"...Sir, Sir - Officer! I mean, this would probably sound very strange, but..."
The balding man with the short mustache stammers at him, waving a paintbrush. Ludwig stares at him. He cannot help it, really.
"I am a painter by trade - Well, most of my time is spent doing other things, now, but that's what I started out doing, anyway, and - Oh, damn, I sound like a lunatic, don't I?"
Ludwig opens his mouth, and then closes it. This is a rather different kind of creepy, even he has to admit.
"So, ah, what I was trying to say was - May I draw you? ...And paint you?"
Ludwig nods, automatically - He can't help himself at all.
" - Oh, it's so good to have somebody to talk to in German - For some strange reason, my English is so much better then my French, you know? My Polish makes my wife burst out laughing, though - Even my Yiddish is better, she says..."
Wife? Ludwig murmurs, as the man tells him to sit on the nearby fountain's rim.
"Oh, yes, yes - This is my wife and son! Jacob is getting so big..."
The photo of a happy family - The older man, his much younger wife - she had to be somewhere in her twenties, while the man in front of him was in his fifties - and their son. Ludwig takes this all in, numbly.
"Your wife is from - Poland?"
"Oh, yes - The pogroms, you know. I actually met her in Paris - On the very first day I arrived, in fact!"
Pencils move over the man's sketchbook, skritch skritch skritch, while he murmurs.
"Ahh, yes, very good - The thing is, you see - I am not a very good painter. At all. But still - Paris, eh? Paris is special, for all artists - And once Art has her in her hands, she does not really ever let you go, I think..."
The sun is setting, while the clouds dance across the swiftly darkening skies.
"And so I came to Paris, and I met my wife - Though it was a while till she became my wife, of course - And now, I'm - Something else."
The man takes a look at his sketches, and shaking his head, puts his pencil down.
"Here, Sir - What do you think?"
Ludwig looks at the sketch of himself sitting at the fountain's rim in his uniform, and wonders why his sight seems strangely blurred.
" - It seems to be a fine picture, Sir."
The man blinks at the Sir, but does not comment.
"You are too kind, young sir! But now - "
Monsieur, Monsieur! -
The voices call from the swiftly darkening streets.
It's time for the rally, Monsieur!
"...I'm coming!" The man calls back, putting his sketchbook away.
" - Rally? What do you rally for, Sir?"
The man blinks at him, owlishly. "Well, ah - Democracy. Treating other human being decently. ...All those soft, squishy things that so many people say make 'their people' - weak. Eh?"
And now, there is that glint in his eyes, fires fires burning bright -
And then he smiles - And he is just a middle-aged man putting his equipment away, under the starry skies and the moon.
Except that the fire is not gone, it is just banked, somehow, and -
And Ludwig Beilschmidt wakes up next to a softly snoring Feliciano, tears leaking out of his eyes.
......I actively love this. This moment, of Germany dreaming how things could have been. How I wondered and wondered where it would go, and I got to the last line, and said "what is going on?" and realized. And then reread the whole thing.
Re: Paris
anonymous
December 31 2009, 03:51:43 UTC
I freaking loved the little Tyger bit in there. It was so so sosososoooooooo perfect, what with the rally and the poem being about the French Revolution, and it just calls up all these emotions and-- I'm flubbing around here in awe, anon. Srsly.
The balding man with the short mustache stammers at him, waving a paintbrush. Ludwig stares at him. He cannot help it, really.
"I am a painter by trade - Well, most of my time is spent doing other things, now, but that's what I started out doing, anyway, and - Oh, damn, I sound like a lunatic, don't I?"
Ludwig opens his mouth, and then closes it. This is a rather different kind of creepy, even he has to admit.
"So, ah, what I was trying to say was - May I draw you? ...And paint you?"
Ludwig nods, automatically - He can't help himself at all.
" - Oh, it's so good to have somebody to talk to in German - For some strange reason, my English is so much better then my French, you know? My Polish makes my wife burst out laughing, though - Even my Yiddish is better, she says..."
Wife? Ludwig murmurs, as the man tells him to sit on the nearby fountain's rim.
"Oh, yes, yes - This is my wife and son! Jacob is getting so big..."
The photo of a happy family - The older man, his much younger wife - she had to be somewhere in her twenties, while the man in front of him was in his fifties - and their son. Ludwig takes this all in, numbly.
"Your wife is from - Poland?"
"Oh, yes - The pogroms, you know. I actually met her in Paris - On the very first day I arrived, in fact!"
Pencils move over the man's sketchbook, skritch skritch skritch, while he murmurs.
"Ahh, yes, very good - The thing is, you see - I am not a very good painter. At all. But still - Paris, eh? Paris is special, for all artists - And once Art has her in her hands, she does not really ever let you go, I think..."
The sun is setting, while the clouds dance across the swiftly darkening skies.
"And so I came to Paris, and I met my wife - Though it was a while till she became my wife, of course - And now, I'm - Something else."
The man takes a look at his sketches, and shaking his head, puts his pencil down.
"Here, Sir - What do you think?"
Ludwig looks at the sketch of himself sitting at the fountain's rim in his uniform, and wonders why his sight seems strangely blurred.
" - It seems to be a fine picture, Sir."
The man blinks at the Sir, but does not comment.
"You are too kind, young sir! But now - "
Monsieur, Monsieur! -
The voices call from the swiftly darkening streets.
It's time for the rally, Monsieur!
"...I'm coming!" The man calls back, putting his sketchbook away.
" - Rally? What do you rally for, Sir?"
The man blinks at him, owlishly. "Well, ah - Democracy. Treating other human being decently. ...All those soft, squishy things that so many people say make 'their people' - weak. Eh?"
And now, there is that glint in his eyes, fires fires burning bright -
And then he smiles - And he is just a middle-aged man putting his equipment away, under the starry skies and the moon.
Except that the fire is not gone, it is just banked, somehow, and -
And Ludwig Beilschmidt wakes up next to a softly snoring Feliciano, tears leaking out of his eyes.
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I wonder if anybody could guess what it was crossed over with...
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And said, "....this."
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freaking
loved
the little Tyger bit in there. It was so so sosososoooooooo perfect, what with the rally and the poem being about the French Revolution, and it just calls up all these emotions and--
I'm flubbing around here in awe, anon. Srsly.
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