When the moon broke the silence E-Book

Gudrun Leyendecker

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Love and more
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 535

Beschreibung

Abigail Mühlberg will be sent by her boss, the owner of an art newspaper, to the strange village of Sankt Augustine for several weeks. There she is to interview the old sculptor Moro Rossini for the art newspaper and write a book about him. What seemed to Abigail to be a boring task turns out to be an adventure with exciting developments, in which a criminal case also takes on great significance. An almost unthinkable love story is revealed...

Leseprobe

"I think you feel adequately appreciated for this task." While my boss spoke these words with relish, as if he was eating one of his beloved giant steaks, his meaningless smile shifted to a broad grin. "I think this job is a great opportunity for you, Mrs. Mühlberg."

"You have thought of a great task for me, Mr Wieland." My weak, toneless voice proved that my words lies. "I can't imagine anything better than spending a few weeks in this..., in this pretty little village, where the places of communication are a community center, a soccer field, an inn and even a few benches on a market-like square. I will also spend some time in edifying conversations with an almost eighty-year-old sculptor, whose works give room to a great imagination".

"Yes, you've got it, Abigail." His grin was still widening and his face reminds me of one of the little blue dwarfs from the commercial breaks of a TV station. "Enjoy these weeks like vacations in the country with cultural interludes. After all, Moro Rossini is a worldfamous artist, his knowledge will enrich your repertoire and finally he also lives in a pretty little castle on the outskirts of the village, which is worth a trip just to see. Rossini is also an admirer of women and is still charming in his old age. Quite apart from this, the village inn "Zur Traube" is a historical inn with a wine cellar worth seeing, and I can assure you that it is worthy to take a look. Historical celebrities have already come to this inn, so you can probably enrich your knowledge there as well.

Some estates around the village show an active country life, also horse lovers can indulge in their hobby to their heart's desire. Don't forget the old rose tower on the old city wall, which testifies that this village was once significantly bigger before it fell victim to destruction in terrible times of wars. An old woman is said to live in the tower, of whom there are all kinds of dazzling descriptions. Some say she is a poor old disabled woman in a wheelchair, others say she is a crazy woman who claims to have supernatural powers. There are also many other stories that haunt the town, it seems to be a fertile ground for the imagination. So there is certainly good information for you there, which you can perhaps even use as a frame around the interview.

"And this Mr. Moro Rossini really agrees with that?" I told him my doubts. "Surely you also know this English film in which a writer and journalist visits a famous but worn-out author for his publishing house in Italy to get him to write again..."

"You watch too many trashy movies," he threw at my head. "Rossini likes to be in the spotlight, he has nothing to say against publicity. They have already been announced and can make appointments with him on the spot, from their inn. So everything is already prepared. All that is missing is a little enthusiasm on your part.

I could not suppress a slight groan. "Wouldn't this assignment have been a more fulfilling task for Frau Meier? With the experience of her 52 years, she is almost predestined. With my weak 40, this gray eminence will certainly not take me completely for myself, isn't that like that?

Jens Wieland frowned. "You do not seem to have quite grasped it yet. This order is not only lucrative and pleasant, but also a great honor for you. I appreciate your diplomacy and sensitivity, and with your forty years of age, I'm sure you have the experience to be able to have a productive conversation with an eighty-year-old. No, I believe that it is precisely with your age that you will find the right contact to this older gentleman. He took the golden pen in his hand and played with it, holding it ostentatiously in front of my eyes as if he wanted to show me the gold of this lucrative contract once again.

Involuntarily I took a step back. My eyes narrowed. "Is it possible that you find this difference in age of 40 years between a man and a woman very spicy? If this charming senior loves women so much, are you hoping to get a very exclusive interview with many spicy details through me?

Wieland ignored my question and handed me an envelope. "Here you will find all the necessary data. Names, addresses, if you don't want to use your navigation system, you will also find a kind of city map of the village with a hiking map for the surrounding area. I have already transferred your expenses to your account plus a generous allowance. You see, everything is prepared for your departure tomorrow. Of course, your accommodation in the historic inn at the romantic market place is already booked and prepaid for weeks. So you see how much your work is worth to me, how much I appreciate your personality!". Now he gave me a honey-sweet smile and showed me the snow-white ends of his dental implants. A Holly-wood actor couldn't have done it better. Could I think of a counter-argument?! And besides, he was my boss for several years now, and I had no intention of giving up this job, which was sometimes quite well paid, in the near future.

I suppressed a deep sigh. "You know me, I will stick to the facts in a factual and professional way, and since I still have both presentation and content of your art newspaper, I will also take over this task and execute it carefully. And since my departure is already planned for tomorrow, you will surely understand that I have to say goodbye to you now in order to pack my things. So thank you very much, and hope to see you soon."

I didn't feel like a theatrical farewell, but he insisted on coming out from behind the desk, taking my hand and shaking it vigorously. "I wish you a great and productive time. Come back healthy with a wealth of experience of a good job!" He seemed to suppress a loud laugh and looked like the grinning punch puppet from my childhood.

"Thank you," I murmured, took his hand away and hurried to the door, which I opened hastily. I was not entirely un-guilty that she fell loudly into the lock behind me. I don't remember how I got into my pretty little apartment afterwards. Not only did my thoughts turn over, but I organized an acrobatic festival of fantasy at its finest. I saw myself in a dark, weathered castle in conversation with a deaf, egocentric artist, who described his amours in detail, looked at me demandingly and even tried to pat me paternally. I saw myself in the smelling restaurant with fried potatoes and bacon, surrounded by flies against a backdrop of skat brothers and swaying and slurping bar drinkers. Yes, I even saw myself as a guest in the witch tower, surrounded by spiders and bats, and around me the old lady gigglingly hopped and served me bitter tasting herbal teas. I was forced to ride on a pony at the estate, which threw me off in the middle of a dung heap. I saw myself in the middle of the market place, admired and marvelled at like an extraterrestrial being by the villagers, who all knew each other and were somehow related to each other. And I was afraid that the life confession of Moro Rossini would force me to go to every single little hut in the village for clarification and completion, right down to the village priest, whom I had to release from the confessional secret. Even the quiet, lavender and jasmine scented surroundings of my small apartment could not tear me away from these visions of the future. I saw myself entangled in the most contradictory stories, engulfed like a maze, searching for the red thread by which I could orientate myself.

