“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know.”
Whenever we got together, I insisted that we speak German so I could practice, and she obliged. It suited Claus, who absolutely refused to speak English and would occasionally chuckle to himself when I said something incorrectly. I’d turn to him and ask what the mistake was, and he’d continue to laugh, waving it off with a light “Nein, nein,” insisting that all was fine. Nicola would chime in, “He is taking great pleasure in hearing your attempts in German . . . don’t pay any attention to him, Ra-sheeve.” I loved the way she would say my name; it sounded German. The loneliness I had felt for the first few months after I arrived started to fade away.
Munich opened up to me. I had my favorite coffee shop, which I’d frequent between my weekday errands. Every Friday, I’d treat myself to a breakfast of Weisswurst with a pretzel. Herr Gritzner had his regular tunings at Meister Hoppe, the bike guy that had proven his skills when I broke a pedal once. And my haircuts took place at Vidal Sassoon, right in the heart of the old part of town—I had been getting my hair cut at Vidal Sassoon in Toronto for years, and it had proven to be the one place that wouldn’t butcher my wild mane; they had a specific way of cutting hair that was the same in every country. On the day of my first Munich haircut, I was assigned to the assistant manager, a twenty-eight-year-old named Anne (pronounced Ann-eh). I was surprised with how well she spoke English.
“I spent a year on an exchange program in the US,” she explained, running a fine-toothed comb through my wet curls, “In a tiny town in Utah, with a Mormon family.”
We laughed about the ignorance of the Americans she was surrounded by, who, upon learning she was German, sprouted questions like, “Are you related to Hitler?” or “If you’re German, why aren’t you fat and blonde?”
Anne wasn’t even halfway through the haircut before I had learned quite a bit about her. She was engaged and would be married at the end of the summer. She was a vegetarian, and this too was a sore spot with her Mormon host family, who used to bring the Bible up to her and cite passages where it stated that it was wrong to abstain from consuming flesh.
“Funny,” I said, “in my religion, being a vegetarian is kind of essential.”
I asked her if, being vegetarian, she had ever eaten Tamil food, which was, essentially, vegan. She didn’t even know what “Tamil” was, so as she neared the end of the haircut and after I had filled her in about the details of the cooking I had grown up with, I made a bold choice and asked if she and her fiancé would like to come over for dinner one night.
A couple weeks later, when Anna, Joel, and the boys were away for the weekend, Claus, Nicola, Anne, and her beau, Florian, were over on the family’s swanky rooftop patio overlooking the city for a traditional Tamil dinner. I persuaded them to eat with their hands and everyone seemed to be enjoying the new experience and food, except Claus, who, when I asked what he thought, responded with a smile-filled, “Ver-ry in-ter-esting . . .” in English.
Anne got married to Florian at the end of the summer, and I was invited to the reception—a small, understated evening in a cool, little bar at the center of town. I got dressed up in my black, three-piece suit and pedaled Herr Gritzner through the market as the bells clamored and the vendors were closing up shop, waving to me as I whizzed by.
The early evening sky was pink and orange, and I heard the cheerful sounds of a celebratory crowd as I turned the corner onto the cobbled street. Everyone was impeccably dressed, and I made it just in time to join the others in welcoming the new bride and groom. Anne was wearing a knee-length lace cocktail dress, simple and classy, and winked to me as she made her way through the crowd.
Servers walked around with Aperol spritzers and Hugos—Munich’s two signature cocktails. I reached out for my favorite—the Hugo, a refreshing concoction of fresh mint leaves, Prosecco, elderflower syrup, and a dash of soda water served over ice with a lime wedge. A group of friends whom I didn’t know gathered around the piano and boisterously belted out some traditional Bavarian songs. Two girls in black dresses had their arms around each other, and swayed side to side as a young guy in a blue suit, with waves of golden blond hair, sat at the piano and effortlessly played along to everything they sang, without any sheet music in front of him. I couldn’t take my eyes off his fingers dancing over the keys.
