Schäfer The Death Of Three Men. Novel

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-3-944818-79-5
Verlag: CulturBooks Verlag
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 75 Seiten

Like a Hall of Mirrors at the fairground, this book is a piece of grotesquerie which takes ignorance, repressed rage and self-centredness to absurd extremes. Karl Karst anticipates the end of his life with airy nonchalance. No, he is not in the least at odds with the swelling-up of his not-inconsiderable girth, which is now ballooning on a daily basis. In the end, he bursts. Carlo Schäfer takes up the pen where Nikolai Gogol, Franz Kafka und Daniil Charms put theirs down. He writes about our mad, grotesque world: the work is by turns concise, precise, bizarre, humorous and hard-hitting. We have here a novel which subtly weaves miniatures into a real firecracker. 'The Death Of Three Men: Concerning the going home of Karl Karst, of Fat Herr Konrad, and of the one calling himself David; also medicine, Protestant lay missionary work, pest control and theodicy' - to give it its full title - is a roman noir without any apparent crimes, yet rooted in the illicit depths of the human soul. 'Carlo Schäfer has succeeded in creating a perfectly wonderful literary gem!' Anne Kuhlmeyer, Wort & Tat

Carlo Schäfer, Jahrgang 64, lebt und arbeitet in Heidelberg. Von ihm sind fünf Krimis bei Rowohlt erschienen (vier davon auch auf Russisch), ebenfalls bei Rowohlt erschien ein Lexikon unter einem Pseudonym, das eines bleiben soll, eine Kriminovelle verlegte die Edition Nautilus, zwei Jugendkrimis der Verlag an der Ruhr. Für CULTurMAG/CrimeMag schreibt er die Kolumne »Carlos« mit beträchtlichen thematischen Freiheiten, einige Anthologiebeiträge bei verschiedenen Verlagen haben sich auch immer mal wieder ergeben. Er war für den Glauser-Debutpreis für das beste deutschsprachige Krimidebut nominiert. Dabei blieb es dann aber.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Schäfer, Carlo

