Lord Darlington was well amused. He had been to his club and had encountered, for the first time, between tea and whiskey, an unknown person, unmistakingly a new butler, of exceeding beauty. The Lord was saved, he had been bored for over a year and now saw his first chance to be captured by beauty. He had observed the acolyte and been well pleased. The butler was elegant in his bearings, had a nicely modulated voice, a perfect accent and wonderful hands. Lord Darlington had gone over four whiskeys only to see the new, brandnew, butler serving him. Ond once even with a smile. Lord Darlington had not been smiled at for well a decade, or he had not registered it, for society was truly content with his social and cordial disposition. He very seldom smiled. His lips were full on disdain on the world, but this time! Oh, this time he smiled back, a blushing youth again at Eton, a flowering, a butterfly´s air movement on his heart. In short, it was a miracle. He sent the carriage away and walked through Green park, as he had done since June 1889, when he was as happy - and as well in love. He felt inspired and full of live and his very steps had a new rhythm, it seemed to him. He bought flowers on his way, striding to Buckingham Palace to see the Prince of Wales, an intimate friend. He was delighted, felt elated, was about to dance a little. And the passers-by wondered at the usual so solemn lord, whom they had not seen as spirited in well some years. The next days he visited his club on a regular basis. He choose a sofa right in the best lit corner, eagerly awaiting the butlers return. And yes, there he was, smoothly attending to the gentlemen‘s wishes. Darlington now ordered tea and some cake, then cigarettes, then a gin tonic, slowly running out of pretexts to be served at all. He asked for the Times, and after some thoughtless reading joined some acquaintances for a party of bridge. At midnight he ordered the carriage, found his home in Belgravia and, before falling asleep, thought of ways how to engage Anthony (he had finally been able to listen to the butler being addressed as such) in some conversation. He decided to act. He had anticipated a long stay in the country, at Darlington hall. He wondered how to impart the news to Anthony, whom he intended to ask whether he would work for him. Darlington hesitated. He had long been alone. His marriage had failed. His two sons were estranged to him, and his ex-wife squandered his money and his nerves. “How to do it, and not be plain, and what if he should say no”. His anxiousness increased from day to day. Then, one afternoon, he saw his chance. He had been to Parliament to hear the Prime Minister debate for the increasement of the fleet, the new politic toward India and relations to France. He waited for the moment, he felt like a boy on a cricket field, seen by everyone, and he was ashamed for his weakness, because so he felt, weak to continue a life empty for him, an endless stream of tea-parties, tennis and the races. Like a beggar he went to the club, requesting nothing more for his destiny than to be accepted. He had chosen a blue Pinstripe and had a dandy dandelion in his buttonhole. He sweated. He did not dare to challenge the steps to the club, shortly greeting Baron Rothschild, barely hearing what he said. Lord Darlington was rejuvenated, he hummed a tune, something from Tchaikovsky, if he was not mistaken.He entered through the wooden revolving door, was greeted by the footman, went up to the concierge to immerse himself in correspondence (”The house is ready, the hunt will be organized, a ball threatens, attended by all neighbours, boring as they may be. But I will not go alone. I will not take no for an answer.”) He took the elevator to the library and, to calm himself down, he read a German poet, August von Platen:August von Platen (1796-1835)TristanWer die Schönheit angeschaut mit Augen,Ist dem Tode schon anheimgegeben,
Wird für keinen Dienst auf Erden taugen,
Und doch wird er vor dem Tode beben,
Wer die Schönheit angeschaut mit Augen!
Ewig währt für ihn der Schmerz der Liebe,
Denn ein Tor nur kann auf Erden hoffen,
Zu genügen einem solchen Triebe:
Wen der Pfeil des Schönen je getroffen,
Ewig währt für ihn der Schmerz der Liebe
Ach, er möchte wie ein Quell versiechen,
Jedem Hauch der Luft ein Gift entsaugen,
Und den Tod aus jeder Blume riechen:
Wer die Schönheit angeschaut mit Augen,
Ach, er möchte wie ein Quell versiechen!
He closed his eyes. He was 21 again, at university, rowing his beloved upriver, a summer‘s day, hot and humid, followed by a picnic and some chat, and a kiss. Only one. It was the first and the last kiss he had ever received. He would kiss again, he said to himself. And he would stop to live a sham, a caricature of himself, depriving himself of his utmost feelings, of the depth in life that he had so long, oh! so long forgotten. He had wasted far too much time. He had endured a thirst unquenchable, he had hungered, he had burnt his money, oh! there was enough left, no worries. He decided to buy an apartment in Paris. Darlington went into the drawing room. There he was, Anthony, smiling again. Darlington beckoned him to come. Anthony came. “Your lordship looks well today”, he said. “Oh I am happy”, Darlington replied. He let his eyes wander. He stared Anthony directly into the eyes. He felt tears up welling, threatening to spoil the scene. The eyes were blue and asking. “Anthony, I have a very urgent request. I want to employ you. I have to employ you. It is my urgent wish. Please, please don‘t turn me down. You have made me happy, so happy. I would double your earnings, of course. And accompany me on a world tour. Bombay perhaps, for a month.” He looked to the floor. “You can think about it, of course. Please do. But you have to accept. You have to. I am relying on it.“ Anthony was dumbfounded. He could not believe his ears. He staggered a bit. He took a step away. He sighed. And then he said: “Yes, milord. I shall be happy to accept. I will quit here immediately. And I will travel with you. And live with you. Thank you so much milord.” And so Lord Darlington was saved. He hardly believed his luck. He shook hands. He muttered “thank you”. He fell back into his chair and planned to furnish Anthony‘s rooms brandnew. A week passed. They had not spoken about money. It was not necessary. And on April the first Anthony moved into 212, Belgrave Square. Oh, this were happy times for Lord Darlington, and for Anthony as well. The whole household, the cook, Sally, an Irishwoman of sometimes stern reactions, the chauffeur, Jack, a solemn, quiet man, Andrew, the gardener, the footmen, they all fell for Anthony, then in the prime of his youth. It was as if a new, warm breeze swept through the house, as if the ice that had covered Darlingtons home had melted away and the first flowers came through a now friendlier earth. Anthony was adapting splendidly to his recent position, and Darlington could sometimes lay awake in his bedroom, awaiting Anthony to fold back the drapes and open the window and ask for his lordships plans for today and which suit he chose for the events of the day. Then he took his tea, while Anthony prepared the clothes, matched the ties and polished shoes, lightly chatting away about some news in society and the court curricula and sometimes one of the dreams he had had. Darlington went to his business, drove out to the shipyards, visited the bank to fix some urgent necessities. The complete renovation of Darlington Hall, Payment for the new yacht and the ordering of a new, private rail car, for he intended to follow the orient express in autumn, going down to Eypt, there meeting with the boat and then sailing to Athens, Venice, Genoa, Cannes and the through the Gate of Gibraltar, to Biarritz, and then back to Paris, for the races in Chantilly. He would send some horses that had done well in Ascot. He sold some property in Scotland and invested heavily in Suez-Bonds (not knowing that he would be richer than the Hanover -Windsors, when the Channel was finished and profits rolled in). He bought art. A Chinese vase, a sculpture of Apollo only just arrived from Delphi. A Venetian chandelier, for the entree of the Belgrave House. A KPM tea-set in bleu mourant, formerly in possession of Frederick the Great, it was also Darlington‘s favourite colour and he decided to redo the bleu salon. He would give a party. He was surprised at himself. A party? He would invite all his friends and society, he would ask the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales. Yes, he thought, I shall give a party. He went down Regent Street, when he saw Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa I must tell you all. I am a new man. Larissa plainly had seen the change, even heard about it. She replied, I know, it is the new butler. Oh shame on you, Harold. You take youth for granted. You are feeding on youth. I love you for it, but it is a dangerous hobby. You can loose all. Darlington told her about the party. Clarissa Dalloway was amazed. Of course, she said, we shall come, it will be a pleasure, oh how delightful. Maybe I shall have a party myself. And then, after a fortnight, Belgravia House was ablaze with diamonds and their ladies, was the centre of town, a dance with the Prime Minister, a chat with the future king. And Anthony was everywhere at once. He poured drinks, offered coffee and tea, was all politeness to the ladies, saw to everything, always keeping an adoring eye on Darlington himself. He is delightful, Darlington, they said. How do you find these youths. You should be so happy, and we are even happier, for you are now well kept. But be careful, Harold, lest you loose your heart. And Darlington knew, this hope was in vain, he had already lost it.
