'Mario und der Zauberer' ('Mario and the Magician') by Thomas Mann (Review)

Today's German Literature Month post is a further diversion from my original plans, a book I rediscovered while browsing the shelves.  A while back, I reviewed Thomas Mann's Tonio Kröger (a story I've read many a time), and I meant to get around to reading the other story included in the book.  Fast forward three years (!), and it's time to rectify that oversight ;)

*****
Mario und der Zauberer is a later piece, dating from 1930, and it's another excellent story.  The narrator and his family are on holiday on the Italian coast, and initially this is a very light-hearted affair.  Mann (or his alter-ego) relates a story of holiday mishaps and cultural misunderstandings in the sun, the kind of things that have happened to us all at some point.

One evening, later in the holiday, the family decides to attend a show given by a magician.  However, what starts as a bit of fun turns more serious when the star turn arrives on stage; the magician is not quite what they thought he was.  Little do the narrator and his family know that they are about to bear witness to an explosive evening...

Mario und der Zauberer is a fascinating story, a two-part tale by a writer in complete command of his art.  The first part is laconic, laid-back, a happy holiday in the sun, enriched by the humour of Germans abroad.  Shortly after the family's arrival, they are forced to change their accommodation when their daughter's annoying cough frightens the rich neighbours at the hotel:

"Das Wesen dieser Krankheit ist wenig geklärt, dem Aberglauben hier mancher Spielraum gelassen, und so haben wir es unserer eleganten Nachbarin nie verargt, daß sie der weit verbreiteten Meining anhing, der Keuch husten sei akustich ansteckend, und einfach für ihre Kleinen das schlechte Beispiel fürchtete."
p.77 (Fischer Verlag, 2011)

"The nature of this illness is still rather unclear, leaving superstition ample room to play, and thus we never held it against our elegant neighbour that she clung to the wide-spread opinion that whooping cough is acoustically contagious, and that she merely feared her little one would follow this poor example." *** (my translation)

Later, there's more cultural confusion when the daughter runs naked for all of ten seconds on the beach causing uproar amongst the locals.  I'm afraid this isn't Lübeck any more...

It's a wonderfully entertaining, elegant narrative; however, slowly, but surely, the mood begins to darken.  A gradual change in the weather heralds a shift in tone, and it's at this point that the news of the forthcoming entertainment starts to spread.  As the storms close in, enter Cipolla the magician, a hypnotist who calls himself magician to get around laws banning this kind of entertainment.

On the night of the performance, Mann builds up the tension by dragging out the long wait for the main act (the poor punctual Germans fail to realise what the Italians think about starting on time...).  What ensues is dark and grotesque, a complete train wreck, as the 'magician' manipulates his audience.  At this point, you may well be wondering who the titular Mario is, and that's no secret - he's a local waiter, a man the family sees every day.
Why is he in the title?  Well, to find that out, you'll just have to read the book...

The story is actually based on an event Mann and his family witnessed while on holiday, with a dramatised ending, of course.  However, it's rather difficult not to read more into it.  In 1930, Italy was already under Mussolini's sway, and Germany was just a few years away from the start of the Hitler era.  The magician, with his strange appearance and brusque manner, is an obvious allegory for fascism, an unpleasant character with a talent for taking away people's free will.

The audience go along with the show, applauding wildly, but the narrator is simply stunned, regretting his decision not to break the holiday off sooner:

"Soll man 'abreisen', wenn das Leben sich ein bißchen unheimlich, nicht ganz geheuer oder etwas peinlich und kränkend anläßt?  Nein doch, man soll bleiben, soll sich das ansehen und sich dem aussetzen, gerade dabei gibt es vielleicht etwas zu lernen." (p.85)

"Should you 'up sticks' whenever life begins to get a little strange, not quite right or somewhat embarrassing and offensive?  Of course not, you have to stay, you have to keep watching and stick it out, in this way you might learn something." ***

This is the narrator as horrified onlooker (the presence of his children only makes it worse) among a pan-European (allegorical...) audience of holidaymakers.  It's not a stretch to see it as foreshadowing impending political disaster...

Mario und der Zauberer is an excellent story that works on multiple levels.  Like the magician, Mann has the ability to draw the reader in and keep them enthralled, even as the events make them want to look away.  A clever story, it's one which leaves a strong impression long after you've finished reading it - definitely a worthy inclusion in my GLM reading :)

*****
There is a translation out there, by H.T. Lowe Porter, in a collection of stories entitled Mario and the Magician (Vintage Books).

