Curtain up – sirens on E-Book

Ingrid Geier

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 370

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

After being released from the hospital following a car accident, Olivia prepares to go on tour throughout England as an actress. When she first meets her fellow actresses, the complicated and tense relationship between her, the spirited Elvira and the whiny Lulu seems to be the biggest problem. But then a dead body suddenly turns up, giving Olivia intense, vivid visions. Is she connected to the dead man? When the group ends up at a mysterious estate nearby and the police put out a warrant for Olivia's arrest, an adventure full of secrets, intrigue and fateful relationships begins.

Leseprobe

Any inconsistencies in the text are due to the fact that it was translated using computer-aided technology for a company-wide study.

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Chapter 1

This headache! I feel like I'm exhausted. I strain to think clearly. What exactly has happened? How long have I been here?

All the questions about me remained unanswered. My head is empty. I can't remember anything. I only notice the throbbing in my temples.

The calm that sets in when the nurse leaves the room is a real relief. She will come back and ask me questions again. What should I tell her? Using all my strength, I open my eyes. The bright neon light blinds me. I turn to the side. I shouldn't have done that, a razor-sharp pain pierces my head. My eyelids fall heavily over my eyes. I remain in this position for a long time, unable to open them again. Shock runs through all my limbs. Have I lost all power over myself? That's horrible! No, I can't do it like this, I want to open my eyes when I feel like it.

A young girl is sitting next to me. She lets her legs dangle and watches me. Her bed is higher than mine and she looks down at me. Suddenly she leans forward and smiles at me. Her legs continue to dangle happily. I envy her for that. I can't imagine ever letting my legs dangle again. I can't imagine ever being able to move again. I feel like I'm set in concrete. Lifeless, with an endless headache.

Somehow I manage to pull back the blanket. Yes, that's better. A weight falls off me.

"You had an accident. You ran in front of a car. To make matters worse, you hit your head on the asphalt," says the girl.

Your voice is good for me. It's a beautiful voice. She doesn't ask any questions. She just looks at me and keeps talking.

"You'll be fine, you were actually very lucky. You didn't break anything. Considering that the driver pushed you down with full force, it's almost a miracle that nothing more happened to you. It could have turned out differently. You'll remember everything tomorrow. You need to sleep. You're probably still in shock." She nods affirmatively.

Yes, that's how it is. I had an accident. The fact that I can't remember is due to the shock. Relieved, I close my eyes in the hope that I can continue to listen to this pleasant voice. This voice that sounds so uplifting and refreshing. I allow myself the luxury of keeping my eyes closed. When I feel like it, I will open them again. That works again. At least a little.

I have memorized the girl's face. The dark eyes and the equally dark hair that falls a little further into her face with every rocking movement. Unfortunately, closing my eyes has also silenced her voice. So I open them again. Her gaze passes me by and she swings her legs into the bed.

"So, hopefully peace will now return to this room."

I know that voice too. It is by no means encouraging. Refreshing, on the other hand, in the sense of bossy. This voice has already put my head in a dangerous state once, close to bursting.

The nurse seems to enjoy my helplessness. She covers me up with vehemence. The blanket almost seems to crush me.

"So that's how it is. The fine lady can throw the covers off the bed, but otherwise she's not able to move even a millimeter. What kind of performance are you putting on here? You're not fooling me, even if you remain silent for days."

She looks at me sternly, holding up an infusion. She hangs it over me like a sword of Damocles. Now it would be convenient if my eyelids would drop. But nothing of the sort happens. I am on alert. The infusion bottle and even more so the nurse pose a threat that makes my blood run cold. The liquid, as clear and pure as water, certainly has it in it. They want to jog my memory. What substances are used for this? All I need is a tablet to get rid of the headache, nothing else.

"After this infusion you will sleep. Tomorrow at nine o'clock you will be questioned by our psychologist. I hope your answers don't just consist of a meaningless nod. Do you think you're the only patient here? If you expect help, you must cooperate."

I stare at her, paralyzed. It wasn't arbitrary on my part not to answer. It was just that, unfortunately, I had no answers to the questions. My voice failed me when I didn't even know my name, let alone my profession or home address. Then they rummaged in my bag and found my ID. The vigorous nod when I heard my name was now interpreted as arbitrariness. The word amnesia finally did the rest for me. The quiet whispers between the doctors and nurses about being admitted to a psychiatric ward put me off. The questions about where I was going and where I came from when I was taken down pulled the rug out from under my feet. I couldn't remember anything. The girl next to me was right, I was in shock.

