Mahler in love with Monroe?

C.-A. Rebaf

Mahler in love with Monroe?

Thriller

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Inhaltsverzeichnis

Titel

Impressum

Dedication

An oven against potatoes

The red Paco-Paco

Wien, St. Marx

A lovestory after

Over the Danube

Grinder plays the organ

A letter from Marietta

You have to be an actor

Mariahilf

Opus 1

Cow dung and Mozart-chocolates

In the yellow sandstone

Again over the Danube

Where is the professor?

D minor and F major in feverish delirium

Marietta in the bunker

Composer

Danube-paco-paco-shipping

To be hammered

Grinder is suddenly a father

,Mulde 1'

Marlene

At the Swiss border

Two geniuses

Baum reappears

Grinder and Blondie

A pregnant corpse

Littel games

Gerstenmayer as 'The Old One'

The clone story

Mourning for Blondie

Marietta and Hannes in Vienna

Alarm!

The SM couple starts a nightly mystery tour

Wanted: Marlene

Suspicion

Change of a relationship

Gerstenmayer combined razor-sharp

The death and the girl

Marlenes few leftovers

Music experts among themselves

High Noon in Vienna

Italian concert tour

Disputed geniuses

Gerstenmayer solves the crime

Thanks

Impressum neobooks

Impressum

wespen-kontor

Any similarities with living persons in this thriller are purely coincidental. All named persons are fictitious.

Contains clear descriptions of sexual acts and is written for adults only.

The novel describes a fictive Germany, Switzerland and Austria with details of Upper Bavaria south of Munich, Vienna as well as the surrounding of Jena, Leipzig and a Danube-boat trip up to Schaffhausen.

Translation and complement by the author on base of the 3rd German edition May 2018 (ISBN: 978-3-9818629-4-2) ‘Kann Mahler Monroe lieben’ August 2018

Text and book cover: All rights C.-A. Rebaf 2017

Publisher: wespen-kontor@email.de

Dedication

For Elisabeth my Swiss love

An oven against potatoes

On a warm late summer's day, I was about to go to the nearby town. The path, which used to be a paved country road, was today just a collection of potholes. I just left my village, passed the last ruined house on the road. Then the open fields , of which only a few were ordered, popped up in front of me. Between them grew conspicuously high bushes, from which a few giant trees stood out. The radioactive fall-out after the disaster is said to have caused such a growth. When these giant trees had first appeared, they had wondered. Today, they are already part of the normal landscape: trees like tropical jungle giants here in Upper Bavaria. In Hiroshima also over-sized flowers are said to have flowered after the bombing. But that was long, long before the catastrophe that few people had survived. Most, however, had died of their consequences, not of themselves. Today after that, we still suffered a lot from the impact. But most of them have arranged like me. My parents survived the disaster. They were among those who had a natural tolerance to radioactive radiation. Only such people survived. But my parents have died in the meantime, too. By contrast, I had been very small when it happened, and I have inherited her resistance genes.

There was something golden metallic glittering next to my way out in the field in the midday sun. A sharp beam of light, a reflection hit my eye. I paused and went to the field: the top of a cylinder sticking out of the ground. Obviously the object had been thrown to the surface by the last plowing, but had not been noticed. Quickly I began to dig with my bare hands and held shortly thereafter a barely a meter long cylinder in his hand. It was made of bronze or copper, and verdigris covered almost the entire surface. Why did a small area of the metal at the top remain exposed, allowing me to see the light phenomenon? The cylinder was divided in half; the middle worked so that you should be able to unscrew it. I tried, but I did not succeed. Without further ado, I put the thing in the backpack and went my way. What would be in it? Gold? Diamonds? Papers?

From afar, a burnt-out bell tower loomed out of a pile of wall fragments. That was it, the nearby small town or better, it used to be. Only a few houses were inhabited. We did not need the other ruins anymore. It lived today, after the disaster, maybe one percent of the people, maybe less. Nobody knew that exactly. We were back in the Middle Ages, living in small groups, without networking. My parents once told me something about traveling. We did not really know that word anymore because you could not travel anymore. There were no means of transport and no roads. It used to be possible to move through the air like a bird. I could not imagine that at all. We only used to walk and put back distances that we could do in one, two hours at the most. Longer you should not stay at one piece outside.

