C.-A. Rebaf - Mahler in love with Monroe?

The next morning, I woke up and was dizzy with a dream. It was one of those that was so realistic that I could not distinguish between dream and reality, so it took me some time to sort out my thoughts:

My dad played the lead role in my nightly drama. He told me about a music teacher as a little girl. He had been so obsessed with his favorite composer that he had changed his appearance to be quite similar: he had worn glasses, although he actually did not need any, and had his hair provided with light gray tears and combed straight back, so that his high forehead emphasized his face and that he was very close to one of the few photographs of his idol. Then the story became dramatic, for the teacher and my father as his young pupil would have been favored by the same woman, a classmate of my father's, into which both men had fallen in love. The woman had then fled from the two in a distant desert, where also everywhere signs with the radioactivity symbol had stood. My father had disappointed me and said in tears that he had lost the first love of his life ... At this point tore the dream.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the name of the musician, the imitator or the composer. One thing was clear to me now: The person my father had described reminded me of the strange traveler in the red Paco yesterday. Did I know him?

Golie opened his eyes and slipped under my blanket for our morning cuddle ritual. We spooned and he enthusiastically asked me if he could go to the organist again today. For some time, the five-year-old spent a lot of time with the friendly blond man.

With Steffen, that was his name, we had become friends. I trusted him completely, because he did not dislike me either. However, he had blocked all my timid approach attempts. He just seemed to be in love with the music, or better with his organ, or better, with what was left of it.

Since there was no electricity supply after the disaster, Steffen always needed a helper who could kick the huge organ bellows. He also proudly told me that he painstakingly rebuilt all electrical mechanisms to control the registers into an original mechanics. Only because of this did the royal instrument work again. Years went by, during which I learned to grow ever more beautiful potatoes, which I could offer to Mr. Mayr for bartering. Steffen, on the other hand, had taught Golie to kick the brat, which the little boy initially had a hard time with, but now it seemed to work well, as he blew the air into his pipes almost every day for hours. What the hell was the genetic background of this boy to be so persistent? Or was it Steffen? Did he miss a father? Was it the music? Anyway, that was fine with me, because there were no kindergartens any more, and I had enough time to take care of my land and small housekeeping. This economy was cumbersome enough in the beginning, when I had to get advice and act as well as necessary seeds and utensils from the neighbors. But thanks to Mr. Mayr and our negotiating skills, I now had everything I needed; and the man with the Paco in the village, so to speak the designated village chief, even plowed my field in the spring, which made my life much easier.

In the meantime, we were even ready to have our own goat, our Selma, to feed our milk supply at night in the barn and during the day in the many forests around our village. Golie and I got up and prepared our breakfast, which consisted of home-grown cereal made and cottage cheese from goat's milk. Golie chattered on me and suddenly showed me a staff on which he had scrawled a melody. I was quite surprised, and he explained to me that Steffen played it yesterday on the organ. Although I was able to read the notes, my father had taught me that, but I could not sing perfectly from the sheet, so that I could only recognize in the beginning that this was probably a D minor melody, he had exactly one 'b'. noted at the beginning. "Did you write all this by yourself?" I asked in disbelief. "I do not believe that! Steffen helped you or he wrote it for you. "

"But mom, I'm not lying to you!" He replied insulted. I considered. In fact, on this point I had to agree with Golie; he was always anxious to be honest and sincere. I suddenly remembered that Steffen had given me a willow flute last spring, which I carelessly kept in the locker. I dug her out. Golie made big eyes! "But mom, can you play the flute?" He asked me excitedly. "Just a little," I answered. "My dad once showed it to me, but I was very small then." "How old were you?" He asked with interest. "Well, four, five or so, ha, just as old as you now! Such a coincidence! ", I replied and was surprised myself. "Let me see, if I can do it." I tried, but at the beginning with the impact trill on the "a" I failed, in the following fast falling D minor sequence my fingers failed. "But mom, maybe you can ask Steffen ... he can play flute ... and bring it to you," he exclaimed enthusiastically and almost poured out his milk. "But I do not have time for that! Who should order the field?" I replied. "Pity." He was very disappointed! "But, you know what? If you can write such beautiful grades, why do not you want to learn it? I give you the flute! Steffen will understand that! "Golie's mouth was left open with joyous fright.

"You ... you give me your flute? Seriously?" Then he flitted off the chair, jumped on my lap and hugged me warmly. I was completely surprised by his violent reaction. He took the flute, and I showed him that the deepest sound came out when all the holes were closed with your fingers. He actually did it after a few tries. Then he pulled himself outside, his breakfast was the same now, and I only heard him whispering twittering from a distance. I cleared the breakfast table and was delighted to have made such a great pleasure.

After a while, I was about to pick up the rake to harvest the last potatoes, Steffen appeared with the stranger from yesterday.

"Hello, Mary Lou!" He greets me. "Where's Golie?" I was a bit strange about his rudeness in not introducing myself to the stranger, which he actually noticed right away. The fascinating sight of the stranger quite in front of me took my breath away.

Steffen was sometimes a bit rude and took me by surprise. But then he made up for it with spontaneous warmth.

"Oh, sorry, that's Mr. Grinder. He came in the red Paco with his driver last night. He is a young musician and had heard that an organ still works here with us. We want to play together now and need Golie to kick our bellows. Where is he?" Steffen was way too fast again, but also Mr. Grinder was just as little sensitive. Having recognized me again, the gray stranger hit his other hand with his riding-stick and gave me a deep look into my eyes without saying a word.

I felt like a real, obsequious woman, being in the picture to fall in a disastrous love with an unknown man. The feeling was not negative. The aura of the stranger turned it positive and more than that super.

I needed some time to get clear.

"I gave him the flute this morning that you gave me last spring, Steffen. I hope that's okay for you. Now he is up and away with it. I do not know where he is."

And with a proud reference to the paper with the staff, I added: "That's what he showed me this morning and claims he wrote that."

The stranger glanced at it and croaked a rough voice: "That's from Bach, the theme of the D minor toccata." "... I had practiced yesterday on the organ" Steffen admitted quickly. "Should the tot have grasped the staff so quickly? He had asked me holes in the stomach, the whole time already, because of the five lines and the points with flags on it. That would be phenomenal!" "A second Mozart" grunted Grinder. Why Steffen introduced me to the stranger as ‘Mr Grinder’ was unclear to me. Did he come from England or even from the USA? Spellbound by him I did not dare to ask for.