Tommy Wieringa - Little Caesar

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Little Caesar: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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From internationally best-selling author Tommy Wieringa, comes a rich and engrossing novel about a man on an odyssey in search of answers about his dysfunctional artistic family and the legacy they left behind.
When Ludwig Unger returned to his hometown after a decade, he arrived with a plastic bag filled with his mother’s ashes and little else. He was there to make amends with his lonely past, to say goodbye to the familial ghosts that still haunted him. Raised in a cliff-top cottage on the coast of England, Ludwig’s mother tried to create a normal life for her son after her husband one day left them to pursue his art. A mama’s boy, Ludwig grew up in her shadow, developing an obsession with her and her sensual allure. But when he discovered the secret of her past as the world-famous porn star "Eve LaSage” and her plans for a comeback, Ludwig’s world spun out of control. He soon found himself homeless, shouldering the shame of his mother’s career, and embarking on a journey that took him around the world.
Little Caesar is a story of beauty and decay, of filial loyalty and parental betrayal, and of the importance of self-sacrifice.

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In the lobby of the former palace where we had set up camp, an Arab woman in a headscarf was waiting amid dozens of shopping bags, printed with the nouveau-riche constellation of Gucci, Prada, DKNY — but her posture was that of the stolid female vendor amid pyramids of colorful herbs in the souk at Aleppo. An Arab hurried by on his way to the elevator, his one hand clutching that of a monstrously fat little boy, the other holding bags full of McDonald’s happy meals. He had been out foraging to feed the nest. The royal households, the nobility, they all wasted away or were already extinct, now it was other people’s turn to populate the palaces: porno stars and Arabs who had brought their desert ways along with them. But we would never succeed in making this life our own, we would always feel the thrill and excitement of a successful burglary; the manners and natural-born insouciance of the original inhabitants of these houses were not ours to imitate. The rabble had been admitted to the palace gardens, had descended like a plague of locusts, and the original inhabitants had been driven off to ever-smaller reservations.

In the room I dialed Sarah’s number. Her cheerful voice, the summons to leave behind something nice on the answering machine. It was early in the afternoon there, we lived in different worlds, different times. It was the umpteenth time I’d called, she had never answered once. Silence breeds the greatest of disasters. I punched the repeat button and gave her the phone number of the hotel and our room number. It wasn’t the first time I’d done that. Maybe she had accidentally erased my earlier messages. Perhaps my letters had never arrived. I had left so triflingly, with no idea of the consequences. I hadn’t felt this coming. It was logical, but the heart knew nothing about that. I sat on the edge of my mother’s bed and waited for the phone to ring.

Around midnight I went to bed. It was two in the morning when my mother came in. She slid the doors closed quietly, and after a while the light shining through the cracks went out as well.

The scene changed. Now the creeping graduality of Prague. Making acquaintance with a people of despondent drinkers. Women with the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen. A skin flick is made in Prague each day, it is the capital of European pornography. The first week of the new year and I still haven’t heard a word from Sarah. Every day I make plans to go back. I’m afraid of what I might find. I can’t count on things being as they were when I left, she told me that. That could mean anything, but not much good.

We travel from one gorgeous backdrop to the other. But this time the reality is moth-eaten. Hotel Europe is on the point of collapse.

‘They dreamed up those three stars themselves,’ my mother says. ‘I don’t even have a TV in my room. What a dirty mess.’

I see our own inevitable downfall in that, in that mess. That I revel in it does not seem like a good sign to me.

Our rooms are next to each other on the first floor. The hubbub of Wenceslas Square intrudes all day and all night. A little further along is a stand where they fry sausages and hamburgers, providing the dominant aroma in our rooms. I feel more at home in Hotel Europe than I did at the Imperial, but my mother acts as though she’s being taken to the cleaners. Rollo Liban is staying at a hotel down the street. She’s sure that it’s a much better place. The beds here are as hard as the expressions on the chambermaids’ faces. My mother sleeps poorly. There are little vertical lines above her lips, creases that can’t be disguised with powder, except when in a state of complete immobility. I see a few wrinkles running like the channels of a river delta from her décolleté to her throat. Here’s what I think: time stood still for her once she left the limelight, but now that she has come back to it the clock has started ticking again — and faster than ever. I fantasize about vampire-like creatures who screech horribly and turn to dust as soon as they are exposed to sunlight. When we checked in I heard her ask which floor the gym was on, a question the Czech girl at the desk did not understand.

‘Sports,’ my mother said. ‘Physical exercise.’

She imitated someone bicycling at an admirable pace, then rowing and running. This was understood, and the reply in sign language was that this was not available at the hotel. The girl behind the desk was pretty. She smiled at me while we stood waiting for the elevator.

I am bored in Prague, I count the passing hours. Atop my nightstand is an orange telephone with a real dial. In the café downstairs the pianist is busy destroying the collected work of The Beatles. The gray-haired musician has something professorial about him. Sometimes he strolls back and forth between the piano and the hall leading to the toilets in order to work the stiffness out of his joints. On occasion you actually forget he’s there. Only when he stops playing are you overcome by a sense of deep fatigue, because he’s been plugging your ears the whole time with a carpet of sound. It seems as though he plays from memory, songs he heard as a boy and which he is now trying to reproduce. There’s always someone who will sing along with ‘Yesterday’.

Although my emotional state is governed by a woman with dark, curly hair who doesn’t return my calls, my senses are wide open to the melancholy beauty of the Hotel Europe. Of the way it must have looked when it opened its doors in 1889 I can only dream. It must have been a jewel. Now it smells like an old people’s home. I love wainscoting and wooden ceilings. Hanging from the balustrades are plastic baskets with artificial plants — only on the fifth floor, where the poor people and students live, are the plants real; there they are whipped to a pallor by the wind, gasp for breath between the balusters. The potting soil is covered with a white, moldy film.

The floors are all built around a skylight. You look down to the first floor, where our rooms are. The light, by the time it gets down there, is weak, like at the bottom of a well.

Someone apparently thought that red and fluorescent green would be the best colors for the stairwell. The pillars on each floor are circled by plaster garlands, ending in a wreath. Nicotine-colored moisture runs down the walls. It is a clash of styles and influences, the good old Louis-the-Something hotel style, Art Deco, the impoverished fashion of the socialist workers’ paradise and the stagnation of a hotel that falls short of the demands of the modern age. The carpets are grimy, the decorative picture frames cracked, we are witnessing a monumental demise. The hotel is so tired , it is begging for attention, for a renaissance.

On our floor is a set of stairs, six or seven steps, that suddenly disappears into a wall — this is where the ghosts come out at night. It is glorious and sad, this hotel, a royal grave left unplundered.

We are sitting at a table in the Titan restaurant. From the speakers come songs by artists forgotten everywhere in the world except here. Joe Cocker. Barbra Streisand. In the middle of the restaurant is a table set for forty, but no one is seated at it.

‘As though someone was going to throw a party, but changed their mind,’ my mother says.

The whole thing has given her the giggles. The waiter hands us the menu. In a plastic folder is a sheet of paper bearing the words JULY SPECIAL. My mother asks for the January special. The man says it’s the same as this one. I order the July special. While she tries to decipher the menu’s English, she asks, ‘Have you talked to your girlfriend yet?’

‘She’s not my girlfriend anymore. You know that. It’s over.’

‘Well it doesn’t have to be so definite, does it? You two are so theatrical.’

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