'Der Zauberberg' ('The Magic Mountain') by Thomas Mann (Review)

Recently, a climber in the Swiss mountains found a rather peculiar document as he was leafing through a book in the library of the hotel he was staying at - a building which, according to a receptionist he talked to, used to be a sanatorium specialising in the care of tuberculosis victims.  The document appears to be a tale of a climber's slow ascent of one of the local peaks, but it is (rather strangely) written as much in the form of a book review as of a true climber's journal.  It is possible that the climber was a little disorientated from the altitude (or sickness?), but the text is immensely confusing at times.  Perhaps it is best if the reader judges for themself...

*****
Day 1:
Today finally saw the start of my attempt to conquer The Magic Mountain, the peak the locals call Der Zauberberg.  It's one I've been wanting to tackle for a long time now, and the conditions seem perfect for the ascent.  I decided to take it easy to begin with; in fact, the first part was by train (the scenery is spectacular!).  I got chatting to a nice young man from Hamburg called Hans Castorp, who is spending a little time here visiting his cousin, and we both agree that the air up here is wonderful, guaranteed to improve your health.  I think this is going to be a great experience :)

Day 2:
The incline is still fairly gentle, which is a good thing - I haven't quite acclimatised to conditions yet.  Yesterday, I talked to a few other visitors in the village, some of whom have been here for a good while longer than I would have thought necessary.  Castorp doesn't appear to be taking to the mountain air - he was looking very pale this morning.  To be honest, I'm feeling a little tired myself - let's stop there and push on tomorrow...

Day 4:
Things are getting tougher as I push on up the mountain.  Today, I made the acquaintance of Settembrini, an Italian literary type, both scholar and philosopher - and a man who likes to speak his (and everyone's) mind.  I sense that if I fail in my endeavour and come tumbling down this mountain, it'll be his face that I see frowning down at me as I fall into the abyss below...

Castorp and Settembrini seem to have become as thick as thieves, and they are constantly having discussions on freedom and progress.  In particular, Castorp seems obsessed with the topic of time; it is said to pass quickly in the sanatorium (where the month is the smallest unit of time), yet the seven minutes waiting for a thermometer to take a reading seems like years (in fact, am I sure it's only been four days since I started off?  It seems like months.).

Settembrini is constantly warning Hans to leave the mountain as soon as possible (at times, I get the distinct impression that the warning is actually intended for me...).

Day 6:
I'm pushing on grimly again towards my planned stop half-way up the mountain; I could definitely do with a rest.  Time is flying by, yet it's also strangely dragging.  Some of Castorp's days, weeks, months pass in seconds, yet some minutes take days...

The going has become harder again as the climb moves from the physical to the metaphysical.  Castorp's obsession is now the human body, fuelled by an equally ardent obsession with the lovely Clawdia Chauchat.  He's spending his time reading and talking about bodies, looking at the aesthetic, spiritual and artistic sides, before descending into an analysis of protein and fat.  An endless biology lesson - Hans, what are you doing to me?!!!

It's high time I took a well-earned rest...

*****
Day 7:
After a relaxing interlude spent preparing for the ordeal ahead, we resume our climb.  Almost a year (a year?) has passed since setting off, yet our return to the lowlands remains a distant promise (do I mean mine or Castorp's?  I'm not really sure anymore...).

Settembrini!  Settembrini!  He's back to torment me, and this time he's brought a friend - Herr Naphta, a sick Jesuit with a love of corrupting philosophy and politics...  If only I could throw the two of them off the mountain, the climb would become much more enjoyable (alas, I fear the thin air is having an effect on me...)

Day 8:
Joachim, Castorp's cousin, has descended the mountain leaving Hans (like me) all alone.  Unlike me, Castorp is fine on his own up here - I'm struggling to keep up...

Day 10:
I'm lost, we're lost - we're all eternally and frighteningly lost...

There have been more metaphysical, metaphorical wanderings through the tortured, twisting discussions of the elegant Settembrini and the scowling Jesuit Naphta, and I'm starting to lose my grip on sanity and ice pick alike.  Why?  Why must they do this to me?  Is it not enough that I'm barely two-thirds of the way up this accursed mountain?  Must I be tormented by soulless imbeciles blathering on about revolution, nature and death?