After enjoying a cup of tea while packing my suitcase, I asked myself for the first time where my adventurousness had gone. In my job as a journalist I had been around a lot and had survived the one or other adventure unhurt. I knew myself as an unprejudiced person, flexible and ready to make the best out of every situation. So what was wrong with me this time? Did I have any bad premonitions?

Well, it's fine, I decided. Then I was ready, armed and warned, and from tomorrow on it could only get better. With this thought I fell into a light sleep for the remaining hours of the night.

***

Bright spring sunshine accompanied me on the car trip to St. Augustine, the small place still unknown to me, waiting for me in my thoughts like a new undiscovered species full of surprises. The raindrops tried to decorate the windshield of my golf with countless round shapes, but the busy windshield wiper didn't give them a chance. I almost felt sorry for them, the eager raindrops, they seemed touchingly trying to block my view.

I hadn't counted the kilometers I had already drove, but then, at a crossroads of wide avenues, the first indication of my destination appeared: St. Augustine 22 km. Next to me the meadows were blooming in the first green, and tractors drove on the fields like small remote controlled model cars. It is quite clear that the map on which I had informed myself before did not lie: St. Augustine was located on a plain in the lowlands.

The meadow landscape stretched all the way to the village, with bushes and groups of trees picturesquely draped around the edge. Right at the entrance to the town I discovered a young girl walking a hunting dog, and I noticed with relief that this girl in a miniskirt and a black belly top looked just like all the girls in our town. In a mannerly way the dog strolled next to his mistress. A friendly woof seemed to be a welcome greeting. Next to me on both sides of the street white-washed houses lined up, decorated with flower boxes and red geraniums in them, surrounded by small cultivated gardens. The farther I went to the center of the village, the more the houses crowded together, sometimes without any gaps, only with a small front garden, which soon turned into a gray sidewalk behind a crossing. I had reached the small marketplace, which, with its tall acacias, reminded me of the small, idyllic marketplaces in the south of France. Old benches, which rested in the shade of the trees, invited me to take a contemplative break, as their gaze automatically fell on the old, playful fountain, whose cheerful splashing sound reached me. While I noticed small figures on the fountain in the corner of my eye, I searched for the inn and, of course, a parking lot. I discovered the sign "Zur Traube" on the left side of the market place. I did not find a parking place. Oh, just like here in the city. I am here in the city, I said to myself consolingly. While I walked around the marketplace several times, I saw signs, I went to the castle on the right, the next turn was marked "Kirche", at a 90-degree angle a sign pointed to the next town, down there I found the sign "Polizei", and at the next corner a small alley with the sign "Rosenturm". I drove past the inn and found a sign "Gut Langenau" at the next corner.

I decided to take this direction, hoping to find parking spaces at an estate. But as soon as I had moved fifty meters away from the market place, I found a large parking lot with many free spaces. I breathed a sigh of relief. Arrived!

Now I did notice that it was no longer raining and that I had probably turned off the windshield wiper automatically.

Now my adventure could finally start. With a big trolli and my handbag I rumbled over the sidewalk towards the inn. My cell phone made itself noticeable. It was Wieland with an SMS and a single word: "Arrived? How apt. But I decided to let him wait a while longer with the answer until I had really arrived.

Arriving in front of the inn I stopped for a moment to have a closer look at the facade. Painted white and also windows decorated with flower boxes, the bunch of grapes looked friendly towards me. The dark, wood-carved entrance door, richly decorated with marquetry, creaked slightly when I opened it. Inside the room it was pleasantly cool.

From one of the two guest rooms, a woman approached me who introduced herself as Frau Bühler, and who, as I soon realized in conversation, was the owner of this inn. While she accompanied me to my pre-booked room, I learned that she was carrying the grape together with her husband and the employee Nina. My room turned out to be a cozy living room/bedroom with modern furniture and a clean bathroom. The usual inventory such as radio, TV and telephone were also available, even a small mini bar contained various drinks and all kinds of sweets. In two big cupboards and a chest of drawers I could store all my luggage, the trolli and also the two suitcases that were still waiting in my car.

"Just make yourself comfortable", said Mrs. Bühler. "You will almost be a permanent guest as long as you stay. I'm sure your boss appreciates you very much that he has already rented the room here for several weeks. Then your work is probably also very important?

"To my boss, yes. But maybe it will also be very interesting for me. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to talk about it with you. But when I'm finished and everything is printed, I'll be happy to give you a copy of this magazine to read.

Mrs. Bühler smiled. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that! I already know all about it. Your boss, Mr Wieland, has already announced you everywhere. So I also know that you will interview Rossini. And probably everyone here in the town knows that too. From the letter carrier to the priest, everyone here is instructed to help and support you. Therefore you will probably only meet friendly people."

It took me a moment to recover from my astonishment. "But why? But how did he do it? What has he done?"

The landlady's eyes sparkled in delight. "Your boss has paid a price. He wants to generously sponsor our historical festival, which takes place in summer, and for the renovation of our old village fountain he has already given the mayor, Mr. Hammer, a generous grant. For one or the other of us a nice gift fell off. We are also looking forward to the history of our village, many hope that it will be mentioned in it, and I can imagine that the whole thing will be very interesting for you.