He danced with Clarissa and she whispered, you fool, you adorable fool. We shall see, we shall see, what society says about you. I think you have charmed them all.
He is straight of the Norman conquest, the purest Norman I have seen for years, blue-blooded chap, he is, analyzed Professor Chatham, a Darwinian fellow from Cambridge. The blazing blue eyes, his straight jaw, his red lips, the shine of his skin, his height, hair blond as an autumn leaf, a Norman, I declare. And I am conquested finally, Darlington thought.
And then his ex-wife entered the room. He had not invited her, but she came with a young actor, and was instantly forgiven. So this is your new part of the collection. Congratulations. Now you make yourself a fool of the entire empire. We shall sail to Canada next week, Darlington fired back. And I forbid you to speak like that. He is my butler, and that is that. And the woman he had loved turned away in tears and left the room, joining some mutual friends.
It was a scandal outright. The never tounge-tied pythons of society spat venom. And Darlington knew what they were. They were jealous. That was all. Who wouldn‘t t have Anthony around him. They envied him. And his Lordship relished in it.
The renovations at Darlington Hall had been completed, and on a perfect autumn day, a day in which summer greets for a last time and the sun long conquers the sky, they travelled thereto, for it pleased Darlington to show Anthony all his possessions, his passions, his delights in gardening. And not for long the pillared portico of Darlington Hall commandeered its Hill amidst Beeches and Willow, the lake glistening, its fountains ablaze and its huge household bowing on the steps, happy for his lordship to return.
He gave a ball. For all the countryside, all the Earls, Sirs and Lords around, for it was hunting season, and the ladies had been desperate for some entertainment. He danced a lot, there was a recital of a German opera singer and some piano playing, it was a gay circle that revolved around him, and, of course, around Anthony. He took the ball by storm. The ladies were charmed to death by his manners, and Darlington shone like a new coin and bowed to everyone and made all of them feel at home. He thought of Jane Austen and her happy country balls. They would stay till Christmas, and then return to London, and the for spring to Paris.
In Paris, he took Anthony in the Opera, and then back to the Ritz, where they dined together as friends, class distinctions all dead. It was perhaps a mistake of Darlington, but soon in Cannes they were back to the old arrangement, Anthony taking command of the seaside villa that Darlington, inexplicably, had not visited in years. He went to the casino and lost a fortune, but he did not heed, and there was money enough. His Canadian Railway Bonds had developed into tenfold their initial worth, and Darlington had a new Swimming Pool installed.
And at night, when all was silent, Darlington awoke to a splashing sound. He went to the balcony, and there he was: Anthony, taking a night swim, glistening in the moonlight like a fish. Darlington went to bed again and slept till the next afternoon, when he was awakened by his butler, urging him to have tea. Now he went for a swim, asking for Gin Tonics. Suddenly his friend Lord Elfinstone was announced. Darlington had him asked for drinks at the pool, took a towel and had himself dressed in a seersucker suit, and then met his friend. Hardy, he said, how nice of you to come. Do stay a bit. Stay for a week. I‘ll have your luggage sent from the Palace Hotel. I don‘t take no for an answer. And lets go to the Casino tonight, I beg you, it is so much fun to loose money with his friends
And they went, leaving a worried Anthony behind, who didn‘t especially like these types of his Lordships friends. When they came home in the wee hours of the morning, they were in high spirits, asking for more and laughing like schoolboys. Darlington had not had so much fun in years. He motioned to Anthony, thank you, that would be all, but Anthony insisted to wait on his guests as long as they stayed, and had some extra rooms made ready.
Breakfast was a late affair, but the joyous atmosphere remained, and when the young German tycoon from next door made his entry, the day was in safe hands. The sun triumphed over the evening star still and they had had dinner on the grass and suddenly the wish for the pool was everywhere. When Darlington had left the party and all had gone to bed, he had a cigarette on his balcony. And sure as the gods wished there the splash was again, Anthony, swimming like a giant golden fish, ever so gracefully. And the next morning his Lordship smiled and said to him, you are a good swimmer, my dear Anthony. And Anthony blushed. It was so hot between the bed sheets, your lordship, I had to cool down a little. Pray, do, as you please, Darlington said. And from then on stayed up late, to see his butler swim.
It was an untenable situation. Society had a field day. If you go on like this, one anonymous letter said, you shall be destroyed in London. And Darlington laughed lightly, crumbled up the paper and lit it in an ashtray. Another letter, announcing lady Darlington with her new lover for next Monday, in three days time, was surely more alarming.
When his ex-wife appeared with her newest acquisition, both their friends warned them openly. A gentleman under the same roof with his ex-wife s lover AND his ex-wife was regarded as amoral throughout. To Darlington it seemed, that time itself stood still. They were a handsome couple, and of course he signed some checks to keep them on travelling to Brussels, under the condition that both departed immediately. So calm, if not reason, were restored to him.
From Cannes, they went on to Grasse, through a flowering countryside, with fields of roses accompanying their slow ascent to the ville, and Darlington fell so in love with that place and its perfumes that he enquired after a small house in the vicinity. He needed to be alone and took up rooms at Grasses best hotel, the Hotel des Parfums.
There, a kind of depression fell on the lord. He felt exhausted. And the more Anthony tried to lift his spirits, he failed. It is all in vain, thought, London will kill me. If I ever go there again. Nobody will understand me. I am ridiculed already. But with the ridiculousness of his situation he could live. Without Anthony, he could no longer.
And after some deep thought and unanswered letters, he awoke one morning to a new decision. He would face them all and not heed his own destruction in society, should this be his fate. And to Anthony he said: Are you happy, my boy. And the boy said, I could not be happier my lord. And that was that.
They returned to London in October, and found it much changed. He was greeted in his club by severe nods, and one evening, a certain general t. came to his lordships attention and enquired after his butler. Was he not perfect to join the army, to be drafted, to be trained in service. And Darlington said, well, a war Anthony would not survive, he would not survive. And with a puzzled face the general withdrew and shook his head.
The Prince of Wales drew him aside at Ascot and enquired after his health, and his ex wife, and whether he considered marrying again. And Darlington answered, as long as your Highness refrains, I consider it my duty to follow your example. He did not see the signs. And he did not wonder to be excluded from some dinner parties he had been a regular to. It was as if a mist settled around him. And he did not care.
He rode out one morning and met Mr. Dalloway, who barely greeted him and his seat in the House of Lords was soon ignored, as if his noble friends were shunning him. And then there was a letter sent to Anthony, urging him to leave his position, beseeching him to not fall for the corrupted whims of an ageing dandy. He had shown it to him and Darlington stared out of the window and said faintly, they hate happiness, wherever the see it. A gentleman must not be happy, to be part of society. Happiness is condemned by everyone. Happiness is amoral. And Anthony withdrew.
But life at Darlington Hall was as easy as ever. Darlington had gone early into the country this year, and he could rely on the allegiance of his household, and the deep understanding that bound his tenants to his family, and the general feeling that a Lord could be as eccentric as he pleased.
Darlington settled down a bit. He slowed down even his very movements, getting grace fuller and barely alluding to his old schoolboy days. He felt like in a dream. He wrote to his sister, after years of silence, and invited her to stay a fortnight with her extended family. It was unheard of. The household reacted with surprising efficiency, ordering food all around and to have fowl and deer, they sent out a hunt. The house was aired, the guest tracts were cleaned, the silver polished, wine and porcelain found. A family! After all these years! And young children, a menace that Darlington always had had difficulties with.
And Anthony? He had disappeared into an office, paying bills, ordering the refreshments, upping the wine cellar. It was a change for the lord, but he complied. There was no one better, and the whole household was relieved. At last! A trustworthy, hardworking butler. But through all his ordeals, he stood by the chair in front of the fire where his lordship required brandy and some conversation, and Anthony kept him all informed about proceedings.
