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Could one trust this ‘Vasudeva’? River crossing was always a risk, as there were cases where dishonest ferrymen robbed their passengers in the middle of the river and threw them overboard, which meant a safe ray death in the face of the existing pollution of the Danube waters. Some ferries were dressed in lead, as was the barge that Gerstenmayer had chosen. This offered the passengers, but also the ferrymen some protection against the radioactive radiation. Otherwise, the life expectancy of these river-Chineese was not very high. Nevertheless, Gerstenmayer was glad to have reached the other bank swiftly and safely. Over there, the high debris dumps of the former UNO City on Wagramer Street awaited him. The high skyscrapers had all been particularly affected by the disaster, especially since Arab suicide terrorist commandos had already blown up the IAEA headquarters, the headquarters of the International Nuclear Control Commission, with a small neutron bomb. It looked devastating. Gerstenmayer followed the narrow paths through the ruins and was now near the spot where he suspected the apartment Prof. Baum. It had to be somewhere between Bernstein Street and Bruno-Kreisky-Square? It had been a long time since Baum had asked him to come home to hand him an article written by a biochemist before the catastrophe.
The area was deserted. Gerstenmayer had the idea to ask someone, but he did not find anyone. Further away, a man in a black leather coat looked over at him. "Have not I seen him before?" He asked himself, walking up to him. But the next moment the man had walked around an advertising pillar. When Gerstenmayer arrived there and stepped behind the column, he saw no one else. "Did I dream?", He asks himself again and started looking for Prof. Baum's apartment where he thought he should remember. The first door to which he knocked was not opened, no one answered. The door was not locked, he pushed it open, and a torrent of corpse smell came to meet him. On a kind of sofa lay two old people, holding each other's hands. The rats had already begun their recycling; especially large specimens with smooth, shiny fur. Gerstenmayer forced himself to take a closer look at the man. Could that be Professor Baum? He visually scanned the dead body, but found no positive matches. Disgusted, he closed the door again and moved to the next. He pushed it open and was astonished: The apartment was completely ransacked. Everywhere leaves were scattered. Cabinets and drawers were not in the apartment, but a lot of boxes that had once been neatly and safely stacked with a system. Everyone was criss-crossing. Obviously someone was looking for something here. Gerstenmayer could not imagine that his boss should live in such a mess. Obviously, Baum had not been in his apartment for a long time. Where was he? To answer this question, Gerstenmayer took off his coat and scarf and took a closer look at the remaining papers lying around. Maybe he found a clue here. But he found nothing. Suddenly he came across a copy of a letter that made him speechless. He sat down, read again, and suddenly a light came on. Could that really be true? He was so fascinated by his discovery that he completely forgot the missing Professor Baum and only followed his discovery. Gradually it was getting dark, and Gerstenmayer found reading in the dark apartment difficult. He looked at his watch and started. "I should be on my way home. You should avoid the ferry-Chineese in the dark," he thought to himself, gathered up the most important papers, put on his clothes and left, still baffled by his extraordinary discovery.
Grinder plays the organ
"Gooooolie, Goooolie, Golie, where are you?" I shouted towards the village. Nothing moved. It was getting dark and I started to worry. "He'll probably be back with Steffen," I calmed down. However, as the high pressure weather – called ‘Föhn’ in Bavaria – was about to collapse and again heavy rain from the south was expected, I pulled on a cardigan and ran in the direction of the convent ruins, to look for him and get home before the fall-out. From afar I heard the organ. It was a completely different kind of music than I knew Steffen from before. Obviously somebody else was playing today and I did not have to wonder why Golie did not get home in time. The music was beautiful, I had not heard such a thing and I was anything but a complete layman in this field. My father introduced me to classical music. Or maybe everything was a matter of genes. He had recognized my abilities early and showed me how beautiful straight simple melodies could be and how subtle harmonies could be interwoven to dance with the keys. Recently, since Golie approached this art with frantic steps, I suddenly saw myself in the role of the teacher, especially in the sense that I was quite analytically exploring his potential and tried to promote him as optimally as possible. My father had owned a large collection of music: records, CDs and even a few old tapes. I remember that he had liked to sit in a chair with a glass of red wine at the end of the day, just before the Super-GAU, when there was electricity from the socket. Then he had cumbersomely threaded one of his old tapes into his TEAC machine and then completely surrendered to the music. As for the tapes, he had hovered not only in the realm of sounds, but also in the realm of his memories, since he had recorded all the recordings personally from the radio. During his studies, he had started collecting music, now there were some rarities for him: Salzburg or Bayreuth Festivals, which had been back several decades.