I knew about half the people in the room, and the evening was spent dipping in and out of lively conversations in both German and English.
I was sitting by myself after the cake was cut, enjoying being the silent observer for a moment, when Anne came over and sat beside me on the caramel-colored leather bench.
“Der Herr.”
“Die Dame.”
“Your hair looks nice,” she teased, looking up at my coiffed mane of black curls—it had been a while since I had gone in for a haircut, but one of the things she said regularly about her work was that her cuts had incredible longevity—they grew out well.
“Danke. It’s all because of you.”
“Ich sage auch danke,” Anne said in a phony formal tone—she knew I loved when the Germans said this, literally meaning, “I say also, thanks.”
Anne was radiant—it was her night—and I told her how much it meant to me to be included.
“I am really happy you live here, Rajivski,” she said, her head tilted to one side, looking me deep in the eyes. My German friends now unanimously used the name that Kate and Eric had ordained me with, many years before. It felt like a secret password, code for my inner circle of like-minded compatriots.
The music had transitioned from the old-world sound of the live trio at the piano to the speakers overhead, blaring out current pop tunes, administered by a hipster-type DJ spinning records in the corner. It was loud and people were grooving to Lady Gaga. I pulled Anne onto the dance floor and we threw up our arms, busting out some moves as the Champagne flowed. People on the periphery were cheering us on and joining in and soon there was hardly any room to move. I wiggled around in place with both the familiar and new faces. Eventually, my surroundings became too hot for my three-piece suit.
In the quiet street, the night air was a relief. Herr Gritzner was lit up under the streetlamp where I’d parked him. I took my jacket off, loosened my tie, and then opened up the collar of my shirt in an effort to cool down.
I heard the door open behind me but didn’t turn around to look.
“Anne tells me you are from Canada.” It was the blond pianist, now standing beside me with a glass of Champagne in his hand.
“Yes, Toronto,” I said, looking up at him. He was a little over six feet tall and his pale blue eyes were captivating, even before they lit up to my response.
“Ah, Toronto! I spent one year in Canada, for an exchange program—it’s my favorite place in the world.”
“Funny—this is my favorite place in the world,” I countered.
“It is a great city,” he admitted, nodding before extending his hand. “Anton.” I shook it and couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated by what was, essentially, a flawless specimen of a face looking down at me, like one of those Norse gods from the locker room at U of T. A lock of his golden hair had just fallen to touch the side of his Anglo-Saxon nose, slender, with a bridge that resembled the finest of ski slopes. His chin looked like it had been chiseled out of marble by Michelangelo. The slightest hint of pale blond stubble was emerging from his jawline and his upper lip protruded out just slightly over the lower one.
“Rajiv. Freut mich,” I said as I shook his hand, forcing myself to break away from staring into his eyes.
“Rasheeve,” he echoed with his German accent, sweeping up the fallen lock of blond hair. “Schön. Does it mean something in . . . Indian?”
I tried not to laugh, but it just came out. Indian—there’s no such language, but I wasn’t about to correct him. “Well,” I offered, “it’s Sanskrit for ‘king of life.’ ”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “Then I am standing with royalty. It’s an honor.”
<
br /> Everyone was jamming to Beyoncé when we rejoined the party, and as things calmed down, the waiters brought around shots of schnapps, signaling the end of the night. I gave Anne and Florian a huge hug and headed out to Herr Gritzner.
The blond pianist appeared in the pool of light where the bike and I were standing and asked what direction I was headed in. He was going my way, he said, so we’d walk together.
He was doing his master’s in business administration at the University of Munich. The piano was a hobby of his. He had two sisters who lived with his parents in a small town about three hours north of the city. He played soccer on a small local team.