Agatha, his sister, arrived with five boys and her husband, a humourless stock-trader from the city, who had given his lordship often his sound advice without his wife‘s knowing. They were heartingly received and welcomed, and the dinner following the visitors getting settled down and changing for the occasion, in long evening robes, dripping with jewels, the husband and his lordship in smokings. It was a delighting affair, lasting the whole evening. Anthony saw to everyone everywhere, showering the guests in the fulfilment of their wishes. A complete success, Darlington thought, and rejoined the children in his old playroom, where they fell on his little soldiers, like their forebears might have done in battle. Good stock, Darlington perceived.
His sons came, after they had heard about the stay of their aunt, and both of them talked to their father during a crocket game, something they had longed for years.
Perhaps he would buy some property in Scotland, to be even safer against indiscretions. But it would be a flight. Give them no room, Darlington thought. Fight back.
The children adored Anthony, and their mother was surely charmed. Only the stock broker held himself back with any comments and kept his moral dark thoughts to himself. But when they left, Darlington felt ready for Bath. Or Eastbourne, for Darlington loved the sea. He spent lavishly on a new carriage and they stayed at the Grand Hotel, as in the lords youth, overlooking the see like a white palace and a landmark on the shore, freshly after Victoria Regina and the Coronation, with his mother. His father would come down from the city and spend the weekends, always having his special train ready to depart on short notice to the cabinet meetings. Those were the days of Darlington‘s golden youth, when he was just another chap of high aristocracy, adored by everyone and always being witty and swimming out into the waves to exhaustion. He felt elated. His friends found him in highest spirits. Anthony went quite golden in the sun, and they had dinner on the terrace Darlington being waited upon, and being one in ten aristocrats who had brought their own servants.
Then an invitation arrived, beckoning Darlington to the Rothschild in Paris, for the wedding of their youngest daughter, Rebecca, and, with a relish, Darlington accepted. They would go to Paris, stay at the Meurice, tour the Louvre and then go on to Biarritz.
The wedding was a grand affair. The Présidente de la Republique had given a special permission to invite to the Petit Trianon at Versailles, and both bride and groom were of such startling happiness that Darlington waltzed with the young bride twice.
Darlington had not been at his house in Paris for years. He had sent an urgent message to his French lawyer in order to pay some staff and, miraculously, his French staff had the place aired and cleaned to his lordships full satisfaction. Paris society was much more open than London‘s and reacted to Darlington‘s presence with acute kindness and a tide of invitations, all of which the lord accepted with a flourish, and a quantity of flowers and little presents for the salons in the afternoons and evenings. The British ambassador gave his spring ball and there Darlington was presented to all the available beauties of the season, charming them without committing himself and being very vague generally. “He is the most desirable bachelor of this summer” the presiding ladies concluded and, “it would be a shame if we lost him to an American heiress”. And Darlington took the compliments as his understatement allowed, smiling a lot and feeling youthful without being too open about it. Anthony in the meantime took lessons in French, for he felt that maybe the lords restlessness would decrease and they would stay perhaps some time longer in France.
And then something unexpected happened: The Princess of Angoulème, Claire, fell in love. She was twenty-five, a beauty renown in society, unmarried and portrayed by countless painters since her youth, and she set it in her little head to woe and seduce the new arrival from London with all her grace and trickery and decisiveness that she could master, and she appeared at every party, salon and ball where Darlington was received, and tried to enchant him with her lively chatter and grace and wit, and Darlington responded in kind, without realizing that he was the only person of her attention. She managed to get an invitation to the British embassy‘s garden party and there, escaping her chaperone, the Duchesse d´Orléans, the princesse thrust, at an unregarded moment, a letter in Darlingtons hand, in which she poured out all the sentiments, hopes, desires and emotions of her young life, and hoped to touch Darlingtons heart.
And indeed she did. He sent her flowers and asked her out for a ride, and delighted in her careless chatter, and when he gave a little reception in his refurbished house for the Crème de la crème of Parisian Society. He did not forget the jeunesse dorée, all the Princesses friends and some revolutionary poets, and he saw to the wellbeing of all his guests, and showered Claire with pleasantries and small signs of his attachment - and Anthony saw all this but was silent, and a trifle sad, and his thoughts became darker, and his attentions to his lordship waned a little, but Darlington did not heed, for he thought that his butler‘s affections were unshaken and indeed unshakeable, and he was right to a certain extent, for Anthony was very loyal, and he had only Darlington‘s happiness in mind.
One morning Darlington awoke and had his coffee and his morning papers and, after some time, while getting dressed, asked Anthony out of a sudden feeling: “Anthony, my dear, what if I would marry again? Would I be happier and have a new purpose in life, and start all over again, and have, perhaps, some more children? What would you think? I have been so lonely but for you, and I am thankful for your service an for having been a good counsellor and friend, but what I fear the most is my heritage and inheritance going to my ex-wife, her lovers and my notorious sons, and be lost, or squandered in no time, and my seat in Parliament would be lost, and all my doings and honours forgotten. Would not there be a ghist of fresh air through the Princesse, and my life changed thoroughly, and all our fortunes bettered and more joyous, and I might be content in old age?” And Anthony was silent and brushed his lordships new tweeds, and after a while he answered, “your wish is my desire, and I would do everything to your pleasure, but a matter of such importance must be considered carefully, and perhaps your lordship needs some more time for so decisive a step, for a young girls heart might be broken easily, and, if I daresay so, your lordships heart also”. And he left the matter at that and resolved to prepare himself with all due respect to a change in the household and the situation in general, and did so in great secrecy and without giving himself away. And he increased his considerations for his future new mistresses wellbeing, and had flowers sent to her every day, choosing the bouquets himself, when Darlington was busy or simply forgot to do so, which was seldom but happened from time to time.
Anthony decided to be very attentive whenever the Princesse visited Darlington, and he tried to judge her soul from afar, and when he had the opportunity, very discreetly always and with great care. And in due course he could find nothing amiss in her behaviour, and he ventured with great care to win her affection and trust, and never missed the moment when he thought it better to leave the new-found lovers to themselves, whenever decency allowed it: When, for example, Darlington showed her the winter garden, or went to a walk with his newfound object of desire, for Claire was desirable indeed.
Darlington was torn apart between the possibilities that the new relationship would offer and his reluctance to give up his bachelorhood. And every morning he asked himself, and his butler, what he should do with his future. And after some time society judged it necessary that Darlington paid a visit to the aging Prince d´Angoulème, Claire‘s father, in the Faubourg, to discuss the matter and propose in the accepted fashion: “You love my daughter?”, the prince asked over some cognac, and Darlington answered: “Very much so. She is a treasure of my life, and I shall provide well for her.” And the Prince was content, and accepted his lordship, on one condition - the marriage should be postponed for a year, so that the lovers would have time enough to consider the matter with utmost care, and search their feelings, and guarantee their affections for each other, and be sure about there steps, for the outcome would be all-important.
The rumour about the betrothal reached London in no time, supposedly over the British envoy in Paris, and one morning a letter from Clarissa Dalloway arrived for Lord Darlington, which ran as follows: “My dear, I have heard about your plans and am delighted. But are you really prepared for the necessities of a marriage to a girl so much younger than you? Think of the consequences. And, to be quite honest, what about your butler, the source of your pleasure so far?” Indeed, Darlington thought, indeed. He was shaken between acceptance of the situation as it was and changing his life. One year was perhaps the right thing to do, he thought. Twelve Months, we shall see - and then Darlington took a decision.
Claire was a stunning beauty. She had a fragile bearing, and all her dresses complimented her bosom, her taille, which would have done a Medici honour. Her hands were white as her porcelain skin, and the rosy cheeks needed no Make up. It was at the time no easy task for a young girl to enter a room gracefully in one all-encompassing gesture, lending her hand for the gentlemen to be kissed, greeting the hostess and acquaintances in due order, then tiptoeing to a sofa while balancing a cup of tea and perhaps a rose-coloured petit four, then be seated, with a completely straight back and in the very minute starting a witty dialogue, all that in a dress with a five-foot satin train and high heels and a well showing décolleté, well adorned with rubies or sapphires, and last but not least a bouquet of spring flowers, which court etiquette required during Victoria‘s reign. She was remarkable for her education and she had heard mathematics and physics at the Sorbonne, being one of the first females to be allowed to do so, doubtlessly through the good contacts of her father to the university - he was a world-renown geologist - and some substantial contributions to diverse science projects in her families name. She was well versed in poetry and music, playing the harpsichord and - she sang very beautifully. She danced to the delight of her various companions, and some officers held bets about the duration of a waltz: the record lay with a dragoon, who waltzed with her for seventeen minutes straight. Oh, and how she laughed, she laughed like a butterfly‘s dance in the evening breeze, a colibri`s flight. Darlington knew all this well.