The infusion hangs over me. I get more tired with every drop. What have I just been thinking about?

A laugh as bright as a bell forces me to look to the side. At first I only see dangling legs, then the laughing face of the girl. She is being kissed by a man. She half-heartedly fends him off. The displayed defensiveness makes him overconfident. He presses her firmly against him and then into the cushions. Half sitting, half lying down, he looks into her eyes.

"Get off my bed," she says with a laugh, "or do you want to be treated by the head nurse too?"

"God forbid, there's nothing wrong with me."

He straightens up and pulls the girl up with him.

"Now you've woken her up." A finger points at me.

There is no sign of the infusion. Nevertheless, I feel drained and empty and very tired. The headache has disappeared. But I still can't think clearly. It's all over the place in my head. I can't control the wild confusion. Everything is going round in circles, fast and frightening. I have to answer the question. Name, address, profession. Where did I come from? Where was I going? I feel sick. I fight it with all my might. I'm also fighting something else, but what?

"You can't sit still for a minute, can you? Your legs don't seem to accept bed rest?" The man is extremely amused. "Your nature as a born tomboy doesn't seem to be happy to stay here for the last day." He laughs boomingly and is puffed in the side.

"Behave yourself and keep your voice down. Make sure she's asleep. She was knocked down by a car. She was unconscious when she was brought in. She hit her head on the asphalt. The skull CD was clear. She didn't sustain any injuries." She clears her throat and continues speaking very quietly.

I try hard to find out more about myself. To no avail, her whispers echo in my head without me understanding a single word.

"This is the best clinic far and wide, they will be able to help her. She's in good hands," says the man.

I am in good hands, these words feel like a balm. The nausea disappears. There you go, I'm already feeling better. Am I a tomboy too? Of course I am. I slide one leg out from under the crumpled blanket and let it dangle next to the bed. What a good feeling. Now I can go back to sleep with a clear conscience, although I'm more interested in the girl's words. I would like to know why she suddenly spoke so quietly, after all, it's about me. Basically, she is no longer a girl, she is a young, pretty woman with a lot of spirit. She exudes a strange fascination. The man called her a tomboy. That sounds good. They seem to be very much in love. They continue to talk quietly and hold hands.

It's not proper to listen to their mumbling. What these lovers have to say to each other is none of my business. They no longer talk about me. Relieved, I turn away. Relieved also because I no longer have to concentrate. The inability to understand their words has created a real pressure in my head.

A laugh, more restrained this time, makes me look to the side again. I squint curiously at the bed, expecting to see two swinging legs. I straighten up. The bed is freshly made up. Two nurses are working on it. The mattress has taken on a U-shape. The sheets are too tight. The very young nurses are having fun with it. They let their weight fall on it to bring the unruly thing back into shape.

"Where is the young woman?"

"Dismissed." They both straighten up and stare at me.

"Dismissed? When?"

"This morning. You were still asleep. You slept for a very long time. Are you feeling better today? Are you in pain?"

"No, I'm not in any pain."

The disappointment of no longer seeing the young woman is greater than the pounding in my head.

"I'll bring you your breakfast now, because you have an appointment with Dr. Konsik at eleven o'clock. The nine o'clock appointment was taken up by another patient. You couldn't be woken up."

"Yes, because they hooked me up to some kind of drip, what kind of substances were in the bottle? I had a funny feeling right from the start."

"That was a physiological saline solution. Most of our patients are prescribed this."

"Standard therapy, eh?" I also don't know why I'm suddenly so aggressive.

"But you don't sleep so well on a saline solution that you can't wake up, as they say."

The student nurse, as I read from her name tag, lets the mattress resume its U-shape. She looks to the door for help. She needs help from her colleague now, but she's just fetching my breakfast.

"A sedative and a painkiller were also added to the saline solution."

"Yes, there was probably a lot more mixed in. It's not for nothing that the nurse waved the bottle over me threateningly."

"No, that wasn't a threat, the bottle has to be hung this high. How else is the liquid supposed to get into her vein?"