Was it this new music that reminded me of old times and made me daydream? Did my father even hear this piece that someone played here on the organ? I could not rule it out, but I could not say yes. Because at those times I was still too small. It did not sound like an organ piece, it was more like a symphony somebody played on the organ, because there were no orchestras anymore. I entered the ruined church under the tarpaulin, looked up, and recognized the stranger with the high forehead at the organ desk and his horsewhip on top. Seeing the stranger and hearing his music a feeling shot between my legs and warmly flooded up to my heart. I had not felt anything like that for years. In my emotional chaos, I noticed that the riding whip played a fascinating role. It was a sort of attraction.
Suddenly I recognized Steffen staying by. "Certainly, Golie kicks the bellows," I thought to myself, after I got my conscious again.
Then I realized that there were no notes on the console. The stranger seemed to know the many notes by heart? "What a genius!", I thought to myself and at the same time remembered how quickly Golie could now record melodies and play them with his little willow flute.
But what was a unanimous melody against three organ and one foot manual? The acoustics under the tarpaulin were already strange: muted as in a dry studio. The resonance box of the organ, which the magnificent baroque church had once represented, was now missing and was replaced by the tarpaulin, which looked like a sound-absorbing element. The organ sounds fizzled out in the air. Nevertheless, this music was not without charm. I climbed the ladder to the gallery. When Steffen saw me, he waved me with his forefinger on the mouth, that I should be quiet as a mouse. I ran around the console, looked through the open door of the organ and saw Golie raptly kicked the bellows vigorously. He did not notice my eyes at all, and I was fascinated by his devotion. So we stood at our positions, remained silent and listened to the stranger, who seemed to play a new music.
Suddenly there was a crash outside at the same time as my eyes met his. A thunderstorm seemed to raise not only outside but in my inner body too. A flash lit up the scene, and again it crackled loudly. Then the radioactive rain pelted down from the south. The stranger finished his play and looked skeptically at the roof construction.
"That's pretty close here, that's what I've taken care of," Steffen told the stranger." By the way, we got visitors. May I introduce? This is Maria-Luise. We call her Mary Lou here. They had seen her once before. She is the mother of the little Golie and has certainly been worried about why he has not come home." "Oh, my mother certainly has understanding ", suddenly remembered Golie, who had emerged from the back of the organ box when the Music had stopped. He beamed all over his face.
Now finally Steffen introduced the stranger officially to me. He should have done this last time, but Steffen was crazy: "This is Mr. Grinder. Imagine that he came here from Vienna. This long distance - and only because of the organ. It has probably already spread in professional circles that we have here in our small Polling still one or, better said, again a functioning organ. Mr. Grinder is a musician." The stranger approached me a bit dominant and shook my hand in an in a noble way. "Nice to make your acquaintance," he said quite and seductive. "You played wonderfully. Could it be that my dad played this music before the disaster? "
He responded with a surprised gesture and gave me a pull up of one of his eyes: "Oh, I just improvised a bit and I'm so happy to be here. This organ is wonderful. But you seem to be a music expert!"
Now it reminded me again: This music was Mahler's Symphony No. 8, my father's favorite piece. That sounded like in the old times but now played on an organ instead of an orchestra. Performed by a fascinating fellow, whom I estimated slightly younger than me, but by far more predominant in all his being. But I did not want to state with my music knowledge to much and said nothing. Do I intended to be obsequious?
