The Adventures of Elisabeth and Frederick - Part 1

E: The first time Elisabeth saw Frederick, he was standing at a ticket counter, chatting to a man with more tattoos than plain skin.
She looked twice. One of those rare moments when your eyes want to see what they have already seen again. A closer, deeper look - one that is needed should those eyes ever learn to love what is before them.
Frederick was a German of ancient Prussian descent, tall and built like the noble wardrobes of old. He wore a golden crown of thick hair on his head, reminiscent of his ancestry.
But what drew Elisabeth to him at first were his eyes. Bright green, like the freshly mowed grass on top of an untouched hillside.

F: Frederick had had a bad day. He was meant to go lose himself in the latest Hollywood blockbuster, something he did often and with great pride, but his friends cancelled their plans at the very last moment. He went all the same, even though the prospect of sitting alone in a dark room made him somewhat uncomfortable.
There at the ticket counter, he met Elisabeth. She too seemed to be on her own, yet much more comfortable with that fact than him. Elisabeth spoke first, something which Frederick would always cherish.
Holding up her ticket, she asked: "And you?"
He smiled: "Touché".

The film finished two hours later, but Elisabeth and Frederick did not go their separate ways until the early hours of the morning.

First, they fell in love with Berlin.. then with one another.

Caught Up With The Shadow

He almost didn't catch up with her.

Almost.

Scarlett heard him approach her before he had said a word. She turned back, suddenly icy again.

“Hi, hello,” he began breathlessly. “If this were a movie, you’d have given me your number in the time ellipses between shots.” He laughed, twirling his battered old cell phone in his hands.

Scarlett unabashedly looked him straight in the eyes.

The hope in his eyes almost faded away. As he opened his mouth, Scarlett-

“If you would like to ask me out, then ask me out properly. Even if your intentions are completely honourable and you just enjoy my company, do it like a man. Don’t hide behind the let’s get coffee sometime.”

She took a step closer to him, her eyes painfully penetrating his. But he couldn't look away.

“Be bold.” Scarlett took a deep breath and waited. This is where they all run and hide. The men today are nothing like they once were. They’re all cowards, hiding behind the “let’s be friends” or the “I don’t want anything heavy”.

“Are you always this friendly?” His feathers had been ruffled and yet he still looked… intrigued.

Scarlett was caught off-guard. For the first time in decades, Scarlett was caught off-guard. She had not lived this scenario out a thousand times before, she had no witty, deadly comeback, guaranteed to shut him down and make him go away. She was unprepared.

Scarlett let out a half-suppressed laugh. And then another, and another. She raised her eyes to meet his, finally emanating some warmth. She made no attempt to conceal the shining smile that followed.

“The thing is, if you’d like to see me again, I want to know that you want it above anything else in this precise moment. I'm not interested in a half-arsed attempt. If you want it, then show me that you do and how much.”

“Are you always this demanding?”

“I'm very demanding, yes, but this isn't it. Why would I spend a single instant of my time with someone who wasn't certain that he wanted to spend precious moments with me?”

Scarlett could see him processing her words quickly, trying to make a snap decision.

He cocked his head to the side, like he did in the cinema. Then –

“I think you’re interesting and I’d like to see you again.”

Scarlett kept her eyes fixed on him and extended a hand.

He took it with hesitation.

She blinked and through her smile, she softly said:

“Your phone.”

“Oh right. Yes.”

He handed it to her, shuffling his feet awkwardly. He looked to the ground, trying to conceal the little triumphant look on his face.

Scarlett typed her number and handed the phone back.

“Wait,” he said, as she began walking away. She stopped. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“No… I haven’t.” Scarlett smiled once more, finally turning away, and began her brisk walk to the tube station.

That was more than enough smiling for one day.

After The Second Film

“What did you think?”

His voice interrupted the post-film haze once again. Scarlett twitched with annoyance. This was one of the reasons why she went to the cinema by herself and never sat next to anyone.

After films ended, she always sat through the credits in silence, dreading the moment when the lights would be turned back on. They would drag her back to reality, kicking and screaming inside, parting once more with her true world, the reality that had been taken from her. She never liked to think about the fact that that world had never belonged to her completely. She was going to change that, once she had found what she was looking for. That would finally satisfy her and the thirst for recognition, the ultimate and sublime immortalisation in black and white. Scarlett took a deep breath.

“I think that it’s almost as disappointing as the first time I saw it.” In 1952, she silently added. “And now if you’ll excuse me-”

She wrapped her black faux fur around her neck, exposing her pale arms for a moment.

“You probably have somewhere to be, but listen-” he began, while Scarlett reached for her bag. “Give me your number, we’ll go for a pre-film coffee sometime.”

Scarlett turned around and, inexplicably, dazzled him with a smile.

