”

Julia nodded. "Yes, that's true. At least not a male sexual partner. Who would want to be intimate with a frail, sick woman!?" Alfie scratched his bald head. "Okay, I get it. It’ll probably be hard to find a sexual partner under the current circumstances. But don’t give up hope — true miracles happen to people in your situation; you just have to seize the opportunity.” The smartwatch on Julia’s wrist beeped softly. With a tap of her finger, she turned off the alarm. “My free afternoon is coming to an end; I have to get back to work,” she told Alfie. She said a quiet goodbye and drove off in her Ferrari.

She drove the seven minutes to the Coburgbastei, lost in thought. The Ferrari handled the two steps with ease, and she rolled up to the elevator. Something wasn’t right — not at all — with this Alfie. He was friendly, open, and unexpectedly honest in his answers. She was surprised by her own reactions — she’d revealed personal details to him as a matter of course, without hesitating for even a second. Maybe it was his charm; maybe there was something about his manner that made it so easy for her to overcome the usual barriers, as if they didn’t exist. She couldn’t get the situation out of her head; she dutifully did some research online and halfheartedly typed a few lines of her thesis, but her mind was back at the pond, sitting next to this likable, mysterious guy named Alfie.

The next day, it was pouring rain. She pulled the hood of her raincoat tightly over her face, leaving her fair-weather umbrella behind with a scornful glance. As always — every day, no matter the weather — she rode to the pond in the city park. The downpour had been coming down hard for over an hour already, and there was no sign that it was going to let up anytime soon. She thought briefly of Alfie; in this lousy weather, he probably wouldn’t come. She was all the more surprised as she rolled toward the pond. Alfie sat unflinchingly on the bench next to her usual spot. His flimsy raincoat — which wasn’t designed for a truly miserable downpour — hung uselessly around his shoulders. The poor guy was soaked from head to toe, like a drenched poodle.

Julia rolled over to her seat and greeted him loudly, drowning out the sound of the rain. He greeted her warmly and ran a hand over his bald head. “I guess I’ll have to blow-dry my hair for a long time today, Julia,” he joked. She smiled back, but the rain was so loud that she could barely hear him. Determined, she asked, “Wouldn’t you rather go home and dry off? You’ll catch pneumonia!” Alfie shook his head. “I live on Pálffygasse — it’s a bit of a walk from here,” he muttered. Julia pulled herself together. “Alfie, I’m not going to stand by and watch you catch pneumonia. Besides, with this lousy weather and the rain pounding down so loudly, it’s not really possible to have a conversation — even though I would have really looked forward to chatting with you, my friend.” She glanced at the waterfowl, every last one of which had scurried into the bushes. “I’ll give them my stale bread, then we’ll go to my place; you can dry off and warm up there. Period. No arguments,” she said resolutely. “We’d better toss the stale bread under the bushes,” she said, and Alfie stood up, took the paper bag from her hand, and emptied it — along with his own — under the bushes. She drove ahead in the Ferrari, and he followed her curiously. “You live in a posh neighborhood,” he remarked as she unlocked the iron front door.

Alfie stopped at the apartment door. “I can’t just mess up your beautiful apartment,” he said pitifully. She had already slipped off her cape and was looking at him. “Okay, all right, Inspector. Alfie, take off your wet clothes and hang them over the radiator over there. And don’t be shy — I’ve seen more than one guy naked, even a few made of real marble, so.” She turned the Ferrari around and turned her back to him. Alfie stood there for a few moments, indecisive, then stripped naked. He closed the apartment door and placed his wet clothes on the radiators beneath the windowsills. He turned around, and she looked him over from head to toe. A handsome man, in his early forties, though she thought he looked more like he was in his mid-thirties. “You can sit on the couch or my bed — I don’t have any other places to sit,” she said, without blushing in the least, since, of course, she hadn’t mentioned her office chair. Alfie sat down on her bed and looked at her openly. “Thank you very much, Julia, for offering this to me, a stranger. I know how to behave, but weren’t you afraid to sit across from a naked stranger?”

Julia shook her head. "What do I have to fear? Just broken bones — that's all I'm afraid of. And if he attacks me, So what? "That doesn't bother me much. Sex is just an everyday thing, even if it isn't for a girl in my situation." She looked at his body without hesitation. "If you're embarrassed to be naked, I can take my clothes off too, if that makes you feel better, Alfie."

Alfie shook his head. “No, that really isn’t necessary. I’m a grown man; I’m not at all embarrassed by nudity — it’s something completely natural.” They were silent for a while longer, then Julia drove the Ferrari into its “garage” with the wireless charging station and stood up. She knew where to steady herself in her apartment and walked over to the kitchenette. “How about a cup of hot Indian tea — Darjeeling?” Alfie nodded gratefully. “That would be nice, Julia. A cup of tea would warm me up from the inside.” Julia continued chatting, “On Wollzeile, just a few minutes from here, there’s an Indian shop that imports Darjeeling directly, without any middlemen.” While the water for the tea was boiling, she fetched a large bath towel from the bathroom and draped it over his shoulders. “Wrap this around yourself — it’ll warm you up a bit, too.” She sat down next to him and didn’t get up again until the teakettle whistled.