Of course, there's also the literal, open-air wandering high in the mountains as Castorp and I cast caution to the (biting) wind and explore the local slopes on skis.  And we're lost.  The darkness draws ever closer, the gale is tearing at us like a thousand knives - and the snow continues to fall, unceasing, like fresh earth on a waiting grave...

Oh, and it's *bloody* cold...

Day 13:
What a few days...  A new companion on our ascent, Mynheer Peeperkorn, has certainly livened things up (and even managed to subdue the quarrelling pedagogues).  What a man!  What a character!  What a party!  Wine, Dutch gin and lots of fun...  Time to rest - my head is throbbing a little...

Day 14:
Peeperkorn gone, Clawdia departed - so near to the top and time is dragging (again).  Even Castorp's interminable patience appears to be waning.  Surely I can't fail so close to the summit?

Day 15:
I'm here!  I've made it to the summit!  I'm standing at the top, looking down upon the flatlands below.  Time seems to be standing still - while the ascent seems to have taken a very long time, in some respects it feels as if I only just set off to conquer the peak.  Time really is relative...

What next?  It would be a shame to just start back down now that I've made it all the way up here.  I might just check in at the 'Berghof' for a while (room 34 seems to be vacant).  Not for long, three weeks sounds good...

*****
Regrettably, this is all that remains of the text.  We hope that more light will one day be shone on what could be a remarkable literary find.

Then again, it may all just be a dream...

A Portrait of Two Artists as Unloved Men

Earlier this year, I had one of my periodic bouts of RSI, and as a result, there are several gaps in my reviews for 2011.  Now, as we're coming up to the end of the year, I thought it would be nice to go back and revisit a few of the shorter pieces and give them the publicity they deserve, which is why today I'm reviewing a couple of German classics, both concerned with writers and unrequited love...

*****

I read Tonio Kröger on my Kindle a good while back now, but when I saw a cheap edition featuring this story and another of Thomas Mann's novellas, Mario und der Zauberer, I couldn't resist.  At the start of Tonio Kröger, our eponymous hero is a young boy growing up in a north-German town, the product of a marriage between a local businessman and a southern-European beauty.  Different from the locals in many ways (not least of which is his bi-cultural name), he falls in love with two examples of the Aryan folk around him: the popular Hans Hansen and the beautiful Inge Holm, neither of whom really feel the same way about him.

We fast forward a couple of decades, and now Kröger is a successful writer living in Munich.  In an attempt to relax, and get over some writing issues, he decides to take a trip to Denmark (taking in his old hometown on the way), ending up at a quiet coastal resort.  One day, after several weeks of tranquillity, a party of guests arrives, shattering the peace and quiet Kröger craves - and among them are two very familiar blond figures...

The story will ring a whole group of bells with anyone who has ever read Death in Venice, and there are many similarities with the more famous novella (although this one has a slightly less depressing ending!).  As is often the case in his work, Mann is exploring here the difficulties of being an artist, at the same time drawing deeply on his personal history to paint a picture of a Bohemian from a middle-class family.  It can be a little patronising when Kröger looks down on the attempts of working men to create their own little works of art, and his plea to keep literature away from those 'normal', happy folk who don't need it is a little bizarre...

Despite this though, Tonio Kröger is a wonderful piece of writing.  You feel as if you are actually there with our unusually-named friend, walking around the old walls of Lübeck in the rain with Hans Hansen, crossing the sea to Denmark on a stormy night, sitting on the beach watching the grey-tipped waves roll in from a grey horizon...  It's one of those stories which will be a constant companion in the years to come, a perfect book to curl up with in winter, when all you want is warmth, a cup of tea and a well-written story.  Happily, I now have my paper copy for that very purpose - reading it on my Kindle just isn't the same...

*****
...which is not to say that my little electronic friend is not useful in its own right.  After all, my first reading of Tonio Kröger was in digital form, and were it not for free e-copies of classics, it's doubtful that I would have got into the author of the next of today's stories.

Earlier this year, I downloaded several of Theodor Storm's short stories and novellas and had a wonderful few days losing myself in his storytelling world.  The best (and most famous) of these is Immensee (Lake of Bees), an evocative, and almost painful, tale of missed opportunity.  The story, divided up into about eight short sections, is contained within a frame narrative: an old, stern-looking man walks home and goes to his study, where he sits alone in the twilight.  When the fading light hits a portrait hanging on the wall, he mutters the name 'Elisabeth' - and memories come flooding back...