It was just past midnight—the streetlamps cast a warm glow over people sitting out on restaurant patios, or strolling around under the chestnut trees in pairs, and the lack of a breeze created a surreal stillness that made me feel like I was on the soundstage of some grand movie set. We passed through Odeonsplatz, the huge impressive open square that was surrounded on three sides by gigantic neo-classical buildings that looked out onto Ludwigstraße, the long straight avenue that featured a large, white triumphal arch. This was historically a site for parades and marches (one of Hitler’s routes during the Third Reich). As I wheeled Herr Gritzner along, Anton walked beside me, looking down at the cobbles as I told him about my job as an au pair and briefly mentioned my endeavors as an actor.
Our conversation turned to Munich’s past and somehow I was getting a very intriguing history lesson from him about the city’s line of Bavarian kings.
We were walking across an old stone bridge, over the Isar River, as the blond boy filled me in on the monarch who was primarily responsible for Munich’s current beauty—“Crazy King Ludwig,” as he was known, who was criticized in his day for frivolously blowing away his personal assets to build the squares, monuments, palaces, and castles that now draw millions of tourists to Bavaria every year. “He loved stories. He spent much time daydreaming.
“Your Walt Disney World,” Anton said with a smirk, flitting his hand around as he searched for the right words.“This . . . Sleeping Beauty’s castle . . . it is modeled directly after Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein. Have you been there?” he asked, looking over at me as we walked.
“Last week, actually. It was incredible.” I had taken Alexander and Sebastian out there on the train. “Didn’t he die tragically?”
“Ja, he was found floating in the Starnberger Lake. They declared it was a suicide, but many believe he was murdered.”
I looked over the bridge at the calm flow of the Isar below us. On the hottest days of the summer, I joined other locals and found relief swimming in the frigid water of the river, which flowed from the Alps.
“These fairy tales, they all have some darkness,” the blond boy was looking up at the starry sky above us. “I would like to imagine that in his last moments, at least Ludwig was glad he did what he wanted during his lifetime.”
A softly dinging bell warned us of a bike approaching from behind, and we moved out of its way as it sped by in a blur.
“You know what?” I asked.
“What?”
“I think it’s time for another king.”
“What?”
“Yes. I will become the next king of Munich. I mean, the triumphal arches, the squares, the palaces—they’re all still here, aren’t they? And the Germans unfortunately still have this stigma with the rest of the world. It’s time we try to change all of that,” I heard myself saying, unable to control myself, the words just falling out of my mouth. I went on, “And what better way to say to the world, ‘Look, that’s not who we are!’ than to have a little, brown King of Bavaria?”
“I like this idea,” he said, nodding, then chuckling.
“Yes. I don’t need any power; I’ll just be a sort of figurehead. I was at the Nymphenburger Schloss just last week with the kids, and everything’s in perfect condition, you know. They’ll dust off all the carriages and crowns and bring them out for my coronation. And I’ll walk along Ludwigstraße with a huge crowd behind me—”
“Yes,” he interrupted, “and you must be accompanied by two real lions—the symbol of Bavaria!”
“Yeah!” I shouted, enthusiastically turning to him and grabbing his arm, envisioning myself robed in ermine as we concocted this scheme together. “And I’ll have the perfect name.” I stopped walking with the bike and stood in my tracks, lifting my chin up into the air, signaling my announcement, “König Rajivski,” and as an afterthought, added, “Der Dunkel.” King Rajivski. The Dark One.
He burst out laughing loudly, keeling over with his forearm across his stomach. “Wie lustig!” How fun!
We continued to concoct the plan, adding bits of important detail.
“Du spinnst . . .” Anton muttered, smirking again (you’re crazy). “You just might have what it takes to become the king.”
We had reached the other side of the bridge, and as I headed straight ahead and Anton made a move to turn right; we discovered this was the point where our paths separated to our respective apartments.
“Ihre Hoheit,” he softly declared (Your Highness), “It was really fun . . . to meet you.”
The blond boy was looking down at me once again, and once more I was locked into the gaze of his pale blue eyes. And this time, I didn’t want to look away.
I leaned in, and he leaned down to me, and as we closed our eyes, our lips met.
