Storytelling

I sat in my funky think-tank and pondered last night's events. Looked like we'd done some badly needed defining at last - badly needed for me, that was. Sometimes you found yourself searching for something without consciously knowing you were looking for it in the first place, and only realised what you'd lacked once you'd found it. Narratives, that was what it was all about. What it all boiled down to, everything said and done. And indeed, we had a story to tell.
It was a swell place. Funky to be here. And I'd become aware again of its purpose. All it'd taken were a few beers and a couple of friends. And, of course, your inspiring analytic.


Strange thing, these narrtives. Something to ponder about - another time.

From the Editor: Layout

As is easily noticeable, I've changed this blog's layout recently. Finally, I myself got fed up with hurting eyes after looking on the old black and white-layout for too long. So, here's the Man with a Horn in a different colour concept - white and gray, that is. The content, of course, is the same as before, for whatever it's worth.

Generación Y

Sometimes I wish I spoke Spanish - at least when I happen to stumble about a blog like this, and am introduced to it by an article as pleasing as this one. So if you're a part of the Spanish-speaking community: Go there. Read it.

SPIEGEL Online

I'd seen a lot of things. I was no virgin to life. Yet some things made me sad, never mind what I had witnessed so far.

One of those things was the SPIEGEL website, called SPIEGEL online, or SPON. (Just for the global readers, if one of those should ever happen to stumble upon this site.) To make a long story short: it was crap.

To make things worse (and explain some of my exasperation), I still could remember the times of childhood - of not-so-innocent days of childhood, that is, when the interest in the world and the machinations of its leaders and debauchers began to raise its head. Back in those times (a mere ten or twelve years ago), the SPIEGEL was an acknowledged doyen of German journalism. Was.

Nowadays, its headlines (anyway in the online version) were indistinguishable from those of Focus, for example, yet another German local rag and part of the tabloid press. In fact, the SPIEGEL had been descending into these realms for the last few years, since the death of its founder, Rudolf Augstein, and there was no remedy in sight.

Just to sum up the headlines of today:
Experten verzweifeln an der Mega-Krise (Experts despair of the Mega-Crisis)
So soll Deutschland das Klima retten (Thus Germany is supposed to save the climate)
Warum Hessen rockt (Why Hesse rocks)
- headlines that are more evocative of the Sun (or of BILD) than the NY Times, in whose league the SPIEGEL once used to play...

The golden days of serious and sincere German journalism had passed. So much for that.

Subversiv.

"Wenn man schon zufällig in einer Demokratie lebt -
warum nicht mal tun, was die Mehrheit will?"

Eine geradezu subversive Idee, der Raum zu geben man kaum verantworten kann...


"If you happen to live in a democracy anyway -
why not for once do what majority demands?"

An outright subversive idea, giving room to which cannot possibly be accounted for...

TMB XI: A Short History Of Everything (I)

In the end, Rudy poured two drinks. His he downed in two gos. I nursed mine a bit longer, mainly to delay having to voice a definitive answer. I took a sip and enjoyed the warmth spreading in my stomach. It was warm in the office. The ice-cubes already were closer to death than to life. I gave the tumbler a quick shake, to elicit a last tinkle. The ice-cubes didn't pick up any courage. They passed by.

"I promised to take the appropriate action."

Silence.

"I said I'd personally guarantee the information he wanted."

More silence, for the longest time. Yet I could feel him flex his muscles, not as a preparation for any action, but just in an attempt to physically digest what I'd just told him. I emptied my glass, just to pass the time – and because I suddenly felt a little queasy.

"You know what that means, I assume?"

I knew. It had dawned on me back at that bar after my visit to Mr. X.

"I know", I said. "It dawned to me in a bar, right after leaving that murky dungeon of his."

Rudy sighed. I hadn't heard him sigh that often since the advent of the recent Gulf war, and the collapse it brought to the business with one of our, at that time, most important customers. I interpreted that as a sign that I was in trouble. But anyway, I'd already known that.

"I already know I am in trouble, thanks, Rudy", I said. Rudy stopped sighing and stepped closer.

"Don't play it too cool, my friend. You know that this means you've taken on responsibility as a whole. You know Mr. X. But tell me – how come you pledged yourself to something so stupid?" - Not even a second in between for me to even start an answer – "Ah, don't tell me."

So I didn't tell him. He continued:

"Any idea of why?"

"Wished I had any." I checked on the bottom of my glass for a last drop, then decided to give a rat's ass on reservation, grabbed the bottle and filled up again. Rudy just watched.