"Hm", I murmured, not quite convinced. "That could be true. Anyway, so far I have a very pleasant impression of the part of the place I have already seen and also of your well-kept historical inn. Would you like to be part of history yourself," I joked.

Mrs. Bühler laughed. "Then it would be very boring for the readers. There is nothing extraordinary about me to report. The inn gives us a lot of work, so we don't have much time for extravagances. I married into the family here, but I am already burdened because my parents also had an inn, which my brother runs now. But of course I could tell you a lot of things, because in our inn you hear a lot. But since I have learned to keep quiet about the lifes of my guests, they will ask for your information from all the people concerned personally.

"Everyone?" I marveled. "It will only be an interview with Moro Rossini."

Mrs. Bühler smiled at me. "I don't think it will be just that. Because almost everyone here is somehow involved in Mr. Rossini's story. He will tell you that himself. And that's because almost everyone has inspired the artist to create a particular work of art. For better or for worse. Every work of art is a little story in itself, he will tell you all that himself."

"Then everything is clear, Mrs. Bühler. Then I will probably live with you for a long time." "And I'm very happy about that," Mrs. Bühler opened for me. "I have put together a small menu for you for lunch. Your boss was kind enough to tell me what you like and what you don't like. He even gave me a schedule so that I can always look after you when you are not registered at the castle. After all, all these appointments have already been made."

I shook my head, very lightly, back and forth. "Impossible, this man! Now he even wants to control my schedule. Dear Ms. Bühler, I am looking forward to the snack, thank you very much! But then I will create my own schedule and make my own appointments. So I want to show my boss that he can't quite determine my schedule.

"It will all work out," said the innkeeper mysteriously.

***

At noon I had ordered a salad from Mrs. Bühler, which was kindly served to me by her employee Nina. The pretty young woman looked like an angel, long blonde curls fell gently on her shoulders. In her heart-shaped face two dark blue eyes shone full of innocent joy. She was dressed all in white, so very unusual compared to the waitresses I knew, the knee-length skirt covered the upper part of her shapely legs. She served me politely, and her voice sounded soft, so that I immediately had the wish to hear her sing.

To get into conversation with her, I asked her for directions to the castle, and she willingly gave me detailed information.

"Are you from this area too?" I asked. "It's very pretty here, but perhaps a bit boring for young people?" "I'm from the neighboring village, which is much smaller and has nothing to offer. Here the community, especially the parish, organizes many parties and dance evenings. There is a theater group, choirs and various other groups that share a hobby, so if you get bored here, it's your own fault. She smiled at me friendly.

"I also have a very nice hobby, I sew the costumes for the theater group. It's a nice way to relax, and I can sit while I do it, in compensation for all the running around I have in the inn. Not that you misunderstand, I enjoy working here very much. But in the evening you know what you've done and your legs are heavy, so it's good to relax sitting down.

"Then you're very busy," I thought. "Will there be a performance soon?"

"Of course, several even. The children's group is playing a fairy tale called: The Lazy and the Hardworking. The youth group plays the little prince, and the lay group of adults will perform "Woman with Hat" in three weeks, a little play written by an author from the village. Her name is Cordula Winter, and she always delights us with new texts".

"Then I really won't be bored here," I suspected. "Such a place, relatively small with so much culture, I have never been before. How come? Who is so strongly behind it?"

"It's especially Pastor Kohlhaas and our mayor Mr. Hammer, they both founded a village community, a kind of association that initiates a lot of culture. Especially because we often have quite a few guests here, not only here in our inn, but also in the estate and in private rooms, because we also have many visitors because of the castle and because of the personality of Moro Rossini".

"Is he so interesting?" "He is definitely interesting! Many like him, but not everyone. But everyone knows him, most of the village people have met him personally and have posed for him, for a painting or a sculpture. He has already asked me, but since his wife has separated from him, I have a strange feeling. Something stops me from going to him."

"What was that about his wife?" My curiosity was aroused.

"A year ago she separated from him, very strange after having endured his escapades all these years. She was a few years younger than him, and it is rumored that she wanted to live in peace for a few more years. Others say she found a nice new man who would take care of her a little."

"Well, you've given me some very good information, and I'm a little prepared. Thanks a lot! I'll be off to the lion's den now."

She giggled. "That's well said. His zodiac sign is Leo and he also has stone lions in his garden and on his doorstep, some say he can roar like a lion. I wish you good luck."

"Thank you. I hope that he won't eat me up," I returned and said goodbye.

I chose the short way to the castle, right through the narrow streets of the town center. A SMS from Wieland reached me, "Good luck" he wished me with a grinning smiley. I disregarded the message and looked at the old houses in the winding alleys. It seemed to me as if everyone here felt it was their duty to keep their little house neat and clean. Pink and red geraniums glowed everywhere in pots, flower boxes and hanging traffic lights. At the edge of the village I discovered a playground where mothers and their children romped around. The open field was in the sunshine today, butterflies flew over the meadows, a buzzard circled over a field. I turned into an avenue, at the end of which the castle shimmered in the light of noon.

The building, a moated castle, reminded me of Moritzburg Castle near Dresden. The brightly whitewashed walls looked like freshly painted, the roof newly covered with dark shingles. When I came closer, I noticed that there was no water in the ditches. The meadows that had been sown there were freshly mowed and fragrant. Next to the big wooden gate hung a big bell. Courageously I pulled the rope, expecting a butler or valet. For quite a while I heard nothing, then suddenly the gate opened, and an older man with thinning gray hair appeared in the frame and eyed me attentively.