The real story then begins, and the reader is taken through the childhood of young Reinhard and his younger neighbour, Elisabeth.  The two children spend all their free time together, and it is clear from the start that theirs is a love waiting to happen.  Reinhard later leaves to study in the city, and Elisabeth is left behind to wait for his return.  Sadly though, a lot can happen in a couple of years - the next time the young couple meet, by the Immensee, Elisabeth is a married woman...

Ouch.  It's painful just writing about it :(  Not a lot happens in Immensee, but what does happen is unveiled in such wonderful language, such precise, elegant prose, that it stays with the reader long after the story is over.  Parallels abound in the story, from the two encounters Reinhard has with gypsy musicians, to the white lily floating in the lake, a beautiful flower which, on closer approach, is unattainable - just like Elisabeth herself.  On the last day the pair are to spend together, Reinhard points at the mountains and says:

"Elisabeth... hinter jenen blauen Bergen liegt unsere Jugend.  Wo ist sie geblieben?"

       "Elisabeth ... behind those blue mountains lies our youth.  Where did it go?"

Shortly afterwards, the story ends, and we return to our old man sitting alone in his study, the darkness engulfing him as the black waters of the Immensee once did.

Excuse me while I get myself a tissue...

Once Upon A Time In Lübeck...

On the back of my copy of Buddenbrooks, Thomas Mann's lengthy tale of the decline of a north German family, there's a quote from the author:

"Without doubt, my most popular book in Germany is 'Buddenbrooks', and it may well be the case that, in my own country, my name will always remain primarily linked to this work." (Buddenbrooks, 2008, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag)***

This quote dates from 1932, after Mann had completed many of his most famous works (e.g. Death in Venice, The Magic Mountain), and - to a non-German, at least - it is a somewhat surprising claim.  Certainly, the book had never really come across my radar until this year.  Therefore, I was eager to find out why this book was given such praise, and, to a certain extent, I think I can see what he was getting at.

The book begins in 1835 in Lübeck, a large town on Germany's Baltic coast (and, incidentally, Mann's hometown), where the wealthy merchant family, the Buddenbrooks, are preparing to celebrate an extravagant house-warming party in their brand-new mansion.  We are introduced to the family members, with special attention given to some of the characters whom we will accompany through the following 750 pages, as they eat, drink and make merry.  With such a show of opulence, it seems that this is a family on the rise, with high status in the city and success in business: who would think that in the space of a little over forty years, this would almost all be gone...

Buddenbrooks is, primarily, the tale of a family's demise, detailing how a fortune and reputation earned painstakingly over centuries can melt away in the twinkling of an eye.  Based on stories and impressions gleaned from the lives of Mann's own relatives (a classic example of an artist washing dirty linen in public...), it is, nevertheless, a work of fiction.  It sounds a little like a great big Victorian novel, an impression which is supported in the first few parts of the story, where the emphasis is a little more plot-driven than is later the case.  However, this is a Victorian-style novel by a modernist writer, and the novel's worth is based less on its events than on the fleshing out of certain of the characters.

The main character is Thomas Buddenbrook, a schoolboy at the start of the book, who eventually takes over as head of the family and manager of the business.  The two roles are, in fact, inseparable as the prestige of the family is due in no small part to the renown of the company.  Having been groomed from an early age to fulfil a certain role in life, it is no surprise that Thomas has learned to control his behaviour, to harness all his energies and direct them towards increasing the good name (and wealth) of the Buddenbrook empire.

Despite his relative importance in his hometown, Thomas is under no illusion as to his worth in the grand scheme of things, but is determined to be a big fish in a small pond, in his mind lambasting his unambitious uncle at one point:

"Didn't you know that you can also be a big man in a small town?  That you can be a Caesar in an average trading spot on the Baltic?" (p.276)

It is, therefore, all the more frustrating when he is forced to acknowledge, privately at least, that his is a family in decline.  In a conversation with his sister Tony, on the occasion of the opening of his new house, Thomas confides his frustrations to her, saying:

"I know that the outer, visible and tangible signs and symbols of happiness and success often only appear when, in reality, everything is already in decline." (p.431)

Eventually, this strain between his need to be and appear successful at all times and the reality of a decline in fortunes has an effect on his health; he is unable to keep up the mask he wears without suffering.  In private, his face droops wearily, and he is continually exhausted from the effort of presenting an impeccable front to the world.