I immediately regret my words. The pressure in my chest eases, as does the anger. I remember that I know who I am again. I am overcome by an unparalleled feeling of happiness. I rush over to the student nurse and hug her. I have never felt such a great relief.

My behavior is too much for her, pure incomprehension is written all over her face. She apologizes and leaves the room without having achieved anything. Of course, she can't understand me. My behavior must have been more than specialbar and frightening for her at the same time. First I'm aggressive, then I hug her. All in the space of a minute. But she has certainly never been diagnosed with amnesia. She doesn't know what it feels like when you can't remember anything. And how relieved you are when your memory returns.

The doctors' murmurs still echo in my ears. If you don't get aggressive, when will you? My behavior may seem strange to her. She's still in training, probably at the very beginning. Moving her into bed is pretty much the first thing she has to do.

When I come out of the bathroom, my breakfast is already on the table. I'm alone in the room. The beds are made, the blinds halfway down. The silence is very pleasant. It's quiet in my head too. No hammering, no racking my brains about my origins and activities. I munch hungrily on the fresh bread rolls. It's hard to believe what a great feeling it is to know who you are. I could tear out trees, I'm so full of energy.

The nurse from yesterday who gave me the infusion storms in. Pushing a wheelchair in front of her with a stern look on her face. Quick-witted, I put my legs on. The functionality of my feet is important to me. She only stops when she feels the resistance of my knees against the projectile. She skillfully adjusts the backrest to a sitting position.

"Get in" is the short command, then she tightens the brakes.

"No." No one has ever stood up to this lady.

She puts her hands on her hips. "How, no?"

"No, I'm going. I have no complaints in my legs."

"In there, but quickly, I don't like repeating myself."

"I don't like repeating myself either."

"You were admitted unconscious the day before yesterday, you sit in there. You have an appointment with Dr. Konsik."

"The day before yesterday was the day before yesterday, today is today. Let's have a go then." I skilfully squeeze past the luminary of authority and walk into the corridor.

"I have to see Dr. Konsik."

"At the end of the corridor," someone calls out kindly.

I sprint off.

We arrive in front of the treatment room at the same time. The nurse with the wheelchair, me without the aid. She wins the tussle in front of the door. Zero to one. A clear case of home advantage. Not letting go of the sceptre, she rushes towards the doctor. The doctor realizes the seriousness of the situation, or perhaps just the danger posed by the wheelchair hurtling towards him, and has the presence of mind to hide behind his desk.

"That one," the nurse clears her throat. "This patient just wouldn't sit in the wheelchair, even though she was admitted unconscious yesterday. She's not cooperating at all."

"But Sister Gundula, calm down. It's a good sign if she can make her way to me without help."

Very friendly and competent, I am relieved.

"Sit down," he says, pointing to the armchair without looking at me. He doesn't introduce himself or shake my hand. Too much confidentiality is probably to be avoided in this line of work. It doesn't matter what the patient's name is. You're probably just perceived more as an illness. I'm the accident with the headache and the initial unconsciousness. That's why his name shouldn't matter to me either. He's a doctor, that's enough. He makes the diagnosis and is responsible for ordering the treatment. That alone is decisive. That's how I can imagine your everyday life. Of course, these are just assumptions. I would never say that to a doctor or start a discussion about it. In my case, it wouldn't make sense at all. I would like to be discharged. I already feel quite well today. The only surprising thing is that he didn't shake my hand. A handshake is revealing, at least that's what I read once. Didn't the nurse say he was a psychologist? A handshake like that could be informative for him. Someone who acts all shy and has a strong handshake could be a malingerer, right? No, as I said, I don't know anything about that. All the speculation is for nothing. I sit down. Then I remember that he's not the psychologist, that would have been the doctor I had an appointment with at nine o'clock.

Nurse Gundula leaves the room in a huff. She doesn't seem to think much of either the doctor or me.

"Probably for nothing, that expensive purchase," she hisses. She is probably referring to the wheelchair, which she no longer enjoys. She literally pushes it out of the door. It can't have been that expensive. I understand expensive to mean something else. A computer tomograph, for example, is an expensive purchase. Never mind. I follow the pages of my medical records with interest. It's unbelievable how much has accumulated in such a short time. X-rays and documentation - you could write a whole script from them. Who on earth wrote it all down in just two days? This is the dreaded bureaucracy that everyone talks about. It takes more time than the actual work. Now I understand Sister Gundula's incomprehension regarding my refusal to follow her instructions. I'm sure that will add more notes to my medical record. More writing for nothing.