Fireworks. Trumpets. Confetti.
If there was ever a single moment in my life where the world seemed to stand completely still, just for me, it was now, and in that moment I had no future and no past, only the present.
“I don’t want to say bye to you,” I said.
“I don’t want you to say goodbye,” he whispered down to me.
I could feel my heart thumping around in my chest, going a mile a minute as we walked in silence, he leading the way back to his apartment.
This wasn’t a surprise to me—I always knew I liked guys, but I just wasn’t allowed to. And now, as I walked with the blond boy, I asked myself who wasn’t allowing it—Ma? Hollywood? Yann Martel, Ang Lee, or Avy Kaufman? No. No one had ever said no, and even if they had, when had I ever listened to anyone else anyway? No, it was I who had not allowed it. I had tried so hard to become something I thought I wanted to be, and it didn’t work. Kissing this boy, without thinking at all, broke the spell.
We passed church after church while we walked; it seemed like there was one on every street corner, and if it wasn’t a church it was a random crucifix tucked into a corner or anchored to a wall. And then it dawned on me, and I understood why Munich had helped me. It had become the place of my redemption—not at all religiously, looking up to something else and praying I would be forgiven; this was an internal redemption that only I could grant myself. I think, inherently, I had wondered whether I had been burned so badly that I’d never take a chance again, never gamble, never dive right in without thinking. But here, unexpectedly, I had learned that my quest had the opposite effect. At the end of my year of mourning the loss of Pi, I had moved on, and I had realized that I could do anything, try anything, and not be afraid of falling flat on my face, because I now knew how important it was to have simply tried. That realization was my salvation.
With one hand, the beautiful blond boy took over steering Herr Gritzner, and with the other he took my hand. We reached his tiny apartment, on a little side street, beside an old metalworking studio in a building with a giant copper crown on the top of it, green with verdigris.
I had never allowed myself to touch, or be touched. But now, the blond boy was leading me up the six flights of steps to his little place. He unbuttoned my vest, pulled off my tie, and then gently took off my shirt, letting it fall to the ground.
I closed my eyes as his fingers slowly ran over my shoulders and down my back. I took off his shirt, revealing his pale, smooth, alabaster skin. We lay down on the bed, facing each other, and now I was at peace. It was okay to follow my heart; it was okay t
o let go.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Today
Date: Tue, 19 Jul 2011 23:52:30
Hello, Rajiv.
Happy Birthday to you too. Theo has had a good birthday, not that he quite understands the concept of time and its arbitrary divisions. He certainly enjoyed the party and the presents.
Your books arrived. We knew of them but didn’t have copies, so they’re perfect gifts. Theo will love them. Thank you very much for sending them, and wrapped in such lovely gift wrap paper—and for the lovely note.
Glad to hear that you’ve made the best of the Pi saga.
Hope Munich continues to treat you well.
Cheers,
Yann
20.
BY THE END OF MY year in Munich, I was back to my old self; scheming up plans to celebrate my coronation as the unexpected, yet highly glorified new King of Bavaria was a sign that things had returned to the way they once were. It was hard saying goodbye to Anna, Joel, and the boys, to my German friends, to the smiling faces of the market vendors who had patiently taught me to speak their native tongue, but even harder was saying goodbye to my storybook world of cobblestone streets and church spires. I couldn’t bear to take Herr Gritzner away from his homeland, so Anne and Florian offered to store him in their cellar with the promise that he would wait there for me, as they were certain that I would one day return.
I moved back to Toronto and fell in with a group of bohemian types—sculptors, painters, and musicians who whizzed around the city on skateboards or doubled on one bike. One of them was looking for a roommate and together we rented a crumbling, dingy two-bedroom apartment in The Annex, just north of the downtown core. It was an old building from the twenties and despite the cracked bathtub, the leaky toilet, and the splintering floorboards, there was a charm to the place, a Peter Parker type of roughing it out.
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