"You must be Mrs. Abigail Mühlberg," he surmised. His Italian accent was unmistakable. After I nodded and extended my hand to greet him, he led me with a soft smile into the courtyard, from there into a large hall that had been prepared as a studio. He walked slowly and thoughtfully, bent over a little. After offering me a seat in the sitting area, he pointed to the drinks he had already prepared for me. On the small side table there was water and wine, coffee and juice. I chose tap water and now had the opportunity to look at the face of the artist Moro Rossini. I had already found his voice pleasant and warm, now I looked into a wrinkled face, tanned by the sun, in which a large, curved nose and dark brown eyes under bushy eyebrows demanded my attention. I had the feeling to discover a lot of character traits in it, a lot of courage and honesty, a little vanity and arrogance, something daredevil, a portion of pride, a pinch of self-importance, a lot of willpower, a high sensitivity, all wrapped up in a huge portion of charm.

"May I call you Abigail?" He looked me in the eye with a smile. "If we're going to work together for a while, I'd like to hear something from you first."

"May you? But I suppose my boss, Mr. Wieland, has already told you everything about me? It seems everyone in town already knows me.

His smile deepened. "But of course. You have recognized it well. I know that you are not married, but that you have already had a firm relationship twice for several years. I know that you write very well, because I have already read some of your articles, including your interesting little book about Goethe and his trip to Italy. I know that from your first relationship you have a son who is currently on a sailing school ship at sea. I know that you love dogs and that you cannot decide between red and blue as your favorite color".

Actually, was that funny or not?! Should I be annoyed with Wieland, who talked about my life and probably violated the Data Protection Act, or should I laugh, take it with humor because neither Rossini nor any other inhabitant of this place could take any advantage of my data. What did they know?! Maybe you could already read it somewhere in my vita. There was nothing to be ashamed of. So I decided to turn a good face into a bad one.

"I would be a bit careful with the information from Wieland. He likes to exaggerate and often thinks he knows everything. But just tell me calmly what else you want to know from me. Otherwise I suggest that we leave it at that for now. I would like to start working and in the meantime we can get to know each other quite well. I put on my most winning smile. Didn't someone tell me that Moro has an eye for women?

Rossini looked at me thoughtfully. "Good. Let's start simple. Do you have a plan?"

I nodded. "I would like to look at all your works, the sculptures and paintings, and then I would like to ask you what inspired you and, of course, what you want to say, the messages you want to send out, I want to put them into words and, if possible, immortalize them like your works.

He nodded and stood up. "That's how we do it." He turned on the spotlights, bright light fell on numerous small and large sculptures scattered throughout the width of the hall.

An "Oh" escaped me, because the sculptures seemed to jump at me, each one trying very hard to attract my attention. I stood up hastily and approached the works of art.

A pair of white stone was the first thing that attracted my attention. A young girl or young woman and a young man stood on a pedestal, pleadingly stretching out their arms one after the other, but they did not reach each other. Fascinated, I let the impression work on me. "This couple expresses such a great longing", I told Rossini my feeling.

The sculptor wiped an imaginary shadow from his forehead. "This is Mona and Kurti, they are both dead." *** I looked at him questioningly. "I'm sorry about that. Do you want to tell me about it?"

Rossini looked at me with surprise. "You don't know?! I thought they would have told you. This story made our village famous a few years ago, which is actually a sad reason.“ He offered me a seat again and sat down next to me. "Mona and Kurti were once lovers. Outside on the estate live the two twin sisters Senta and Jasmin Schirmer, they own the estate, they inherited it from their parents. They were once both in love with the same man. First Jasmin and Peter were a couple, then, it is said, Senta fell in love with Peter and seduced him. After that he left Jasmin and married Senta. But Jasmin was pregnant by Peter and gave birth to a daughter whom she called Mona. Senta was very jealous of Jasmin, because she also wanted to have a child with Peter, but nothing came of it. Peter soon discovered that his true love was Jasmin, and so he tried to start a relationship with Jasmin again. When Senta noticed this, she chased her sister Jasmin and Mona from the manor and tried to win Peter back completely. But he started drinking, became very ill and died. Now Senta was no longer able to run the estate alone. She was looking for Jasmin, who lived there with her daughter, and asked her, yes, she begged her to come back to her at the manor. Jasmin finally gave in and moved back to St. Augustine. Mona was a beautiful, sensitive and gentle girl, she was loved by everyone. She soon met Kurti, a young policeman, and they fell in love. Mona had many admirers and Kurti was often very jealous, that's why the couple had a lot of fights, although Mona was always faithful to her Kurti. It happened at a big party at that time when the two had quarreled again. Mona had suddenly disappeared. They found her much later, dead, many miles from here and the police tried to find out what had happened. The suspicion fell on Kurti, it was suspected that he had something to do with Mona's death. That's why the police wanted to question him, but there were a few voices in the village that already labelled him as the perpetrator, as the murderer. Then Kurti took his own life..." I swallowed. "A tragic story!" I stared spellbound at the two white figures. "Something bothers me. Maybe you can create a new sculpture again, in which you unite the two, Mona and Kurti?"

"I am sure they are united in heaven. But you see, Abigail, the case has not been solved here on earth. As long as the case has not been solved, I will let the two figures beg for clarification even with their hands outstretched, they owe it to them."

"Can this case be reopened? Why didn't the two sisters from the estate make sure that the investigation continued? And what happened to them afterwards?"

"Jasmine and Senta tried to put the past behind them. They reconciled and together they tried to forget everything. The name Peter has been deleted from their vocabulary, only at Mona's grave they both put fresh flowers every day.

I took my glass and drank it in one go. "A very sad story! Didn't Kurti have any relatives to whom it would have been important to clear up the case, maybe to rehabilitate him?"

"No, he only had an old aunt, and she saw his suicide as an admission of guilt. Soon after, she passed away too."

"Did anyone see that Kurti got physical with Mona in his argument? What did anyone see and hear about the argument?"

Moro Rossini reached for the wine bottle. "May I pour you some wine?"

„No, thank you. I prefer water." He refilled my glass with water.