Thomas' character is very different to that of his sister Tony, the other main character in the book.  She too is forced to choose between following her heart and subjugating her feelings to the success of the family; however, once she has made the decision, she never looks back, devoting her whole life in a vain attempt to uphold her family's reputation.  Failing to do so by marrying successfully, she finds other outlets for her energy in helping prepare homes for the other family members, acting as a messenger and go-between, and suggesting lucrative business schemes to her brother.

Throughout her life, Tony stays young, childish and emotional, unable by virtue of her gender to take part in the town's politics and barred from jumping into the family business.  However, her optimistic nature means that she does not become an Anna Karenina figure, choosing instead to hold her head up high and make the most of the few opportunities which do come her way.  In Tony, Mann has created a sympathetic portrait of a woman frustrated by a lack of outlets for her talents and energies, and while we initially feel sorry for her, as the decades go by, the reader recognises her strength and her ability to serve the family in her own, special way.

By the time we get to Hanno, Thomas' son, the Buddenbrook family is in steep decline, and the musically-talented young man (a thinly-veiled image of Mann himself) is another example (as in Death in Venice) of an artist arriving as the last scion of a respectable, successful family.  This is a theme which the writer adressedHanno absent-mindedly draws two bold lines after his name in the family papers shows this.  When asked why he'd done this, the confused boy eventually blurts out:

"I thought...I thought...that was it..." (p.524)

As we will find out towards the end of the novel, Hanno's naive answer is not as innocent and meaningless as it first appears...

So, is Buddenbrooks worthy of the comment I quoted at the start of the review?  It's certainly an impressive work, its constant, gradual development of personalities helping to hold the reader's attention over the whole 750-page stretch.  While not all of the characters are as well-drawn as Thomas and Tony, the scale of the book allows us to become acquainted with the quirks of many a relative and friend before the story is over, and the lack of emphasis on one central plot allows Mann to devote more time to unveiling his characters' personalities.  I don't think it's for everyone, but anyone with an interest in German literature or personality-driven books will find something worthwhile here.

I enjoyed it thoroughly (although, at times, I did feel that I would never reach the end), so I'm looking forward to having a crack at Der Zauberberg (The Magic Mountain) at some point.  Eventually.  Not in the near future.  And very slowly.  It's important to keep things in perspective...

*** All quotes in English are my own (and, hopefully, not too inaccurate) translations.

Review Post 30 - Around the World

A quick trip around the world today:  from England to Australia, India and the Middle East (via Germany).  Please have your passport handy...

*****

I read my first Peter Carey book, His Illegal Self, earlier this year, and frankly speaking, I wasn't overly impressed, despite some interesting characterisation,  However, I thought it was only fair to give him another go, and I picked up a copy of Oscar and Lucinda on a recent library trip (my elder daughter, Emily, was distracted by something shiny for long enough to allow me a quick look around A-D).  The verdict?  Well worth a read.

The story follows two lonely souls, English priest Oscar Hopkins and rich Australian orphan Lucinda Leplastrier, as they float along their early lives only to have them intersect and entwine under unusual circumstances.  Both find themselves separated from their own kind by taste and circumstances, but it is a shared passion which brings them together: a love of gambling.

When the beautiful and headstrong Lucinda reveals her secret to her new clerical acquaintance, she expects the usual disapproving response, especially from a man of the cloth.  Instead, Oscar's face lights up and he describes her vice in an entirely new light.

'Our whole faith is a wager, Miss Leplastrier. ...we bet that there is a God. We bet our life on it. We calculate the odds, the return, that we shall sit with the saints in paradise.' (p336, 2005, Vintage Books)

As the unlikely couple cross paths repeatedly and eventually come closer, the obsessive and the compulsive gambler stake their futures on the outcome of a larger wager, the bet which will shape their futures.  Alas, we know from the start, in the form of a series of teasing interjections from our narrator, Oscar's great-grandson, that this is one gamble which is not going to come off.

Oscar and Lucinda starts rather slowly, and the first couple of hundred pages didn't really grab me.  However, as the narrative gently ebbed forward, I became more and more involved with the odd couple and their intriguing story; by the end of the book, I was desperate to find out what had happened and how the beginning and end of the story came together.