It was quiet here on my walk, and I was able to devote myself completely to my thoughts. Only the birds were twittering. From a distance, behind me, I heard one of my neighbors picking a field with his Paco-Paco. I knew the engine noise. After the disaster, a surviving South American built this type of vehicle out of old junk cars and gave it the name of his native tongue. "Paco-Paco" was as loud as the sound of the diesel again. These monsters consisted of an old engine powered by a wood gasifier. Wood grew in abundance here after the disaster. We needed it for heating and for the little light in the evening. Usually we got up with the sun, and when it went down, life went out and we went to sleep. In my backpack, I felt something hard pressing my ribs. "Oh yes, there is still the enchanted metal cylinder!" I remembered.

Only our neighbor in the village owned a Paco here. Once every family should own a car. They had sold fuel for it at petrol stations. I can not imagine that. Where did the devil stuff that drove the cars come from?

I was carrying potatoes on my back that I wanted to trade in the city. There were traders there, roaming the area, finding useful things from earlier times: a saucepan, a stovepipe, an oven. This stuff lay in abandoned house ruins. The shopkeepers collected everything and offered it in the market for exchange.

I was just about to go to Mr Mayr, the dealer in the neighbor town. He recently bought a Paco as well. His business seemed to be going well - his influence even reached Munich. But that was extremely dangerous, because it was still highly contaminated. This circumstance he had to accept - occupational risk. Besides, it was very difficult to get on these roads with a Paco. More than walking pace was not possible at all.

I strolled, lost in thought, and just passed the first ruined house in the city. Most houses burned to the ground. In former times the so-called ‘Italian quarter’ of Weilheim stood here. Today it looked like the excavated Pompeii. Only the stone walls with the hollow window holes protruded like over-sized skeletons into the landscape. Giant big elderberry bushes with heavy fruit umbels had covered the blackened walls. I remembered the metal cylinder again. What was in it? But I still had to be patient.

I carried potatoes, that had grown in my garden and wanted to exchange them for a oven at Mr. Mayr’s shop. Only a few kilos as a quality test, I wanted to show him. Mayr should then come with his Paco, bring the oven and take the three bags, I intended to invest. Owning a large potato field and I myself needed only a few potatoes for me and my little boy during the winter. So we had a surplus. A second oven for our bedroom would have been a great relief for the cold season.

I dreamed in heavenly silence, when suddenly an unfamiliar rattling startled me: An unknown red Paco-Paco with a body made of plywood around the passenger compartment laboriously made its way out of the city in the direction of my village and came to meet me. As he drove slowly besides me, I saw a driver in the front and an another unknown man on the backseat. He greeted me with an horsewhip in his hand and a inter-penetrating dominant smile. I was instantly thrilled. The glance of his eyes created floating tensions around my belly bottom and deeper south towards my female ‘Y’. I never felt such feelings for the last years.

Immediately the thought flashed through my head, to have seen this face before. But where? The stranger nodded to me and already the vehicle had passed me with the front-two-cylinder diesel engine on which the letters M.A.N. were still clearly visible. At the back, on a kind of loading area, were logs and the behemoth of furnace, under which a fire burned – just a typical wood gasifier. Was there really a traveler here? Here in the ‘Pfaffenwinkel’? What did someone want here in this Upper Bavarian ruin desert? Someone greeting me with his horsewhip?

Many questions! I wandered on my way, wondering how this face, with its round nickel-rimmed glasses and high forehead, seemed so familiar to me. But – with no result. Mr. Mayr - a friendly Upper Bavarian, who would have been called ‘g'wampert’ in the Bavarian dialect meaning potbellied; in the northeastern parts of the Germany around the capital his body would have been called ‘Mollenfriedhof’ in free translation beer-schooner-graveyard. He was never experienced unfriendly. His sunny mind was always brightened by his daily two to five pints. But despite all his optimism and lust for life, he was not easily overcome, because he was a guy with the philosophy "beer is beer and schnapps is schnapps"!