"Everyone in the village knew everything and nothing. Some claimed that he threatened her, others said that they screamed at each other angrily and others claimed that Kurti had become violent. The argument had been late in the evening, it was already dark, and many of the inhabitants had drunk some alcohol at that time. I think there were hardly any reliable, unambiguous statements. The police assumed that no one other than Kurti had a motive, because although Mona had many admirers, no one would have dared to get in Kurti's way. On the one hand because of his jealousy, on the other hand just because he was a policeman. And so the people here in the town are happy today that the whole thing is over.

I shook my head. "I can't understand the whole thing, these are all such nice, friendly people here with dark history, but that's how it often is in life. But you are probably not convinced that Kurti is the culprit, right?"

He smiled at me. "You have recognized that well. Kurti had a very big temperament, and he was jealous, but he loved Mona very much, I don't think he would have ever hurt her. Not even in the heat of passion."

"Then you knew him well?"

"Oh yes! We had many conversations together."

"You painted him too?"

"No, we had special conversations. As you know, I was born in Italy, in the very south of Sicily in the city of Catania, very close to the famous volcano Etna. I had a sunny and sheltered childhood in a family with a lot of heart. Later I moved to the north of Italy, where I found work. I joined the police and became a carabiniere, which was an even more dangerous job at that time than it is today, because it was the time of the great assassinations of the former South Tyroleans".

I looked at him in surprise. "I wouldn't have thought that now, I can't imagine you as a great artist in the police force."

"Really?! But you will also find this period of my life in my works. As you must have noticed at the age of 40, Abigail, life consists of light and shadow, of ups and downs, which also characterize my own life and can be found in my works.

I took a big sip of water. "I can well imagine that, so surely there is a reason why you left Italy and came here to St. Augustine?

He smiled happily at me, his eyes shining. "Yes, that was a big step in my life that I dared to take only a few years ago. And this is a very special story, the story of a great love. But I don't want to count it to you today, because we don't know each other well enough for that. If you want to follow me again, I will show you more sculptures that I have gathered here in this hall, because they are my favorite works.

I stood up and followed him into the brightly lit parts of the room to the exhibited sculptures.

"Just look around you," he advised me. "Take your time and wait until you find something that wants to tell you something."

I strolled among the works of art and looked at them extensively.

"Here I discovered something that radiated something threatening to me. It looks like a medieval weapon, does that have something to do with your life as a carabiner, or does that mean something completely different?" I pointed to a large white sculpture that represented a hand with very sharp objects in it. Moro Rossini nodded, his facial expression suddenly changed. There was no more carefree arrogance. Pain lines ran through his face "It was the early sixties when the attacks killed many of us. I lost a few friends who fell victim to the explosives. It was a terrible time, dangers lurked everywhere. We were there to keep order and to protect people, but we could not protect ourselves and often paid for our work with our lives. And you can surely imagine that after such experiences one appreciates the beautiful things of the earth and life".

"Yes, I believe that immediately. With me there was not only sunshine in life, but I have never experienced so much suffering and misery as you have. Again I was captivated by the sight of a white sculpture showing the head of an elderly man. "This is not you," I said. "Is this an important person in your life?"

Rossini nodded and went back to the corner. "This is the most important male person in my life, it's my father whom I adore and love." He sat down on the sofa and wiped his eyes. He cried.

I followed him and felt helpless. I would have loved to take him in my arms and comfort him now, but I didn't dare. "He must have been a wonderful man," I said. "And the two of you must have had a wonderful connection, it must have been very strong feelings."

Moro Rossini nodded. "Yes, that's right. You must excuse me now! All this has been a bit of a strain for me now. I will now withdraw for half an hour. Please stay here and look at the sculptures in peace. You can already take notes and write down any questions you want to ask me. You may also go into the adjoining rooms and look at the pictures I have painted. In the meantime, feel at home and help yourself to your heart's content! He nodded at me once more and then shuffled out.

***

I looked at the large slippers that made that remarkable shuffling sound and had the opportunity to look at Rossini in all his stature. He was medium in size, had a little belly, his stooped walk indicated damage to the spine, he wore his thin gray hair a little longer at the back, which gave his aristocratic-looking profile a touch of artistic appearance, perhaps also the resemblance to an old Indian.

After I gathered myself for a moment and drank some water, I strolled through the rows of sculptures and let them work on me individually. There were statues and busts, realistic depictions of people, imaginative creations that I was usually not sure what they meant. They all had one characteristic, they were of a simple beauty, as if they were displaying the essence of a theme. All the sculptures were pure white, made of different materials, there were some in plaster, clay, stone and a few even carved in marble. For me, the collection expressed a unity, and I wondered if he had been looking for a basic order and aesthetic. He had spoken openly and honestly to me, and together with the impression I had now gained from the sculptures, I was convinced that he was an honest person.

I used the time to make some notes, and began to select the sculptures I wanted to talk about.

Half an hour might have passed, I was still alone. So I used the time to go to the adjoining rooms and look at the picture galleries.

I soon noticed that, in contrast to the sculptures, there were almost no pictures with representational motifs at all, but many constructed color and form motifs in the most diverse variations, mainly painted in acrylic. The artist was so accurate that many pictures looked like prints. There was an abundance of structures and linear forms and arrangements. I noticed that he was a meticulous worker in some things.

There were pictures that immediately captivated me with bright color combinations or daring forms. But as crazy as the idea of his expression was sometimes, it was astonishing, every work of art always resulted in a harmonious whole. Of course I did not like every painting, some abstract paintings would not even decorate the walls of my apartment as prints, but the clarity of his paintings impressed me.

Again half an hour had passed. I was just thinking about whether I should perhaps rather make my way home when Moro Rossini returned to the studio.

He smiled at me winningly. "Please forgive me for leaving you alone for so long. I've rested a little in the meantime, but perhaps it was my intention to let you speak alone with my creations. Now I am here for you again." He sat down with me in the sitting area. "Perhaps you would like to tell me something now? Or do you have any questions?"