One of Carey's strength is the descriptiveness of his writing.  He lingers over scenes, painting vivid pictures of firesides, threadbare furniture and knotted floorboards, dust floating in the sunlight coursing through lead-framed window panes.  Along with the way his characters are seen through many eyes, their own, their close friends and, occasionally those of minor characters, this attention to detail builds images in the reader's mind until you can almost see Lucinda suppressing her rage when patronised by her workers at the glass factory or Oscar battling manfully on the high seas against his overwhelming phobia. 

In the end, the story is all about taking chances, betting your last shirt in the hope of attaining your dreams.  Strange?  Unseemly?  Perhaps.  I'll let Oscar have the last word...

'I cannot see', he said, 'that such a God, whose fundamental requirement of us is that we gamble our mortal souls, every second of our temporal existence...It is true!  We must gamble every instant of our allotted span.  We must stake everything on the unprovable fact of His existence.' (p.337)

*****

A few weeks ago, I posted on the first few stories from my Thomas Mann collection (although most people would probably not have realised that from the actual post itself), having taken a break half-way through from the unrelenting mental struggle of grappling with Mann's language and concepts.  Imagine then my delight when, on returning for the return bout, I found that the remaining two stories were whimsical, humorous retellings of ancient Eastern tales (obviously, Mann mellowed a little with age).

The first, Die vertauschten Köpfe (The Transposed Heads), is set in India and tells the tale of two lifelong friends, Schridaman (an intelligent trader) and Nanda (a robust farmer and blacksmith).  After the two friends secretly observe the beautiful Sita bathing in a river, Nanda helps to arrange a marriage for the lovelorn Schridaman with the object of his affection.  Later, on a trip the three of them make to visit Sita's parents, events conspire to make the two men lose their heads - literally.  Despite the intervention of a benign deity, who promises to help the two young men come back to life, this is the real start of the story.  You see, in her confusion, the lovely Sita didn't really check whose head belonged to whose body...

What follows is a story inviting us to reflect on what makes us, well, us.  As Sita struggles to decide who is her husband, Schridaman's clever head or his slightly flabby body, we get to make up our mind about whether it is our animal impulses or higher instincts which control our decisions.  Don't worry, it's not as high-flown as it sounds; in fact, at times, it is slightly farcical and extremely amusing - a far cry from the painstakingly excruciating agonies felt by Von Ascherbach in Der Tod in Venedig.

The second story, Das Gesetz (The Law), is a retelling of part of the biblical story of Moses.  While the gist of the story is fairly faithful, there are some variations from the original.  One example is the portrayal of Moses as the son of an illegitimate tryst between an Egyptian princess and a Jewish waterbearer, with the baby being brought up by the father's family, and not the royal household.  Rather than being the stern, superhuman Charlton-Heston-like depiction of the saviour of the Jews, Moses is shown as a rough, tongue-tied holy man, who relies on the practical nous of a few choice followers to convert God's will into achievable ideas.  Joshua, a warlike lieutenant (who, it is suggested, was actually responsible for the tenth plague of Egypt), makes maps of the route to the Holy Land and considers deeply matters such as requisition of resources and the demographic growth required to usurp possible other claimants to Jewish settlements.
  
Anyone who takes the Bible literally will probably find little to enjoy in Mann's rather loose interpretation of Moses' travels, but for the rest of us, this new slant on an old story is a fascinating tale.  The Jews swing between praising Moses to the skies for leading them from slavery and complaining darkly behind his back for having dragged them across the desert from their comfortable, safe Egyptian bondage.  Even when he is in their good book, Moses can't catch a break as it is him his people start idolising - and not God...

In a week when the Australian Prime Minister finally became the victim of constant backbiting (and, admittedly, a bit of a messiah complex), the morals of Das Gesetz appear more relevant than ever.  Whether you're leading the chosen ones across the Sinai Desert or attempting to stare down the mining industry over possible tax reforms, one thing is certain: it's very, very lonely at the top...

Review Post 22 - Fine Dining at the Fusion Lit Bistro

[The camera fades in from black to reveal a quiet restaurant; not full, not empty. A few people are standing chatting at the bar over drinks - dinner jackets and cocktail dresses aplenty. We start to zoom in gently to a table to the right of our picture. Tony is sitting, alone, perusing a burgundy leather-bound menu with Fusion Lit Bistro written in gold script. From the left, a tall, gaunt waiter approaches unhurriedly and elegantly, stopping neatly at Tony's table as he puts the menu back down on his table.]