He examined my potatoes in the backpack thoroughly and waited for what I would offer him. "Of that I have stored at home three hundredweight, which I would like to exchange for a sturdy stove." "Ah... ...interesting...", was his terse answer, me still cunningly leaving the speech. After all, I wanted something from him, so he left the conversation to me. "Did you already stock up on supplies?" I tried to lure him out of the reserve. "What do you mean?", it came out of him, and he suddenly did very absent-mindlessly. But even I hardly felt like pushing further into him, because suddenly the stranger and the metal cylinder came to my mind again. The unknown, who had met me with his driver in the red Paco: What did he want? A traveler on the way to polling? I stared into space, and the conversation stopped suddenly. Mayr suddenly became visibly uncomfortable, as I refused to continue. "Very nice, your potatoes." I was very surprised to hear his voice so clearly, which almost tore me out of my brooding. "Isn’t it?", I beamed at him and tried to look at him with my most seductive bedroom view from the side! Did I reached him now? "Yes, what kind of oven would you have thought then, madam?" Aha, my eyes had an effect! It worked again and again, the beautiful game between the sexes! "Well, one of iron for our bedroom. Since it is always so cold in winter. We have enough wood for heating." "I've got something for You. But three hundredweight are not very much! And the stove is still an old quality! "Was not deep enough, my gaze, and I knew it was not much use now; now I had to move. "Unfortunately I do not have potatoes anymore. We need the rest of ourselves." "Well, my dear, more fried mashed potatoes in the next winter would not be bad too… and the after next as well!" "Next year!" I gasped in surprise and swallowed. "Do I know how the crop will be? I can not promise you that in good conscience." Now another seductive smile was announced, and I gave it to him. He gratefully accepted it. "So, well. Six hundredweight until next year! Since I can not move any further!" Aha, now haggling began!

"But, Mr. Mayr," I almost admonished him, "You do not want to cheat me, right?" And I mockingly raised my index finger. In Mayr's face I realized that he was now embarrassed. Well, I had another point for me. "I suggest you show me the stove first, and then we go on talking," I tried to raise the bar to a factual level, which Mayr gratefully accepted, even small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Gracious lady, this is a wonderful suggestion." He went ahead to his camp, which was on the opposite side of the courtyard and pulled his huge blue-and-white checked sackcloth out of the battered leather, dabbed his forehead excitedly, and wiped his hand over the bull's neck. The property was probably a very old farm with house, barn and stable, which were arranged around the square courtyard and fenced with a high wall. Due to the disaster, it was completely burned out and with tarpaulins, sheets, electricity pylons as steel girders and all sorts of other improvised material again makeshift. In the barn was his camp, in the stable were again animals, it smelled of pig, sheep and goats. His huge Paco-Paco, a three-axle with a three-cylinder diesel engine and large cargo area, stood in the yard. The wood gasifier took the place of the passenger seat in this vehicle and could be easily heated by the driver. Despite his short legs, Mayr was nimble, so I struggled to follow him. As we passed the vehicle, I rather dropped my approval: "May I ask you to take over the transport of the oven as well? You could take the potatoes with you on the way back." He pretended to ignore it, but I knew he had picked it up very well. We rummaged through the camp. Mayer got even more in a sweat, because he did not find the oven right away and had to constantly put things out of the way, because he thought he would find the oven behind it. As valuable as he did, the monster did not seem to be! He had finally found him. "Well, gracious, did I promise to much?" The stove was rather rusted, but with old cast-iron plates and embellishments. If we would clean it, he would be right. I ran my hand across the outer surface and the dust spun up. Exaggerated, I played the role of the outraged and even brought about a real sneezing. Disdainfully, I looked at the good piece and turned to my companion: "No, Mr. Mayr, you offer this bitch to me?" Mayr jerked a bit.