Dr. Konsik devotes himself entirely to what he has written. He flicks back and forth animatedly. His forehead wrinkles more and more. That worries me. What does it say? What diagnosis has been made? There can't possibly be a single diagnosis. Judging by the extent of the records, there must be several diagnoses. This is about me. His furrowed brow does not bode well. Is that why he's hesitating so long to talk to me, because the diagnoses are so terrible? gnoses? You hear all the time that people go to hospital for a trifle and that routine examinations reveal incurable diseases. The doctors, who are not inhuman, often don't know how to explain the terrible diagnoses to the patients. My eyelids flutter, my eyesight deteriorates. The wrinkles, no, the whole appearance of the handsome Dr. Konsik blurs before my eyes.

"What diagnoses have you come up with?" I finally dare to ask. My voice fails me completely. The headache returns.

"Diagnoses? Why do you speak in the plural? There's no question of diagnoses, not even a diagnosis. It's still too early for that. Many examinations still need to be carried out, especially in your case. A diagnosis is based on facts, and we are still miles away from that. For now, I'll take my cue from your behavior yesterday when you were admitted."

No diagnoses, my sight is returning. Thank God!

What investigations is he talking about? No, I don't want to know. I have to counteract that as quickly as possible. I'm sure they've referred to amnesia in the documents. Before this pipe dream is pursued any further, I have to act.

"I want to be discharged. I'm fine again, except for the headache, and that's already bearable."

"But give me a break. We're still a long way from dismissal. More needs to be clarified here."

"What else needs to be clarified? I was in shock yesterday. I couldn't remember anything. Today it's different. I can remember everything. I'm an actress and a member of the local theater ensemble. You must know me. Don't you ever go to the theater?"

"Rarely." He is now aware of me. He looks at me curiously.

He does go to the theater. Now he's trying to remember me. From the look on his face, he can't. Yes, that's how it can go, Doctor. But that's not why you're suffering from amnesia and no one is voicing this suspicion. You should be careful with such assumptions. It frightens people, especially patients who have just had an accident.

"I'm glad to hear that. The temporary amnesia you apparently suffered from has eliminated itself. It happens more often than you might think. It's not uncommon for the brain to rebel after traumatic incidents. In your case, the accident. Many patients recover very slowly, others have to live with this diagnosis without any improvement."

"That's not the case with me," I interrupt him. "My memory is working again. I should actually be at home learning my script by now. I'm going on tour next week. All I need are headache pills and then I'll be on my way."

"You've had an accident, you're not fully resilient. Rest and sleep are the most important things now. The skull CD was clear, but you still suffered a concussion. You can be glad that nothing more has happened. So go to your room and get some rest."

"I can also rest at home. I still have to print out the script. I should have picked it up the day before yesterday. But as you know, I didn't get around to it. I was in such a hurry because of the script and overlooked the driver."

"Dismissing them today would be grossly negligent. That's completely out of the question. If you insist, you can leave the clinic tomorrow, but only at your own risk. Today you are still on strict bed rest and now you can go to your room. Or should I call Nurse Gundula?" He raises his eyebrows, I raise mine too.

"According to your medical records, you are on strict bed rest."

"Thank you, I like to move."

His satisfied smile and outstretched hand make me happy. I grab it boldly.

"Sister Gundula will take care of her."

He tries to look at me seriously, but his eyes speak a different language. He is amused. Of course I could be wrong, maybe he's a cheerful person by nature. But his announcement that Sister Gundula would look after me had a cynical undertone. Along the lines of Sister Gundula has converted everyone. That's fine by me, as long as she doesn't drive me around in a wheelchair.

I haven't even been in the room a minute when she comes in. She slams a large tray on the table and says: "Eat up."

"I had breakfast first."

"So you want another infusion to regain your strength?"

"No, not that."

What barbaric methods to reach the goal. Who is not prepared to compromise here?

"Yes, come to think of it, I am hungry." The threat of an infusion converts me.

"There you go."