Yet he hesitated. His life would change in extremis, and he feared his new found happiness could diminish, could disappear into the nothingness of his earlier days, but for Anthony‘s kindness. But Claire reminded him of Marie-Antoinette, her light-footed ways and the sheer delight that she shone in. Yet Darlington hesitated.
Another matter suddenly dawned upon the lord and his life: The Prime Minister requested his attendance to a conference of European officials, who would convene in Geneva for a prolonged talk of European peace-keeping and the general outlook on the future of political factions of the continent. At first, Darlington did not feel up to the occasion and felt that his possibilities of influencing the matter in favour of the British Empire seemed to him diminished, since he felt his own being much more of a cosmopolite than favouring a single nation‘s need and its strategic needs. But in an afterthought he suddenly relished in the thought of seeing Lake Geneva again, and the Montblanc, and the shore where his confidante, the Empress of Austria-Hungary, Sisi, had met her fate in such tragic circumstances.
The preparations for the journey were extensive. Darlington was required to visit the conference for about a month, the minimum of time that was expected for the discussions. Anthony was busy as ever: He had a villa to rent, a building that had to meet all the requirements of a representative lodging, a home that was able to give room for larger dinner parties and receptions as well as intimate meetings for some of the most important politicians of the present time - he found a little palais on the quai d´x, whose occupants had left for a world tour, and he travelled a week early, to prepare the house just in time. His lordship was not amused about this, but he saw the reasonableness of the parting with his butler, and it gave him some space to deal with the princess on his own.
One night, Darlington had a dream. He had been late to bed, after a night in the opera, and some champagne, and a conversation with a dear friend, Spencer Elphinstone, whose daughter had married a young American, about her father was not too happy: “Too bad, an American, of all possible sons-in-law, an American! He asked me where I had bought my furniture. Bought! My furniture! It was outrageous! And, my friend, when are you to marry again? I hear a lot about a certain girl, and you seem to be a perfect match! Some children perhaps? Oh, I met your son in Newcastle, he bought a horse, quite the sportsman he is.” And Darlington felt his thoughts drain away. He didn‘t know how he had gotten home in the first place, and after he went to bed, he slept sound and fast, and then he dreamt.
He was on a white cliff, very high up at some seaside resort, and he looked down the cliff and saw a swimmer. In the waves, the youth struggled to come ashore, and it seemed to Darlington that the tide was rolling out, and the swimmer was loosing his strength. Darlington stood high up on the rocks and felt lost, for he couldn‘t help the swimmer, as was his wont. And then he saw a woman plunging out into the whiteness, after she had run from the white sands into the rolling sea, and she swam out to the swimming youth, and she struggled out to him, and she saved his life, just like that, and Darlington was happy, but he could not move. And then the pair came up on the shore, and it was Anthony, and it was the princess, and they came up to the lord and went past him, and Darlington could not speak, and they did no see him. And then, against the setting sun, they kissed each other, and Darlington felt a sudden sadness, and he was desperate to see them both embracing, and he could not do anything about it. And then Darlington woke in cold sweat, and after some time he cried, and cried, as he had not cried since his boyhood, when his father had died, and the principal of Eton had informed him of his father‘s death, on a cold summer morning. He was exempt from the lessons for a week, and he did not recover during those days, but cried until the hospital ward had given him something to calm him down. And then he slept for three days, and when he woke again, he knew, he was a man, and his childhood was over forever - he simply knew it. When Darlington stopped crying he went down the stairs and found his father‘s portrait in the library. And in the morning the maid found him fast asleep on a couch amidst his books, and she was very worried, and let him sleep till midday, when he was expected for a ride out with the Princess in the Bois de Boulogne. But he could not go to see her, and he sent a message and some flowers and had himself excused, and for the first time in a long time he had a bottle of whiskey for dinner, and after that he laughed hysterically, and the whole household was worried for some days, until the doctor came. And the doctor saw that something deeply troubled his Lordship, and after some deliberation the old gentleman sent a telegram to Geneva.
When Anthony had read the cable, he decided to take the night train to Paris, and in the morning he arrived, and found the house in an eerie silence. He went down to the servants quarters and opened the door to the kitchen and there met the cook. “Oh, monsieur”, she cried, “monsieur, enfin” and then she told everything that she knew of her master‘s illness, and that he had taken to bed for more than a week, and was very ill, and all the doctors who had come could not find a reason for his Lordships ailment. “You are our last hope, monsieur!”
“Has he asked for me”, Anthony enquired, and deep down he was desperate. And when it was time for his Lordships breakfast, he went up the stairs with his tray and knocked on the door to Darlington‘s bedroom. And when he opened the curtains, he turned and saw Darlington‘s face, and Anthony waited. He sat next to the bed and waited for more than an hour, and he was worried even more. And then he did something that he never had done before. He touched Darlington. He took his Lordships hands and held them. And Darlington moved his head in Anthony‘s direction and opened his eyes. And after some moments, the dullness in Darlington‘s eyes brightened, and he smiled, and he whispered; “Anthony, you have left me all alone, and this was no good idea. I have had some bad dreams. And now I would like to have some tea.” And some tea he got indeed.
Darlington recovered quite quickly, to the amazement of his servants, and the doctor proclaimed him fit for travelling in some days. So everything was packed and the house closed for the season. The only problem remained: What to do with the princess? Darlington called at her villa and was duly received with a certain coldness by the master of the house, her father, who seemed to be a bit reserved about his visitor. No, the princess had gone out for the day, and would not see him. So Darlington decided to write her a letter, and of its content we shall be silent. But after all he had gained some time for his decision, and there were other pressing matters, namely the upcoming conference. The Pullman was ordered, and in due course Darlington boarded his private compartment and went off to Geneva.
There he was received by the British Ambassador, who took him into confidence in a private conversation, and warned him of the German envoys, whose harsh and untrusting representation of the Kaiser‘s wishes and ambitions even now was a smoking gun to the peace in Europe for the time being. Darlington met his duties as a counsellor for the British and received the dispatches of her Majesty‘s government in their red boxes, and read them, and acted accordingly, mainly through his manners to other diplomats, and his elegance, and his tolerance for other views. In the evenings, he usually gave dinner to the ambassadors who had held the most distinguished opinions and mixed them with the most extreme opinion-leaders and tried to counsel between them and offer his advice, and every night he wrote a report to the British Authorities, and at night Anthony was most courteous and saw to it that his lordship had all that he needed, including some sandwiches and a Gin and Tonic.
Anthony was worried all the same, for he perceived that Darlington‘s fragile health was perhaps too threatened by his ordeals. He saw to it that daily visits were severely restricted and that the conferences Darlington visited would not be too overbearing, and that his lordship did not exceed his timetables. There were to be no meetings before breakfast, and indeed not before ten o‘clock, and Anthony cared for enough spare time for his master in order to give him ample space for recovering, especially on weekends.
Darlington worked hard and fought well, and his health had much improved. he was very busy with his reports and the Prime Minister sent him a letter of great politeness, asking him to continue with his work, and whether he would consider himself able to join the Empire‘s diplomatic service, a post in Washington would be free shortly. The Lord pondered the question, but refrained from a direct answer and played for time.
And then the Princess arrived. She took a suite at the Hotel de la Paix and word got around that she intended to stay as long as the conference was in session, and she went to the theatre and the opera, and showed, to the amazement of the general public, the latest fashion of Paris during her outings, and she took Geneva‘s society by storm. Her style was widely copied by the women of importance, and her schedule increased with every day. She was sure that she would meet Darlington in no time at all, and she made sure to be invited to the British embassy‘s ball at the end of the week, and prepared to be in presence on her own, to charm the attendants of the engagement, and she would not have it that Darlington tried to avoid her. On the second day of her stay she sent word to his residence, and it was with sheer luck that Anthony intercepted her note to the lord, and he undertook it himself to let Darlington know of her presence in the right moment, for he feared that his lordship would be too distracted by her and that he would react in an unforeseeable manner, and be disturbed in his activities. One evening before the ball he informed his master of the princesses‘ presence at tomorrows ball, and Darlington took the news without to be too troubled, and indeed he was delighted by the idea to meet her again, and he sent some flowers to the hotel, and he pondered to send her a tiara in his families possession from one of his Geneva bank vaults, a diamond studded dream that had not been worn for considerable time, since his mother had died, for her last official function, as a compliment to the princesses taste and as an adornment to the ball‘s exuberance and its dazzling English ladies. He called at the Hotel and after being admitted to her presence, he produced the etui of the jewels and asked her to have the grace to accept them for the evening, and she accepted but showed no other sign of her being in love of her English admirer.
