Ordinary
Whore
Dieter Moitzi
“Ordinary Whore”
By Dieter Moitzi
Cover & layout Dieter Moitzi
© Dieter Moitzi 2020
Photos: © Adobe Stock
Independently published
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© All Rights Reserved Dieter Moitzi 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author. However, brief quotations may be reproduced in the context of reviews.
To Mama and Papa
Who have shown me how to love
“Everything as cold as life
Can no one save you?
Everything as cold as silence
And you never say a word”
Cold, The Cure
“It’s nothing as it seems... the little that he needs... it’s home
The little that he sees… is nothing. He concedes… it’s home...”
Nothing As It Seems, Pearl Jam
my shoes worn out
from dancing from traipsing
from running up hills
I sit on benches now and sofas
my favourite pastime
in this winter cave:
to hum a childhood lullaby
grey with meaning
and listen to the sound of water
dripping slowly from the timeless ceiling
everything is rust
and mold and memories
the torch flickers time and again
hours go limp and
clocks tick backwards
silhouettes and shades waft over
soaked walls
drawing brave new worlds
I know the tide is rising…
and still what can I do
what do I want to do?
this is it:
sit and watch and listen
and nod at chimera
with contentment
shades drifting, unpublished, Dieter Moitzi
Part one | Ordinary Funeral
—107—
He is just that guy. In his sixties, balding, short and slender; some would even say gaunt. His skin is white and papery. Thin lips, thin features, a jaded attitude. His eyes are… wait a second… grey? Yes, grey, I think, the shade of light-coloured steel, and his gaze is cold but not too cold. He is no man of extremes; a nondescript guy in fact who looks like an accountant or a small-town solicitor.
Someone of little interest or concern for me, more present in the media than in my thoughts.
And yet, by one of those strange, sly whims that destiny seems to love, that guy is my father.
Or rather, that guy was my father. Because he is dead now.
—106—
My older sister is the one who spills the beans. It’s half past nine in the evening. I’m sitting on my white sofa, turning the pages of a fashion magazine, my gaze empty like the faces of the models who are striking poses on the glossy pages before me. Gentle boredom seeps in through the half-open windows, glides over the walls, oozes from every piece of furniture, glistens on the glass or metal surfaces, forming a motionless, invisible, indolent space-time that surrounds me like a halo.
I’ve switched the television on but turned the volume down to a subdued whisper. The soft sounds of a TV game blend with the persistent hum of the traffic downstairs. From time to time, I lift my eyes from the magazine to look at the game host’s white-toothed smile, which seems as genuine as a handbag purchased from a street vendor in Italy. I don’t really follow the show; it is just a means to drown the mortal silence of my apartment. My other choices would have been to listen to the unutterable sadness of a Mahler symphony, or bear the silent cries of my immaculate walls.
That’s when the phone rings.
I pick it up and recognise Raphaëlle, my older sister. Apart from sounding breathless, she is the same as usual. Her vocabulary remains precise, her weary and cold inflections suggesting that we are not on earth to have fun but for other purposes, none of which very pleasant. That’s her in a nutshell: unfazed, unaffected, wintry. Imagine an emotionless automaton. Well, I’m speaking of so-called positive emotions, of course. She knows how to be curt and authoritarian. She knows how to throw an angry fit if needs be.
“Hi Marc. It’s Raphaëlle,” she says. Then, without further ado, she tells me the news. She is staying with our mother, because the old man died.
“Did he? When? And how?” I enquire.
“Let me think… Two days ago. Or was it three? I don’t know. You want me to ask Mother?”
“No, don’t bother. I’m simply surprised it wasn’t announced on the news yet. Where is she now? Mother, I mean.”
“In the kitchen. Said she was feeling peckish.”
“Opening a new bottle, you mean. I should’ve known. Nice try, though…” I trail off, my brain blank for a second. What should I say now? Am I supposed to condole Raphaëlle? Would that be the appropriate next step?
I don’t want to make a mistake, so I ask, “Do I need to come over? I suppose there’ll be a funeral, right?”
“Of course.” My sister makes a strange noise, something between dry laughter and a sniff. “One doesn’t say funeral, however; one prefers to say obsequies, brother dearest. I even brought my pearls for the occasion. One needs to be glam, you know. But you don’t sound eager to join us.”
“Are you kidding me? To be filmed during Father’s—obsequies, is it?— why, nothing could enchant me more.”
My sister sighs. “Marc, spare me your sarcasm, okay? The funeral takes place the day after tomorrow. It goes without saying that you should assist. But if you prefer to stay away, no problem. Do what you want. You’re free, after all.” Her voice remains monotonous.
“All right. I’ll check the train schedule,” I reply. “And call you back sometime tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Perfect.”
I notice how peculiar her voice sounds, hoarse and croaky. “What’s up with you?” I ask, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’ve been weeping!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just that… it’s bloody freezing in this house. I guess I’ve caught a cold. That’s all.”