Satisfied, she watches me sit down reluctantly. Then she leaves the room, shaking her head, with quick steps. A head nurse as you might expect. Energetic, often misunderstood by the patients, but only wanting the best for everyone. Those who don't agree with her have to be given a harder time, and that goes for me too. After all, I want to regain my strength. She acts correctly, food or infusion. That's all she has to offer. First option accepted. I carefully peek under the cover. It was outright blackmail. But always better than being put on the drip again. There's no appetite to speak of. I don't know the name of the food. It was most likely a light diet. Little salt, few spices, meat and vegetables steamed in a transparent sauce to avoid flatulence.

Apart from that, I like to eat spicy and occasionally very sweet. Nevertheless, I have no reason to complain. I ran into a car and, apart from the headache, got away unscathed. It could have turned out differently. Here I am served a meal and notice the missing herbs. Sister Gundula makes every effort to help me recover. What more could I want? At home, nobody puts a menu in front of me. When I feel like it, I have to get to the stove myself. I, who am anything but a gifted cook, should not criticize any dish in any way. I dutifully empty my plate.

As I put the cutlery away, Sister Gundula comes in the door with her skirt billowing. Her face brightens. She suddenly looks very relaxed. I still don't know what I've eaten. Apart from the potatoes and carrots, I haven't been able to identify anything. My stomach, which has obviously had too much to cope with, forces me to go to bed. My feet are drained of strength. I even find it difficult to think.

"Your headache should go away too." Sister Gundula hands me a tablet.

A true pearl of a nurse.

"Thank you."

Chapter 2

"Have a good rest before you go on tour." Dr. Konsik shakes my hand. For the second time, mind you. Let me tell you something about the doctors.

"Strictly speaking, you are still on bed rest. Follow my advice and get some rest. Otherwise you'll be carrying the headache for weeks to come."

He gives me the same advice for the second time. I put the discharge papers and a copy of my medical records, also in duplicate, in my bag. Like me, it looks a little worn, but fully functional.

"I will, honestly. Believe me, all I want to carry with me is my luggage. That will be heavy enough. I don't need the headache."

He struggles to smile, accompanied by a restrained sigh and an amused shake of the head.

"Say hello to Sister Gundula for me," I say politely.

My first stop is at the agency. As it's lunchtime, I'm greeted by the intern.

"But that was quick," she says. "It usually takes longer to find a replacement."

I am astonished. I was supposed to pick up the documents two days ago. There can be no question of speed here.

"The contract just needs to be signed. Enter your name and sign it. Your manuscript has been deposited for you by Frank. He insists that you prepare well. Rehearsals will start two days early. That means on the evening of your arrival. But he will tell you in person. You will all be flying on the same plane. Your seat is already reserved. I'll call you when your ticket arrives."

"Very good, so I don't have to worry about anything."

"Yes, exactly, the accommodation is also reserved. You're staying in a hotel near the theater."

I flick through the script excitedly. It's not a small part. I'll use the few days until departure to learn the lines. Frank can go berserk when someone doesn't know their lines. He then never tires of denouncing anyone who shows insecurities, in the truest sense of the word.

Everything he does is exaggerated. He has devised his own concept for this. Every role, no matter how small and unimportant, has to be exaggerated. Of course, there's something about that. The audience loves performances under his direction. Every play is given its own bizarre character. It's quite amusing for us actors, less so for the authors. Some of them came close to hysteria when they saw their writing so misappropriated on stage. Some even threatened to sue and tried to get their book back by any means necessary. Their aim is exactly the opposite.

This only spurs Frank on even more to change the characters' personalities. A deal is a deal, he says pompously. Once a writer publicly threatened to kill him. As a result, Frank worked day and night on how he could make the play even more spectacular. The result was ultimately magnificent. All the newspapers reported on it. He was celebrated as an eccentric, ingenious director.

The tour should be exciting. We haven't yet heard much about his take on the play. All we know is that it's a humoresque with attempted murder. What exactly will become of it in the end is still written in the stars, except that it will be very theatrical again.

I tuck the manuscript under my arm. I concentrate on the traffic. My head is throbbing again. I need a painkiller.

For a moment, I miss the hospital bed and Nurse Gundula. I would have loved to rest and have an indefinable meal forced on me. Joking aside, I'm really looking forward to the tour. The weakness that has just hit me is normal. I'll be fit again by the time I leave. The paternalism of the last few days is enough, I really like being my own boss.