"I have already gained a first insight and impression. You have your own unique style, which is completely unmistakable. I liked many of your works very much, and I would like to talk to you about the individual sculptures and paintings in the next few weeks. I can also leave the order to you, because I'm not yet sure whether I'm going to do something in chronological order or whether I'd rather focus on something.

Now he smiled mischievously at me. "You have not seen the works of my third passion yet. People say that I am a gifted photographer. In fact, I was already passionate about taking snapshots when I was young, and I continued to develop this hobby. There are a lot of landscape photographs, animal pictures, pictures of the plant world, but mainly nude pictures. My photo collection is located in the upper rooms of the castle in different rooms, I think we will have enough opportunity to see them. In the early years, a lot of women came to me to have their pictures taken without clothes, some of them did it for art. Still others wanted to become famous with a photo of me, and the third category of women wanted to sleep with me or even start a relationship. Have you ever seen photos of me from the past?

"No, I first wanted to perceive you as you are now, then I planned to search on the Internet and look for the necessary photos there.

He stood up, went to a shelf, grabbed a photo album and handed it to me. "Since I knew that you wanted to come to me, I prepared something. Please feel free to open it."

He handed it to me, and I flipped through it. The first photos showed a chubby baby with long black hair and big dark eyes. There were a few photos of his childhood. A slim boy with sun-tanned skin and dark hair showed up around Etna. It struck me that his eyes often lost themselves melancholically in unknown expanses. There was a family photo showing him with his parents and his two beautiful sisters in Catania.

In the next photo I marveled at him as a young man in uniform, no doubt about it, I could sympathize with the fact that women had followed him in droves. His eyes glowed darkly in the depth of his soul, one could sense great emotions with a touch of melancholy.

The next photo showed him as a bridegroom together with a beautiful young woman with fine features.

"A beautiful photo! Is this your great love?" "No. With this woman, with Susanna, I lived for many years. I met my great love, Adelaide, five years earlier, when I was 25 years old. I got married when I was 30, we had an affair and Susanna had a child by me, and at that time, especially in old-fashioned Italy, we got married immediately. But I had a son with her, who is my pure luck. He got married and gave me grandchildren. It wasn't a good marriage, we were united by family, but we never really met in love and art. He looked at me melancholy. "What do you think of that?"

"It's very sad, or... or maybe it's fate, or a job. I don't know how and why it happens, why people come together to form unfulfilled partnerships. But when two people are together, there are always compromises, it is always a task to grow. Was there really no possibility to marry your great love?

"Well, I can probably tell you that much already. She's from Germany, but the distance between her and me was never the reason why we couldn't get together. But in my whole life I was always closer to her from a distance than Susanna, who sat, stood or lay next to me."

"She is from Germany? Why aren't you with her now? Is she no longer alive?"

"Oh yes, she is! Yes, I am very happy that she is still here on this earth. And yet there are a lot of things..., but I don't want to anticipate anything yet. Please continue to look at the photos for now!"

I leafed through them, saw him often with his family in the beginning, later with his awards at exhibitions with prizes and honors. In the other photos, he also appeared attractive and masculine, and in some of them you could see that he enjoyed being in the circle of beautiful women. The last photos showed him together with his works, especially the white sculptures.

"Do you intentionally keep all your sculptures in white? I know, it's a stupid question. "They're all in white. You must have had a reason for that."

"Yes, for my sculptures, white is the only color I can think of that expression in. A picture or a photograph is something different, they live, move, speak and act. The sculptures on the other hand are a law and a monument. My statues are related to each other and unite here in my works. In addition, white in purity forms thoughts and can shape an essence. I cannot imagine it any other way."

As I looked at him, I noticed that his eyes looked tired, although he had supposedly rested. So I got up and said goodbye. "I have already learned a lot from you, and I would like to thank you very much for that. We had planned another hour for today, but if you don't mind, I would like to say goodbye for now and put everything I have learned on paper and sort it out a little. And if you stick with it, I would like to come back tomorrow morning for another hour as planned.

He looked at me friendly and nodded. "Yes, it will be all right with me if you would like to close today. It was very nice to meet you and have a chat with you. And I look forward to our next entertaining hour together."

He guided me to the big old wooden gate, opened it gallantly and gave me a lovely, charming smile. For quite a while he waved after me.

***

Now I first had to collect my thoughts. I wondered whether I already had an overall impression of Moro Rossini. Certainly, he seemed a bit macho, he knew who he was and what he was doing, but his lovable nature and charm didn't make people resent him, they just had to admit a little vanity, even more than all artists in general.

I decided to go for a walk, the weather is good and the spring meadows enticed with their scent and colors.

I didn't walked to the village, but in the opposite direction, where I discovered the old village church, probably from the baroque period, which was adjoined by a cemetery on the right side of the road out of town.

In fact I was right in my assumption, inside the church I found the building and the inventory in baroque style, and the paintings delighted me for quite a while. I lit a candle, sat down on a bench, meditated a little and prayed. Afterwards I felt refreshed and lively.

When I stepped out of the church, a woman joined me, who came from the cemetery with some garden tools. She was tall and slim, had blond hair and wore a white headscarf. Her narrow, unvarnished face turned to me in a friendly manner. "You must be Mrs. Mühlberg, aren't you?"

And when I nodded, she continued. "You were expected here already. Especially the mayor hopes your article will attract more tourists. By the way, I'm Jasmin Schirmer, my sister and I, we run the estate on the other side of the town together."

"Nice to meet you", I reached out my hand to her and shook it vigorously. I noticed some worry lines on her face. "But this won't be just an article, it will be a little book, I think that in the appendix there will even be published some things about this nice place. The one or other art lover will be interested in Mr. Rossini, look at his art and of course come here. At least that's what we suspect and hope."