She brought the teapot, dainty cups made of thin Chinese porcelain, and the matching sugar bowl on a tray. She moved the coffee table closer to the bed and placed the tray on it, then poured two cups of tea. They sipped the hot tea in small sips. “My grandpa bought this one-room apartment in case he became a widower,” she said, a touch of melancholy in her voice. “Now it’s my student pad, and Grandpa is resting in peace, right next to Grandma.” She absentmindedly dropped three sugar cubes into her teacup.

"Alfie, I lay awake half the night. There's something mysterious about you; somehow I can't shake the feeling that behind the librarian's facade there's a completely different person." Alfie was silent for a long time, holding the teacup in his hand as if to warm his fingers. "I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Julia. I really am a librarian, even though over there they curator says. I am indeed a widower, and I have two children who live in downtown Chicago and lead decent, orderly lives. I have no dog, cat, or parrot; I live alone in my house. I really don’t have a steady girlfriend or partner, because I’m not yet interested in entering into a new relationship or a romance. — None of this is mysterious, unusual, or even in the slightest bit special. I can’t understand what’s bothering you.

And I really don't want to worry you, Julia — I just wanted to get to know you better, that's all. I first saw you rolling out of the university in your wheelchair, and your face captivated me instantly — it's as simple as that. It was easy to figure out that you sit here by the pond every day at lunchtime. And I don’t have any sinister intentions whatsoever. Yes, I’m curious to get to know you and learn as much as possible about you — everything you’re able and willing to share. That’s all, Julia; I’d have to be an open book to you — no enigma, no Similacron, no hocus-pocus.”

Julia sighed. “Yes, that’s exactly what my thoughts have been revolving around at night. I know all that, and yet it still makes my hair stand on end, and I’m going crazy because I can’t figure out what’s bothering me — or rather, what it is that seems so mysterious to me. I just can’t figure it out. I know you’re a widower and you don’t have — and don’t want to have — any sexual affairs, okay. But how do you deal with your sexual urges, Alfie?” Alfie had straightened his back; he had to be very careful not to let a slip of the tongue happen here. “Well, that’s a very direct and very private question. I think you know how people generally deal with sexual tension when they have neither a wife nor a lover.” Julia squirmed with discomfort. “Sorry for barging into your private garden with my big mouth. But that was part of what was keeping me up at night.”

Alfie looked down at the floor. “I suppose you’re right, Julia. It’s not as simple as you might think. Like everyone else over there in the States, I use a little machine that helps me relax sexually. That’s the truth, but I don’t really like talking about it.” Julia nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. “So that’s one of your secrets. Okay, if you’d like, I’ll apologize for prying, and I certainly didn’t mean to ask anything inappropriate.” Alfie looked up. “And what about you — how do you feel about it?”

Julia blushed. “Me? Well, I’m no different from ‘normal’ girls — I use my finger and plenty of lube. My grandpa showed me how to do it. My grandpa, because my parents died in an accident when I was a little kid. I grew up with my grandparents, you know.” Alfie nodded. “I read a little about your condition online. It mentions ‘frequent loss of libido.’” Julia shook her head. “It all depends on which variant you have — there are at least 18 different variants of my condition. I have a strong, overflowing libido, but I don’t take any pills meant to curb it, as my doctor suggested. I don’t think you have to tinker with every little thing if it’s not necessary. I’m perfectly happy with my libido as it is right now. Period.” She paused for a moment. “Is that a problem for you?” she asked quietly. Alfie shook his head. “No, Julia, why would it be a problem for me? I’m trying to picture it, and I’m sort of getting the idea. You’ll have to explain that ‘overflowing’ part to me someday.”

Julia poured more tea. “I tossed and turned all night because I just couldn’t get it out of my head. When you talked about the year 2038, it sounded completely normal to you. It startled me, because it’s only 2025 — and it seemed strange to me that the National Archives would be planning that far ahead; but it’s not impossible, of course. But then you said you’d misspoken — well, when I see a big fly or a big lie, I can tell the difference between the two. “We shouldn’t pave the way for getting to know each other with lies, Alfie!” He nodded. “No, lies can destroy everything, even though there are always situations in life where you have no choice but to lie. I’m sure you’ll agree with me on that. And yes, in hindsight, I’ve also been thinking about my slip of the tongue. I’m expected to retire in 2038; I just recently spoke with the director about it. That sneaky slip probably came from that direction — maybe it was just the so-called ‘cognitive cross-talk effect.’" Julia nodded understandingly. "Okay, I’m familiar with that effect. It happens to me sometimes, too — a thought from one conversation sneaks its way into another conversation." Julia’s smartwatch beeped softly.

Alfie got up and went to get his clothes. "I know, Julia, you have to get back to work. We'll see each other again tomorrow at the pond, right?"

Julia continued to work diligently on her thesis, doing research online and reading through articles that seemed important; she even copied some of them into a work folder so she could possibly include them in the footnotes later. Her thoughts kept returning to Alfie. No, she hadn’t known that people in America used “little machines” for masturbation. She browsed the internet a bit, and sure enough, there they were — some for men and others for women. In the pictures, they looked unremarkable, and she couldn’t immediately picture how they worked. But with a little imagination, she understood the mechanisms. No, that probably wasn’t for her. On the other hand, Alfie had said they were very widespread. Her finger hovered over the “Order” button, but then she decisively dismissed the idea.