The brisk walk turns into a slow trot. I reach my apartment drenched in sweat. When I left the clinic, I never thought I would arrive home so exhausted. Dr. Konsik's admonitions are justified. I hastily reach for the tablets and fall onto the sofa, exhausted. For better or worse, I will have to comply with the prescribed rest. I've realized that much by now if I want to be part of the party.

The headache then subsides surprisingly quickly. The tiredness dissipates and hunger sets in at the same time. Pulling the full fruit basket towards me and fishing for the script, I nestle down. There's nothing like your own four walls.

I spend the days leading up to my departure eating, sleeping and studying text. The time has passed quickly.

I picked up my flight ticket today. At first I wanted to take the subway to the agency. The fainting spell on the way home from the clinic was reminder enough for me. I really struggled with myself until I finally decided to walk after all. I wasn't plagued by weakness and tiredness this time. The exercise did me good. I can put my doubts about whether I could manage the tour to one side. I feel really well.

I like my role as the quirky Agathe. The subliminal deviousness fascinates me. It wasn't a laborious learning of the text, it was more like soaking up the amusing words of an unusual woman. I noticed the addition at the end of the script too late. Each of us actors has to learn an additional role. For me, it means taking on the part of the old aunt in times of crisis. Lulu, my colleague, is option one, I'm option two. Dear Lulu, don't get sick or unwell, as is aptly noted! I don't like your role at all. That's the only flaw that gives me a slight headache. I certainly won't let it bother me, what am I an actress for? You always have to reckon with little things like that in our profession. Once we've arrived in England, I'll still have time to learn the role of the strange aunt.

I took my spare key to Mrs. Molte. That works well. She always looks after things when I'm not at home. Only her husband was at home today. I would have liked to talk to her. She's very talkative and likes to be involved in my life. Her husband is the exact opposite. He doesn't want to hear about other people's episodes. This is due to his hearing loss and his habit of always turning to the side when you talk to him. Talking out loud doesn't help either. There are always misunderstandings, mostly between him and his wife. That's why she often knocks on my door and pours her heart out to me. I then regularly have a fit of laughter. The situations that develop are too convoluted and nebulous. Mrs. Molte takes a more sober view of the whole thing. She has already threatened to murder her husband. She also has doubts about the authenticity of this sudden hearing loss. She may be right about that. His ears stopped working exactly two weeks after he retired. That is really strange. Also because he vehemently refuses to see a doctor. Acute deafness due to the pension shock. I will suggest this diagnosis to Mrs. Molte when I get the chance. I hope she hasn't lost the last of her nerve by then.

The threat of using the newly acquired frying pan as a murder weapon comes within reach if I'm not there. Married life doesn't seem to be for the faint-hearted. The general opinion that with age comes a certain calmness in everyday married life is disproved by itself. The way my neighbors live together is proof of that. I hope that Mr. Molte doesn't make the acquaintance of this very pan in the meantime. But perhaps he needs just such an acquaintance to bring clarity back into his life. The sledgehammer method has already brought many people to their senses. Actions instead of words. Highly amused, I organize my travel documents once again. I have to leave soon.

I will call Mrs. Molte once or twice. I can't deny her the emotional support that has become a habit. She will have a lot to report. I'll have fun as usual and she'll be relieved to find an understanding ear. What good manners I have!

Chapter 3

So, I've got rid of the suitcase. Now I still have enough time for a cup of coffee. It was a good idea to get to the airport early. Running around with my suitcase at the very last minute and making a fuss because the queue at the check-in desk is so long has never been my style. I hate the crowds. But I hate it even more when someone pushes their suitcase into my calves to get ahead faster. This is exactly the scenario that plays out behind me.

I happily hurry towards the counter. I reach into my handbag to reassure myself. I had the presence of mind not to pack the script in my suitcase. I'll use the flight to study my spare part, you never know.

"Olivia?"

"Yes."

"Frank." A hand reaches out towards me.

"The others are already here. Come on, we're all here."

I grab his hand and stare at him.

"What's going on? Were you expecting someone else?"

"No, of course not," I stammer. "I was just lost in thought. I wanted to have another cup of coffee."

"You can do that later." He shakes his head.

"Approve," he repeats snubbed. My language brings wrinkles to his forehead.