"And you dare to ask for six hundredweight of potatoes for it?" I looked down at him motherly-reprimanding from above. This change of role from the seducer to the stern mother was now strategically very effective. I was about to turn away when he looked me in the eye and said softly: "Five!" Now I was convinced to be on the winner side. "Four!" Came out sharply from my mouth. He pretended to have been hit and said his standard formula, "Gracious, you will ruin me!" I knew that was his okay, and added, "I'll get another pot of heat-resistant iron paint, that we can put the good piece into the bedroom after editing. "He agreed and added," I'll bring you of the object next week." We said goodbye to each other, and I was pleased internally, but concluded to have settled a good trade. It was not a mistake to have learned a lot from my father as adolescent. In addition to a great deal of knowledge about classical music, this included haggling: He taught me all the tricks, that men have on negotiating deals and cheating each other. My mother always said to him: "My God, she is a girl, you educate her like a boy!" It was getting dark, and I quickly made my way back to my village.

At home I found the metal cylinder in my backpack again and treated the screw cap with some vinegar. It hissed, and then I could open it by turning. Inside was a movie poster from times before the catastrophe. It showed a blond woman with big breasts in a white halter dress. She stood on a mesh shaft, from which a wind blew up and lifted her airy skirt. The woman's face showed that while she was frightened trying to pull her skirt down out of shame, the mischievous component of her smile clearly signaled to the viewer that she was grateful to the breeze from the shaft, which was exposing her beautiful legs and showing their perfect contours. This charms every interested man. In this way, on the one hand, she remained a shy young woman, and only the evil wind was to blame for her wickedness! The seductive arts of women are to master this balancing act between shame and sophistication perfectly. ‘The saint and the whore!’, was the reaction of the male part in me. My feminine side had only one disdainful word for it: ‘Slut!’. On the poster next to the woman was a bold signature: Marilyn Monroe.

I found a blank wall and hung up the poster. Not that I found it particularly nice. But the bare wall with the poster I liked better than without.

But suddenly I remembered the dominant stranger with the horsewhip and my butterflies dandled again down south...

The red Paco-Paco

It was almost dark, and I could see almost nothing as I walked light-footed through the former monastery village. In the ruins of the monastery yard I recognized the red Paco with the glowing embers under the wood gasifier. Was the stranger staying here? Here in our damned small dump? Somehow I was suddenly scared and in parallel hopefully stimulated. My joy at trading with Mr. Mayr was almost forgotten.

At home, Golie was waiting for me. He had set the dinner table and was pleased when he saw me. We had dinner together, and then I put him to bed. It was already dark outside, and I put wood in the stove in our kitchen and looked through the hearths into the glow. I had Gottlieb, as he was actually called, found a little foundling in Munich. He had just a sign around his neck with the inscription: "My name is Gottlieb, have mercy on me!" Such was the order of the day since the catastrophe. His parents had probably died of the consequences. As entire families were wiped out, there was always the case that help in the familiar environment was no longer possible, so children were simply abandoned by their dying parents. What should they do in a situation where all medical care had completely collapsed? He had been a cute baby with light brown hair and an eternal smile on his face. In any case, I had no one left and decided to follow the call on the sign and take pity on him. It had been love at first sight, and I never regretted taking him to my little flat where I took care of him like my own baby. At first it was very unfamiliar to me, but over time I quickly grew into my role as a mother, especially as I seamlessly fit into the cityscape with my old, three-wheeled stroller, which I had been able to get hold of thanks to my good negotiating skills on the market.