Alfie would retire in 2038, by which time she herself would be 34. She thought long and hard about whether that little, fat lie might actually be trying to hide a completely different secret — a really big secret. It didn’t sound implausible — after all, he’d recently spoken with his boss about retirement. But how plausible was it that a 42-year-old was already making plans for retirement? And then take a sabbatical year? That didn’t make any sense. She would ask him. Because if there was one thing she really couldn’t stand, it was loose ends dangling from the ceiling without answers — like electrical wires to which the electrician hadn’t yet attached any light bulbs. But now she turned her attention back to her thesis — she was behind schedule for this semester, but she planned to work on it over the summer and then submit it at the start of the winter semester in September or October.

The next day, the next downpour hit a quarter of an hour before she set off for the pond. It was pouring buckets, and she was almost certain Alfie had been caught off guard by it. It would surely take him more than half an hour to get from Pálffygasse to the pond. Maybe he didn’t even have his flimsy raincoat with him. Well wrapped up in her cape, she drove the Ferrari to the pond. Alfie was already sitting on the bench; he’d slipped on that irresponsible, useless raincoat and was grinning broadly as she drove closer. He greeted her, shouting loudly over the pattering rain, and she shouted her greeting back.

She parked the Ferrari in its spot, and he called out, “I bet that if I buy myself a nice cape like yours right now, there won’t be a downpour for the next two thousand days, right!?” Julia shook her head. “You’ll end up with webbed toes, you unreasonable stubborn fool! We’ll scatter the stale bread in the bushes again, and then we’ll go to my place to warm you up and have some hot tea. Period. No arguments.” Alfie scattered the stale bread among the bushes, patted a completely surprised male mallard on its green little head, then trotted alongside the Ferrari in the rain, toward Julia’s house.

Alfie took off his wet clothes and laid them on the radiators. He grabbed a bath towel from the bathroom and wrapped it around his hips. He stood next to Julia in the kitchen and gave her a hand. He carried the tray with the teapot, two small porcelain cups, and the sugar bowl into the room and set it on the coffee table; then they both sat down on her bed, which was covered with a blanket. They sipped the hot tea in small sips, and Alfie asked how her morning had gone.

Julia set down her cup. “Even though my grandparents left me not only this apartment but also a sizeable bank account and securities, I work from home in the mornings in customer service for a furniture store chain — IKEA. I used to spend about four hours in the mornings answering customer questions, but now I have an AI — Google’s Gemini — help me with that. Now I barely need two hours to do the work; the AI’s suggestions and response texts are usually perfect and error-free. And — I’m still paid as a part-time employee, and I have social security and health insurance. As I said, I wouldn’t have to work alongside my studies, but it’s good practice for interacting with real people — and also, to some extent, for earning my own money. That’s very important to me, Alfie — I don’t want to just rely on Grandpa’s bank account; I want to be active and creative. My studies don’t suffer in the slightest; I’m constantly working on my thesis, and that’s exciting and challenging enough."

Alfie nodded. “Yes, I understand that whole ‘own’ money thing quite well. My children, Waltraud and Heinrich, also started taking on jobs very early on to supplement their allowance. No, Hilda — my wife — was certainly not stingy with their allowance, but we could tell how important it was for our children to earn their own money on the side. Looking back now, I think this also helped ensure that they never joined a street gang or turned to drugs.” Julia nodded; it felt good to be on the same wavelength as someone.

"And this morning I also went to see my doctor. Thank goodness all my test results are within the normal range; she’s also satisfied with the lab results. She shook her head because my genital area is a little chafed. Her recommendation to use lubricant is very sound; but it goes against spontaneity. Consequently, we had a long discussion about my libido, because she thinks it needs to be reined in, but I don’t agree with her. I don’t want to tinker with it unnecessarily as long as my libido doesn’t seem unpleasant or pathological to me. She understands that very well, but she’s not really satisfied — I can tell, even if she doesn’t say it out loud.” Alfie tilted his head. “Of course, I don’t have an opinion on your libido yet, Julia — how would I even know how you define an ‘exuberant libido’!? But I agree with you on this point: if you’re comfortable with things the way they are right now, then there’s no need to tweak anything — why bother!?” They were silent for a long time, lost in thought.

Then Alfie said, “When I was still in college, I had a part-time job as a tattoo artist for five years. I liked the work because, even with the stencils, you still had to have a sense of shapes, colors, and creativity. I took the job more by chance, since I don’t have any tattoos myself. But it was always nice to get up close and personal with other people, to touch every centimeter of their skin, to touch their limbs or their genitals — I think this job also shaped me, not just the desire to become a curator, that is, a librarian. As a tattoo artist, you develop a unique sense of the human body, of skin, and, of course, of female genitalia. Society is absolutely crazy about genital tattoos, and I became a sought-after specialist. One thing, however, set me apart from many other tattoo artists: back then, I never initiated anything sexual, unlike so many others. My attitude toward sexuality was shaped mainly by my grandparents, Arthur and Katharina, and by my mother, Isolde.”

Julia chimed in. “My grandfather, in particular, shaped my understanding of sexuality, because he believed that young people — that is, children and grandchildren — shouldn’t be sent out into the world ignorant or half-informed. Looking back, I agree with him and am very grateful that he patiently and lovingly guided me through my sexuality, even though now, in my current state, I can’t even think about having a sexual partner. How did it go for you? Can you tell me about it, if you’re not embarrassed?”