I put down the tumbler, then turned around to face him. I was slightly taken aback by the, as far as I could tell, sincere signs of concern on his face – some depth there was in his eyes that was seldom to be seen.

We'd known each other now for about ten years, starting off together as graduates of a run-of-the-mill university in the south. Had stayed in touch for one reason or the other. Hadn't been close friends to begin with, but somehow he'd always managed to stay on top of my whereabouts, sending postcard for Xmas and stupid stuff like that, and I'd written back, polite as I was, and that was that. I supposed he'd seen something in me – and right he'd been. Five years ago I'd joined his business. A "position" had opened up in the firm of his, and I'd been rather unhappy with the prospects of a kitchen-appliances-salesman as what I'd ended up at that time. So I didn't have to think it over for very long, but upped and left the town I was living in then. To make a long story short, I'd joined his ranks and proven to have some talent in the business. A little bit too much talent perhaps – at any rate enough talent to make my living and blunder ever deeper into that strange shadow-existence this business entailed, together with an almost insane demand for secrecy.

"She's gone", I said. "I want to know why. And I want to know where to." His eyes slowly changed back to normal again, but I didn't care.

"I know it's that damn secrecy that tore us apart. I know it was a miracle it turned out to last as long as it did anyway. But not this way – not from one moment to the other, not by erasing every last trace of hers except her bloody fingerprints." (And I didn't even know of those for sure.)

"You told him out of confusion", Rudy stated. "Yet Mr. X is no one to accept any confusion, or any other kind of excuse as far as that goes."

"I know. I'm aware of his record."

"I know you are."

Again, silence. Glasses that were filled. Two guys that sat next to each other on the corner of an old, mahogany office-desk.

"I knew her, too. Don't forget that. I remember our meetings, when you introduced me as a distant cousin. Hell, why actually a cousin? But a cousin I had to be and a cousin I was. Telling her my father had died ten years ago." Short sips of whisky.

"I liked her."

"So do I", I said, deliberately ignoring the past-tense he'd used, "so do I. And I want to know what's going on."

"Find out", he simply stated. "Do as you wish. But first things first. You've made a commitment. You know as well as I do what that means." His voice suddenly as cold as steel. Didn't tolerate the booze as well as he once used to anymore.

"You know what that means, and you will do what that implies. A plight like that could mean the end for our whole organisation. We depend on the trust of our customers, as well as on their backing. We're operating a god-damn house of cards here, and you just may have knocked down one of it's supporting cross beams. Hell, the most eerie damned cross-beam thinkable."

Suddenly overwhelmed with anger, he positioned himself right in front of me and poked me on the nose with his index finger:

"Do what you feel like, but solve that bloody quandary first. You hear me? Get that bloody intelligence, and I don't mind who's been killed or will be killed in the process, I want to maintain this business, and you will not tear it down."

Most pathetic show I'd ever witnessed. Outright awkward. But he had a point. A stupid pledge I'd made, and I'd have to fulfil it, come what may. As I knew very well, what I wanted wasn't of any importance if I failed Mr. X. First things first, as Rudy had demanded.

"You have a point", I said. "Please, calm down. I've been in this line of business long enough to know my competences."

Putting a hand on my shoulder, with an all but encouraging gesture:

"Care for another drink?"

"Sure do", I answered, purporting the air of the confident.

Wished I'd had any reason to.

From The Editor:

TMB X: Office Sum-Up

It was about quarter to six when I finally pulled in at our office. Back at that bar, I’d been deep in thoughts eventually, working on the problems at hand as rationally as I could, but to no avail. Neither my girlfriend nor "Case C" I was to tackle this way, whatever ideas or thoughts I tried to wrench from my deadpan brain. So, in the end, I ended up at the office. Just great. I knew exactly what that would mean.

As soon as I'd closed the door behind me, I heard Judy's piercing voice. No telephone line in between to soften her vocal tone. Just ungracious reality to live up to.

"The Boss is waiting for you. In his office." She must have been waiting for hours on end to inform me instantaneously the moment I stepped in – I still had my hand on the door handle. As I turned around, I just catched her hand letting go of the shotgun under the table, and she gestured me towards the Boss's room. As if I didn’t know where it was.

"Thanks, Judy", with an indignant voice this time myself, trying to swallow my mood. "By the way, any chance you've come over this telephone-code of mine?"

