Paul Sandmann - Narcissus

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Enter the financial heart of Europe – London – just before the financial crisis and meet Tristan: investment banker and celebrated playboy. Young, successful and devastatingly handsome, Tristan, one of the greatest seducers of our time, sets out to become King of the City.

Paul Sandmann is a confirmed traveller, dreamer, and lover of classical music and the fine arts. He has been writing since he was twelve years old and in recent months has been reading his tales to his girlfriend. He has been working on this novel for six years.

Paul Sandmann is all of thirty-three years old.

www.twitter.com/paulsandmann

Paul Sandmann

A modern love story

Imprint

Narcissus: A modern love story

Paul Sandmann

Translated by Gordon C. Wells

Cover Design: Paul Sandmann

Cover Motif: El Ángel Rebelde by Salvatore Buemi

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de

Copyright of Translation: © 2012 Gordon C. Wells

ISBN 978-3-7375-2716-3

“Tristan is successful, young, beautiful and in search of the perfect - in search of the one true love. After the first few sentences I was already enthralled by Paul Sandmann’s writing style. I think I have never read a more beautiful description of a kiss than in this novel. … You cannot read this book without being deeply moved by it - as I was, even if I did not fully understand Tristan: on the one hand hopelessly romantic and on the other cold as steel. But maybe that is what lends this man his attraction … he is fascinating and abhorrent at the same time.

It is a book of extremes. It is a very emotional book and it is a book full of suspense. Paul Sandmann enchanted me with the poetry of his words. It lingers over this novel like the breeze of a wonderful scent.”

- Martina Meyen, Eselöhrchen

“Tristan, a modern Dorian Gray? … The description of Tristan, especially his inner conflict and his relationship with others, is thrilling and beautiful. … This is a remarkable novel by a talented indieauthor.”

- Harald Faisst, Bücher und eBooks

“The narrative style is passionate, the characters well developed, the atmosphere and setting wonderful. Particularly interesting are the changes of narrative tone when the story shifts from Tristan’s private life to his uncompromising business life. In scenes of Tristan’s private life, the reader can’t help but notice the protagonist’s thirst for love. … I was deeply impressed by this modern Greek tragedy.”

- Elsa Rieger, ebook salon

“This is something different - a love story in which the focus is not on the female character, but on the male protagonist.”

- Monica Heidt, Leseleidenschaft

To my readers, who tweet, talk and write about this book.

Together we can change first ourselves and then the world.

I would like to thank Gordon C. Wells for his beautiful translation of “Tristan“. I feel grateful for having found such a talented man for this challenging task.

Sensuously undulating curves, with their taut covering of silky skin. So tender! Salmon pink, the flesh beneath shines through. Thirsty, it swells outwards. Demanding of love, greedy, insatiable. Across it flow tiny filigree lines – to the shadows of the opening, so microscopically fine that they are imperceptible to all but lovers, who immediately fall under their spell. Each individual line runs in only one direction, towards the opening. Like sirens they seize the beholder, commanding him to come closer. So close that his breath is almost grazing the skin. Then it happens: the shadows open and the breath of both of them mingles. All at once their flesh is as close as only a kiss can make it. With only a breath between them to hold back the hot blood pulsating through the body. How much closer can you get to a person than when you’re kissing, he asked himself.

He straightened his freshly knotted tie, then stepped back from the mirror. Fine, light-blue stripes ran through the pink of the Chinese silk. He slipped the jacket round his shoulders and pulled the sleeves of his white shirt, with their silver cufflinks, an inch or so out from under the black material. Then he looked at himself again and flared his nostrils, as a puff of scent from his freshly shaved neck below the prominent chin wafted up. On that particular morning, its fragrance, which gradually unfolded around him, was unable to dispel the troublesome thoughts that tormented him. His gaze was drawn back to his own broad lips.

How many mouths had they already kissed?

And how many merely for the taste, not for love? Just like last night.

Are such questions even allowed, he thought. Or could you then never kiss anyone again?

I want to kiss her, he thought to himself. Want her laughter to belong to me – when the little lines vanish as though by magic and the white teeth smile at me. Is kissing this mouth the longed-for promise? Does kissing someone mean anything any more? For someone who is as free with their kisses as I am, that would be more than I have a right to expect.

He smiled nervously.

Have I only ever kissed women I loved? Definitely not. If I had, I should probably have died of thirst. Do you let the buds of youth fade because you’re too serious about love? Should you not be content with affection, which can grow into love later? Those who keep the first kiss for their true love have bartered a passionate yesterday for a safe tomorrow. They were too fearful to risk falling. Wouldn’t follow their dreams. If they acted in this way, they could never be disappointed or hurt. Because if you let your counterpart carry on regardless, embraced by your own dreams and wishes, disappointment can be the result. Does this mean you regret the kiss when the cocoon that holds the illusion together bursts open?

At that moment the sound of water from the shower stopped and his visitor stepped out. Seconds later her naked body appeared in the mirror behind him, the white skin covered with hundreds of tiny droplets of water.

“Hi handsome, what’s all this about then? If I’d known you had to get up so early, I wouldn’t have come home with you,” said the stranger, resting her head on his shoulder and trying to make eye contact. He felt the material of his jacket soaking up the dampness of her chin.

“Yes you would,” he replied, without looking at her. He adjusted his tie once more, then he turned round and wiped a droplet of water from the tip of her nose.

“The bank calls, you can go back to bed. Just close the door behind you when you leave. There should still be some sushi in the fridge for breakfast.”

She pulled a face. Her blue eyes and pouty mouth had really affected him – yesterday. Now she looked rather tired. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then picked up his black briefcase from the chest of drawers and went out; he had almost completely shaken off the gloomy thoughts of that morning. Outside the lift they came back in force, but once he had said hello to the lady next door and the porter and entered the lift he began to wonder whether he ought to feel ashamed of that passionate yesterday. After so many disappointments, should he simply bid farewell to all hope?