Alfie looked down at the floor. “No, I’m not embarrassed — it’s just that I rarely talk to others about it. My grandparents, Arthur and Katharina, basically laid the foundation for me: respect, listening, and discussion — the three pillars of a good relationship. My mother taught me the practical side of things. I was her only son, and I was the only one of her children allowed to sleep naked next to her. I came to understand that nudity is something natural. And that you can — and should — have trust and closeness with another person. And that it’s completely natural to use the little machine without shame when you’re close, like a mother and son. That was extraordinary even for an open and enlightened society like America’s. But all of this enabled me to have a good, trusting, and truly heartfelt marriage with my wife — heartfelt in the sense of coming from the heart.”

Julia smiled and took his hand. “Once again, we’re getting into topics I usually avoid — like my libido or our sexual history. I guess it’s because I feel like I’ve known you for ages and that you’ve been my friend for just as long. We’ve known each other for maybe a week or ten days — and yet you’ve never felt like a stranger to me. Until now, I’ve only ever had that feeling with my friend Yvonne, my best friend and only sexual partner. And I have to admit, Alfie, I really like that feeling.” Alfie didn’t pull his hand away from hers. “It’s strange, the two of us,” he said. “I saw you roll out of the university building, and your face — your expression — captivated me instantly, in a fraction of a second. I did everything I could to get closer to you and get to know you, as if I had to, without becoming an intrusive stalker. I don’t usually do that — there are enough people within my circle with whom I have or need to have contact, professionally speaking.”

They sat side by side in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Julia asked, “I’ve been wanting to ask for days now — what do your kids do for a living?” Alfie’s face lit up. “Heinrich is a surgeon specializing in the human hand. He’s launched a major project to program surgical robots to perform very complex hand surgeries. And Waltraud — she works for the State of Michigan’s health care system; she studied psychology and mainly supervises school psychologists throughout the state. You can probably imagine how proud I am of my children. And one day they’ll settle down somewhere and start a family — I have no doubt about that. “And, of course, they’ll make me a grandpa — an old, very old grandpa, of course.” They both smiled because he’d said it with a broad grin. Julia thought to herself that she would never have children or grandchildren.

The smartwatch on Julia’s wrist beeped softly; she turned off the alarm with a wave of her hand. Alfie got up and got dressed. “Alfie, I’ll give you my phone number so we can get in touch when the next downpour drives us to the Teapot. Okay? But please don’t pass the number on to just any Hinz or Kunz, as we say in Vienna, claro?” Alfie typed the number into his cell phone. “I don’t know your ‘Hinz’ or your ‘Kunz’ — especially not the latter — but those two won’t get your number; only everyone else will,” he grinned, laughter lines forming around his eyes. He dialed the number right away, and Julia’s smartphone rang softly. “Now you’ve got my number saved, too,” he explained. He kissed Julia on the cheek, then slipped out quietly.

Julia glanced out the window only now and then; outside, the once-in-a-century downpour was raging. There was already flooding in the city, and the U2 and U4 subway lines had been suspended because parts of the track system were already submerged. The Wien River, usually a leisurely trickle with no particularly striking features, had turned into a raging torrent and damaged large sections of the U4 subway infrastructure. She turned her attention to her thesis, which compared German and French legends and myths concerning the ancient Greek gods. She spoke French fluently; her grandmother was from France, after all, so Julia had learned French playfully from a young age. Julia had copied hundreds of articles and stories from the internet and was now reading a German and a French parable or legend side by side in two browser windows. It was a very productive afternoon; she had added a good 8 pages to her manuscript, mainly in the form of keyword-style notes, which she would later turn into complete sentences, paragraphs, or footnotes.

She jolted awake from a wild dream. She sat upright in bed for a few moments, then glanced at her wristwatch. 5:20 — way too early to get up. What had she been dreaming about? Scenes flashed before her mind’s eye like wisps of fog. Leaning on a ski pole, she had been making her way through deep snow toward the isolated house; with every step, she sank up to her hips, and the storm — perhaps a blizzard — whipped snowflakes into her face and into her eyes. Finally, she reached the house and stepped inside. She walked down a long hallway and entered a bedroom. On the double bed lay a naked woman and a naked boy. It was Alfie and his mother. They were holding hands and both smiled blissfully, lost in their own world. A small box rested on each of their abdomens. She wanted to rush over and warn them, but just then the weight of the snow crashed through the ceiling, and she felt as if she were suffocating in the snow. As she was suffocating, she woke up, drenched in sweat and distraught. Relieved, she took in her living room-bedroom in the dim light of the breaking dawn. It was just a dream. A silly dream. Nothing but a silly dream. She fell back asleep moments later.

All morning long, she worked through a double batch of customer correspondence for IKEA while looking out the window with concern. The torrential downpour paused for no more than five minutes here and there, giving way to a typical summer drizzle — only to rudely push the poor drizzle aside after a few minutes and unleash the downpour on the city once again. She heard the news reports about the flooding in the city. Around noon, Alfie called. He said with a smirk that he’d finally bought himself a proper cape, one just like hers. Julia said she hadn’t sat by the pond with her birds for two days in a row, but she’d love to head out there again despite the downpour. After a second, Alfie said, “Okay, I’m heading out; I’ll be at the pond in about 40 minutes. With the new cape, of course,” he added.