At some point I decided to leave the city and move out into the country. A good friend told me about an old novel and wanted to accompany me. Books were very, very rare, and only those who had survived the fires of disaster were offered on the markets. In her tattered book, the author was probably a certain Thomas Mann and the title is no longer decipherable, she read from a place called Pfeiffering south of Munich, which was described in the most beautiful colors. Inside the name ‘Dr. Faustus’ appeared. Someone in the old rororo paperback edition of my girlfriend with a blue ballpoint pen on the edge remarked:

Pfeiffering = Polling? and Waldshut = Weilheim?

written. We saw this as a hopeful sign and decided to get to the bottom of it and take a look at this area, where the places had both a real and a literary name. We marched in a beautiful summer week always along the ruined tracks of the old railway line to Garmisch along towards the Alps and actually got there. It was dangerous, but we were young, unreasonable, and exposed ourselves to radiation. In the evening we slept in cellars. The lake we reached in Starnberg attracted us very much to a swim, but we did not want to take that radiation risk, and so we enjoyed the view of the water with the mountains in the background and marched a long the bank. My friend had underlined all the places that were important for our touristic trip and abused the novel about an avant-garde composer as a guide à la Baedecker.

Finally we arrived in Weilheim and saw, to our disappointment, what we knew from everywhere: ruins, burned culture and few people who lived there like scared rats and scurried from one hole to the next. It was so bleak that we quickly marched south along a small river, then left it and followed a small stream to get further and further towards the mountains. Soon after, we arrived at a huge complex of ruins, which must have been the old monastery. An outstanding, higher pile of rubbish, which we had seen from afar the whole time, must have been the old tower. Surprisingly, the old Baroque facade with the round rosette window, was still preserved. It looked like the eye of Polyphemus in the landscape from a certain distance.

Towards the former nave, a tent roof was held with beams. Did not someone play an organ? Should this still be intact? We stood rooted, as it were, and the little Golie, whom I had worn over the long distance on my back, made a strange dance there, as if the music in him kindled something very special. I could not hold him anymore and let him slide to the floor. Immediately he crawled on his back to the narrow, exposed entrance from which the music rang out. He could not walk yet. My girlfriend and I did not understand anything anymore. Inside, under the makeshift tent roof, he lay frozen, listening and unable to move from us until the music broke off and the organist, a man of about forty with a few blond hair and a balding head, cut off a wooden ladder from the rest the organ loft climbed. Behind him followed a boy, who immediately ran free. The blond spoke to us kindly, after all strangers rarely got lost here. His nice words pleased us and together with the beautiful music, cheered us up again lifting our mood. Yes, Golie was freaking out, waving his baby arms like a droll little dancing bear so that the blond fell into laughter with us. Golie was in a good mood here. I had never experienced him like this before. Despite his tender age, he used all the means at his disposal to show me, that he was fine here and that he wanted to stay.

We then looked around the village, found few people and many well-preserved and empty living rooms, which I liked much better than my accommodation in Munich. In me, the decision was made to stay here. However my girlfriend did not understand. She then returned to her home after a few days. Anyway, I had everything that was really valuable to me, and I quartered myself in the former monastery village. Over the next few days, the organist, who was not at all unsympathetic, helped us both with the few people in the village. Golie's sunny nature helped a lot. They were all very friendly and even recommended a special ruin, which was adjacent to a large field where it would be good to farm for life. I took the advice, and so we had landed here in the former manor ‘Schweigestill’ at ‘Pfeiffering’, as it was called in the old novel of my girlfriend. This was already some time ago.

Did I dream it all? Was I asleep? My limbs were quite stiff, and I lay down in the room next door to Golie in our bed. We lived only in these two rooms. Mostly we were outside when the weather allowed it. It may be dangerous, but we both seemed to have enough resistance to radiation, as we had lived that way for several years and enjoyed great health.

The next morning, I woke up and was dizzy with a dream. It was one of those that was so realistic that I could not distinguish between dream and reality, so it took me some time to sort out my thoughts:

My dad played the lead role in my nightly drama. He told me about a music teacher as a little girl. He had been so obsessed with his favorite composer that he had changed his appearance to be quite similar: he had worn glasses, although he actually did not need any, and had his hair provided with light gray tears and combed straight back, so that his high forehead emphasized his face and that he was very close to one of the few photographs of his idol. Then the story became dramatic, for the teacher and my father as his young pupil would have been favored by the same woman, a classmate of my father's, into which both men had fallen in love. The woman had then fled from the two in a distant desert, where also everywhere signs with the radioactivity symbol had stood. My father had disappointed me and said in tears that he had lost the first love of his life ... At this point tore the dream.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the name of the musician, the imitator or the composer. One thing was clear to me now: The person my father had described reminded me of the strange traveler in the red Paco yesterday. Did I know him?

