Freitagsinfusion #128: Reale Vorbilder

[Alys II.]

Schreib eine Szene, in der Dein Charakter auf eine real existierende Person trifft. Wer auf Nummer Sicher gehen will bzgl. Persönlichkeitsrechte, Beleidigungsvermeidung etc., der kann ja auf schon lange verstorbene historische Personen zurückgreifen.
Wie geht Deine Hauptfigur damit um, auf Heinrich den Achten, George Washington oder Hatschepsut zu treffen?

[Zukunftsträumer]

"Na, junger Freund? Was denken Sie?", fragte eine Stimme hinter mir.
Natürlich erschrak ich, warf mich mit kurzem Aufschrei herum und hätte am liebsten nochmal geschrien, als ich plötzlich Wilhelm Busch hinter mir stehen sah. Oder zumindest einen alten Mann, der genauso aussah, wie man den deutschen Vater des Comics von Bildern her kannte. Mit großen Augen und offenem Mund starrte ich den Mann an, der ja eigentlich hinter mir in seinem Grab liegen sollte.
"Warum so erschrocken, hm?", fragte der Mann mit tiefer, rauchiger Stimme und ein seltsames Lächeln trat in seine Mundwinkel und ließen die Fältchen um seine Augen noch zahlreicher werden.
Es dauerte eine Weile, ehe ich antworten konnte. Sah kurz zurück zum Grab und dann wieder zu dem Mann, der genüsslich an der braunen, dünnen Zigarre zog.
"Sind Sie...", stammelte in nach einer gefühlten Ewigkeit, in der der bohrende Blick des Mannes ständig auf mir ruhte. "Sind Sie etwa Wilhelm...Wilhelm Busch?"
Sein Gesicht hellte sich auf. "Ah, schön", sagte er. "Ich dachte schon, Sie hätten Ihre Sprache verloren oder wären einer der Unglücklichen, die nie sprechen konnten." Er lachte kurz und ein seltsames Rasseln drang aus seiner Kehle.
"Aber jawohl, ich bin Wilhelm Busch", antwortete er dann, richtete sich auf, als wolle er seinen Worte auf diese Weise Nachdruck verleihen. "Und wie ich sehe, hat man mich weiterhin nicht vergessen."
Ich schluckte und schüttelte den Kopf, erlangte langsam meine Beherrschung zurück. "Nein, natürlich nicht. Warum sollte man?", fragte ich.
Wieder ein kurzes Lachen. "Weil ich es mir gewünscht habe."
Ich stutzte. "Was haben Sie sich gewünscht? Das man Sie vergisst?"
Er nickte und seine Miene wurde wieder ernster, ja beinahe finster.
"Ja, aber warum? Sie haben doch so tolle Geschichten und..."
"Wie können Sie behaupten, dass meine Geschichten so toll sind, wie Sie sagen", fuhr er laut dazwischen. "Haben Sie sie denn gelesen?"
"Ja...ja, natürlich", antwortete ich etwas irritiert.
"Und?", fragte er dann leiser und kam näher. Ein seltsamer Geruch strömte mir entgegen. "Haben Sie sie auch verstanden?" Nun stand er genau vor mir und sah mir mit feurigen Augen in meine.
"Wie...wie meinen Sie?", fragte ich heiser nach.
Ein starker, kalter Windstoß fegte über den Friedhof, riss mich fast von den Beinen. Staub wehte mir in die Augen, sodass ich mich zusammenkrümmte. Als ich mir den Staub aus den Augen gerieben und mich erhoben hatte, war ich plötzlich alleine. Zu meinen Füßen lag der rauchende Zigarrenstummel und ich blickte verwirrt um mich. Da sprach plötzlich Buschs Stimme wieder zu mir. Ich drehte mich zu seiner Grabstätte herum und meinte, die Stimme käme direkt aus dem Erdreich:
"So muss ich wohl eingestehen, dass mein Werk und Tun nicht so umsonst gewesen waren, wie ich oft fürchtete. Vergessen sind weder meine Geschichten noch ich. Mochte ich es zu Lebzeiten auch nicht zugeben, so muss ich Ihnen sagen, werter Freund, dass mich Ihre Worte freuten. Vielen Dank..."
Die letzten Worte verwehte der Wind, der letzte Rauch der Zigarre verging...