"I understand, Mrs. Mühlberg, that you're staying for quite a while. Why don't you come out to our estate? You will find it if you follow the signs to Gut Langenau. You will certainly enjoy the horses and you may also ride if you want."

"That is a nice offer, thank you! I have never had the opportunity to ride before, but I could try it at your place. I think I've been here long enough, and besides, you have to clear your head between work every now and then to recharge your batteries. As I've heard, you run this big estate all by yourself with your sister?

"Well, not all alone either. We already have a few temporary workers and recently even a veterinarian who lives with us. This has already proven to be a good addition in a short time. Dr. Lang even has a small practice room for his country practice with us, and he loves to ride himself.

"I think you were lucky there. You can also have difficulties with your tenants. Such additions are not a matter of course," I thought.

"Yes, he loves the country life and is not afraid to join this village association, which always has a great responsibility here, despite his many jobs."

I looked at her questioningly. "Village association? Isn't this already a small town with its historical sites? I guess it's about the same size as Rothenburg or Dinkelsbühl."

"That might be possible. This association is already very old, it's from the time when this place was actually still a kind of village and had a lot of farmhouses. The members of the village association have the same importance here as council members elsewhere. In the late Middle Ages, they are said to have even worn wigs," they say.

"Is there any written record of that?" I asked.

"There used to be a hand-written, drawn book, which we found in a small old cottage in our village. In it were drawings of these men in wigs. But of course it is also possible that someone made up this fairy tale. My sister Senta and I loved this book when we were children, and we looked at it over and over again. Later, when my daughter was little, Mona always carried this book with her. And then all of a sudden it was gone. Nobody knows where it went."

I didn't know how to act, after all I already knew what had happened to Mona. Should I just keep talking about the book?

Jasmin Schirmer seemed to take my silence as an invitation to continue and continued: "You will find out anyway here in the village. It has been a while now since my daughter suddenly disappeared, she was a young, pretty girl then, and a long time later she was found dead, far away from here. What exactly happened then was never clarified, because her boyfriend, who had a fight with her the night she disappeared, took his own life."

"I am sorry about that! This is very sad for you and very cruel. One can never forget such a thing, and you will surely miss your daughter every day. I can't imagine such a thing. You are probably still very sad."

"Yes, although you try to find your way back into life, the sadness never ends." "And you never thought it would be good to clear up the story?"

"No, not before. At first I was totally blocked, I had the feeling that I didn't live in this world at all, I just didn't want to face the death of my daughter. Later on, when I realized what had actually happened, I found it too painful to recall the memory and stir everything up again. Two years ago, I underwent a therapy that helped me a lot to find myself a little bit again in this life. But sometimes I have the feeling that I can only end this terrible thing when everything is cleared up. Nevertheless, that will not be so easy. They found Mona in the water, they couldn't tell anymore if they had pushed her in, and certainly not who it could have been. One simply went from the motive at that time, Mona and Kurti had a fight, so the suspicion fell immediately on Kurti. I didn't think much about it at the time, because I knew I couldn't ask Kurti anymore.

"Even though it was a long time ago, I think you can always start looking again."

She looked at me attentively. "You're probably right: I will think about it." We had arrived at the entrance to the village. "Would you like to come back to my place? To the estate for a cup of coffee?"

I declined with thanks. "Perhaps another time? Thank you! I have a lot to write for today." We said goodbye, and I hurried to the grape.

After I had refreshed myself a little, I laid down on the bed and let the day go by again before my eyes. Moro Rossini had made a great impression on me. It had already been a special experience to get to know him, as a person and as a great artist. A person like him does not need a psychotherapist, I thought. When he has lived something, he processes it into one of his artistic creations. The sculptures and paintings are the periods of his life. And the nudes? The Garden of Eden? A model must feel honored to find a way into his artist's eye. Stop! Had he now also succeeded in wrapping me up with his charisma, his charm? Better not think about it any further! I could only be happy if I was allowed to do my work with a charming older gentleman. So the whole thing was just more fun. Anyway, I had been afraid of this trip for nothing, there was no boring nest, and certainly no boring people. On the contrary, the whole thing seemed to turn into an adventure.

***

After I had spent the rest of the afternoon taking notes, writing and sorting some texts, I went down to the restaurant in the evening to have a small snack. I had the choice between the more luxurious dining room and the simple restaurant. Now I had become curious about the place and its people, so I deliberately chose the rustic restaurant, which was mainly frequented by people from the village.

Thekla Bühler, the landlady, greeted me politely, Nina rushed over and asked me about my wishes, and a few minutes later I had also met Thorsten Bühler, the owner himself. He embodied the very typical cliché of an innkeeper. Of round, ponderous stature, with a good-natured, friendly face, he distinguished himself with his cheerfulness as the perfect host. He knew a nice word for everyone, which meant that he knew and was informed about everyone. This was especially true for the area at the bar. A few younger people were sitting there, verbally venting their day's frustration while Bühler supplied them with the drinks they wanted.

Since I was sitting near the counter, it was unavoidable to listen to the conversations. On the contrary, before Nina served me the salad I had ordered, the young people, two men and two women, had ordered me a glass of wine. I picked it up, thanked them and cheered them on. I enjoyed guessing their professions or functions from the conversations. With Ben it was easy, he wore his police uniform and drank cyclists. I suspected that he was just off duty. The young red-haired woman named Cordula puzzled me for quite a while, because she was talking mainly about current events. It was only when Ms. Bühler asked her: "Well, how is the new novel?" that I suspected she was a young author. Finding out what blonde Isa's profession was easy, because she talked nonstop about the many sick animals she had successfully treated in her practice today. I concluded that she was employed by the veterinarian Dr. Lang on the estate, which was later confirmed. Max made it a little harder for me, whose clothes, a t-shirt and jeans did not indicate his profession. After I ate the rest of my salad, I got a chance to guess his profession.