The donation of the Darlington Tiara in society was seen as a sure sign of an official engagement to the Lord, and Darlington had not thought of this symbolism, and this was due to his being distracted by some more important issues, but even the Princess seemed to be assured that she was courted by him even during the ball, for he asked her for every dance, which was duly reported in the press, and indeed they made a spectacular pair, and it was noted that Darlington had not been seen in more splendid countenance since he had arrived in Switzerland - even the French ambassador took the princess by his side and uttered under his breath “your grace has been the best influence in the history of French diplomacy and the English for some time”, and she took the compliment slightly offhand. She did not quite understand what the envoy had meant with his words for she thought only of her own happiness - she loved social functions in general and the ball provided her to exude all her charm, and she took the general adoration of her beauty and manners with the delight of every young girl that was the centre of a season.
When Darlington came to his library, he had some champagne and sat down in front of the fireplace. Anthony was present, and while Darlington opened some letters and invitations, he asked his butler offhandedly: They have offered me a position in America, how would you be pleased by some time in Washington? And Anthony did not answer, as he was not expected to, but to himself he thought, wherever, if we go together. He had had a cousin who had gone to the new world, and he knew not much about it, apart from that it was reputed to be free and all men there were indeed created equal, and that there were no class distinctions, and of the wild west he had heard, and that the land rolled on to the pacific in mind-boggling dimensions. And Darlington nodded off in his chair and asked himself just before whether a flight to the States would rescue him from the princesse´s attention.
to be continued, March 17, 2007
… colours his hair. over the sink. at home. so that nobody knows. His daughter: “Come on dad, look in the mirror!”
I am old and I have had
more than my share of good and bad.
I’ve had love and sorrow, seen sudden death
and been left alone and of love bereft.
I thought I would never love again
and I thought my life was grief and pain.
The edge between life and death was thin,
but then I discovered discipline.
I learned to smile when I felt sad,
I learned to take the good and bad,
I learned to care a great deal more
for the world about me than before.
I began to forget the “Me” and “I”
and joined in life as it rolled by;
this may not mean sheer ecstasy
but is better by far than “I” and “Me.”
10. Dezember 2008, 10.41 Uhr
Ich habe überlebt. Das schreibt sich so leicht dahin. Und wahrscheinlich liest es sich auch einfach. Man liest leicht darüber hinweg, weil Worte heute so leicht gesagt sind und man die, die ich da gebrauche, schon oft gelesen hat. Andererseits haben sie auch eine schlichte Schönheit. An der ich mich festhalten will. Anklammern, wie ein Ertrinkender. Weil ich weiss, dass sie wahr sind: Ich habe überlebt. Vielen mit meiner Krankheit gelingt dies eben nicht - über fünfzehn Prozent meiner Leidensgenossen schaffen es nicht, zu überleben, und wahrscheinlich ist die Dunkelziffer sogar höher, weil diese Krankheit erst gar nicht erkannt wird. Also nochmal, und diesmal voller Dankbarkeit: Ich habe überlebt. Und das grenzt an ein Wunder.
Dabei weiss ich gar nicht, wann alles anfing. Ich wollte schon lange darüber schreiben, Freunde sagten es mir, mein Arzt, meine Ärzte drängten mich, aber ich hatte Angst. Furchtbare Angst. All das wieder zu durchleben, wieder hinabzustürzen in die Katarakte des Grauens, doch jetzt bin ich soweit. Vielleicht ist es ein später Sieg. Aber es ist ein Sieg.
Ich weiss nur noch, dass ich eines Tages bei Cartier sitze. Am Neuen Wall in Hamburg, einer der teuersten Einkaufstrassen der Republik, manche sagen Europas. Ich habe eine Uhr am Arm. Eine brilliantbesetzte, was heisst besetzt, eine Pasha, die quasi nur aus Diamanten besteht, und ich soll sie kaufen. Man erwartet es gewissermassen, der Verkäufer schenkt mir noch einen Champagner ein und sagt “Sie können die Hundertzwanzigtausend auch in Tranchen anweisen”, und ich sitze da, im oberen Stockwerk, an einem Tisch aus dunklem Holz auf einem kleinen Fauteuil und denke, aufwachend aus einem bösen Traum, wo bin ich eigentlich und was mache ich da? - und ich murmele irgendetwas und stehe auf und verbeuge mich formvollendet, wie es nunmal meine Art ist, und gehe langsam die Treppe hinunter und bin plötzlich auf der Strasse und weiss nichts mehr. Und habe einfach nur Angst, langsam wahnsinnig zu werden.
Luxushotels haben mit meiner Krankheit kein Problem. Sie sind Exzentriker gewöhnt, und es ist das mindeste, zu sagen, man sei exzentrisch, es ist noch die mildeste Form des Urteils, wenn man hat, was ich habe, aber iorgendwann merkt es eben jemand, so wie der Portier des Atlantic, der - ich habe drei Tage im Foyer verbracht - der zu mir tritt und sagt “Ihre Rolle ist mir völlig unklar”. Er bittet mich nicht zu gehen aber “Beschränken Sie Ihre Kontaktaufnahme zu unseren Gästen bitte auf das Nötigste. Das Nötigste!” Da habe ich schon ein drei Gänge-Menü im Drei-Sterne-Restaurant des Hauses verspeist, ohne zahlen zu können. Denn ich bin ruiniert. Meine Krankheit hat mich ruiniert.
Sie hat meine Beziehung zerstört, weil ich nicht mehr weiss, mit wem ich schlafe und warum ich mit jemandem schlafe, ich bin vor meinem Freund hundertmal weinend zusammengebrochen, ich habe ihn angeschrien und die Tür zum Schlafzimmer, unserem Schlafzimmer, eingetreten, und er ist verzweifelt und sagt “ich halte das nicht mehr aus”. Denn auch andere halten die Krankheit irgendwann nicht mehr aus. Und ich selbst halte sie nicht mehr aus.
Manisch-bipolare Depression. Auch das schreibt sich einfach so hin. Es ist nur ein Wort, das ein wenig medizinisch klingt und irgendwie nach Karbol riecht, nach Krankenhausfluren und Zimmergenossen, nach einem Gabelstaplerfahrer in der offenen Psychiatrie und einem Malermeister auf meinem Zimmer. Aber hinter dem Wort, da lauert die Hölle.
Manchmal ist es eine schöne Hölle. Ich weiss nicht, was Dante dazu sagt, vielleicht ist es ja eine der Vorhöllen, eine von denen, um die die katholische Kirche bat um die griechischen Philosophen unterzubringen, die von Christus ja noch nichts ahnen konnten, eine Hölle in guter, in bester Gesellschaft: Virginia Woolf trifft man darin und Sylvia Plath, Tschaikowsky und wohl Heath Ledger. Man ist nicht allein, so glaubt man. Aber in Wirklichkeit ist man allein.