Golie opened his eyes and slipped under my blanket for our morning cuddle ritual. We spooned and he enthusiastically asked me if he could go to the organist again today. For some time, the five-year-old spent a lot of time with the friendly blond man.

With Steffen, that was his name, we had become friends. I trusted him completely, because he did not dislike me either. However, he had blocked all my timid approach attempts. He just seemed to be in love with the music, or better with his organ, or better, with what was left of it.

Since there was no electricity supply after the disaster, Steffen always needed a helper who could kick the huge organ bellows. He also proudly told me that he painstakingly rebuilt all electrical mechanisms to control the registers into an original mechanics. Only because of this did the royal instrument work again. Years went by, during which I learned to grow ever more beautiful potatoes, which I could offer to Mr. Mayr for bartering. Steffen, on the other hand, had taught Golie to kick the brat, which the little boy initially had a hard time with, but now it seemed to work well, as he blew the air into his pipes almost every day for hours. What the hell was the genetic background of this boy to be so persistent? Or was it Steffen? Did he miss a father? Was it the music? Anyway, that was fine with me, because there were no kindergartens any more, and I had enough time to take care of my land and small housekeeping. This economy was cumbersome enough in the beginning, when I had to get advice and act as well as necessary seeds and utensils from the neighbors. But thanks to Mr. Mayr and our negotiating skills, I now had everything I needed; and the man with the Paco in the village, so to speak the designated village chief, even plowed my field in the spring, which made my life much easier.

In the meantime, we were even ready to have our own goat, our Selma, to feed our milk supply at night in the barn and during the day in the many forests around our village. Golie and I got up and prepared our breakfast, which consisted of home-grown cereal made and cottage cheese from goat's milk. Golie chattered on me and suddenly showed me a staff on which he had scrawled a melody. I was quite surprised, and he explained to me that Steffen played it yesterday on the organ. Although I was able to read the notes, my father had taught me that, but I could not sing perfectly from the sheet, so that I could only recognize in the beginning that this was probably a D minor melody, he had exactly one 'b'. noted at the beginning. "Did you write all this by yourself?" I asked in disbelief. "I do not believe that! Steffen helped you or he wrote it for you. "

"But mom, I'm not lying to you!" He replied insulted. I considered. In fact, on this point I had to agree with Golie; he was always anxious to be honest and sincere. I suddenly remembered that Steffen had given me a willow flute last spring, which I carelessly kept in the locker. I dug her out. Golie made big eyes! "But mom, can you play the flute?" He asked me excitedly. "Just a little," I answered. "My dad once showed it to me, but I was very small then." "How old were you?" He asked with interest. "Well, four, five or so, ha, just as old as you now! Such a coincidence! ", I replied and was surprised myself. "Let me see, if I can do it." I tried, but at the beginning with the impact trill on the "a" I failed, in the following fast falling D minor sequence my fingers failed. "But mom, maybe you can ask Steffen ... he can play flute ... and bring it to you," he exclaimed enthusiastically and almost poured out his milk. "But I do not have time for that! Who should order the field?" I replied. "Pity." He was very disappointed! "But, you know what? If you can write such beautiful grades, why do not you want to learn it? I give you the flute! Steffen will understand that! "Golie's mouth was left open with joyous fright.

"You ... you give me your flute? Seriously?" Then he flitted off the chair, jumped on my lap and hugged me warmly. I was completely surprised by his violent reaction. He took the flute, and I showed him that the deepest sound came out when all the holes were closed with your fingers. He actually did it after a few tries. Then he pulled himself outside, his breakfast was the same now, and I only heard him whispering twittering from a distance. I cleared the breakfast table and was delighted to have made such a great pleasure.