—105—
What a coincidence. Just this morning, I threw away a postcard my father and mother sent me about a month ago. Usually I don’t keep them, but I rather liked this one, an old black-and-white photo showing the banks of the river Nive, with three houseboats anchored in front of a long, shoddy shed. In the foreground stood a wall with baroque stone vases and thick-leaved chestnut trees. You could guess a hilly landside in the distant haze. The main focus was on the dark and ominous river, however, and on two boys standing side by side on a cobbled quay near the water, their faces two white flecks. They were gazing at the flowing stream, keeping a cautious distance between them. They seemed to be together somehow yet looked distinct, separated, each one lost in his own universe.
The photographic symbol of my father and mother. That’s how I always refer to them the few times I think of them. My father. My mother. I’ve never been able to see them as a unit; they’ve never formed that singular nucleus you express with the word “parents.”
All things considered it was just an ordinary postcard. Something appealed to me, though. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have put it on my bookshelf.
Before I threw it into the bin, I read the message on its back again. It read, “Bayonne is very beautiful. The weather is fine. We’re doing all right. Greetings.”
Father and Mother’s messages were always the same, word for word. Wherever they went, the places were beautiful. A bright sun was shining on all their trips. They were always doing all right. And they would always send their greetings. Their cards were like rituals; reading them felt as if watching a queen and a king pass by in their carriage, waving at their subjects, a regal random gesture you could easily mistake for a personal one.
Of course, my mother would always write the cards in her regular, impersonal handwriting. She would sign the cards “Your mother,” which struck me as odd. Each time, I would have wagered she’d forget and rather sign her stage name.
My sisters must have received the same postcards, identical as to the photo, identical as to the messages on the backside. My mother doesn’t improvise. Nor does my father.
He would sign the cards, too. A man who knew his duties. He would take the stack my mother had prepared (I always imagined him doing so with a disabused sigh) and sign them, one by one, with the same interest, enthusiasm, and dedication an anonymous postal worker would apply afterwards when processing them.
One of the few links between my father and me would be that: his signature on otherwise impersonal postcards. Even my mother’s handwriting, even their two signatures couldn’t erase the cards’ impersonality.
“Father,” he would always write.
Nothing else. Just “Father.”
Which sums up our father-son-bond. A hastily scrawled “Father” on a postcard.
Now he is dead. Which doesn’t change a thing between us.
—104—
I’m sitting in the train. The Gare de l’Est pulls away as I glance out the window. Unexpected early spring sunrays flood the cityscape, managing somehow to underline the dreary shabbiness of the high buildings on both sides of the tracks. Everything is dirty and grey; sun-streaked but dirty and grey.
I’m alone in my compartment. The provincial town I’m heading for doesn’t attract many tourists. No wonder: apart from a crumbling church, a Renaissance pavilion, and a huge nuclear power station, it offers no sight worth of taking the train. I’ve never understood why my father decided to bury himself in that sleepy hole. Even his former electorate is miles away. Why my mother followed suit remains an even greater enigma.
I stare at the former Mills of Pantin, the Water Music blaring over my headphones. I could have chosen Purcell’s Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary or Mozart’s Requiem. Yet the majesty and frisky frivolity of this piece by Händel seemed much more appropriate.
I know that Father was no George I; I haven’t boarded a royal barge for an excursion up the Thames towards Chelsea, either, and the occasion is rather grim. But I don’t want to play the disconsolate son. There will be enough insincerity tomorrow, so I don’t think I need to add to it. At least I honour Father with a bit of baroque solemnity. That’s better than nothing.
With a sigh, I unfold Le Monde. The notice announcing Father’s death turns out rather small, nestled in the lower section of the front page. “Read more – page 8.”
The paper dedicates half a page to the news. That’s meagre for someone who held so many prestigious positions. More than enough for the character in question, as far as I’m concerned. But still. “Jean-Marc Forgeron dies at sixty-eight,” the headline says.
Oh. Sixty-eight. I didn’t know he was so old! That is, I should have known, I reckon.
I read on. “At the age of sixty-eight, former député1 and Secretary of State for Foreign Trade Jean-Marc Forgeron died of a heart attack last Tuesday in Nogent-sur-Seine. As soon as his death was announced, flags were flown at half mast in his former constituency. The President of the Republic, currently traveling in Moldova, expressed his condolences to the family. The spokesman of the Socialist Party regretted in a statement that ‘the nation will miss a major statesman. Although retired he always commented the current political affairs with great insight.’”
Who writes these obituaries? They didn’t pull their punches, for sure.
The article retraces my father’s curriculum, too: his university years, his political engagement, his various services to the nation. They speak of my mother’s career, her meeting my father, their wedding. They mention Raphaëlle, then Angélique, and finally me: “Forgeron’s son, currently working as a tourism consultant in the capital.”