Ich bin auf dem Weg nach Luzern, allein. Der schweizerische Textilverband hat mich zu einer Modenschau eingeladen, zur “Gwand”, so heisst das, wenn man in der schweizerischen Einöde am Vierwaldstätter See, einem konservativ-katholischen Pflaster ein paar hunderttausend Franken in die kristallklare Bergluft verpulvert, in dem man zahllose Models in einem Sonderzug aus Paris herbeischafft und sie an einem Abend vor dreitausend Gästen laufen lässt, um ein wenig Mode zu zeigen. Ich sitze allein im Flieger und habe einen Smoking an und einen Nerz, weil ich erst den späten Flug geschafft habe und mich nicht mehr umziehen kann für den Empfang am Abend. Denn am Abend vorher habe ich in einem Hamburger Club mit nacktem Oberkörper getanzt, wieder einmal, natürlich als einziger. Ich soll ein Mädchen so sehr in die Wade gebissen haben, dass sie einen Bluterguss bekam, ich war wohl exzentrisch, egal. Ich trinke Champagner schon im Flieger und noch einen Weisswein im Zug von Zürich nach Luzern und springe ins Taxi und lasse mein Gepäck ins Hotel bringen und werfe mich an die Garderobe der Messehalle und werde von gnädiger, flinker Hand an meinen Platz in erster Reihe begleitet und sehe schöne Menschen in schönen Kleidern, hunderte und fühle mich wunderbar. Nach der Schau parliere ich mit der Pressechefin, “so schön, dass Sie es noch geschafft haben” und ich denke, ja, aber wo ist der Champagner, und dann fahren wir, ein paar Jungs von der GQ, die Baronin der “FAZ am Sonntag” und ich ins Casino und essen dort, und Raf Simons der Designer, der den Preis gewonnen hat (irgendjemand gewinnt immer einen Preis), sitzt neben mir und ich parliere auf französisch auch mit ihm. Da denke ich noch, ich bin im Paradies. Aber es ist schon die Hölle. Ich weiss es nur noch nicht. Irgendwann gehe ich dann hinunter ins Foyer, wo die Models tanzen, und ich tanze mit, und als sie mich fragen, ob ich noch mitkommen will woanders hin, zu einer Privatparty, sage ich natürlich zu. Ich fühle mich lebendig und glücklich, keine zwei Tage zuvor wollte ich mich noch umbringen - auch das schreibt sich übrigens leicht: sich umbringen. Aber man will es wirklich, man blickt auf die weissen Dachbalken in der Wohnung und schnürt einen weissen Ledergürtel darum und legt ihn sich um den Hals und ruckelt mit dem Stuhl auf dem man steht, und irgendein Engel flüstert einem ins Ohr “das willst Du doch gar nicht”. Und dann tut man es nicht. Vorerst. Denn vielleicht kommt das Glück, dieses rauschend Glück mit Adlerschwingen wieder herbeigerauscht, und tatsächlich hier in der Schweiz, am Vierwaldstätter See ist es plötzlich wieder da: Ich tanze mit wunderschönen Mädchen und noch schöneren Jungs, ich knutsche herum und alle mögen mich (das denkt man immer) und ich denke nicht an die Pillen, die mir mein Psychiater schon längst verschrieben hat und die ich immer bei mir haben soll, und irgendwann graut der Morgen über dem See, über dem funkelnden Neuschnee, und eine Abordnung wunderschöner Menschen bringt mich ins Hotel, direkt am Wasser, den Schweizerhof.
Es ist ein Haus in reinem Belle Epoque, in Pastellfarben, Stuck und Antiquitäten gehalten, auf der Internetseite heisst es: “Es wurde 1845 erbaut und gehört zu den wenigen Hotels der Schweiz, die kunsthistorisch von nationaler Bedeutung sind. Die ursprüngliche Architektur blieb bis heute bewahrt. Die Innenräume kennen nichts Vergleichbares. Im Hotel Schweizerhof Luzern waren Kaiser und Kaiserinnen, Königinnen und Könige zu Gast, Schriftsteller und Musiker. Tolstoi schrieb hier eine Erzählung, Wagner vollendete «Tristan und Isolde» und traf sich mit Ludwig II.” Und ich habe dort eine Suite. Das ist wichtig, weil es zum Glücksrausch gehört. Zum Glücksrausch, der bald in der Hölle endet. Die Kulisse stimmt, die Darsteller sind versammelt, das Drama, meine Herrschaften, kann seinen Lauf nehmen.
Man ist sehr höflich in Luzern. Auch um drei Uhr Morgens, gerade um drei Uhr morgens, und wenn der Gast aus Deutschland zum vierten mal an der Rezeption anklingeln lässt, weil er Matrix Revolutions auf dem Pay TV gucken will, aber die Nummernkombination irgendwie nicht checkt, kommt der Portier nach oben und macht das klar. Ich kann nicht schlafen. Um sechs Uhr bitte ich die Telefonzentrale, mir die Nummer der Neuen Züricher Zeitung rauszusuchen. Ich rufe dort an und verkünde einer völlig überforderten Telefonistin, ich hätte eine Nachricht für die Seite eins: “Der Prinz von Preussen, zur Zeit in Luzern, äussert seine tiefe Besorgnis über die Situation im Kosovo”. Das habe ich bei der deutschen Presseagentur in London gelernt, da kommen immer die Briefe des Aussenministeriums, in der die Regierung ihrer Majestät “its deep concern” ausdrückt. Der Prinz von Preussen, das bin ich.
Es erscheint mir nur schlüssig. Meine Mutter kommt aus Ostpreussen, ich bin aufgewachsen wie Prinzchen (das sagt Charles Aznavour immer zur Mutter von Oskar Mazerath in der Schlöndorff-Verfilmung der “Blechtrommel”), ich liege nicht weit von Tolstois Bett und ich fühle mich prächtig. Um sieben bitte ich an der Rezeption um ein paar lange, schwarze Baumwollstrümpfe und wundere mich nicht, warum man mir sie nicht bringt. Um acht frage ich, ob die Baronin von der “FAZ am Sonntag” schon frühstückt, aber die ist zum Glück schon abgereist. Um Neun bemerke ich, dass etwas nicht stimmt.
Ich erfrage an der Rezeption - es ist jetzt zehn, und die Sonne strahlt über dem See - die Nummer einer Ärztin. Ich rufe an, ich erkläre meine Lage, die nette Schweizerin (Gott lobe das Schweizer Gesundheitssystem!) klingt besorgt und sagt “Nehmen Sie ihre Pillen, gehe Sie spazieren und geben Sie um Gottes Willen kein Geld aus!” Pillen? Was für Pillen? Meine letzten habe ich gestern abend eingenommen, ich wollte ja auch nur einen Tag von Hamburg wegsein, ausserdem geht es mir so gut, wie schon lange nicht.
Ich kleide mich an und gehe ins Frühstückszimmer, und siehe! da sitzen, dank der schweizerischen Grosszügigkeit des Textilverbandes, die ganzen Models und sind bester Stimmung und ich werde mit grossem Hallo begrüsst und ob ich nicht noch mitkommen wolle in diese Boutique und natürlich will ich und ich buche mein Business Class Ticket um und irgendwann ist es Abend und ich habe mir einen Anzug von Gucci für tausend Franken gekauft und alle sind abgereist, bis auf die Veranstalterin, die sich rührend um mich kümmert, auch wenn sie schon sagt, dass ich ein wenig zu viel spreche. Mein Telefon klingelt. Ein Fotograf aus Genf ist dran und sagt er hätte da ein superheisses Interview mit einem Neffen von Saddam und ob ich nicht mal beim Stern anrufen wolle. Ich rufe meinen Freund Hans-Herrman Klare an, den Auslandschef, es ist schon abend, und avisiere eine Titelgeschichte: “Und wenn ihr die nicht wollt, dann eben die Vanity Fair in New York…” Und Hans-Herrman fragt sich, so sagt er später, schon jetzt, ob ich nicht einen manischen Schub hätte. Aber noch klinge ich gut, nur etwas schnell eben, und ausserdem muss er ein Heft machen, und das Unheil nimmt seinen Lauf. Mittlerweile ist der letzte Flieger weg. Ich denke “tant pis!” und beschliesse, noch zu bleiben. Im Schweizerhof ist man hocherfreut, natürlich sei meine Suite bereit, aber der Textilverband habe nur eine Nacht bezahlt, und ob man meine Kreditkarte, und ja, man kann.
Leider sind jetzt alle weg. Es ist spät. Ich habe den Smoking angezogen, um mit dem Stuck unten zu harmonieren. Ich sitze an der Hotelbar und Richard ruft an. Auftritt Richard! Der zweite Akt beginnt.