Waiter: Good evening, sir. I have the pleasure of serving your table this evening.
Tony: Oh, good. [Peers at the waiter's name tag. It's blank]. Sorry, what was your name?
W: That depends entirely on your imagination, sir.
T: [Thinks] Let's say Jeeves then.
W: [Scathingly] I think not.

[A slightly embarrassing silence ensues.]

W: [Tactfully breaking the awkward moment] Now, sir, have you been able to decide?
T: Not really. There's just so much to choose from, and I must confess that I don't really understand all the choices.
W: That's perfectly understandable, sir; I wouldn't have expected anything else from you. [A Pause] Or anyone else. Would you like me to make some suggestions?
T: Please do, Sebastian.
W: No. Now as a starter, I would recommend Camus' La Chute.
T: La Shoot?
W: It can be translated as The Fall, and it's a delightfully constructed existentialist work on the pointlessness of life and the impossibility of finding a meaning in our dreary existence.
T: Existentialism? For a starter? Won't that be a little too heavy?
W: Oh no, sir, light and compelling, melts on the tongue. I assure you your appetite will remain, shall we say, unspoiled.
T: Well, alright then. Let's move on to the mains. Now [Opening the menu again and peering at an item near the bottom of the page], I was looking at your German section, I fancy a good meaty selection. What would you recommend, Andrew?
W: Not even close. If it's something hearty, dense and meaningful you're looking for, Thomas Mann is always a good choice. Our platter of six, Der Tod in Venedig, or Death in Venice, and five other stories would give you a selection to chew on. Lots of angst about the difficulty of being a writer, the role of the artist and the irresistible pull of death. [Pauses] Although it may be a little much for the single diner to take... I mean, manage...
T: No, no, that sounds fine. We all need a little something to digest from time to time, hey Alexander? [A very menacing look from the waiter. Tony coughs nervously and retreats to the safety of the menu.] Well, anyway... What about as an accompaniment? Any specials?
W: Well, we do have something a little unusual from our our Murakami range, a cheeky little 2000, after the quake. Not as full-bodied as some of his other vintages, but it'll work very nicely if evenly spaced with your other choices. Crisp, clean stories of life at one remove from the Kobe disaster, indubitably one to sip and ponder over at your leisure.
T: That's fine then. I'll take the shooty thing, the German meatballs and the Japanese plonk.

[The waiter shudders visibly, takes the menu gingerly between his long, elegant fingers and retreats in the direction he came from. After a significant interlude, during which the items requested are brought, sniffed and consumed, the waiter returns to the table. Tony is looking satisfied, if a little tired.]

W: Was everything to your liking sir?
T: Marvellous, thoroughly enjoyed it all. Many thanks for the recommendations, Algernon.
W: That's quite alright sir. And no. [Pauses] How did you find the starter? We do appreciate feedback from our guests.
T: Well, La Chute was definitely thought provoking, a one-sided dialogue between a man trying to discover what makes life worth living, and the reader. Fascinating reading, but the style did wear you down towards the end. A bit like listening to a sermon really; which is a little ironic, I suppose... I'll have to try it again some time, try to find out exactly what it's all about.
W: And the main course?
T: Quite superb! Nothing like a bit of temperamental Teutonic artistic soul-searching to satisfy the appetite. Only 80 pages, that Venice story, but my goodness, as dense and textured as many a 600-page novel. Death motifs everywhere you looked, homo-erotic suggestiveness, the smell of cholera palpable in the air...
W: Actually, sir, I believe that may have been the toilets. Our apologies.
T: Ah, right. [Looks sheepish] I have to admit, I had to leave a couple of stories for later, so if you could just get me a doggie bag for those...
W: I'll see to that presently. And the Murakami? To sir's liking?
T: You know, I was a bit worried that it would be a little lightweight and weak, but it did go rather splendidly with the other works. A sip here and there, a little low-grade soul searching, a dash of reevaluating one's life goals - really quite wonderful. It didn't have that sparkle and the special ingredients of other Murakamis I've tried, but it was reminiscent of his Norwegian Wood in its earthy, realistic tones. Not quite sure about the hint of frog though.
W: Not to everyone's taste, I agree. Still, I hope we'll be seeing you here again, sir.
T: Most definitely. This is just the kind of place I've been looking for. So, could I have the bill please, Haruki?
W: Now you're just embarrassing yourself.

[The waiter walks away shaking his head.]

T: Wait! David! Heinrich! Albert! Kazuo! [Thinks] Engelbert?

[Fade to black...]