“Why don’t you ring me at the end of the week and we’ll see…”

A promise lingered in the air between them. The man smiled back, surprised that he’d gotten her to gift him with a smile, and not a frosty one either. He searched his pockets for his phone, remembered something and turned to fish it out of his coat, lying over the seat in front of them.

When he turned back, Scarlett was gone.

Immortality At The Cinema

“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?”

The sudden flash of voice cut through the deep haze the film had left Scarlett in. As she fought to regain control over her senses, she turned her head slightly and raised her eyes to the figure standing next to the empty seats beside her.

“You have,” she replied. Her voice had an initial layer of coldness, something that was meant to put people off wanting to continue conversing with her, or God forbid, thinking she was approachable. Her British education had served some purpose after all. Distinctly unfriendly, but never discourteous.

The figure’s head bobbed in front of the light glaring from above. He must have been in his mid, maybe late twenties, longish brown hair tied up in a man bun and a tall, robust frame. He was Marlon Brando, with a modern twist.

Meeting people who reminded Scarlett of the past could have one of two effects on her. She’d drown in the few moments she’d give them of her life and then she’d spend a few hours sulking and searching for a release for her nostalgia. Usually this would materialise in the form of a mad film spree or five consecutive hours spent at the cinema. The other response was more violent and a whole lot bloodier.

This was different.

Marlon sat down next to her, his shoulder rubbing against hers. He was a lot taller than her. She liked that in a man. Errol had been about 6 foot 2.

“I think it’s one of her best performances. You know they said she went crazy after they finished it?”

“Her madness got her a second Oscar.” Scarlett surprised herself. Why was she engaging in any kind of conversation with this stranger? “That must be worth something.”

“I don’t know if I’d trade my mental sanity for an award,” he replied, still rubbing shoulders with her. The lower part of his face began twisting. She realised after a moment that he was smiling at her. A big, genuine grin spread across his face, making his eyes almost light up.

Scarlett felt herself begin to smile. She forced her lips into a slight pout, a trick she had learned in Old Hollywood. Smiling had never been fashionable. The half-pout half-smile was a gracious way of demonstrating superiority and control over one’s emotions.

“You clearly have never been famous before.”

“Have you?” He turned around to fully face her. Marlon studied Scarlett carefully, trying to understand if he had seen her before and if he had just made a complete fool of himself. He cocked his head to the side, quizzically. His eyes were a pleasant shade of Lulworth blue.

Scarlett caught herself in time.

“In another life perhaps.” Technically not a lie. I’m completely out of practice, she thought to herself. This time, her half-pout transformed into a smile. He won.

“You and me both.”

“Are you staying for the next film?”

“I am. Although nothing could top Streetcar at this point. Not even a good dose of Gene Kelly.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Gene Kelly fan.” For the first time since he had sat down next to her, Scarlett looked at him properly. She searched for something in him, but came up empty-handed. No. He was no Flynn.

“Are you kidding? Singing In The Rain is the greatest musical on earth. I used to watch it every time it rained for a good year when I was six.” He laughed self-deprecatingly and ran a hand through his hair, raising his eyes to meet Scarlett’s.

After a few long moments, he broke the silence. “You don’t blink a lot, you know?”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

He considered his answer.

“No.” He blinked.

Scarlett looked at the blank screen in front of them and readjusted her faux fur stola around her shoulders.

His hand appeared from the side.

“I’m…”

Scarlett interrupted him.

“Tell me after the film.”

They sank into silent darkness together as the lights over them dimmed and the blank screen suddenly, joyously flickered to life again.

Vamp Alive

The first breath she took after she had died was painful. A cold, stabbing sensation all along her throat that carefully but surely spread throughout her chest. The second became the gateway to an addiction. She never stopped breathing after that.

Scarlett, or Frida de Sirois as she was known then, had been an actress in the early 1930s. Born to a distant, rigid British aristocrat and one of her Austrian lovers, she had been pampered with culture from an early age. She had someone to watch over her and keep her away from the world outside the doors of their Kensington mansion at all times.

But fate had other plans for her.

Scarlett would never become a Duchess or a Baroness.

A chance encounter with Errol Flynn at a society event had opened her eyes to everything she was missing out on by letting her mother dictate her future. Before meeting that scandalous rogue, who had already left a string of broken hearts throughout the English upper class, she had been happy to let others decide what was right and proper and what was not. He changed all that in a conversation that lasted a heartbeat. Scarlett said goodbye to the comforts of her old life and embarked on an adventure with the Tasmanian devil. After two weeks together, he introduced her to Marc Anthony Reiss, who was already one of the most influential players in Hollywood. He promised to make her a star.