Julia was the first to reach the pond. The waterfowl clearly liked the wet, muddy ground. Julia had bought an extra half loaf of bread at the bakery and was now tearing off small pieces and tossing them to the birds. She had actually expected the pond to have overflowed, but there was no sign of it. Maybe the water level was a centimeter higher than usual, but there was no sign of overflowing. Twenty minutes later, Alfie arrived in his new cape — it was dark green but made of sturdy material. He’d bought it at a military and hunting shop on Mariahilfstraße. Julia nodded approvingly when he added that not a drop of rain would get through — guaranteed. Julia backed the Ferrari up a little so she could park right next to the bench where Alfie was sitting. That way, they could talk in hushed tones — because of the loud rain. Julia said that yesterday afternoon she’d managed to write a full 8 pages of notes for her thesis, which was quite a lot. And despite a stupid dream that had rudely jolted her awake that morning, she’d worked four hours for IKEA that morning and caught up on her backlog. Alfie asked, “What stupid dream?”

Julia recounted what she could still remember. Alfie tilted his head. “Well, of course there are blizzards in Chicago, but they’re rare. And there’s a stone-paved path leading from the street to my house — your struggle with deep snow comes from your subconscious. And even if the weight of the snow were to break through the roof — there are three children’s rooms and a bathroom in the attic, since we’ve always wanted three children. And the bed scene — your poetic, romantic streak got the better of you there, my love, because Mom and I never held hands like that. There were never any indecent advances between Mom and me. And the machines don’t bounce around to simulate intercourse either.”

When my little machine had calmed me down, I’d rest my cheek against Mom’s chest and sometimes cry, because I always felt so sad afterward. I listened to the gallop of her heartbeat and watched, fascinated, as the piston of her little machine thrust rhythmically into her bush, her fingers buried deep within it. But it’s interesting how much these things preoccupy you, even in your dreams.” Alfie tilted his head, and raindrops now rolled down his face. “You’ve painted a picture in your mind because it seems special to you to see Mom and me lying naked side by side. And because you’ve never seen those little machines before. But you sense so keenly that sexuality bound Mom and me intimately together. That’s interesting — very interesting. And it’s true, …” He was about to say something, but then he fell silent, lost in thought. Julia turned off the Ferrari’s heated seats. “We don’t need to talk about it, Alfie; maybe it’s not the right time.” She lowered her head — she didn’t really want to pry into his sex life with his mom right now. She knew instinctively that was the case.

"Tell me, Alfie, what do you do all day long? You’re practically on vacation — on a sabbatical. That’s when you go visit a guru in India, climb an eight-thousander in Tibet, or learn Catalan love songs. For example." Alfie laughed into his nonexistent beard. “Catalan love songs? Tibetan eight-thousanders? An overweight, smelly guru in Pondicherry, Tamil Nadu? You read too many Agatha Christie mysteries, girl. “No, on my sabbatical I can devote myself to a main task without having to worry about my day-to-day duties as a curator,” Julia immediately pressed. “And what important task have you set for yourself, dear Alfie? Following a pimply girl from the university and pretending it’s not stalking?” They both laughed out loud, and the relentless, miserable rain couldn’t dampen their lighthearted, friendly, and cheerful conversation.

Alfie grew serious again. “No, it’s okay that you asked. Six months ago, some rowdy teenagers — or young hooligans — set fire to part of our library during a drinking binge. Of course, the sprinkler system and the fire department did their best, but all the documents in my department — covering media reports and publications from Europe from 1968 to 1985 — were burned. Two neighboring departments also suffered heavy losses, but other curators are handling that. Officially, I’m on a sabbatical, but I’ve agreed with the director to spend a year in Europe — on full pay — collecting whatever I can so it can be archived again.

I’ve rented two adjacent apartments on Pálffygasse — the smaller one for myself, and I had the larger one cleared out, which I’m now filling with the treasures I’ve collected. I sit at the computer for 8 to 12 hours a day and order everything I can still get my hands on. I’ve rented a post office box where I pick up my treasures every day with a little shopping cart. At first, I needed a cargo taxi, back when I was still getting a lot of deliveries. The chubby postmaster always gives me a funny look, even though I think she’s the funny one with her unsightly, unkempt lady's mustache. Once a week, I take the cargo taxi to the recycling center. That, in a nutshell, is my current task. And I’m grateful for every minute I get to spend in your company. That more than makes up for all the eight-thousanders, Catalan love songs, and disgusting Indian gurus. I’m very hardworking and want to restore the old data sets — it’s kind of my duty. Although the director thinks it’s a commendable extra task; other curators would just shrug and say, “It’s fire damage, period!” But that’s just not how I’m wired.”

