Sweat-inducing

István went straight up to the manager of the Plutzerbräu, jovially placed his hand on the manager's forearm, and whispered conspiratorially, "Where's the stage?" The manager took a step back, looked us up and down twice, and then said to me, "Ono koga ono wanna aisuru." I replied, "Please speak German, he doesn't understand Japanese," thinking to myself that if he did, he'd give him a good thrashing. The manager calmly replied, "We don't have a stage, but if you want to go to the SWEAT-WORKING event, please go down those stairs!"

István added, quite unnecessarily, "I have a visitor from Japan and I'm going to show her a little bit of Vienna." Then we slowly descended into the cellar while I whispered a heavily toned-down translation, "Every man loves this woman," into István's ear. We seemed to be the first guests, but then, sure enough, a slim young man approached István and said how pleased he was that he had accepted his invitation.

István briefly introduced me as a friend from Japan and a music student, embarrassingly fibbing deliberately, "and she plays piano, just like you; you're practically colleagues!" Andy Ritter merely nodded fleetingly at the "colleague" and then made the international gesture with his hand, "It's all around here," and István looked around the almost empty room in astonishment. "Where's the piano?" he asked Mr. Ritter, who in turn looked somewhat irritated at István from behind his eyeglasses and shrugged: "Which piano?"

I'll admit it: I get incredibly excited every time István runs aground. Like a heavy oil tanker, it heads straight for the reef with sleepwalker-like certainty, crashes down, breaks apart – and then the oil leaks out very, very slowly. That alone makes the trek up to Spittelberg worthwhile.

István looked around again, peering inquisitively behind this corner and that, and then said vaguely, but already somewhat uncertainly: "But the invitation, Mr. Ritter - there's supposed to be something going on this evening? I assumed..., I meant..., you look like a pianist, so where is the piano, the grand piano, the tinkling instrument?"

Andreas Ritter laughed, led us to the buffet, offered us a drink, and explained that in his free time he created sculptures from scrap metal (welding and embossing, aha!) and gave them away to family and friends until one day he mustered the courage to hold an exhibition (in Munich). Since it was quite well received, he decided to try it in Vienna as well: and voilà, here it is! He showed us around, presented the exhibits, some of which were still for sale, and told us the personal story behind each piece.

Since I had nothing to write with, I have to dredge it all up from memory, and there's no point in asking István for help—he's already got Alzheimer's! On the far right, next to the GUARDIAN, a menacing-looking monster, stood UAKA TANKA, and Andy explained that this was the Great Spirit of the Native Americans. A proud, man-high figure, which, especially because of the lighting Andy had made himself, created a powerful feeling. Next to it was a RUNNING MAN, seemingly running down the cellar stairs. Along the wide side of the room were two similar wall sconces, the ONE-ARMED BANDIT and GOMBKÖTÖ, which Andy said belonged to Toni (G.) and was only on loan. These wall sconces were welded together from pans, pitchforks, and scythes and fitted with lamps. They would certainly look great in a modern apartment!

FELI and MAUSI appeared to be two female figures, but Andy fetched us another glass of wine and conveniently ignored the backstory of these characters. My gut told me there was more to them, but we had already moved on to DON QUICHOTTE, and he had captivated István: there stood the old Hispanic, shield and spear in hand, ready to tilt at all the windmills in the world. "I want him," István whispered in my ear, so I asked Mr. Ritter if he was for sale. Andy—who was now on familiar terms with István—said, "Well, I'm very sorry, but the Don belongs to my seven-year-old; he was his birthday present. You can't have him anymore." István continued on his way, seemingly unmoved; only I noticed his disappointment. We came to KAWASABE, whose title, as Andy explained, was taken from a Laurie Anderson song. István glanced at it only briefly, his gaze drifting longingly back to Don Quixote. "Quichotte would look quite good in my office, and my clients would know right away what kind of person I am," he said to Andy, still somehow hoping that Andy would react.

But Andy Ritter continued showing his exhibits: HÄLTA SCHIFFTA, he explained, was modeled after the Beatles' song Helter Skelter. I saw a funny guy who was clearly holding his oversized, semi-erect penis in his hand, presumably to urinate. István moved on, as nothing on that topic interested him, and silently examined the last two exhibits, one of which seemed to be modeled after Mickey Mouse, the other after a giraffe, and presumably intended for Andy's offspring.

Andy went off to talk to other guests, and István and I also spotted an old acquaintance, Birgit, a model. We chatted and made small talk, and it soon became clear to me that István was frantically forechecking his chances for a photoshoot. I quietly slipped away to Andy's group, as a crowd had gathered around him and a female visitor, haggling over the price of a sculpture. After some back and forth, Andy finally managed to sell the sculpture without any discount! Everyone laughed at once and was very loud (which, as always, struck me as highly inappropriate), while the woman wrote out the check and ceremoniously presented it to Andy. The first to congratulate him was Andy's mother, who could be very proud of her capable son.

At the buffet, I helped myself to a few rolls, admired Andy, who managed to balance a glass of wine, a bowl of goulash soup, a loaf of bread, and a spoon with both hands, yet still couldn't eat or drink anything, and let myself drift slowly back towards István through the densely populated room. He was surrounded by a group of young girls, to whom he was exuberantly gesturing as he explained HÄLTA SCHIFFTA in all its details, reveling in their wide, lustful eyes; moreover, he was currently arguing with a know-it-all who had joined the conversation, mistaking him for the artist, and who persistently wanted to know how much the wrought-iron stair railing leading to the cellar would cost, refusing to be dismissed.

My intervention with a kiss on the cheek saved István from a fit of rage or a stroke, which he was clearly on the verge of. We looked again at the truly wonderful and successful exhibits, lingered long, almost too long, in front of the Don Quixote, and then said a very warm goodbye to Andreas Ritter. As we walked home in silence, István broke his annoyed, brooding silence only once: "...and he plays the piano! ...But, whatever you do, don't tell anyone about the piano!" he demanded, and I promised him I would.

Most holy.

Michiko,
Photo model