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Ooo...Occasionally I allow myself a little nostalgia, romance, and emotion. This text is one such example, even though at first glance it doesn't seem to have much in common with my other texts.
And yet. It was the first consciously staged text I wrote with the intention of publishing it someday. Since then, of course, I've published it everywhere I possibly could. Sometimes to the despair of my readership, who wondered, puzzled, what on earth was the point of all this?! — The worst affected, of course, were the readers of "Euro Agrar," who found my scribblings amidst a foot-and-mouth outbreak. The editors, however, had accepted my argument that the 30th anniversary of the great artist's death was approaching.
Looking back after some 15 years, I still recognize several elements that are so typical of my writing style: a touch of eroticism, but only in tiny hints. A crumpled yet endearing hero. An event that, of course, is only an event from a subjective point of view. Arbitrary names, little plays on words, and a true core story, wrapped in a sparse narrative. A hint of the bizarre. And here and there, a little humor flickers.
Not too noticeable, but still.
I did, however, run into difficulties when a somewhat humorous reader asked me who exactly "Hollinger" was, and who also harshly criticized the original subtitle, "Obituary for KF"—good advice was needed, but too expensive. I couldn't very well title the text "When I Met KF for the Only Time in My Life"—yes, I had only met him that one time and was deeply affected when he died a few months later. Perhaps that comes closest to the truth: my single dialogue with the master still seems worth recounting today.
"You're a fool, Hollinger," growls my graying German professor, and his mixture of standard German and dialect rises to a worrying 63:36, "Karl Farkas has been dead for quite some time now, and a possible round anniversary of his death is nowhere in sight!"
Where first-class Italian ice cream is served today, there used to be the LUGECK, a refined and affordable restaurant that had already seen better days. I dined there one evening with my bride and future in-laws, who had rushed to Vienna from the farthest provincial capital to check on things after the teacher with whom my bride Angelika, who was somewhat in love with her and had followed her to Vienna during her final year of high school (since the former had been transferred to Vienna as punishment for loving young girls—something completely unheard of for a Catholic nun in a provincial capital at the time), had initially stayed, had anxiously informed the parents that their daughter had been sent to Vienna because she had a husband! who had allowed her to stay overnight and who, in turn, now felt compelled to evict her, citing the pimping law, so that the poor child was now completely unprotected with this strange man!, who had followed said daughter like an amorous rooster and was also a casual laborer from the provinces without long-term prospects.
"Let's get down to business, Hollinger, let's get down to business!" grumbles my gray-haired German professor in impeccable High German, "and no such daring sentence structures, please!" He shakes his head wearily: "13 commas, 2 exclamation marks, seven periods!"
LUGECK was therefore the perfect end to this wet and cold November weekend, during which we checked on things, even though we were the only guests in the cellar and the sluggish service from the nasal-voiced waiter did little to convey the sophisticated capital city flair. But the young couple, blessed by their parents, needed neither cheerful service nor lively company; they were perfectly content on their own. The only other guest, who arrived later, sat down at the furthest table and immediately began silently spooning up the liver dumpling soup, which had been served without a word or greeting.
We exchanged eyebrow-raising glances and whispered, "Isn't that... what's his name again, Karl Farkas?" "Oh no, yes, believe me, I recognize him!" Again and again, furtive glances flitted to the master as we ate our meal and chatted quietly, until, after dessert, my future father-in-law hemmed and hawed and finally blurted out, "It would be so great to have an autograph from HIM!" The effect of his wish on the day laborer with no long-term prospects was electric. "I'll do it!" "No, I just said it offhand," my future father-in-law half-heartedly tried to stop me, in vain. I was already half out of my chair when my mother-in-law hissed after me, "Däs chaascht doch näd dua!?", which those familiar with Alemannic dialect can easily translate as "You can't do that!" But I'm already on my way, crossing the hall with wobbly knees and a queasy stomach. Hundreds of tables and chairs, which I hadn't even noticed before and which block my path, fill the vastness of the hall, and I'm right in the middle of it all, in a nimble slalom, heading towards the master.
He stares at me, stony-faced, when I finally stand before him. I hear someone who obviously has either throat cancer or is going through puberty ask, "Could I please have an autograph for my future father-in-law, Mr. Farkas?" He looks at me for a long time, silent and expressionless. The machinery in my head, paralyzed by fear, slowly begins to grind back into motion. I follow his gaze and, after what feels like an eternity, realize I haven't brought anything to write with. "Just a moment, Mr. Farkas!" A frantic slalom back to our table, "Do you have anything to write with?" and a pleading look around the room. My future father-in-law rummages in his pockets; an unwritten postcard has to do. Slalom back, pushing the chairs aside, I turn around halfway, "And something to write with!" and then, armed with a pen, I head back to Mr. Farkas. I will remember the following dialogue for the rest of my life:
"For?"
His scrutinizing gaze is more reminiscent of a hawk than a wolf. Farkas actually means wolf in Hungarian.
"For Hans."
The master turns the postcard over, staring blankly at the Lipizzaner horse, the Ferris wheel, and the opera house. The ballpoint pen scratches deeply as he scribbles the illegible, sweeping message. I surmise, "For Hans, KF." I watch, fascinated, as he looks only at his enormous nose while writing, and not at what he's writing.
"From where?"
"Bregenz, Mr. Farkas."
"Have you been here long?"
"Three months."
Pause. He turns the postcard over again, looking from the town hall towards the Upper Belvedere and Schönbrunn.
"Do you like it?"
Embarrassed, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. "It was the last one they had left, Mr. Farkas, and the one with Empress Elisabeth..."
"Do you like Vienna?" he interrupts me irritably.
"Yes, very good, Mr. Farkas." I'm perplexed; that was the first complete German sentence. Long silence.
"Simple?"
I am hurt and look at him defiantly; I may be from the countryside, and I'm not a doctor yet, but I don't have to put up with being insulted, not even by Mr. Farkas.
"Have you been to the Simpl yet?" he repeated his question somewhat impatiently.
I frantically search my brain, desperately looking for the keyword for "Simpl". What on earth does he mean? Oh yes, there it is: "...a recording from the cabaret SIMPL. With Karl Farkas and Ernst Waldbrunn."
"Unfortunately not, Mr. Farkas, my in-laws were only here for the weekend." Icy silence. Long silence. Shifting from one foot to the other. "My fiancée and I can't afford to go out," the day laborer with no long-term prospects murmured awkwardly, staring blankly at the tablecloth. Pause, a very long pause, I waited.
"Then then."
I feverishly rack my brains trying to figure out what this could mean. I continue to look at him questioningly for a long time, while the master, without any emotion, turns back to his liver dumpling soup and continues slurping it down—completely ignoring me.
Okay then. Oh, I see. He can go now.
"Goodbye, and thank you very much, Mr. Farkas."
He doesn't even look up when I turn around and hurry back to our table. "What did he say, what did he say?" my family asks all at once. I'm trembling with relief, my wet shirt clinging cold to my back. "Nothing," I say, "he just asked how we were liking Vienna and if we'd ever been to Simpl." My bride beams at me, her hero.
"You're a fool, Hollinger," my graying German teacher growls grimly, the ratio in his mixture of standard German and dialect shifting to a mild 61:38. "Since graduation thirty years ago, you don't even need to know me or even greet me, and now you come to me with your scribblings so I can correct them!" He shakes his head and mutters something about the decline of Western civilization. "An obituary for Karl Farkas, well, I never! Hollinger! — Well, then hand over the piece of paper!"
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Ooo...