Two tales from Berlin E-Book

Felice Liserre

• Herausgeber: Felice
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

These are the times we try to forget, but which have left their mark on our souls. A Maori fascinates frustrated souls in Berlin by performing his liberating haka dance in parks during the pandemic, but becomes a ghost of the night hunted by the police. A playwright wanders the streets of Berlin at night, devastated by the closure of his theater, and encounters a rebellious and mysterious community.

Leseprobe

Two tales from Berlin

by Felice Liserre

Copyright Ⓒ 2020 by "Felice Liserre"

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

or used in any manner without written permission of the

copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a

book review.

Original cover: Photo Rosa Luxemburg Platz

by Felice Liserre

First draft of the book

Berlin 2020

Rev. 2024

Digital Edition

Berlin 2024

© 2020

Curfew in Berlin

Beyond the darkness, there was a single window lit up in the front wing of the building, as it had been almost every night for a year, and never had Marcello seen a shadow, not even now, through the bare skeleton of the tree with its branches covered in a veil of white snow. In the silence, even his own breathing echoed, magnified along with that of Selene’s, whose sleep was interrupted only by a rare sigh, perhaps of fear. She was dreaming. The distant, icy scream of an ambulance was heard. He struggled to get up, even his body seemed to have lost all impulse and was moving as if drunk and tired. He went slowly, almost staggering, into the room where he was working, or trying to. He had come to a point poised between nothingness and a desperate residue of impetus in the last few months and he looked up with languid, dull eyes and finally noticed the shadow leaning against the doorframe. Selene's shadow was watching him, it vanished and she came closer, holding his head against her soft, sweet-smelling chest and cradling him like a child.

He sat down at the small desk and read the few sentences of the play's third act. He suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to punch the wall, but instead clenched his hand spasmodically. He staggered into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, looking at the cooker that a technician had repaired that morning.

He had envied that man, as he had watched him work and admired the mastery of his skillful gestures. The technician finally told him tiredly, with a smile and a sweat-soaked forehead, that they could cook their food again. But Marcello, on the other hand, only produced art, impalpable and ethereal substance. He had come to Berlin when human beings were arriving from everywhere, like swarms of bees attracted by the promise of nectar. He drank a sip of wine, the silence he had loved until a year before seemed unbearable, now it had become excessive, it hovered like a poisonous powder, a perfidious spell.

He closed the door and lit a cigarette; Selene would wake up if she smelled that. He would finally manage to finish that theater piece he told himself, as he watched the bluish smoke swirl like his uncertain thoughts in the still air. He had always been amazed at the success of his works, at the praise, as he tried to smile and answer the questions put to him with a vague nod. He had denuded existence, but its watermark appeared revealed to souls for only a brief moment; on leaving the theatre life swallowed up everything he had subverted, it took over the audience and he wondered if there was anything left, even a drop of the burning distillate he had carefully created for them. Each time the magic of the actors, the magic of light and sound emanated from the stage, he relived the dream that had led to that labyrinth, and he was left with a feeling of peace which the serpent of restlessness would nevertheless shatter the next day.

It had been his secret. The cracks of doubt crept unstoppably into his soul, but finally he thought that perhaps all was not lost and that there was still hope, and he discovered that it was precisely on those torments that his thoughts fed themselves to gain new impetus, making him even euphoric. But this no longer happened. His restless gaze met the keys on the table, a call that became irresistible. He finished his wine with a single sip and then grabbing them with a swift gesture, clutched them in his fist. He lingered for a moment, then put on his heavy coat, cap and scarf and pulled on his boots. With them in his fist, he lingered for a moment, then put on his heavy coat, cap and scarf, and pulled on his boots. He checked his papers, tore out a sheet of paper and wrote a message for Selene.

He took the mask reluctantly. He looked at it thoughtfully, then folded it carefully and put it in a pocket. He hated the horrible smell of artificial materials it gave off. He had got used to it like everyone else with a painful gesture, even though his was a rebellious and anarchic nature and only reluctantly observed laws when he thought they were absurd. As soon as he left a place where the mask was compulsory, he tore it from his face, observing the astonished expression in the downcast eyes of the people in the street, his body wandering in a sort of fascination or rather an animal mortification in the incessant flow of beings along the wide street that had taken the place of the equally hypnotic frenzy of shopping; it had been replaced by an apathetic hurrying to procure the indispensable things. He and Selene had seldom left the house for many months and had avoided the painful sight of a gagged, dazed humanity wandering the streets as if a ghost of itself.