The thing about the pheasant

The manuscript was practically finished. Practically, that is, because unfortunately, the most important thing was missing: the title. I briefly considered keeping the existing title, "My Colorful Fur," which I'd found online, and consulted with family and friends, but even the brilliant working title, "I Wish I Could Write Like Kishon," was rejected after the initial discussion with the in-house lawyer. I racked my brains, and the vacation date was drawing ever closer...

Months in advance, I had decided to take my youngest daughter, Julia, to Venice for a few days. Ah, how quickly these children grow up in our fast-paced world, and as a father, you have to make up for all the missed holidays in good time, because one day she too will leave the nest and prefer to spend her holidays with her peers rather than her parents. Julia's adulthood is deceptive, because I'm still successfully clinging to the last vestiges of my own youth...

Venice. I breathe in the scent of this wonderful lagoon city deeply, revel in the autumn mist, and spend hours with Julia on the vaporetto—the public transport boats—traveling through the canals. With a bit of luck, we snag the best seats at the bow, let the wind whip around our faces, and gaze, gaze, gaze. Sometimes something catches our eye that rings a bell, and then we break the silence and chat in hushed tones. "Yes, look, over there: that little palazzo with the verdant roof garden—Mother would surely love that!"

We were just imagining how we would use the remaining lottery millions to buy palazzi, verdant roof gardens and fast, agile boats, when a passenger leaned forward in his seat and said in a low voice: "Judging by his voice, that could be István!"

I look at him in astonishment—the short, graying hair, the angular features, the sharply flashing eyes behind the glasses—good heavens, that's...! "And you're Christian NN!" I say, even though at the beginning of the sentence I didn't know the name yet and had to first retrieve it from the dusty file in my brain.

The joy of reuniting with a former boarding school roommate after 33 years. The all-too-rapidly approaching final destination forced a quick decision: we would meet for dinner on such and such a date, then he and his family disappeared into the crowds of St. Mark's Square, and Julia and I continued our journey to the lagoon islands. My heart warmed at seeing this friend again; my mouth overflowed as I recounted our time together at boarding school to Julia. Soon, I was only referring to him as Winnetou, since that was Christian's nickname among his friends. I immediately had to rein myself in, because Christian's wife and daughter had given me some very strange looks when I first (again) called him Winnetou. No, we weren't children anymore: I would have to switch to Christian!

In total, it turned into two evenings, as the first wasn't enough to make up for 33 years. You can imagine that the seating arrangements fell into place unspoken and entirely automatically: the two of us grayheads sat together, while Julia, Winnetou's wife, and their daughter tried to find common ground when they simply couldn't keep up with our reminiscing any longer. Only towards the end of the second evening was our initial curiosity satisfied enough for us both to break out of our isolation and finally all talk together.

Julia, in all innocence and honesty, had mentioned sailing and writing books when the ladies asked her what else her father did. I'd only been half-listening, but the conversation was threatening to turn to "books," and I object to that: it's bad luck to talk about a book that isn't even printed yet! So, like a mouse, I looked for a hole to slip through.

It's not the first time in my life that starting over from the past has proven to be a mistake, usually with "oh yes, what I wanted to ask you...". But since I haven't yet reached the age where avoiding mistakes is considered wisdom, I began: "Oh yes, what I wanted to ask you, Winnie, what do you do in your free time, what's your hobby?"

Winnetou's initial answer was innocuous, for the fact that he had taken over his father's hunting duties and become a hunter seemed perfectly legitimate to me, especially since my inquiries revealed that he dealt with the game and its population in a highly professional and conscientious manner. "Not like before," Winnetou grinned, and his wife looked up attentively, "when we used to catch pheasants, right?" His daughter and Julia fell silent immediately and also looked at us expectantly.

"Oh?", his wife said slowly.

"Yes, and what about the pheasant?" asked her daughter.

Julia looked at me in surprise: "Pheasant?" and her eyebrows twitched upwards questioningly.

"Well, I know nothing about it, I wasn't there, and I have an irrefutable alibi," I choked out, trying to avert the inevitable, even though I knew painfully well that I couldn't stop the avalanche. Winnetou completely misinterpreted my light kick to his shin and said casually, "Oh, that's ancient history!"

You know my avalanche theory: sweaty, you finally smoke your summit cigarette, flick the ash down, which falls into the snow and forms a small, dirty-grey clump; the small clump rolls downhill and grows rapidly larger and larger, soon tearing huge slabs of snow from the slope, and then the Arlberg Express derails at the bottom, dozens dead—something like that, anyway.

Now there's no stopping them; the ladies first ask, then vehemently demand the story about the pheasant. Winnetou tells it (a little too matter-of-factly, in my opinion, and definitely too dryly) and then nudges me in the ribs: "Well, that's how it was, wasn't it?"

I nod silently and think of the Arlberg Express.

For years I wrote my stories and let my children read them all—after all, it was all true, perhaps embellished here and there, but that's just how it is with poetic license—but of course I didn't write about everything that happened over time; one still has one's little secrets! And now Julia looks at me silently, with wide, innocent eyes in which I can read the title: "MY FATHER, THE POACHER!"

Winnetou looks from Julia to me, then clears his throat and says: "What, you haven't told her that yet?" I shake my head unhappily and think that I hate nothing more than a book that ends like this: To be continued!