"Do you want to stay here for a long time?" I asked, just so as not to break the conversation. I felt very bivalent towards this stranger. On the one hand I was alienated from his dominant behavior and is horsewhip; on the other hand I felt also attracted to his person. Only by his music? I never experienced my feelings to an younger man, who floats above me.
"If it were possible, I would like to stay with this magnificent instrument. As far as I know, there is no better instrument between Vienna and Munich." I saw Steffen smile, and his figure became bigger and bigger. After all, it was his modest merit that he, who had dealt with organs before the catastrophe, especially the tuning of these instruments, had seized the opportunity to restore their playability.
"Where did you find yourself?" I asked in a logical sequence. "My driver, whom I had rented only with his Paco, drove back to Munich this morning and then to Vienna. I stayed with Steffen, but his bed for both of us ... It was already a difficult night. My back is not the best either. You are not angry with me because of my openness, Steffen?"
He slowly came down from ‘Cloud Seven’ of his music. "Can you help us with accommodation for him?" Steffen flinched from embarrassment. "That's difficult here in the village. I would like to have a listen. What could you compensate for?" I asked. Compensate, in former times one had said to "pay", and it had been easy at that time: One gave away his credit card or had a sum of cash, which was accepted in exchange for achievements of all, especially if the money from the USA or came from Europe. But today, when money was worthless, people preferred to rely on real value.
The stranger blushed suddenly, "Yes, I can compensate, but my compensation units are ...", he hesitated and coughed, "... let's say for the moment: ... delicate! But available. I may be able to tell you more about it tomorrow. We should all go home now."
"Home? You are funny! Do you really think we should expose ourselves to the fall-out that is just coming to an end? That's half a death sentence! I'm afraid we'll have to stay together for a while, until we can venture outside again. Please play something else! ", I asked the stranger, and Golie interrupted me immediately: "Oh yes, Mr. Grinder, that would be very nice. I enjoyed your music so much!"
The stranger was surprised, but realized that we better not go outside now. Steffen tried to save the situation, and turned to a pile of notes. "Here, Mr. Grinder, I have something we could possibly play together. I have another edition of Mozart's "Jeunehomme Concerto" here. Let's try it together. I have practiced the piano part, but try to play the orchestral part on the other manuals. "The two musicians made themselves as comfortable as possible on the narrow organ bench, placed the notes on the desk and looked at each other.
Meanwhile, Golie had dutifully crawled into the organ box to the bellows and stepped up vigorously. I followed him unobtrusively and watched him. His reactions to music and especially in connection with Mr. Grinder interested me burning. Golie was quite enchanted. It could not only be the music, it was even more behind it; I felt that. Only dampened, the introductory orchestral beat indicated by an organ tutti came to me.
Steffen in his piano part answered him much quieter, but almost boyish. Everything came in my position also because of the acoustic shifts as from another star. Golie listened attentively, but it was not until the two musicians began the second movement, which began with the long, mysterious orchestral introduction in abysmal C Minor, that Golie's face changed in a way that really scared me. It seemed to me as if he had left the earthly sphere and was now dreaming, but as naturally in a new, spiritual level. Grinder was borne on the set, slowly approached, and Steffen followed him with the piano part. They had tried to imitate the mood of the piano concerto on the organ through a mysterious registration, which they had succeeded in doing.
Suddenly the music broke off abruptly. Golie was so moved by the music that he stopped kicking, and when he saw me, he stormed toward me, hiding his tears in my apron. I took him in my arms, tried to comfort him, and asked him what was wrong with him. As I noticed, he had no right words to describe his condition. He just stammered almost incomprehensibly: "It is so sad!" Then I understood the word "awesome" out of his sobs. I soberly assumed that he, a particularly sensitive young man, had been so overwhelmed by the emotions of the music that he had to give in to his mood and discharge his feelings in a tear-burst. Steffen just came crawling into the organ box from the front to see what was going on. He understood the situation quite well, after I had started an explanation that Golie nodded or shook his head. He had always covered his eyes with his hands.