"He's been waiting for nearly an hour now" was all she cared to answer. Judy had her merits. But perhaps she'd had too many of those lately. Something to be seen to.

I forsake the conversation and stepped down the corridor. I had a rough idea what would be next, and I couldn't say I was looking forward to it.

Rudy stood behind his large, polished mahogany-desk, facing the window, his gaze going over the vast landscape of the industrial park that surrounded our modest accommodations. That was his statesman-pose, his back to the door, demonstrating to stand above the worldly things. Flinched not even a bit when I entered.

He would have to descent to humdrum matters soon enough, so I just sat down in the visitor's chair in front of him and took a cigarette out of the silver cigarette-box on is table.

"I haven't invited you to sit down", he said.

I took his massive silver lighter and lightened the cigarette.

"And I haven't offered you one of my cigarettes either."

Turkish-Egyptian cigarettes they were, cost a fortune bought on the regular market – if this kind of cigarettes had been dealt on the regular market. They were a thank-you of one of our customers, as far as I knew.

He turned. I had to steal his thunder as soon as possible. I knew what he could be up to once he had enliven himself enough.

"The guy who had the information was killed. In his own room. No signs of breaking and entering, no weapons' traces, all tracks covered. My girlfriend ran away yesterday. We were supposed to marry. I'm not drunk yet, but I wish I were."

He hesitated. Whatever he'd been up to saying, he didn't say. Had lost his plot for an instance. I could tell from the way he kneaded his hands behind his back, although the stern look stayed on his face. I took another drag on the cigarette and knocked the ash off in his crystal ashtray. Stupid furnishing to begin with.

Rudy was the kind of guy who had stood up to his share of fights, and survived every one of them, which in itself already was an accomplishment in our line of business. Our organization might have seemed a little odd at first glance – all the codes, stupid security measures, and all the Rudies and Judies and Hughies (our chief operations officer was indeed called Hughy) -, but in the end, we lived up to a pretty high standard of target achievement. That was why we were still in the business, and in demand like none other. And Rudy was the Boss and had always been, and as far as anyone could see, he would always be – which gave enough evidence of his figure as far as one could be interested.

He gave me another stringent look, moved to the table, then sighed.

"I know", he said. "I know every single fucking bit of your story. She's upped. Your informant was killed. Mr. X is growing uneasy. Our reputation is at stake. That's about it."

He took a cigarette himself out of the box, and lightened it with a solemn expression. He took a puff.

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

This was the second time today I'd been asked that. It didn't ring any better the oftener I heard it.

I stood up and took a glance out of the window myself, reviewing my options, composing an answer that would ring true in his eyes and yet not commit me to a path I'd rather avoid to take, at all costs.

"You have a drink?" I finally said.

TMB IX: The Lion Tamer

I ordered a beer from the barkeeper behind the counter and sat on a table at the other end of the room. My palms were slightly sweaty, and I tried to play it cool, as cool as I could. Slowly sipping on my beer, I wondered what was going on – after all, I was the slow emotions guy. Must have been something like love at first glance, I thought, or at least what passed for it.

Between sips, I cast a careful glance over at her. She was just sitting there, paying attention to nothing in particular, as far as I could see, and nursed her drink, a tequila sunrise, as I was now able to notice. I turned to myself again, and it would be another two beers and a few whiskies before I’d muster the damn courage to approach her, via a short detour to the bar to have another whisky and an overlengthy chat with the barkeeper, what about I have forgotten. But I couldn’t stay away from that girl, for whatever reason, and I did not.

In fact, love at first glance it was not. It took several months for the two of us to figure it out, and some things we never really figured out anyway.

She was no beauty. That is, no beauty in the usual sense of the word. Not an ugly person, by no means, but on the rather unremarkable side of beauty for sure. But she commanded something I had no words for – a certain aura of decisiveness, some sort of fatal attraction there was no antidote for, that enchanted and maddened me whenever it showed, which could be as seldomly as every few months, and as often as several times a day, when we both had a day off and spent it without getting out of bed at all.

Thinking about it, one must wonder about our mutual secretiveness. I didn’t know her position about it, but she never inquired, and never provided any insights into her working life herself, so I kept my secrets to myself and let her have hers. Even when we finally moved in together, we spent half our lives on our own, in a low-key kind of way, I leaving the flat at around eight, she at eight-thirty, and meeting again at seven or eight o’clock in the evening. When one of us had to do any home office, which only infrequently but nevertheless occurred, he or she locked the door, and the other one accepted it.