Ob ich noch weiss, wer er sei, fragt er, und ich hätte ihm am Vorabend meine Nummer gegeben, und ob er vorbeikommen könne, und ich sage ja, und eine halbe Stunde später steht er in der Halle, die bald meine Hölle werden wird. Und sieht aus wie ein junger Gott. Was niemanden wundert, weil er “Mr. Schweiz Cola Light 2003″ war. Und er ist wirklich ziemlich nett. Und dieser Akzent! Und wir reden und reden, halt, eher rede ich, aber er hört zu und guckt lieb und irgendwann muss er gehen und ich bringe ihn zur Tür. Ich küsse ihn auf beide Wangen, so à la francais, und an der Rezeption wird gelächelt. Und ich komme zurück und der Barpianist spielt die Kinderszenen von Robert Schumann, die habe ich mir gewünscht. Was soll ich eigentlich in Hamburg? Oder in Berlin? Mein Freund verlässt mich grade, wir streiten ohnehin nur noch, und ein wenig wird mein Geld schon noch reichen. Ausserdem ist da ja auch noch das Interview mit dem Neffen von Saddam. ich gehe an den Empfang und buche das Zimmer für die ganze Woche, die Nacht zu 350 Franken. Dann gehe ich zu Bett. Ich habe Richard. Ich bin glücklich.
Am nächsten Tag wache ich auf und gehe erstmal spazieren. Wer beschreibt die Ufer des Vierwaldstätter Sees? Die Schwäne darauf, umrahmt von den Berggipfeln, die glasklare Luft, den reinen Schnee? Ich, wer sonst. Habe ich die Bentleys erwähnt? Die Ferraris, die Aston Martins, die Rolls Royces? Doch dazu später mehr. Ah, das Palace Hotel! Ich gehe hinein, werfe meinen Pelz irgendwohin und lasse mir Suiten zeigen. Eine mit Schreibtisch am See bitte. Man bedauert, die habe eine saudische Prinzessin belegt, ob man mir ein anderes Angebot machen könne, ich hinterlasse meine Nummer, die des Prinzen von Preussen. Und wer wollte einem so höflichen jungen Mann der so solvent aussieht in seinem Nerz schon widersprechen? Ich kaufe mir eine Piccolo Champagner. Ah, das Leben! Ich rufe Richard an und er kommt an den See und wir gehen spazieren, Arm in Arm und wir reden und reden, nein, ich rede und rede, und ich erzähle ihm von meinem Freund und meiner Krankheit. ob ich nicht meine Pillen bräuchte, fragt er. Was für Pillen? Ich bin doch glücklich! Ich schlürfe die Luft und ich gucke zum Kongresszentrum von Jean Nouvel und habe eine Idee. Warum nicht eine Geschichte schreiben für die Reise beim Stern, schliesslich muss ja jemand das Hotel zahlen. Richard bringt mich dahin zurück und es wartet ein Fax, das Interview mit dem Neffen von Saddam. Das faxe ich umgehend an den Stern und als der ablehnt, faxe ich es einfach an meinen Freund Dominick Dunne bei der Vanity Fair. Eigentlich läuft doch alles. Ich nehme ein spätes Frühstück und gehe zurück an den See, diesmal rechts herum, in die Stadt, die wirklich wunderschön ist. Ich mache mir Notizen. Irgendwann stehe ich vor dem Bahnhof und sehe das Schild der Notaufnahme. Kann ja nicht schaden. Ich erzähle dem diensthabenden Arzt von meiner Krankheit und dass ich nach Luzern ziehen wolle und er fragt “aber ist denn das realistisch?” Klar ist es das. Aber meine Pillen bräuchte ich schon noch. Er gibt mir ein Rezept mit. Es wird später Nachmittag. Da habe ich eine Idee, eine brilliante, wie ich finde. Was tut ein junger Mann von einigem Vermögen in der Schweiz? Er eröffnet ein Konto.
Bei der UBS will man eine Mindesteinlage von 20000 Franken. Die habe ich irgendwie gerade nicht dabei. Doch die Luzerner Kantonalsbank ist die Rettung: Natürlich, ein Konto, ein kleines, geheimes. Ja, und ich hätte da noch einen Schweizer Staatsbürger, dem ich Kontovollmacht geben möchte, einen gewissen Richard, und man ist sehr zuvorkommend, natürlich, gar kein Problem, hier seien die Unterlagen, nur noch unterschreiben müsste der Herr. Wann man denn mit ersten Einlagen rechnen könne? Bald, sage ich, bald. Und als ich Richard die Formulare vorlege am Abend in der Bar, der Pianist spielt die Kinderszenen, sagt er “Bischt du verrückt?” und unterschreibt. Wie recht er hat mit diesem einen kurzen Satz, ich bin noch weit entfernt, das zu erkennen. Wir verabschieden uns. Ich gehe essen, 150 Schweizer Franken, unten im Hotel, Austern und irgendwas, ein Bischof setzt sich an den Nebentisch, den ich ehrerbietig grüsse, ein Prinz von Preussen weiss schliesslich, was sich gehört. Dass ich eine Goldkette schon vor Tagen aus ähnlichen Gründen einem Model geschenkt habe, einfach, weil der Junge lächelte, ich bemerke es erst jetzt. Ach so, und die silberne Taschenuhr von Bucherer habe ich ja auch noch gekauft… Egal, Hauptsache, das Gefühl hält an. Ich gehe irgendwann zu Bett. Die Pillen sehen irgendwie komisch aus. Oben sind es zwei grüne, dann kommen zwei grössere gelbe, dann eine riesige rote. Warum soll ich die nehmen? Schlafen kann ich, wenn ich tot bin. Bühne frei für den dritten Akt!
Am nächsten morgen terrorisiere ich das Reiseressort des Stern mit der Nachricht, ich werde ein Stück über Luzern schreiben, doch das nur nebenbei. Ich habe Grösseres vor. Warum nicht eine Modegeschichte fotografieren, so à la “young swiss stylish men”, wenn der Stern sie nicht will, für die QUEST vielleicht, ich bin ja gar kein schlechter Fotograf, und mit Richard fange ich an, wann hat man schliesslich schon mal den “Mr. Schweiz zur Verfügung?” Ich brauche einen Bentley: Und wie bekommt man einen Bentley? Man ruft in Berlin an, lässt sich die adelige Pressechefin geben, erzählt ihr ein wenig, redet sie mit “Durchlaucht” an, und zwei Stunden später geht es nur noch um die Frage, ob man das neue Coupé haben will, in Racing Green (natürlich nicht) oder die Limousine in Schwarz (natürlich), und um zwei steht ein Bentley Arnage vor der Tür samt Fahrer. Zum Glück hat Richard Zeit und coole Klamotten, ich habe mir eine Kamera geliehen, und ab dafür! Was braucht man für gute Fotos, habe ich Patrick Demarchelier mal gefragt. “Schöne Menschen, viel Luxus und gutes Material” - nichts einfacher als das! Als wir fertig sind und der Bentley die Hotelauffahrt wieder verlässt, sieht mich das Hotelpersonal ganz anders an. Kaum zu glauben, der ohnehin kaum zu verbessernde Service wird noch besser. Ob Hoheit noch irgendwelche Wünsche hätten. Hoheit! Als Richard wieder zu seinem Job muss, schwebe ich im siebten Himmel. Das es die siebte Vorhölle werden wird, ahnen nur die Götter.