Julia leaned forward. “I have a much better picture of you now, Alfie. Until now, I just thought you were a tourist, which in itself wouldn’t be so bad. But now I see that you’re working hard here and throwing the National Library’s dollars out the window on a rescue mission. That commands a respect I didn’t have for you before. Yes, you’re still a man shrouded in mystery to me, but you’ve lifted the veil over one secret and let me peek beneath it, revealing a glimpse of the Callipyge. I see you a little more clearly now than before. Thank you for that!” She squeezed his forearm beneath the sturdy cape. “Somehow I’m glad that you’re not just some stray American like the others, but that you’re working hard here, in the service of Her Majesty!” He grinned. “Yeah, like James Bond, but without the Beretta.” She grew pensive. “If there’s anything you need me to look up or research for you, just say the word — I’ll do it!” Alfie shook his head, “No, thanks. I’m pretty quick at doing research myself, believe me. And of course, I use every AI there is on God’s green earth. They already know me like the back of their hand.”

He grinned. “By the way, you’re right — the National Library has deep pockets, and I get every dollar I ask for. The books, tomes, and old magazines cost a staggering fortune, and right from the start I set up four scanners that run fully automatically around the clock. The director doesn’t even bat an eye when I ask for another sack of dollars. She knows I’m not spending it on wine, women, and song. Without her support, I’d have been sitting on the banks of the Seine in Paris long ago, feeding the swans with my tears and stale bread.” Julia had to laugh — what a quirky guy this Alfie was!

"Tell me, Alfie, I've been meaning to ask you this for ages: you don't have any hair on your head or any eyebrows — is that the result of chemotherapy?" Alfie looked up, puzzled. "Chemotherapy? — Oh, you mean cancer treatment? No, not at all — I’ve been spared from cancer so far. No, my parents had all of my hair and my two sisters’ hair removed when we were kids because they followed a very controversial medical opinion. They don’t do that anymore these days; hair growth is a natural process, and the controversy has died down. My sisters draw on their eyebrows, wear false eyelashes, and wear wigs of all different colors and styles. Irmgard, my youngest sister, once said half-jokingly that there’s a silver lining — you don’t have to wash your hair every day, and you can wear a different hairstyle every day. It doesn’t bother me personally; in the U.S., many men are bald, and it no longer carries any negative connotations — it doesn’t automatically mean you’re a gangster.” Julia understood. “Here, too, there are many men who shave their heads, and it certainly doesn’t carry any criminal connotations. But I know some people who lost their hair and eyebrows during chemotherapy — that’s why I asked.”

The downpour stopped as abruptly as if Saint Peter had flipped a switch. They slipped out of their raincoats as the sky quickly cleared and the July sun came crashing down again. “It’s going to be a hot summer,” Julia said, “I’ve been listening to the radio with half an ear while I work.” Alfie nodded and muttered that he’d already heard it on the evening news. He shrugged. “Julia, I won’t be coming here for the next two days — I’m going on a trip, maybe even a quick trip to the States. But I’ll be back in two days, right on time.” Julia smiled, “You’re a free man, after all, and you do as you please — or as your boss demands. I’ll bring the birds enough stale bread — you don’t need to worry about them.” Julia’s smartwatch beeped softly — the bird feeding was over. Alfie stood up and held out his open palm to her. She placed her hand on it, and he said, “Goodbye, Julia, see you in three days!” Then he turned and walked away. Julia watched him go for a long time. She turned the Ferrari around and drove off. What was it she was feeling? Was it just a sense of longing at not being able to see her companion for the next two days, and was Alfie really just a companion — or already a friend who had grown dear to her heart? Oh well, Yvonne was coming over this afternoon; she’d discuss this question with her best friend — maybe that would bring some clarity?

Of course, Yvonne couldn’t shed any light on the matter either, even though they both turned Alfie over and over in their minds, chewing him over and examining him from every angle. Alfie was an extraordinary but also complicated man — the two friends agreed on that. Yvonne sighed, “Julia, when it comes to a boy or a man, you have to listen to your heart more than your head. Your heart is much smarter than your head. Your head has already ruled out the usual suspects — the seducer, the sex-obsessed guy, the gold digger, or the financial fraudster — so now sit back and listen to your heart. Maybe he’s the first serious boyfriend of your life, girl! I really hope that’s the case — it would make you even happier. The way you describe it — how he was captivated the moment he saw you as you rolled out of the university building — that’s not cheesy; that’s just how life works. I’ve experienced this, too — it only takes a split second to fall for a guy. And most of the time, you’re right, even if problems later pile up like dust under a dresser and destroy that dazzling fascination. That’s real life; that’s the real world we live in and fall in love in.” “Yeah, Yvonne — she was a real friend.” Julia smiled; she was still miles away from being in love, but no sooner had she said it out loud than a nagging doubt took root in her heart. You know, one of those ugly doubts with bad teeth, sneaky little eyes, a crooked grin, and dressed in rags. The kind that’s haughty and arrogant, absolutely certain it knows better than you do. Half in a panic, she asked herself if she was in love with Alfie — could that even be possible?

Alfie arrived at the pond right on time on the third day. He kissed Julia on the cheek as they greeted each other joyfully. He didn’t mention his trip at all; instead, he asked how her work with the IKEA customers and her thesis were coming along. Julia reported that she had discovered a modest, unassuming website in a hidden corner of the internet that linked to a very old book from the 19th century. Back then, during the height of Neoclassicism around 1870, an eccentric writer named François Anatole Thibault had collected and written down ancient myths and legends from ancient Greece — most of which had been passed down orally — that fit perfectly into her thesis. Legends in which Hera didn’t yet have a halo and Zeus was busily cuckolding. She was certain that hardly anyone thought of this old eccentric anymore these days; this discovery would be a little gem, something special in her thesis.