Suddenly Grinder said: “I would like to play specially for you” and again his eyes disoriented me. I was so ruptured: as a mother, as a women in love, as a lover of music...
A letter from Marietta
From time to time it happened that communication as in the Middle Ages was possible via letters or, better said, a kind of message in a bottle. There was a mail center in every major city, where the few strangers who had embarked on an arduous journey brought messages with them and left notes with them. Thus, a ruin on the Marienplatz in Weilheim, which had subsequently been equipped with an oblique weather protection, was marked for news. Anyone who happened to be around looked from time to time to see if there was something for themselves or their neighbors there. Anyone who went on a journey took with them what pointed in his direction. So one day I was very surprised that a nice neighbor, just the one with the tractor Paco, brought me a letter from the city. I opened the brown cardboard lid: Marietta had signed it. I sat down at the window, as it gradually became dark in the room, and heard in the spirit of Marietta's deep voice:
Dear Mary Lou, I only hope that my letter reaches you. It's all so different and yet so similar to yours in Polling. The radiation damage is exactly the same here. We found shelter in an old school outbuilding in a beautiful valley, through which flows a stream called "Orla". The Orla is like our Tiefenbach and flows in Orlamünde in the Saale as our brook in the bunting. The school stands on a hill and you can look over the whole valley. It had been a beautiful property before the disaster, and Langenorla was certainly no less sleepy than our poll. But the destruction caused by a bomb attack in Jena is similar to yours around Munich. Jena is only about 30 km north of us. The way here in many stages had been very, very difficult. Everywhere the same need. The impact in Ingolstadt, Nuremberg and Bamberg, we had to migrate widely. We were specifically warned against the lethal radiation dose in these centers. It was a bit easier over the Thuringian Forest. The deep valleys shield the radiation slightly. That's why more people have fled here than elsewhere. I think overpopulation is the right word for it, and the crime rate is immense. We were promptly robbed; and though Hannes bravely resisted, they took away everything we had possessed of value. We are here half starved and arrived quite demolished in our lovely valley. Although it is close to Jena, but also close to Rothenstein, where this maternity clinic is, which actually exists. So it was not a rumor, but a fact, and I'm glad we came here. The hardships are forgotten now, Hannes can work at a neighbor to food, and I already had an initial investigation in the mountain, as we call the clinic. The doctor there was very nice and said that I could soon receive a child as soon as they had a free place in the mountain. Imagine, I am already on the waiting list on number 49! In the next few months, it would be my turn. I look insane, although it even before I shudder to live for nine months in the mountain, without the sun and with little light. That must be to provide the embryos with enough protection from the radiation. Unfortunately, the thing has a catch: Hannes may not be the father! All men seem to be infertile by now. Only artificially fertilized embryos have a chance to grow up healthy. The doctors say that they have a special radiation resistance. A natural conception has only a tiny chance of giving birth to a healthy child. The doctors refuse to take this risk. They say that would be waste of resources here. Hannes was pissed off when he heard about it. You know that it can be hot-tempered, and I was able to stop him with gentle force them to hold a larger riots in the mountain. Now, as a precaution, I always go there alone and do not tell him. That's the way it works best.
I think of you so often and of what luck you have to find such a healthy and gifted child. This thought gives me strength, because I think that even if I were to give birth to a child now, it is still similar to you and your golie. I've resigned myself to that, and Hannes, too, is behind it. That is probably the tragedy of our time. But it hurts! But I just babble in the day and do not even know if you can ever read my lines, not to mention if you understand everything that goes on inside me. But you are and will remain my best friend, and I know that you are sympathetic to me. I am already feeling better with this knowledge! Try to write to me too. I would like to stay in touch with you, especially if I'm in the mountains for so long!
Greetings and kisses
your
Marietta
The paper at the end curled at some points, as if someone had shed tears on it. But all that was already some time ago. It may be that the letter had been on the road for months. I too had the eyes overflowed while reading. I sat quietly for a long time. Instead of answering, I just hugged my now big 'baby' and hugged Golie tightly. "How nice that I have you," was all that I could say to sobbing.