Weitere Mitwirkende

Savage, Roger

Leseproben

Chapter 2
Fat Herr Konrad on a journey of love
Fat Herr Konrad has always been fat, even as a child. He is used to being teased about it and to the fact that first girls, then women, now ladies prefer the company of other men. He’d be the same: he doesn’t like himself. Some time around his twentieth he left his home town for university. Now that town is his home town. He didn’t complete his degree. He leads a simple life, writes articles for the local rag, and inherited some money a few years ago. This had led him to hope that his later years might – by way of compensation – be carefree ones, even though his life had often been hard and full of setbacks. This hope had vanished. He became even fatter: much fatter, and in only a short time. He needs a stick for walking, which he nevertheless finds difficult. So it was that last week he could no longer put off seeking out a doctor. His tired old heart was juddering rather than beating. At night he was out of breath, and so much fluid slumped into his calves that even his soft shoes were tight on him. He gave a stool sample, urine too; the GP’s medical assistant had taken blood. Hard times lay ahead; Fat Herr Konrad could feel it. But before that he writes another of his short articles for the local rag: The children’s Shrovetide Festival, Held in ‘Lazarus House’ (venue for the Catholic Special Needs Afternoon Care Group) was - first and foremost – a huge all-round success. Parents, carers, clerics of both major confessions and many other (neutral) onlookers let themselves be whisked off on a fantasy journey through ‘Buffo’s Circus’, created with great amounts of hard work and fun by the children and their carers. Sven and his sister, Saskia – both blind since birth – were in the Pineapple Group, and their contribution on the accordion – playing the musical clowns, Tibi and Tabi, was received with great enthusiasm. Frank, (who goes to the Pear Group) from the Pear Group, who is almost completely deaf, mystified one and all as Hodini Abrakadabra with amazing card tricks and producing the obligatory (hare) rabbit from the top hat. No suffering was caused to the animal in the performance of this trick. We were knocked out by the ‘Coconut Robots’ (from the Coconut Group), the wheelchair dance troupe with its R & R set. Meanwhile, the delightful Vivian (Bean Group) a.k.a. ‘Madame Bean’, showed that you don’t need arms to be a great soap bubble-blowing artiste. Horst, an autism sufferer who spends afternoons in the Eggs Group, put on a dazzling display of mental arithmetic. Or, Dear Reader, could you (just like that) work out off the top of your head what 23 times 376 is? ‘8648’ came the rapid-fire response from Horst. Finally, and possibly the climax of the afternoon’s events, seven children from the Tomato Group, which is only open to the mentally handicapped, put on a ‘Las Tomatas’ group performance on the low-level beam (Health and Safety requirement) featuring some fantastic acrobatics, even somersaults.‘Mentally handicapped children often have difficulties with complex series of moves,’ said, Claudia Yildirim, leader of The Tomato Group, ‘and this is why we must show our appreciation for this terrific performance!’ Need I say more? There was a tombola in aid of the twinning with the deprived children of Halberstadt (G.D.R.). The hugely successful afternoon was topped off by this, plus a sumptuous array of coffee and cakes, masterminded as ever by Hedwig Hofhäuser-Käsemann of the P.T.A. aided by a host of parents. (I myself enjoyed the Frankfurt Crown Cake best of all.) It is certainly a matter of regret that again this year none of the town’s representatives could see their way to attending this remarkable event. Herr Ko. He takes his walking stick and sets off. After meekly checking in at reception, he sits in the waiting room. He counts twelve chairs. Only four are occupied, two by himself, one by a woman who looks strict and bitter, then there is a young man with a green Mohican, ripped jeans, massive boots and a weather-beaten jacket. Herr Konrad knows that you call people like this ‘punks’. He wonders whether those clothes are a problem or even appropriate, for today’s weather. He himself is wearing his usual baggy shirt and some made-to-measure trousers. He has boots on too, he realises; it’s a real effort to tie bows in the laces. He is never cold but soon breaks into a sweat. Right now he is not sweating. He is completely mixed up. He is afraid. Outside it is cool. The young man may be a bit stuck in the past, in the Seventies, but he is appropriately dressed. Maybe people today still dress like that. Fat Konrad wouldn’t know. Fat Konrad is hungry. He doesn’t have much to do with people, nothing at all with young ones. Maybe he could have a calming conversation with the punk, presently, later on. Yes, it’s spring, so it is bound to be cool at times: use your loaf! He is hungry and afraid. It’s a new doctor – young; the old one that Herr Konrad does like but all the same avoided for ages, has retired. The old one always used to say, “Herr Konrad – you and I both have the same problem: we’re getting fatter!” Having said that, the old doctor was only moderately portly; Herr Konrad didn’t feel so embarrassed. The strict woman gets up, flings the door open. “Do you mind telling me how much longer it will be?” “Frau Herz!” the woman from the desk calls. “You have to be patient. You don’t have an appointment!” Strict Frau Herz shuts the door angrily, sits down again, then she looks at her clenched hands and says, “As if things would be any quicker with an appointment! Whenever I hear the word ‘appointment’...! They just make it up as they go along. They do what they like with us and we can’t do a thing because we are ill.” Then she looks at Herr Konrad. “What do you say? Outrageous!” “Outrageous. I am not doing a thing, either,” Herr Konrad confirmed and studied the desolate walls. A poster hangs there: “Don’t give AIDS a chance!” He takes a deep breath. He has never given AIDS the slightest of chances. “I’m here every week,” said the punk, staring into space. “Not that I’m ill. This is the only place where the bastards can’t track me with GPS. Then he calls me in and says he wants to send me to the psychiatrist. Then I say exactly the same thing back to him: I’m not going. I’ve been there before. Do you know,” now he is trying to catch Herr Konrad’s eye, “what that bloody psychiatrist said to me?” “I don’t,” said Herr Konrad, wearily. “Perhaps it started with something like Hello?” “My fat aunt!” the punk shook himself. “His actual words were: Next time you come, bring a power saw, then we can see about cutting your head off! I’m not going there, thank you!” “Doctors are getting worse and worse,” the strict, bitter woman agreed. “An eye specialist once told me I need glasses after projecting lots of blurry numbers onto the wall! The business with the saw is scandalous, of course!” “Bastards!” the punk agreed. “Well, it was a power saw, not just a saw. But you’re right: eye specialists are the worst of the lot, aren’t they, luv?” “Would you mind not ‘luv-ing’ me!” “Shut yer trap, you old sow!” “Disgraceful!” The punk looks across to a mightily-impressed Herr Konrad. “What about you, Fatso? Can I call you ‘mate’?” “Do what you feel like,” Fat Herr Konrad wheezed, “as long as it doesn’t hurt.” The punk nodded. “Not gonna. Not gonna hurt ya. You’re alright, you are.” “I’m afraid I’m not!” Then silence returns, but this is better than if he were being called through right now. Here she is, the surgery auxiliary, today they say ‘G.P.’s Medical Assistant’ or something. At least she smiles. “Herr Konrad?” “I am Herr Konrad.” “The doctor will see you now.” “Unfortunately,” says Herr Konrad and heaves himself up. The young doctor works busily on him, in silence, the entire time. He measured everything, looked with a frown through his predecessor’s notes, studied the read-outs, shook his head, hardly looking at him, read e-mails at the same time, drank fruit tea, more manual examination, but in silence. Fast, straight, a pro: “If you carry on like this, you’ll be dead soon. You are incredibly fat. For Heaven’s sake! It looks really bad. God, you really are fat!” Fat Herr Konrad nods for the millionth time, stomachs the reprimand for being as he is. “I know I am really much too fat.” “Your blood pressure!” The doctor shakes his head. “Just look at all your levels!” “Yes,” says Fat Herr Konrad “Have you never tried to lose weight?” asks his doctor, meanwhile typing something onto his computer. “For forty years.” “And you are now...?” “Forty-nine.” “And before?” “I was fat then, too, but I didn’t try to lose weight.” The doctor shakes his head. “Have you not got that on file that I’m...