Alfie had been listening intently; he liked her passion and enthusiasm for the subject. For a while, they watched in silence as the birds shared the breadcrumbs, following a very specific hierarchy. First, the female gray herons took their share, and last were the great crested grebes. And all this without any screeching, threatening flapping of wings, or snapping of beaks. “Well-behaved dinosaurs,” Julia murmured.

Alfie reached into his pocket and pulled out a dark brown glass jar. It was octagonal and about 15 cm tall. It could hold a quarter of a kilo or 300 ml. “Julia, I couldn’t stop thinking about your brittle bone disease and the unbearable hopelessness of it all. I’ve brought you a powder — it doesn’t just dull the pain or provide relief; no, it will completely cure your disease within 90 days. This medication isn’t experimental — it’s approved. And it’s very hard to come by because it’s ridiculously expensive, even by American standards. But the National Library has deep pockets, so I took the liberty. Of course, I explained the purpose in detail to the director, and she just smiled mischievously as she approved it: “Just don’t lose your heart in Europe, my dear!” she admonished me, half in earnest. But there’s no danger of that. I just wanted to help you because I can help you and the others can’t.”

Julia’s heart leaped so hard it took her breath away. “But — how can that be? Don’t we Europeans know what you Americans are researching and manufacturing?” She stared at the glass jar. Alfie opened it and poured a white powder — about half a teaspoon — into the palm of his hand. He licked it up and swallowed it. “It’s not poisonous; otherwise, I’d be dropping dead right now. The pharmacist explained to me that it stimulates the genes responsible for the formation of Type I collagen — whatever exactly those may be. That’s why you have the disease. In the States, no one has this disease anymore; toddlers are treated with this 90-day therapy as early as their second year of life and are cured. Period. That’s why I knew so little about your disease. So, please take one level teaspoon of this powder every morning 20 minutes before breakfast, and you can drink tea with it if you like. They just added a sweet orange flavor for the kids. If your body still isn’t producing collagen after 90 days, I’ll get a whole barrel of this powder, damn it! I want to see you healthy, and above all, I don’t want you to be joining your ancestors at 40, girl!” Alfie handed her the container. “Get well, Julia!”

Julia felt both hot and cold at the same time as she placed the vessel on her lap. “I — I’m completely overwhelmed, Alfie. I don’t know how to put it into words. That you made such a long trip to the States just to get me a cure. That you even gave my illness a second thought, even though I’d already been written off, according to the medical knowledge here. That you find the time, on top of your actual job, to still think about me and my illness. You’re a truly extraordinary man, the kind of friend you don’t find every day. Thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart! To lead a normal, healthy life without fear of broken bones — that’s like the Holy Grail, unattainable and unreal.” Julia fell silent. “I’ll have to bring a sample to my doctor, because she’ll want to examine it. We have a relationship of trust when it comes to my health, so I have to tell her about this.” Alfie nodded. “Of course I know that — this doctor takes very good care of you, my dear. Bring her a small sample — not too much — because the contents are meant for a 90-day healing regimen. Your body will need every single grain.”

Suddenly, tears streamed down Julia’s cheeks. “Yvonne and I have been going back and forth about whether you’re a friend to me or not. And I told her that, to me, you’re a friend whom heaven has unexpectedly sent my way. And now I know it, with complete clarity: you’re my best friend, a man who asks for nothing but generously gives to me. I’ll do everything I can to be just as good a friend to you, Alfie, my friend!” She gently placed a hand on his forearm — a physical gesture of trust and friendship that sealed their bond. Alfie looked her straight in the eye, his eyes deep and unfathomable like a mountain lake a thousand meters deep. “I want to be your friend, Julia, and it would be an honor for me to be able to call myself your friend. You’re my only friend — he paused briefly — my only friend here in Europe.”

Julia’s smartwatch beeped, rudely interrupting the intimate moment. Annoyed, she silenced the alarm. “Alfie, just four or five days ago, it was a downpour that drove us to take shelter in my apartment. Now the July sun is scorching our brains right out of our skulls. Would you come with me to my apartment and maybe have a cold lemonade? I’d love to have you all to myself right now — completely selfishly.” She paused briefly. “I feel as brittle as glass and as fragile as paper-thin Chinese porcelain. I’m afraid I might shatter at any moment. Even my ‘overflowing’ libido brought me only seconds of oblivion; then that feeling came crashing down on me again, like a hostile glass bell jar placed over my soul.”

Alfie nodded and stood up. “But of course, Julia — that’s what friends are for — when you want someone by your side, when you want to escape the hustle and bustle of public life together. When you feel as fragile as thin Chinese porcelain and even your ‘exuberant’ libido doesn’t really help.” She drove off in the Ferrari, and he trotted alongside her. Once they arrived at the apartment, she set the glass container with the remedy on the kitchen counter and placed the Ferrari on its charging station. She stood up and held onto a shelf for support.

