Franz

Franz Hauer - 1914 - Thoughts while sitting for his portrait…

How much longer do I have to remain here? Isn’t that the question we all ask of our lives? Nevertheless, it seems like an eternity, sitting here allowing myself to be painted.
And Oskar? Babbling away, trying to get me talking. I have nothing to say to him. He hasn’t paid his bar tab in two years. Two years of excuses of tales, of lies. Two years of laughter and jokes.

Why did I not agree to a photograph? It would be done by now. I would look very dignified and proper. I know Oskar’s work. He’ll be making me look like a shrimp or a washed out theater poster glued to the side of a building.

I want to cough. Can I cough? What would happen if I cough? Would his brush slip and paint my skull red? Would he see the blood in my handkerchief and paint that? I don’t want Maria to know. Not yet. We have had so little time together. I don’t want her to know or to think that it will end soon. But of course it will. I’m an old man now. Even without the sickness, the coughing, the blood, how much longer could I be expected to last? She says it doesn’t matter, my age. But it must. I look at her and I see my youth in her youth. Am I trying to drink her soul like that horrible cinema Nosferatu? Would it be wrong?

Maria has an old soul. You can see it in her eyes. She knows more than she should at 24. I wish I could give her more. More time. Money? She has all she needs from me and then some. But time.

I have to keep up appearances. So important. Business relies on appearances. So, when my wife Marta asks me to have my portrait painted, I must agree. It will hang over the bar when I am gone and the drunken fools will raise their glasses to me and salute.

What have I done with my life? It seems that just yesterday I was holding Papa’s hand as we walked through the forest looking for mushrooms. He showed me which were poisonous, which were delicious. How long has it been since I have walked alone in the forest? Is the forest the same or has it been plowed under and turned into rows of homes for the factory workers. I wonder if I still can remember which mushrooms not to eat. Perhaps it does not matter. I could eat whatever mushroom I like and die a quick death. Painful, though, Papa said. Would it be less painful than this slow death I live now?

But no. It would cut even shorter my time with Maria. Albert laughs. He says I am a fool. And I suppose he is correct. I am a fool in love with a girl. At my age. He asks if I can still perform, and I pretend to be shocked, but nod my head proudly. I can still perform. But that is not why I love her. She touches me. She rubs my shoulders.

Maria is not like Marta. Marta has not touched me for seventeen years. Not since Helen died. My poor little one.

Albert says that getting old is better than the alternatives, but I am not so sure he is correct. Seeing so much death, it wearies the soul. It is the oldest cliché in the world that no parent should see his child dead. And yet so many of us have.

I tried to tell Marta that Helen would not have wanted us to be so distant. But Marta can not bear the truth. She prefers to drink her coffee in the morning and stare out the window at the rain. Come back to bed, I would say. We have no where to go today. She would stir her coffee, adding no sugar, no cream. Why do you stir it? I once asked. To cool it down, she said.

Perhaps I should tell Oskar that I can not do this any more. Sitting, sitting. Who really wants to see me when I am dead? Marta will not care. She will be free to find another husband, someone younger perhaps who will sleep with her for the money I have earned. Perhaps this new man will bring her the happiness that I could not. It is a shame that I will be dead before this happens, because I would like to see her smile one more time. Marta had such a smile when she was young. It is why I married her. So many of the bar girls wanted my attention. They would thrust themselves at me. And I took advantage, making no promises. How lucky that I contracted no disease from them. But Marta, she only smiled. She did not try to visit me in my office while I counted the money. She spoke softly, and only when I asked her a question. But the smile. I married her for that smile, and I never regretted a moment of it.

Poor Helen. My little girl. You would be Maria’s age. Almost. Albert says that I am sleeping with my daughter, but that is not the case. No, Helen I assure you it is not. Maria is more like Marta was. She is at the beginning of her life. I ask her, Why do you waste it with an old man like me? She smiles seriously and rubs my brow. No moment is a waste, she says. She is so serious. Not like Marta at all. She takes her joy somberly. I don’t understand it. All the women in my life, and none of them smile. At least Maria will put on a smile from time to time to please me.

I miss my Marta. My old Marta, who used to laugh as we stood at the back of the ferry boat, watching the seagulls swoop down for the scraps of bread we would throw them. I miss Helen. Her laughter lit my life. How can an old man like myself teach Maria that there is nothing more to life than smiles? She doesn’t believe me when I tell her. I try to tell her the latest joke I have heard at the bar. Occassionally I see a crack, but it seems as if nothing can shock her.

What will they all think of me after I am gone?

I want to cough.

Next - Albert