He storms ahead. Towards a group that is laughing and gesticulating wildly.

"Quiet," he shouts, gesticulating in the same way as the silenced group.

Those are bad manners. Shouting like that before the rehearsal, a little more decency please! The people around him have also fallen silent. All eyes are on him. Only the voice from the loudspeaker announces a delay. She takes no notice of the director, who is used to giving instructions wherever he is, and pays him no respect.

But I do. I nod vigorously to show him that his shouted "Quiet" has reached me. His deep frown lines and his pompous demeanor have something of a stern headmaster about them. He pushes us close to the kiosk. It must have escaped his notice that his shouting hasn't just caught our attention.

"From now on, we are one unit. That means we stick together. We all call each other by our first names. We won't have time for formalities. This is a new group. I don't know how well you know each other. I won't tolerate slander and envy. If something like that comes to my attention, there will be consequences." He looks at us in turn. "Intrigue has no place in my ensemble. It weakens the group. What's more, I expect you to always be sure of your words and give your all. No one will take a vacation so that we understand each other."

Sure, I didn't expect anything else. I've lost the desire for a cup of coffee. The word "text-proof" hovers over me like a threat. It's just as well that the cranky aunt doesn't get a chance to speak so often. The reserve role shouldn't be a cause for complaint.

"Lulu," he turns to the beauty in the white dress, puffing up.

"You of all people should follow my instructions. I don't want to have to say everything twice. You can show off your eloquence on stage, but not when you're in a meeting."

A meeting? There can be no question of a meeting here. Then we would also be involved. That is not the case. Military instruction is more appropriate.

Tears well up in Lulu's eyes. She presses her lips together. You can see her struggling with herself.

"You didn't let yourself get carried away with another diet. That would be a complete disaster. You'd better leave the sentimentality in person here. I don't want to see any more tears. Understand? And no dieting during the tour."

I'm speechless, even though I haven't said anything yet.

"Make yourselves known, approach!" A wild gesture and a theatrical roll of the eyes announce his departure.

Lulu sobs, threatening to break down. She now lets her tears run free.

"Don't worry about it. There's no shame in dieting. It's none of his business anyway. It's a private matter."

"Yes, exactly," says the brunette. "I'm Elvira, nice to meet you. You must be Olivia?"

The getting to know each other begins. Just as theatrical as Frank's departure. Who's surprised? We are mimes after all. The fact that the male lead has the same name as the spirited, quirky Agathe is a source of great amusement. The giant of a man is called Oliver.

"Oliver and Olivia, if that's not a good omen. Let me give you a hug!" I'm already lying on his chest.

"It's just as well I'm your opponent," says Elvira. "There would be no end to the complications."

"Not Frank's outbursts of anger either. Just imagine that!" Lulu turns in circles. Her white dress takes up a lot of space. Not a trace of tears left. The predicted breakdown has turned into euphoria.

"Have you been to the theater fundus yet?" Tony asks pointedly, spreading his arms to stop the whirling Lulu. Apt, where did she really buy the dress? A hundred years ago it was fashionable. But now, I don't know. For a moment, it seems as if this remark is trying to make her cry again. There is a suspicious gleam in her eyes.

"You're lucky I have a sense of humor," she says brusquely. "Otherwise I'd smack you."

"Interesting, this interplay of emotions. What are you showing off here? How much is real. How much is an act? In any case, it's worth the effort to get to the bottom of your goings-on." Klaus makes a thoughtful face.

"Don't do that, the frown lines on your forehead don't suit you." Lulu turns in circles again.

She continues to cause a stir later on. We all drink sparkling wine, she is the only one to order soda water. She gets a laugh or two out of it. The diet theme seems to be tailored to her. She orders the sweetest tart from the display case.

"No bubbly, but plenty of sugar. How is that compatible?" It doesn't make sense to Klaus.

"Listen kids, don't make such a fuss. That's the purest performance. Can't you see how you're arousing people's interest," shouts Elvira.

"And what's wrong with that? That's what we want. We'd have a problem the other way around. Isn't that right Olivia, my namesake?"

"On stage, yes. At the airport, restraint is perhaps the better option. But tell me, how confident are you with your lyrics?"

"Text-proof? Don't make me laugh." Tony falls silent.

Our flight is called. We frantically pack up our seven things. Elvira suddenly has all sorts of things to complain about.