Ich rufe meine Eltern an und sage, ich habe geheiratet. Meine Mutter fällt aus allen Wolken. Ich sage, wenn man mit einem Menschen zusammen ein Konto eröffnet, sei das schon so gut wie. Mein Vater wird die Geschichte irgendwann später erzählen und dabei die Hand vor seiner Stirn hin und her wedeln, so wie man es tut, wenn man einen Dachschaden beschreibt. Leider kann ich ihn durchs Handy nicht sehen. Wahrscheinlich sind meine Eltern da schon verzweifelt, schliesslich ist es mein dritter Anruf aus der Schweiz, an einem Tag. Ich telefoniere ja auch mit New York, mit Gott und der Welt. Niemand hält mich auf, niemand sagt, das kannst du dir nicht leisten. Am Ende werde ich für 3000 Euro telefoniert haben - die zahle ich heute noch ab. Doch das ist jetzt nicht wichtig. Ich muss ja noch die Radierung von Picasso in der kleinen Galerie am Seeufer optionieren, das freundliche Angebot des Palace Hotel über 6000 Franken für eine Woche lehne ich dann doch abg. Am Abend hat Richard nur wenig Zeit, er muss zum Volleyball. Macht nichts, dann gehe ich halt aus. Zum Glück spiele ich nur ungern Roulette, und das Publikum im Casino ist mir zu alt. Dass das Publikum der einzigen Disco am Platze hauptsächlich aus gewaltbereiten Exilrussen besteht, merke ich erst, als man mich aus der mit roter Kordel abgeteilten VIP-Lounge förmlich hinausprügelt. Und das einem Prinzen von Preussen! Als ich am nächsten Morgen anfange, amerikanische Kleinkinder zu fotografieren - es gibt einen Frühstücksempfang der “Society of Americans in Switzerland” oder so ähnlich, ist mein einziges Pech, dass die Vorsitzende den echten Prinzen aus Berlin kennt. “Oh, he is mad”, sage ich. “No, he isn´t”, sagt sie. Langsam merke ich, dass die Leute unfreundlicher werden. Es ist immer dasselbe: Erstaunen, Entzücken, Entsetzen. Die feine Linie zwischen Exzentrik und offener Manie wird zum Grand Canyon. Macht auch nichts, geh ich halt zum Juwelier nebenan und lasse mir Ringe vorführen. Ob ich am Abend zu einer kleinen Soirée kommen wolle. Natürlich will ich. Und Richard nehme ich mit. Und fotografiere ein wenig. Ganz spät am abend, da ist Richard schon weg, gibt mir einer der Soirée-Kellner drei ungeöffnete Austern in die Hand, die seien noch übrig. Ich gehe mit den nassen Austern in der Hand durch die Belle-Epoque-Hotelhalle ins Restaurant und bitte den Saalchef, sie mir doch bitte an der Bar auf Eis zu servieren. “Selbstverständlich, euer Hoheit”, sagt der und es geschieht. Es ist die Apotheose.
Ach ja, die Modegeschichte, “Young stylisch Swiss” oder so ähnlich. Das Interview mit Husseins Neffen hat Dominick Dunne inzwischen per Fax abgelehnt. Und American Express hat eine meiner drei Kreditkarten eingezogen. Mir egal. Dass Dada, eine Hamburger Freundin, meine dringende Bitte, sie möge doch den nächsten Flieger nehmen, mit “Harald, bist Du Herr Deiner Sinne” beantwortet hat, fällt da nicht weiter ins Gewicht. Meine Hotelrechnung addiert sich da schon auf über 2000 Franken. Was soll´s? Man lebt nur einmal. Also: Models müssen her. Als ich den Art Director vom Stern telefonisch überreden will, mir ein paar zu schicken, legt der freundlich auf. Da kommt mir die Idee. Ich stürze mich ins Nachtleben und scoute selbst.
Um zwei Uhr morgens werde ich in einer Disco fündig. Zwei Uhr! Das wird später noch wichtig.
Die beiden sagen zu, sie würden am nächsten Nachmittag ins Hotelfoyer kommen. Sehr gut. Und natürlich sehr hübsch. Ich fotografiere sie überall und komme dann auf die Idee, ein paar stills auf meiner Suite zu machen, mit allen beiden. Das wird später noch wichtig. Dass ich wahrscheinlich gar keinen Film drin habe vor lauter Manie wird auch noch sehr wichtig. Dass einer der Jungen, das von mir vorbereitete Model Release (eine Erlaubnis, die Bilder zu veröffentlichen) nicht unterzeichen kann, weil er noch keine sechzehn ist, wird zum springenden Punkt, the salient point. Ich erstarre. Ich bitte ihn, seine Eltern zu kontaktieren. Zwei Stunden später sitzen sie unten im Foyer. Ich soll ja sehr nett gewesen sein, wird es später heissen. Ich bin auch nett. So nett, dass ich der Mutter, nachdem alles geklärt ist und sie die Erlaubnis für eine Verwendung der Fotos erteilt hat, die Nummer einer Stern-Redakteurin gebe, damit sie sich über meinen untadeligen Leumund überzeugen kann. Untadelig! Das ist wichtig. Und die Tatsache, dass ich meine Pillen inzwischen beim Concierge hinterlegt habe und im Stundentakt nach ihnen verlange. Was ein Junge unter Sechzehn morgens um zwei in einer Disco zu suchen hat, frage ich nicht. Das Unheil nimmt seinen Lauf. Der vierte Akt naht, es ist der letzte.
Am nächsten Tag fahre ich mit einem der weissen Schiffe über den Vierwaldstätter See, als meine Mailbox sich meldet. Die Reisechefin vom Stern schreit darauf herum. Ich begreife gar nichts und rufe eine Kulturredakteurin an. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Mutter des Jungen sich erkundigt hat, aber niemand so recht Bescheid weiss. Das einzige, was beim Stern ankommen wird, ist das Wort “minderjährig”. Was man mir in Hamburg daraufhin unterstellt, ist eigentlich justitiabel. Sogar mein sehr konservativer Vater wird später sagen, er wisse nicht, was die überhaupt wollen, an jeder Bahnhofsbuchhandlung seien die abgebildeten Models in den Hochglanzmagazinen keine vierzehn. Und dass der Chefredakteur vom Stern auch noch bei der Financial Times anruft und die mir daraufhin die Zusammenarbeit verweigert, sei nur am Rande vermerkt. Es ist mir inzwischen auch egal. Ich bin mit meinem Gewissen im Reinen. Ich schon. Zwar reise ich etwas überstürzt ab, bin aber von meiner Unschuld überzeugt. Ausserdem wirken inzwischen endlich meine Pillen.
Epilog: “Es gibt in Deutschland aufgrund der nationalsozialistischen Euthanasievergangenheit”, so mein koryphäenhafter Psychiater, Dr. Ziegeler, “grosse Berührungsängste mit dem Thema psychischer Krankheiten”. Dass “in jedem Bus mit hundert Fahrgästen mindestens ein psychisch Kranker” sitzt, sagt mein Therapeut. Der mich nach Hause geschickt hat, mit den Worten, er bewundere mich. Weil ich die Krankheit besiegt habe. Voller Energie, das sei eine grosse Leistung. Und dass ich wieder schreibe.
Die Krankheit hat fast mein Leben zerstört. Sie hat mich sieben Jahre gekostet. Ich bin ruiniert. Ich habe Angst, Leuten zu begegnen, die mich womöglich manisch erlebt haben. Die depressiven, höllenhaften Phasen bekommt ja niemand mit, wenn man im Bett liegt, allein, und nur noch an Selbstmord denkt. Ich erzähle offen von meiner Krankheit. Ich wünsche sie meinem schlimmsten Feinde nicht. Ich kitte meine Karriere zusammen, was in diesen Zeiten nicht einfach ist. Aber: Ich habe überlebt.
HARALD NICOLAS STAZOL
The label DIYNAMIC was founded in connection with the party services DIY and carries its philosophy already in its name: do it yourself!
In a very short time the Hamburg label could attract attention to its music and found fans worldwide. In a time, in which everything had to be most minimalistic, DJ´s´and Clubbers were amazed. Meloudiousness and Deepness - there is no contradiction to Detroit and Chicago. So the DIYNAMIC-sound was defined by the protagonists of the label, Solumun as producer, H.O.S.H., Stimming, the collective Turmstrasse and Paulo Olarte. The Artists are the backbone of DIYNAMIC, they care for a constant policy of publications and trust the connected booking of DIY. These pillars of DIYNAMIC and the constanly growing pool aof new artists as Ost&Kjex, Jay Shepheard and Solar&Poppke are presently at home in Sao Paulo, New York, Tokio, London; berlin, Barcelona and Kassel. The international breaktrough were titels and hits “firebird and miracle of ice” (german: Feuervogel/Eiszauber” and “Steppenwolf” - Part ! of the CD-compliation “Saturday I am in love” was just released. The outstanding postition of Diynamics in a cosmopolitan sphere is shown through the remixes of the well-known artists Jerome Sydenham, Anja Schneider, Jimpster, Jackmate, Lawrence, Motorcitysoul, Argy, Guido Schneider and many more. DIYNAMICS has not been constructed on the green table but through a long and thorough networking as: cultural communities, club nights, readings and exhibitions between Hamburg and Berlin. The founders Adriano Trolio and Mladen Solomun never had a masterplan but gave themselves to a natrual flow of developments. After years of learning and doing through disciplines as marketing, dry construction, filmproducing or clubbooking they invented their party-series of DIY - the wildest and most loved party in Hamburg so far. Two years later there followed the logical next step of founding diynamic, whose history of music is written on and on in Hamburg. An end is not in sight so far.