"Please don't get me wrong, Alfie, but I feel the need to lie naked next to you on the bed, skin to skin, and to caress your body, to get to know it. No, I don't want sex — that's not even remotely on my mind. I just want closeness — nothing but intimate closeness.” Alfie nodded in agreement. Julia took two bottles out of the fridge. “Unfiltered elderberry juice, straight from the farmers’ market — mixed with mineral water, it’s the best refreshment in this sweltering heat.” She poured the drinks and set the glasses on the nightstand, along with an ashtray and cigarettes. She began to undress, and so did Alfie. They lay down on the bed, and Alfie said, “I used to smoke as a teenager thirty years ago, but I haven’t since. I’m not addicted to nicotine. But if we think of it as a shared campfire, then it’s okay with me.” His eyes drifted over the slender, delicate body of his beautiful girlfriend. “You’re a very beautiful girl, Julia — inside and out!”

Alfie’s fingertips traced the two tattooed snakes winding their way up her inner thighs. “Really, first-rate work!” he said. She looked at him with wide eyes. “There’s one more — the big snake!” she whispered, spreading her thighs. Alfie’s eyes sparkled. A huge snake’s head adorned her pubic area, with its jaws wide open and fangs bared. “Go ahead and take a look, Alfie,” Julia breathed. His hands reached out to explore. Her labia were artfully incorporated into its throat; her clit formed the uvula. The small labia ran as sharp as a knife’s edge from her clit all the way down, guarding her sanctuary from indecent gazes. He examined her clit very closely; it was reddened and badly chafed. He said nothing about it and reached for her knees to gently close them again. “I used to tattoo snakes like that myself; most of the time, the girls wanted to scare their lovers away before the act. What a foolish idea! That won’t stop anyone.”

Julia placed her hand on the back of his hand. “I had it done at Brad’s Tattoo Shop because he knew how to avoid breaking my bones. First, the two snakes — I’m liking them more and more; they seem to get even more erotic by the day. And I love the bewildered looks passersby give the two snakes — I’m such a naughty girl! Two weeks later, the big snake went in — Brad understood exactly what I expected of him. But when he insisted that I had to relax on my own while getting tattooed, I almost ran away.

That’s how his assistant, Leila — a perverted woman — treated me. She did it to me over and over again with a smirk, because she took pleasure in the fact that I wanted to die of shame every single time. Brad didn’t care; he cleaned his equipment carefully and barely looked over. I don’t know why I was so prissy, Alfie — I’m probably just a dumb cow, that’s all. Brad didn’t ask for anything other than to do it to me right there in the studio, carefully, right in front of the jealous Leila. I felt a certain satisfaction because her jealous eyes nearly popped out of her head.” Alfie placed his hand on hers, reassuringly and silently.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked into her eyes. “You mentioned Yvonne earlier. You once said she is your best friend and only sexual partner. Am I to understand that you’re a virgin, Julia?” Julia’s fingertips, which had been gently and curiously tracing his chest and the insides of his thighs, paused in their movement. “No, Alfie, I haven’t been a virgin for many years — not since I was 16. I gave my virginity to my grandpa when I was 16; he deserved it, and he alone. It was a sublime, sacred act, and I cried with joy back then in Venice. Since then, I’ve had sex time and again; I just had to make sure my bones stayed in one piece. And just recently, I had wonderful sex with a cute boy; at the beginning of this year. I hosted Reginald for two weeks — a third-cousin my own age who lives in New Zealand and came to visit us, his relatives in Vienna. Me and my three unchaste cousins — the flighty trio.” Alfie smiled; she’d told him about the sinful, unchaste roller-coaster rides of the naughty triplets.

"He slept here, where you're lying now. He lives in Stratford, a small town at the foot of Mount Taranaki. And he's having an affair with his older aunt Jamie, who also suffers from brittle bone disease, just like me. He’s a trained physical therapist and first met Jamie as a patient. She opened her heart to him; she’d had a lot of sex in her youth, but ever since osteogenesis imperfecta had mercilessly struck at age 22, she’d avoided men and sex. She cried about how much she missed physical intimacy and sex. He took the crying 32-year-old in his arms, and they became lovers. That’s why he knows exactly how to have sex with a woman like that without breaking every bone in her body.

I liked him, I trusted him, and I let him have sex with me, even though I knew, of course, that during the day he worked my cousins’ fields, plowing the furrows and diligently sowing seeds, all morning and all afternoon. “I have very fond memories of those ten days of sex with him; he’s a gentle and tender man, that Reginald. And just as exuberant as I am — because he wouldn’t settle for less than three rounds, that devil of a man — I couldn’t fall asleep until well past midnight,” Julia said, blushing slightly. “So no, Alfie, I haven’t been a virgin for a long time.”

She fell silent and looked at him searchingly. Alfie took two cigarettes and lit them. “Thank you for confiding something so intimate in me, Julia. I was expecting more of a yes-or-no answer. But it’s reassuring to know that you’re having sex and that you’ll be able to continue doing so without hesitation after your recovery — perhaps a little more relaxed and fearless.” Julia’s finger paused on his chest. “Is that a pacemaker?” she asked, feeling the barely visible device that could be felt beneath his muscles. Alfie shook his head. “No,” he said, and then he thought for a long time. A very long time.

The baton in the conductor’s raised hand trembled; its tip quivered as if it were shivering. Only the timpanist knew that he was about to strike the timpani with his mallet with all his might, in a thousandth of a second, snatching the audience from the cozy, gentle embrace of the Nereids and the rising and falling of the symphony’s long Atlantic waves.

This — this was the silence before the drum roll.