It was Ben who first asked him: "Hey Max, what did the baroness have today? Was the old witch in a good mood?"

"She's never in a bad mood," Max replied a little annoyed. "She is always in a good mood and patient, and gave me a good tip today. I can't complain, if I worked in a hospital instead of her, I would certainly have a harder time." "If she was in a good mood, she must have had something to drink," Ben assumed with a grin.

"Oh nonsense!" protested Max, "She hasn't drunk alcohol for years. She is now 71 and I think she drank her last glass of wine at 63. Then she became ill and began a healthier lifestyle."

Cordula, the young writer giggled. "You must tell me more about her, some say she is a witch. I would love to write a novel about her." Aha, so she really was the author Cordula Winter, who wrote plays for the theater club. I decided to get to know her better at the next opportunity.

"Oh no!" Max looked upset. "She eats a healthy diet, drinks her herbal tea instead of wine and coffee, and keeps busy with astrology. It is partly quite interesting, she already gave me a horoscope and I must say, I was quite astonished. It is unbelievable what you can see in it.

"And you believe such nonsense?" Ben laughed. "Have you ever looked at the whole starry sky? It is full of illuminated round bodies. How are they supposed to control our earth?! I think, Baroness back and forth, your Ada von Breitenbrunnen is really going crazy. She's probably not that clear in her head anymore.

"Before you make fun of that, you should go to her in the tower and let her tell you something. Then you'll notice that she's still in top shape mentally, and you can take a leaf out of her book. It is unbelievable what she knows and what she has experienced in life. She told me a lot of things about her life in confidence, so I won't tell you any more. Not everyone would have mastered such a difficult life so bravely. Above all, many people become grumpy and unpalatable in old age, but Ada is always friendly and calm.

"I would be interested in that," said the vet assistant Isa. "I have also heard that astrology was a real science in the past and that you can do a lot with it. But your baroness is in a wheelchair, so she is certainly not well enough to work a lot. What's wrong with her anyway?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about that either, sorry dears! "But I know that despite her illness, she's working hard."

"But who is going to the old woman up the many stairs to the tower?!" Cordula doubted.

Max shook his head. "Girl, what a fool you are. She's not receiving any visits anyway. There's a telephone, and there's also the Internet, enough possibilities for telecommunication. Come on, buy another round! You're rich now with your bestseller!"

All four laughed out loud. I used this opportunity to pay back for my drink. They thanked me and cheered me on after Bühler had served them their drinks.

Ben invited me to join them at the bar, but I had enough for today. I said goodbye to the quartet, wished Thekla and Thorsten Bühler a good night, too, and waved once more to Nina, who was cleaning a table in a corner.

Thoughtfully I climbed the stairs to the guest rooms. I had learned a little more again, and slowly the tiny pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. If Moro Rossini had immortalized some of these inhabitants with sculptures or paintings, there were certainly interesting stories to tell. I wonder if the artist had already painted or photographed these two beautiful young women Isa and Cordula for his nude collection? Was he perhaps friends again with Ben, whose experiences in the police service could evoke old memories in Rossini's memory? And what really happened to Ada von Breitenbrunnen, about whom Max didn't want to talk? I absolutely had to get to know her too. Did she also have a connection to Rossini?

I smiled. It was good that I had listened to the conversation of the four young people. So I could easily get in touch with this baroness if I pretended to be interested in astrology. This gave me an excuse to visit Ada in this mysterious tower.

Upstairs in my room, I took an extensive shower, then snuggled up in my soft bathrobe and laid down on the large comfortable bed, armed with a pad and ballpoint pen. What a pity, actually I should write a diary. And what did I write for today, at the bottom line? A day with many interesting impressions.

***

The next morning came in the dress of mist, veiled in white. On such days I can often work especially well. I put on a lot of make-up so as not to look like an ugly duckling in front of Rossini. After all, he had a special, judgmental eye for everything beautiful. Afterwards I treated myself to an extensive breakfast with fruit and muesli, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Bühler and Nina. We exchanged a few meaningless words and wished each other a good day.

With a bag filled with the necessary writing stuff I set off in time and enjoyed the natural spectacle of the fading fog.

Involuntarily I connected this with two pictures that appeared before my inner eye: In the first one I saw someone unpacking a gift that was in a loving package, maybe even a beautiful sculpture, in the second I saw a young, enchanting woman who slowly drops her covers and shows her beautiful body. After all, with such thoughts I was well prepared for the great artist, who already had experience with all this throughout his life. I found myself envying him a little.

How intensively one can live with such open senses! How much one sees with such eyes! Could one possibly learn this as a completely normal mortal being?

A soft light lay over the old castle. Moro Rossini seemed to have been expecting me, he was about to give water to the flower bushes in the large tubs. Even in this posture I felt his great radiance, which, it seemed to me, also came from a great warmth of heart.

The artist discovered me, his serious face lit up, and he greeted me with a friendly embrace. With slow steps he led me to his studio, where he had turned on all the lamps and spotlights today.

First he asked me about my condition and then about my first impressions of my visit yesterday.

"To be honest, I am quite enthusiastic. And I am not saying this to flatter you. Although I have not yet dealt with many of your works, I find your art very expressive. And that is what you expect from it. For me, to look at art is to lose subjectivity and become objective, to see how the artist sees, to feel how the artist feels, to hear what the artist says.

In the meantime he had filled two red wine glasses two centimeters high and handed me one of them. The shimmering, ruby red liquid moved slightly in the glasses. This time I did not want to give him a negative answer. With a sip of red wine I would be able to see, feel and write just as well. I probably wouldn't get drunk from that. He raised his glass, looked at me with a smile and said "Salute!" I looked him in the eye and said "Salute!" What beautiful eyes he had! So there I was, in the lion's den. Hadn't someone even told me that he was of the sign