And she would have become, if it hadn't been for Brenner and his faulty Delahaye 135, or so they said. The two were arguing when he swerved to avoid that shadow that had suddenly pounced in front of the car. After the collision with something else, Scarlett passed out, seconds away from death, who already held Brenner in his grips.

“No” The shadow’s frantic voice whispered. “No, not like this, it was never meant to be like this”.

The soft, female voice repeated herself again and again, until –

“Forgive me.”

Had Scarlett been conscious, the pain of the shadow’s fangs ripping through her skin would have been intolerable.

It was as if she had died after all. Her family would not look for her after the disgrace she had threatened to bring upon their name. For all her mother knew, Scarlett was begging on the streets of Hobart after being discarded by that diseased Tasmanian, and for all she cared, the woman who was no longer her daughter could rot there. The Tasmanian had left her too and married that awful French actress. If that wasn’t a sign that she had fallen from grace, then she didn’t know what was. Even the dirty prisoner didn’t want her anymore. She was no longer virtuous, beautiful or noble. She was no longer worthy of her title.

The Hollywood people wouldn’t spend too much time looking for her either. She wasn’t a well-known face yet and other actresses were proving to be ready to take her place in the pictures. Errol would miss her, but he had his hands full, as he always did.

Scarlett put down her empty Starbucks cup. She had finished reading a long review of the latest film about her old lover. It was an “in-depth and explicit” look at the rape allegations that surrounded him. She shook her head. Errol could be persuasive and he was always very charming, but he had a heart of gold. He would have never made anyone do anything against their will, especially not something as intimate as sex. She blushed a little, remembering their time together. No, she thought. He would have never touched those girls like that.

She looked down at her vintage Cartier watch. Time to go. The show would start soon. She quickly checked her hair in the little pocket mirror she always carried around. Everything was still in place: the ends of her straight hair were curled, the red lipstick beautifully seductive on her lips, the shimmery eye shadow and black liner around her eyes playing with the contrast of her cat-like blue eyes. Not a single wrinkle in sight. Scarlett didn’t look a day over 24.

It was the 18^th of May 2014.

The Italian

"What are you thinking about?" Jane asked her. The question she had been waiting for, yet would not answer.
Her mind wandered back to those days in Rome, to the day she met Cesare.

Italians were a lot more easy going than she thought. Yes, this did meant that the level of appreciation bordering on sexual harassment she received walking down the street was higher. But what it also meant was that he had had no problem approaching her in the club, even though she was surrounded by her friends, male and female. He didn't ask whether she was with anyone, whether she was taken, he simply took her hand and introduced himself. This olive-skinned Roman with those piercing blue eyes.
His English wasn't very good and her Italian was average at best. They understood each other by gesticulating, laughing, touching, and not long after, that final first kiss.

The time she had spent in Italy had confirmed that her Nordic looks were not considered particularly beautiful or elegant there. Men would occasionally make a passing comment when she walked by, but they wouldn't stare at her for more than a few seconds. But Cesare didn't seem to notice. He gently poked her freckles and played with her heavy, reddish hair.
"Carota." Carrot, he said, twisting it around his finger.

Italians don't know how to handle rain. She smiled as she remembered teasing him about it: "You're hardly going to melt!" she laughed at him, as Cesare ran to take cover under a terrace of some elaborate political building. A few drops had fallen. In England, this would go unnoticed. In Italy, people raised their umbrellas in defence and shrieked loudly, until they found somewhere that would protect them from the rain.

Of course, they fought like animals. She had never dreamt of becoming one of those women that shouts at her lover in the streets, only to then push him against a wall, slapping and kissing him. The deep, unflinching British social etiquette would never have allowed it. Here, it was a demonstration of mad passion. They fought and loved and desired each other from Piazza Navona to Via Veneto, from the Colosseum to the Castel Sant'Angelo.

She couldn't pronounce half the food they ate together and he tickled her when she called him "pet".

"So are you looking forward to the next time you end up in the Eternal City?" Jane asked her friend.
She smiled.
"Oh yes."

