The Ringstrasse
The medieval roofline seemed defeated now by the infinite expanse above. Centuries of ramshackle storeys steadily rising from the Westphalian earth, seeking to touch the canopy of heaven, suddenly seemed fragile and child-like in the face of the modern scale of the universe and the peripheral nature of those foundations. Frank’s attentions in his third incarnation had turned to wealth, and Cologne had been selected as an industrial centre producing chemicals and pharmaceuticals. It was a theme to which he would return, disastrously, in Frank VI.
Now it was cold; cold enough to keep all but the beggars and the insane indoors, but not cold enough for Frank to feel the motherly touch of his remote home. He let the long skirts of his raincoat flap in the slight breeze created by his rapid steps, regular, counted more often consciously than not in sixes or dozens. The turning into the club happened on five. He resisted the urge to recount; imagine an extra pace, even reconsider the starting point. He knew where that led; another infinity, and conceded that he would be cheating himself if he failed to admit that the turn had occurred on five, but that maybe the turn itself was not a significant event, in fact it was six, the first footfall on the new route, that was the special one. Order re-established he was able once more to consider his environment.
At this moment an old woman, made enormous by her coats and need offered him a sparse fist of roses. He made his habitual response to these requests; a smile that was at once recognition of the beggar’s situation and at the same time an understanding of the entire issue; life, not life, space, vacuum and chance. In these days God was dead and Europe was the gateway to the New Order. Naturally he despised the trivial aspirations and brutal methods of the National Socialists, but this was change at a new level and he intended to make the most of it. He had come to make a fortune from scents and now he found politics standing up before him like one of the denizens of the club to which he was heading. The possibilities were equally as tasty. He felt he was at a more significant turning point. Recently it had been wealth that had attracted him but now he wanted to change the world.
He paused in a hemisphere of darkness and briefly checked the street for prying eyes. The paranoia of the era chafed but was necessary. Anyone could find themselves denounced by a jealous neighbour or over-zealous supporter of the party and Frank’s plans did not include dealing with the late-night attentions of brown-shirted thugs. Satisfied that he was unobserved he passed into the Brewhouse. There were few drinkers as the party dictated how workers should spend their leisure time; Frank quickly spotted the over-weight man nursing a glass of Früe Kölsch as an unofficial inspector for Kraft durch Freude. He paid for his own modest dry sherry and moved towards the back room. The security men recognised him and one took his coat as the other opened the door just enough to allow his entry. The sudden lull in the conversation continued as he was examined by each man sitting around the centrally placed circular table. Von Schröder broke the silence.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Herr Kørner. He shares many of our views about the new Chancellor, and he will be able to help us with his special talents in the field of biological chemistry.”
His audience suitably relaxed, Frank took the stage.
The medieval roofline seemed defeated now by the infinite expanse above. Centuries of ramshackle storeys steadily rising from the Westphalian earth, seeking to touch the canopy of heaven, suddenly seemed fragile and child-like in the face of the modern scale of the universe and the peripheral nature of those foundations. Frank’s attentions in his third incarnation had turned to wealth, and Cologne had been selected as an industrial centre producing chemicals and pharmaceuticals. It was a theme to which he would return, disastrously, in Frank VI.
Now it was cold; cold enough to keep all but the beggars and the insane indoors, but not cold enough for Frank to feel the motherly touch of his remote home. He let the long skirts of his raincoat flap in the slight breeze created by his rapid steps, regular, counted more often consciously than not in sixes or dozens. The turning into the club happened on five. He resisted the urge to recount; imagine an extra pace, even reconsider the starting point. He knew where that led; another infinity, and conceded that he would be cheating himself if he failed to admit that the turn had occurred on five, but that maybe the turn itself was not a significant event, in fact it was six, the first footfall on the new route, that was the special one. Order re-established he was able once more to consider his environment.
At this moment an old woman, made enormous by her coats and need offered him a sparse fist of roses. He made his habitual response to these requests; a smile that was at once recognition of the beggar’s situation and at the same time an understanding of the entire issue; life, not life, space, vacuum and chance. In these days God was dead and Europe was the gateway to the New Order. Naturally he despised the trivial aspirations and brutal methods of the National Socialists, but this was change at a new level and he intended to make the most of it. He had come to make a fortune from scents and now he found politics standing up before him like one of the denizens of the club to which he was heading. The possibilities were equally as tasty. He felt he was at a more significant turning point. Recently it had been wealth that had attracted him but now he wanted to change the world.
He paused in a hemisphere of darkness and briefly checked the street for prying eyes. The paranoia of the era chafed but was necessary. Anyone could find themselves denounced by a jealous neighbour or over-zealous supporter of the party and Frank’s plans did not include dealing with the late-night attentions of brown-shirted thugs. Satisfied that he was unobserved he passed into the Brewhouse. There were few drinkers as the party dictated how workers should spend their leisure time; Frank quickly spotted the over-weight man nursing a glass of Früe Kölsch as an unofficial inspector for Kraft durch Freude. He paid for his own modest dry sherry and moved towards the back room. The security men recognised him and one took his coat as the other opened the door just enough to allow his entry. The sudden lull in the conversation continued as he was examined by each man sitting around the centrally placed circular table. Von Schröder broke the silence.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Herr Kørner. He shares many of our views about the new Chancellor, and he will be able to help us with his special talents in the field of biological chemistry.”
His audience suitably relaxed, Frank took the stage.
1 comment:
Che! Frankito D:
(31 hr bus journeys mean I'm allowed to express myself with emoticons and slang. yepyep)
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