We lived the life of two schizophrenics, two half-people, merging in the try to add up to a whole one, two ghost-like strangers that met each night like for the first time ever, and tried to make something out of nothing really – perhaps the reason we’d come together in the first place. We went to bars, to concerts or to the theatre, even made mutual friends on those occasions, friends we never met at home but only when we went out at night, but we called them our friends anyway and in serious. Thinking about it, it had worked for a surprisingly long time. In retrospect, I was surprised that it had even lasted so long. But as it was, I never had questioned our strange way of life for as long as it worked. Now that that life had collapsed, I had to admit for the first time that I had never known what her work had been. Just as she’d never had the tiniest clue about mine. She could have tamed lions on a regular basis, as far as I’d known. Something I would now have to undertake for real.

Klimaschutz.

Klimaschutz geht alle an. Zum Glück haben wir tapfere Mitstreiter, die, wenn auch ungeliebt, dennoch in die Emmissions-Bresche springen und sich für die Zukunft unserer Kinder schlagen, gewissermaßen.

Und zum Glück haben wir auch noch jene humorbegabten Unbekannten, die die Dinge wieder geraderücken, hier beobachtet im U-Bahnhof Französische Straße.

Alltag.

Es war mal wieder keine Zeit für das Schreiben. Ich fand keine Worte, und ich hatte kaum etwas, was festzuhalten wert gewesen wäre, das dachte ich jedenfalls. Ich lebte ein Leben, von dem ich nicht sicher war, ob es meines war, aber ich hatte es jedenfalls, und ich versuchte das Beste daraus zu machen.

Berlin. Samstag. Und nichts zu tun. Ich verschwendete einen kompletten Tag mit Internet-Surfen und Computerspielen. Nicht gerade etwas, auf das ich stolz sein konnte. Eigentlich hatte ich Schreiben wollen, es dann aber wie immer nicht auf die Reihe gekriegt. Vielleicht war ich auch einfach noch nicht soweit. Ich wusste diese Tage sowieso nicht genau, woran ich mit mir war. Ich tat eine Arbeit, die ich mir nie hatte träumen lassen, arbeitete 9to5 und verbrachte müde und zufriedene Abende mit S., ruhige Abende, wenn nicht gerade mein Nachbar wieder einen seiner Fernseh-Anfälle hatte. So vergingen die Tage, Woche für Woche, und nichts änderte sich außer den Details meines Arbeitstages, die Bars und Kneipen, in die wir abends gingen, und die Strecke des dünnen Lichts am Abend mit dem vergehenden Winter.

Es war ein altes Haus, und es war ein großes Haus. Die Innenhöfe waren eng und düster, und es stand an einer Schnellstraße und den Bahngleisen, die es von seiner Umgebung abschnitten, vom Park des nahen Schlosses, vom Fluss. Die Farbe der Wände war ein verwittertes Grau, wie das Grau des Betons alter Luftschutzbunker. Efeu überwucherte den einen gesamten Innenhof und zog sich gierig die Fassade empor und drang in die Ritzen und Fensterrahmen. Von den unteren Stockwerken konnte man den Himmel nur sehen, wenn man die Fenster öffnete und sich weit hinauslehnte und die Hauswand emporblickte. Sonst konnte man ihn nur ahnen, getragen von den letzten Fühlern seines Lichts, die herunter drangen.

Es war ein altes Haus. Die Balken waren morsch und trocken geworden, ihr Holz spröde, und die Wände und Decken waren so dünn, dass man dachte, mit einem Finger hindurchstoßen zu können, und aufpassen musste, wo man seine Füße hinsetzte.

Was das Haus füllte, war Lärm. Der Lärm von hundert unterschiedlichen Leben, die hier nebeneinander und alle zugleich über die Bühne gingen. Aus der Wohnung von unten plärrte der Fernseher den ganzen Tag und die halbe Nacht, aus dem Flur tönte laute Musik, über einem renovierten sie ein Zimmer und bohrten Löcher in die Wand (mit einer Bohrmaschine, nicht mit dem Finger); überall herum redeten und husteten und lachten und schrieen und weinten und stritten und liebten sich Menschen. Das Haus war ein Ameisenhaufen, in den man ein Stöckchen gebohrt hatte. Und wie ein Ameisenhaufen kannte es keine Ruhepausen. Irgendetwas geschah immer als nächstes und verschaffte sich Gehör. Es war kein Haus für die Ewigkeit. Aber es war der Ort, an dem ich vorerst lebte.