[Lia Roger]

Äh ... reales Vorbild begegnet realem Vorbild. Oder so. Ich hab zu dieser Infusion eine Menge Ideen. Naturally. Aber irgendwie werden alle immer zu ganzen Kurzgeschichten. Das hier ist die kürzeste. Also nehm ich die jetzt. Eine nicht ganz rohe aber auch nicht wirklich gründlich überarbeitete Version, bei der ich keine weiteren Ambitionen hab.

There was a street piano in Carnation Square, at the heart of Beelz City.

It was old, rough and battered, covered in stains, sappy poetry and obscene drawings. Some said it had been there for as long as the city stood. That was, of course, a ridiculous notion, considering pianos like this one were hadn't been around for that long.

Regardless, it felt like it’d been there for centuries, it had turned into a part of the city, and the people cherished it. Over the years, it seemed that every citizen had left their mark on it. When it rained, snowed or hailed, they would cover it with heavy fabrics to protect it from the weather, and then carefully examine it for any damage in need of immediate attention.

Every now and then, someone attempted to clean the grime and graffiti off of it, only to reveal older dirt and drawings. They all gave up eventually, and the stories remained.

Every few decades, the entire neighbourhood collected all the money they could spare, little more than a penny per person, to have it tuned, repaired, or a broken string exchanged.

He played it the day he arrived. He’d roamed around aimlessly, he was tired, homeless, penniless and alone, and had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. It was woefully out of tune, it creaked when he played it too hard, and some strings were broken, but that just turned it into a challenge, and besides, he was no stranger to snapping strings and he'd never shied away from a bit of dissonance. His playing didn't fail to attract a reasonable crowd, and amongst them the people who made sure he was no longer homeless, penniless and alone for the day, or any other day to come. He couldn't believe his luck, but it was meeting and befriending his idol that convinced him the piano must bring good fortune to those who played it. The miracle piano of Carnation Square. Or perhaps his playing was just that phenomenal. A bit of both, he reckoned. There was no shame in knowing your skill.

He made sure to play it as often as he could from then on, and it didn't take long for them to start playing together. They'd sway and stagger towards it at night and beat up the yellowed keys and an old and scratched up fiddle that was never taken out of its case, save for these nights, and play tunes they could only dare to play in the comfort of a tumbler and a pint or five. Tunes heavy with the sorrow of old men all too familiar with the hardships of life, and buzzing with the manic bliss of their newfound youth. They'd play for hours, the darkness providing a strange sense of protection, until strings broke, bow hair came off and keys fell apart and they were so exhausted their hands no longer obeyed them. Then they'd drag their tired bodies home, barely able to walk, feeling bruised and beaten like their instruments and blissfully alive. Those nights were pure madness, the kind of insanity they needed to stay sane.

Eventually, they started playing more, during the daytime and when they were sober, and the audience they attracted grew larger, their faces and names became well-known again, and the pennies and dimes the people tossed them grew into a little fortune. Their street performances grew scarcer and were replaced with costly concerts in fancy halls. When they did find the time to come back, the instrument was often occupied by new penniless musicians who'd just made it to the city, discovered the piano in Carnation square, and decided to play a tune since they had nowhere else to go.

Another few years later, a great fire raged through the city, leaving the people scarred and the piano in ruins. By then, they were able to fund a costly repair that saw so many parts replaced it might as well have been a different instrument. But it brought back some of the spirit of Carnation Square, and slowly, the city began to heal once again. Soon, the piano was covered in dirt and drawings and stories again, its keys became loose and yellowed, and if it wasn’t the same instrument, it was at least a worthy successor.

But it never felt the same, to them at least. Or perhaps they were the ones who had changed. They owned a Steinway and a Guarneri now, they lived in their own apartments, and they no longer had to rely on busking to pay their rent. They figured that it was no longer theirs to play. Now was their time to watch and listen. The piano had given them all it could give and it was up to them to carry on its legacy, and to teach new, no-longer-penniless musicians to do the same.

Perhaps, he thought, the miracle piano was gone. Perhaps it had died in the fire, or been drained of its riches during one of their nights of senseless playing, or perhaps it had never possessed any riches in the first place. Either way, it would never run out of good fortune to give.

They’d make sure of it.

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