Tourism consultant? Despite myself, I giggle. Raphaëlle must have provided that bit.
The rest is yadda, yadda, yadda. The party heavyweights express their grief, Father’s political opponents weep the same crocodile tears. Everybody regrets with mock emotion “the demise of a loyal, hard-working politician who devoted all his energy and intelligence to the greater good of this country,” as a minister phrases it.
Pathetic! I bought Le Figaro and Libération, too, just in case. But finally, I don’t open them. My nerves aren’t strong enough to stomach more codswallop.
I realise I’ll need to look stricken. I sigh. As if the situation weren’t unpleasant enough. I had better rehearse in front of a mirror, then.
—103—
Angélique picks me up at the railway station. She has come alone, and I’m not disappointed. During the whole trip, I’ve been wondering if Mother would dare to show up. I wagered she wouldn’t.
Bingo.
I wagered, however, that Raphaëlle would show up instead of Angélique.
That bet I lost.
My little sister pulls a funeral face when I get off the train. Her black clothes make her white, haggard face shine out under her wild, blonde mane. Her eyes are red. She tries to smile but only half succeeds. As a result, her mouth twists as if she were chewing a slice of lemon.
We gaze at each other for an instant, tacitly acknowledging that the first step is always the hardest. I want to say something comforting, but my mind remains empty. Strange that I should be so good with languages yet sometimes so bad with words.
Finally, I decide to take things lightly. “Where’s our Star? Where do you hide her?” I ask, looking left and right.
“Mother is, you know? Resting?” my sister replies, switching off her weak, lemony smile. With her scowling face, she suddenly looks a lot like Raphaëlle. Almost frighteningly so if you consider how different they are.
My bad. I forgot she is the only one to feel a link with Mother. That’s why she believes it her duty to defend and protect that woman. The sense of duty runs in my family, by the way. They are all very keen on doing their duties, even Mother, despite her efforts to appear rebellious, fanciful, highly coloured. I am the black sheep, in that respect as in many others.
My sister continues to examine me, tears glistening in her pale-blue eyes. Then she clears her throat, which signals “Don’t go any further!”
That doesn’t stop me. “Mother’s resting? Nice try! Must be your way of telling me she’s knocked out cold. Never mind. I don’t care.” I open my arms and step forward, clearing the distance that separates us and seems so unbridgeable. “Come here and give me a hug!”
She does, reluctantly at first, but then surrendering. She murmurs in a shaky voice, “That’s nice? Good to see you?”
As usual, she ends her sentences with question marks, as if she wants to apologise for talking or ask her interlocutor for assent or is unsure of what to say. Maybe it’s the three at the same time. Over the years I’ve got used to that fad of hers. She just wants to do right, wants to please. Blame her genes—blame Father, in other words.
She sniffs against my shoulder.
“Don’t you dare and weep, Angie!” I say.
&
nbsp; She moves away, wiping her eyes. “I’m not like you? We don’t all, you know, have a heart as cold and stony as yours?”
“Why, I’m the son of Cruella and Lord Voldemort. Let me live up to that, will you?”
—102—
The entrance hall is empty. I put down my travel bag and peek into the first room to the left; Mother calls it the “Salon Bleu.” It’s mostly white but has a lot of blue designer features. I discover Raphaëlle on the white leather couch, leafing through a home deco magazine, a half-empty drink on the low glass table in front of her.
When I turn around, I notice Angélique has slipped upstairs like a ghost without acknowledging our sister’s presence.
Well, well, well.
I walk over to kiss Raphaëlle’s cheek. “Hi.”
Without looking up, she states flatly, “Hi, Marc. You finally made it, then. Even if you did not call me, as promised.”
“I called Angie instead. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No. She has barely talked to me since she arrived. Good for you that she speaks to you, though.” Raphaëlle pretends to study an article about chintz curtains. All right, she is angry.
“Come on,” I say. “Are you going to ignore me until I leave? Listen, I’m sorry. I know I should have called you. But things have been a bit, you know, rushed.”
“M-hm.”
“You okay?”
“Well,” she sighs and looks at me at last, “yes, I’m okay. Thanks for asking. Go pour yourself a drink, will you? I hate being the only person drinking alcohol at this time of day. That always makes me feel like such a boozer.”
“You sure you’re our mother’s daughter?” I walk over to the bar.
“Leave her alone,” Raphaëlle replies robot-like. “She’s going through a lot right now.” She doesn’t mean a word, that much is clear.
I mix myself a stiff gin and tonic before I sit down on a Louis-XV-chair. “Is she?” I ask. “Poor woman. At least she’ll be in the spotlight again. After all those years…”
Raphaëlle smiles. “You’ll never change,” she declares, which sounds almost approving, almost tender. “And you look good in black. You always did.”
“Thanks. That’s why I never wear anything else.” I shrug.
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