Just After The Invitation With Love From Fate

David wandered into the club as if in a trance. He didn't understand the music, he didn't understand what he was seeing and he didn't know where he was. All he knew, was that he had to see this through.
The bouncer at the door had taken no convincing at all, which shocked and thrilled David. He was never the type to persuade bouncers with his walk or, even less, with a "don't you know who I am" look.
He sat down at the long, L-shaped glass bar and turned his back on the dance floor and the winding staircases that took you God knows where.
David took out the card and studied it quietly, moving it back and forth to the rhythm of the Kalkbrenner brothers. His throat itched in anticipation, a fizz ran through him, causing his senses to be on high alert.
The barman, an elderly-looking ex chain smoker, noticed him and grumpily dragged his feet to the other end where David was sitting. But when his eyes fell onto the elegant card in this common man's hands, something in his eyes changed. David didn't notice the fear. He was too preoccupied with himself and this mysterious invitation. It had turned into a promise he had made himself, to live a little. To do something he wouldn't normally do. A sudden flicker of life in his otherwise dull existence.
"Scotch, on the rocks", he bellowed as he finally looked up at the barman. He had never drunken Scotch before. Could it even be "on the rocks"?
"Coming right up." The other man hesitated. "The man you're looking for is not here yet. He-", he stopped dead in his tracks. Another man had slumped into one of the empty chairs next to David. He reeked of sweat, booze and an exotic stink that made David want to gag. The barman, feeling the rising pressure in his throat, mumbled something and practically jumped away to serve a group of conveniently placed girls at the other end of the bar. They all looked like pale and worthless imitations of a young Winona Ryder.
The man's eyes were bloodshot. His eyelids were betraying them and slowly closing, embracing them with forgiving darkness and calm. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, picking at it to make sure that there were no white reminders of the beginning of his night left. The only reminder that would stay with him was the money he no longer had, after paying that prostitute to do his dirty work. He took one look at David, what he was holding in his hand and sighed, murdering the air around him.
"The one you need is standing in the back area. He's the one dressed like a cunt."
David felt himself gag again. He nodded and jumped up, desperately searching for the toilet signs.
He found them near the entrance he had come through, in a short corridor below the ground floor.
David took three steps at once and reached the right door just in time.

Feeling a little better, he let the door close behind him. There were four other doors in the corridor and the largest one, presumably leading to another corridor, caught his attention. He could hear something coming from behind the not so heavy door. Something that wasn't the chatter or the ever-changing music.
There were noises, a few words and then more noises. Glass broke. He slowly pushed the door open, revealing a man holding a woman up against the wall, her arms and legs wrapped around him. Her closed eyes were heavy with black eyeliner and her parted lips were pink and puffy. The man's face was buried between the woman's pale neck and the tumbles of the woman's long, dark auburn hair. David never saw his face. They didn't notice him quietly slipping away, leaving them to themselves.

"The back area" had simply meant the more exclusive part of the warehouse-turned-club. The men gathered around there looked like they knew what a razor was and the women wore heels and lipstick. A shallow, plain indication of faint upper social standing. While the other people in the club, sweating on the dancefloor and getting elbowed in the ribs at the bar, had normal, perhaps even happy faces, the people here were the personification of gothic. There were no smiles, no direct eye-contact, only fast gestures and tension rising. David slowly walked over, taking everything in.
What did the exotic stink man say again? "He's the one dressed like a..."?
David shook his head. He took the card in his hands again and held it against his chest. Maybe someone would-
"ACHILLES! HE'S HERE!", a voice shouted in his ear, deafening him for several seconds. An arm of muscle that felt like iron steered David towards one of the better lit tables. A man had turned his head at the mention of the Greek hero's name. But this man was not Greek. Even David, who had never taken an interest in different European looks, could figure that out. The man, because above anything he was a man, was tall and sported the broadest shoulders David had ever seen. He didn't have a body builder physique and yet he carried himself with grace and presence, and above anything else, control. Yes, he looked like a man in control.

Achilles had been worried about the new arrival. The last one had been an almost immediate disappointment, flinching at every deep look Achilles had given him. That one would have shat himself at the sole mention of a Kalashnikov. But this one was better. He wasn't overly muscular, but he looked like he could hold his own. He didn't smile, but held out his hand instead.

David worried about having made the biggest mistake of his life. Who were these people? Why was he offering them his hand? They were going to cut it off, he knew it, they were going to break it into a thousand pieces and feed it to the-

Achilles' hand enclosed around David's. He almost crushed it, but David didn't bat an eyelid.
"Good", Achilles thought. "Better".
Out loud he said: "We've been expecting you. I'm Achilles. I assume Miroslav told you what you are needed for?"
David nodded curtly. "Miroslav". Who the hell was Miroslav? Then he changed his mind.
"He didn't say much, as usual".
The man with the iron arm sniggered.
Achilles half-smiled. David relaxed internally. Must have said something right.
"Typical", Achilles raised an eyebrow in contempt. He was offered a Cuban cigar by a cute girl with short blonde hair and an ample bosom. He took it without looking at her and lit it. Blowing out the smoke, he sized David up, man to man.
"You'll be reporting to me. But before we get to the business, let me introduce you."
He had a slight accent, but David couldn't place it. No one said "the business". It was just "business".
Achilles glanced at David, a small part of him interested in the new recruit.
"What do we call you?", he asked.
David's world collapsed and found itself again. He felt a push of fate drive him to make the next snap decision.
"Kip".


To be continued..