When I read her letter, I sat down at my table and tried to formulate an adequate answer:
Dear Marietta,
I have no one here to whom I can entrust my LORD. But I can not stand my mixed feelings anymore. You will not believe what is going on in this small Polling. A stranger arrived to play Steffens organ and I am afraid to be completely at the mercy of him! You know me in my old times as a self-determined strong woman. But this is gone! I am his slave now! Impossible to think independently. I am totally torn as a mother and loving woman. Where is my way out?
Imagine he played the organ and I kicked the bubble bar, naked, enchained, blindfolded. He plays Chopin and I was not anymore on earth. I forgot all about the catastrophe and in my mind I only saw him, although I was in the organ box, far away.
Before I teased him and played the disagreeable one. He forced me with his horsewhip, he always carries with him, to undress me. I enjoyed the lashes on my skin.
Then I heard the music and was delighted about the beautiful pain. I know I am crazy!...
I could not go on writing. My description of the most intensive moment in my whole live overwhelmed me.
I crumpled the paper and threw it in my oven.
You have to be an actor
Gerstenmayer felt very uncomfortable and constantly looked around. But no one followed him as he stepped out of Baum's rumpled flat, at least nobody he'd noticed. Nevertheless, he felt watched. Glances met and pierced him from behind; he felt that. To make matters worse, it was also black in the sky, and a downpour announced.
Gerstenmayer considered what he should do now. Go to a public shelter and wait for the rain to stop? Just recently Christiane, his assistant, had told him about a double murder in one of these.
Then it occurred to him that the subway shaft had just been uncovered and that it was possible to walk well down there once you had crossed the Danube. The part of the shaft under the river has been under water since the disaster.
Out of deliberation, he forgot all about the explosive paper he wore in the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Why did not those who looked for something at the Professor hadn’t taken this paper? Did they really know the content? Did they look for something else? ", Gerstenmayer mumbled the sentences to himself.
He liked to do that because he imagined that he would be able to think more focused with acoustic support. He also read the difficult rules loud and clear in the lab, sometimes one, two, even three times before he really understood them.
Christiane liked to laugh at him when she caught him again in his self-explanations.
"Maybe they did not understand the content ever," came an important enlightenment that admittedly came out of his mouth very loudly.
"Why? Do you understand?", He heard clearly a voice next to him.
Where had this man in his black coat with an old-fashioned bowler or a melon on his head and a very British accent in his voice suddenly appeared?
Gerstenmayer was shocked and stopped as if petrified.
"Sir, wha-a-t do you mean? I do not understand your question. Or can you read some thoughts?"
"Not exactly, but I have good ears, and you've just chatted to yourself that 'they did not understand the content’. So I combine razor-sharp that you have strapped it. My clients and I are very interested in the content of writing in your jacket, and you will surely tell me. It should not be to your disadvantage. Otherwise ...", now the stranger's vulgar but still friendly face became rock hard. He grinned meanly and squinted at a hidden object in his pocket.
Gerstenmayer was visibly startled. "Since when do you call me with my first name?" He asked just to gain some time, then added, "How would I trust a stranger to confide in laboratory secrets?" Something better had not occurred to him in the near future.
"So, you work in a lab? Is there something like that anymore? And if so, where? About here in Vienna? You're getting more and more interesting! So I landed a direct hit!" The stranger was suddenly polite and friendly again.
Gerstenmayer realized that he had probably made a big mistake. He had gone to the fickle stranger and could not change it now. Suddenly a thought shot into his head, and he planned to counter the acting of his counterpart with a performance of his own.
Suddenly he dropped and, with painful facial pains and screaming, pretended to have fallen over a steel rod that had slipped over the road and injured himself. In a flash, he moistened his hand with saliva and smeared the reddish-brown rust of the iron down his leg. In the collapsing darkness it really looked something like blood, and the stranger reacted at first dumbfounded, but immediately pulled the gun out of his pocket and threatened his prisoner, that's how Gerstenmayer felt now.