суббота, 27 октября 2007 г.

The third bread knife without bread knife


The third part saga, in which obscure memories open new levels. The reader is hurled into foreign worlds. Future actions cast their shadow hidden, new tracks creep in, but still remain ambiguous and await their discovery.

"Too much silence makes mellow," Gregor thought, "Time for music."

He raffte and scuffled on the CD player. His gaze durchschlängelte the overpopulated wood shelf with the recordings. In short, his index finger to the lips sprüden, mused. Then he plucked a plate and sent it out into the abyss of Abspielers. He slumped back into the chair. The quietschten feathers. With the elbow he stripped his coffee cup. Almost had his cappuccino from the rest swept. Only a few drops schwappten.

"The spots I can wegschrubben tomorrow."

A carillon strummed slightly slanted against slow schepperndes drums, psychedelic guitars and long strings. Novo Kain for the soul. The eerie, huge girls' eyes, the diseased eye, the beautiful freak. The first panel of the Eels. And suddenly it clattered into his head. The music drove their knöchrigen long finger, won the Dietrich from the pocket and opened doors to hidden brain. There was a cinema in the head unannounced performance with old recordings long forgotten geglaubter experiences showed (on Super-8?) And only a little blurry. Gradually sharpened the image, the colors were clear. The film listened to the alarmingly barren working title "Gregor Eels-CD buys."

He peered himself on the shoulder. Gregor as Neunzehnjähriger, October 11 prior years in Minsk. With a blurred denim jacket in the weathered market hall from zerbröselndem washed between Dynamo Stadium, the Museum of the Great Patriotic War and the place of victory on which the eternal flame burned. About whom there who had triumphed, Gregor was eliminated. Also, for whom the flame burning. Probably the Patriotic War had something to do had. Completely absurd it appeared at least not the idea.

The market hall was a giant of weathered concrete block, whose roof bröseliges far lebensmüde curved and arched. Among quirlte melancholic liveliness. Schäbbig bekittelte farmers were overflowing into diesel, angerosteten Blecheimern out to knallblauen their tractors to refuel. Canisters were perhaps too expensive or simply not their beer. Fuel splashed over the edge, seeped into the porous gravel soil. Suddenly krabbelten even memories of the equally fascinating how excited disgust smell there from the treasure chest of memories back to consciousness. The smell of fuel mixed in the haze of freshly baked bread, pickled cabbage inserted, urine, Halva, red Bete, mothballs and abgehangener blood sausage.

Here in the market hall, there was almost everything life necessities. Anything to cook, bake and fry made jackets as trousers, hammers, circular saws, night vision devices. But some things perhaps in the urgency list of survival less far above. The most prominent example of this category was for a short Gregor meterhohes plastic cross of Jesus' crucifixion been in the dozens of small, colorful LEDs embedded. At the push of a button blinked this hectic, and this squawked from a small loudspeaker at the foot of the cross a melody, Gregory of a CD with Russian Orthodox liturgical chants to know believed that he once years ago at a flea market very favorable refuse. Besides the obscure Cross had on the trestle still aufziehbare tin soldiers of the Red Army stood, which also LEDs blinked. From the eyes. Almost uncanny.
Again and again had zahnarm friendly and smiling, wrinkled men in kälteanfälligen Lumpenkleidern "Drushba!" - Friendship! - And called on Fraternity Offers to drink vodka with home-tries, the boys for their hochprozentiges potato distillate enthusiasm.

In some corners of the harsh market hall could be tons of tin in which smouldered below charcoal, the so-called "Rattenbäuche" buy. In dough eingeschlagenes minced meat, whose name and sight Gregor but the appetite away. A few meters further seller sipped beer from a Einweckglas. He even had the ring alarm drangelassen and art prints sold in appallingly poor quality, mainly painters of the twentieth-century Magritte, Dali, Kandinsky, Miró. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. The technical reproductive possibilities seemed in this case further. For a moment there was still tilted Gregor been a pressure of concentric circles to buy Kandinsky. But the paper stank sour, the colors were very pale, the print itself is very streaky. Furthermore: The travel bag was on the Hinweg almost torn apart, where there should be a poster reinstopfen knickte without it? Gregor had not bought it.

From a relatively windstillen corner in the hall crowed music by the lively confused murmurous, feilschende feilbietende and goings: The Folklore Trio "Kressiwa", German: Feuerstein, played in traditional costumes gewandet, raging wild Polkas, dances and painfully slow mourning songs about erlittenes suffering. In each held two break Balalaika-Spieler, and the singer is selbstbeschriftete vodka bottles at the neck, causing the sharp brandy in alarmingly large Schlücken runtergluckern the throat. Some arteries were in their faces burst. The two dancers, in addition to the group included, were not getting a sip, perhaps out of consideration for their leg coordination.

Somewhere there was totally unexpected Gregor of the CD Eels found on a small patchwork quilt, Plain, intermediate or greasy bacon rinds and bloody, gehäuteten sheep's heads, Marie-Orthodox icons and old military uniforms of the Soviet era, it was a more than amazing Fund. Not U2, not Michael Jackson, not the Scorpions-the Eels in a heap of Soviet Schlager-CDs. Ironically, the Eels. And suddenly appeared to him as a much better investment over the shabby Kandinsky printing. The only western CD, which he otherwise there would still can buy would be "One, two, the police" by Modo. A nowadays not unduly nearly forgotten piece of music. Frank, the bassist of his former band, the joke had once remarked: "If I want to leave the Cheer and I want to kill me, I will stylish lay in the bathtub, brüllend aloud, one, two, police 'by Modo hear and then with a toaster thrown into the water. "So far, Frank still lived. Thank God.

Continued ...
Part 1
Part 2

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