She is too slow at the security check. The security staff show her no mercy. Too cautious, in the same breath she finds their behavior too careless. The passengers' hand luggage is too large, the crowds too excessive. The stewardesses are too impersonal, not a trace of friendliness. The pilot is too old, how much longer does he want to fly? Until he flies us to our deaths? Her bossy nature only calms down when she spots her well-deserved window seat. Why deserved? We'd like a window seat too. I stare at her. The behavior of a diva. She hasn't received enough attention. I don't agree with her one syllable. I'm a diva too. Do I behave like one? No. Neither do the others. She looks out of the window. Lulu has the aisle seat. She has a fear of flying and is on the verge of tears. I sit between the two of them, unwilling to comfort even one of them. The men sit behind us. They seem to be having a good time. They have taken a mutual liking to the young stewardess who is stowing away a lady's hand luggage. Frank is sitting two rows behind us on the opposite side. He is watching us. He has us in his sights. He's done a clever job. As they say, you get a better view from a distance. He leans back in his seat, relaxed. Am I mistaken or have I detected a grin?

"Do you hear that roar?"

"Of course I can hear the roar, it's the turbines. That's normal in an airplane that's about to take off."

Elvira has not missed my pointed remark and, offended, she turns back to the window.

"Is everything all right? The roaring sounds threatening." Lulu straightens up, gripping her backrest and mine as well. "And this old pilot, I feel very uncomfortable. How will this end?" Thick tears roll down her cheeks.

I've slowly had enough. "It's going to end with us landing at Heathrow." Hopefully very soon. I envy Frank his seat. Two flowers on the outside, the donkey in the middle. Or was it the other way around? It's the other way around.

Peace returns. Peace reigns among us women. What a delight. We take off.

There is also peace between the men. However, they have a different way of showing it. They carry on chatting away, unlike us. They celebrate harmony by opening the bottle of rum they bought in the duty-free store. They talk about women for a long time. Oliver and Klaus find black-haired women attractive. Tony speaks at an oversized volume, letting everyone know that he doesn't deviate one millimeter from his prey pattern and prefers blondes.

They also talk about the script. This topic is dealt with more quietly. You also noticed Frank. I can't understand much. They don't like being assigned the reserve role either. Oliver hasn't prepared himself either. He thinks it's important to be able to play it without any concrete learning. After all, that's what rehearsals are for, standing on stage together and listening to what the others are saying. You learn the replacement role automatically because you don't want to miss your cue. He, Klaus and Lulu have often worked under Frank's direction. But they've never been on stage together. The murmuring behind me dies down. Two stewardesses are approaching. That has priority, of course.

Lulu promptly orders a glass of wine. Elvira breaks out of her stupor and no longer feels like staring out of the window. I've been wondering the whole time how you can stare into space for so long. Maybe she was waiting for me to speak to her? I didn't do her that favor. She has only herself to blame for the tension. She kneads her neck. The stubborn contortion of her neck is taking its toll.

"Our good Lulu isn't that teetotal. The pretense didn't last long."

Lulu almost chokes when she hears these words.

"What's it to you?" she hisses, "It's my business."

"That's how I see it too. Everyone should keep their own habits. Just because you don't drink alcohol once doesn't mean you're abstinent. After all, you're not an alcoholic if you drink wine once in a while," I object, so as not to increase the tension even more. "We mimes all have our quirks. That's part of our profession."

"Is that supposed to be an innuendo?"

"No, what makes you think that, Elvira?"

Lulu relaxes. The expected tears fail to materialize. Elvira, who has got herself into a mess, cleverly covers up her slip-up.

"I'm impulsive, that's why I got the lead role. I didn't mean to offend you, Lulu. Sometimes I get carried away. You have to understand that."

She looks at me. You've just got your act together. Next time you can play your word games alone. Am I your mother? You can save yourself the sweet smile, Elvira. I smile back. We both know it's a fake smile, not real, not genuine.

Oliver puts his head forward. "Girls, how are you? Do you want a sip of this delicious rum?" None of us feel like answering.

"What's got into you?" He pulls his head back.

I'd like to know that too. The atmosphere between us was good. When did this tension creep in? We've only known each other for two hours. One of them was good and the other, well.

"Bitch alert," I hear Oliver say and then laugh.