This is the 7th in the series of Fluck Tuesdays.
Inspired by Oliver Fluck’s “(x, y, z ?)”
Photo courtesy of Oliver Fluck.
“Life is a festival, for all who know about it” – Ethan Holub
“Why do you call him XYZ?”
“His initials.”
She anticipated Franz to continue.
“Xavier Zurbruck.”
“What is the Y stand for?”
“I dun-no. I just added that. Made sense. To apply the finishing touches to the X. Z. initials.”
“Really?”
Actually, I am not sure if any part of his name is Xavier or Zurbruck.
“I like Mr. X. Y. Z. It makes for a good story. And unique initials.”
Yes, we like stories.
“You think he is crazy? He just stands there. Every single day. In his bright white outfit with white paint on his face,” said Tariro, staring at the still poised man, planted in the middle of the market square, dressed in bleached white, as if furnishing a silent benediction for bystanders.
Franz didn’t answer.
A woman, blur of a bright yellow suit rushed past them, shrieking broken German to whoever was on the other end of her mobile phone, without even noticing X.Y.Z.
“He is not crazy. I spoke to him once. He does this to soak up people’s stories,” Franz said finally.
“What do you mean soak up? He talks to people? They talk to him?” asked Tariro. “I thought he just stood there silently. Every time we have seen him that’s what it seems like, no? With a weird gesture that changes randomly. One hand up, the other on his stomach. Or remember last week—one hand up, index finger on his lips, and the other hand on his hips?” Tariro asked with an amused interest.
Franz began, “Well, he didn’t speak to me while he is doing his thing. Just ran into him near the post office once, some months ago. Didn’t really recognize him without the paint on his face, but somehow I knew it was him.”
“How?”
“I just did,” Franz replied and shrugged, “Besides, it doesn’t matter how, because he quickly confirmed that yes, he is the guy in white from the market place.”
Tariro enjoyed her time with Franz. He was a fifty-five year old tailor, owner of the shop “Stitch in Time” that employed three seamstresses, one from India and the other two from Pakistan, part of Germany’s emigrant citizenry. Yet Franz introduced himself as a writer the first time they met six months ago. Tariro, only a visitor, when not working on her dissertation research, would stop by “Stitch in Time” and they would walk over to the market place and sit on a bench.
The first time Franz told her a story it was about Kristiane Sarah. Kristiane’s husband left her for another woman who made better German Potato Casserole. Upon hearing this, Tariro cried. Franz tried to comfort her by stating, “It’s all about the proportion of the Worcestershire sauce to the tablespoons of cider vinegar.” Tariro smiled—she just missed home.
Franz shared with her that he was a widow without any children and simply knew a lot of people and their stories. Tariro, too shy to speak to strangers or befriend others in her seminars, considered these stories background information for when she would finally gather the courage and time to meet the people who owned the anecdotes. She disregarded that, knowing her, such a time wouldn’t come.
“So tell me—what is X.Y.Z.’s story then?”
“It’s a short one. He is not a man of many words. He was coming out of the post office and just abruptly began talking to me.”
“Wait—you said you spoke to him?”
“Oh Tari-ro. Does it matter?” It was at this moment that Franz reminded Tariro of her uncle back home, even though neither her uncle nor she belonged in the same pigment spectrum as Franz.
“No. I suppose not,” Tariro said. “Please, continue,” she said extra politely.
“Well—he said that he stands there every weekday to snort in people’s stories. That people think he is not listening but he listens to everyone. And they don’t realize this is why they feel better when they walk past him. Their amusement is actually a relief—they have unloaded a story unto him.”
Tariro stared at Franz. She didn’t know how to tell Franz this didn’t make sense to her, that this meant X.Y.Z. was crazy.
“But Franz,” Tariro spoke quietly, for the first time considering X.Y.Z. as a man who could possibly hear them and not just a breathing statute for staring, “People don’t really talk to him—they talk to each other while near him.”
“So?!” Franz exclaimed.
“Well, so…”
“You know people don’t really listen to one another. They only hear half. Half what they want and half what is being said,” said Franz matter-of-factly. Then continued, “So X.Y.Z. absorbs in the half that is not heard but needs to be.”
Tariro was quiet. She looked at the old man standing still in the middle of the market square, as if rooted into the ground, whitewashed—white hair, white garments, white gloves, white shoes.
Tariro and Franz walked away from the market square quietly. She gave him a hug before they parted for opposite routes.
While walking back to her flat, processing memories intertwined with distorted imagination, she thought of calling her husband the next day, standing an earshot from X.Y.Z. She wanted someone to hear the other story of why she needed to get away.
Franz returned to an empty home, regretting like he did every night, that he should have never divorced his wife for some woman that didn’t even like this Germany. He opened his notebook and jotted the letters x, y, and z followed by a question mark. Tomorrow he would go to the post office to see maybe there was something from his sons in the mail. He got ready for bed as he thought about his wife’s German Potato Casserole.
There are stories that make us and then there are stories we make up.
Every weekday morning, exactly at 6:00 a.m., Mr. Erim gets up to a barely audible alarm that comes from a clock purchased in Verona, Italy in 1983 by his wife. He slowly sits up and stares at the tile floor, reaching his feet for the plastic slippers he picked at a donation center not far from the local post office. Every weekday morning, he reminds himself, aloud, “Must stop by the post.” Thereafter, he walks, dragging the tightness in his joints, to the bathroom which smells of rotten cranberries and mold, even though there is no mold. Mr. Erim watches the tap water run and collect just the right amount of hotwarm in the sink while he prepares to shave.
Mr. Erim wished there was a window in the bathroom, even though it would still not provide access to natural light. “Man needs to know there is air out there,” he would tell Clarise, his ex-wife who left him when all his companies collapsed along with his lucid interpretations of reality, fifteen years ago.
After shaving, he combs what little is left of his white hair. Then he gently places white paint on his face, like aftershave, to blend his face with the rest of his white outfit. While the white paint dries he looks for his white gloves. Fifteen years ago, he had a melt down, got on his knees to pray only to realize praying was not enough. Ever since, he goes to market squares in different cities to sublease his mind so his body can rest.
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Oh, this was just absolutely glorious! Mesmerizing storyline, prose, pacing and killer of a last sentence.
Very well done, Annie!
very beautiful story…makes you think about so many things…what actually is meant by name of a person alphabets or words..how we all want to be heard fully,not halfway.How people reflect retrospectively about divorce/relations…would their lives would have being different.if they had the insight they have now….its one of those stories that make you think about so many bygone things about ones life story
I like the mix of worlds and the characters feel real. I like how this touches on a lot of deeper things what we say, what we don’t say, and what we hear.
I’m not sure if this is an error; I’m now suspecting my internal grammar cop is corrupt, but you wrote: “rushed passed”. I’ve always thought that should be “rushed past”, but I’ve seen similar errors in other cases; so this may be valid grammar.
I’m hoping my office mate w/ whom I’m going to dinner will be leaving the office soon; so may not be on the cyberhighway
@Aidan Fritz – – Hi Aidan. Thanks for pointing that out. You are right but I am not sure for the right reasons. It should be ‘past’ ONLY because it is being used as an adverb, because there is a VERB prior to it. Otherwise, it is passed and not past.
Thanks.
Thank you for reading, always.
@Marisa Birns – Thank you so much.
@nayla – thank you. i am glad you enjoyed it on so many levels.
We must be on the same wavelength as I have been running a thought similar to “There are stories that make us and then there are stories we make up.” in my head.
I love this tale – my favourite thus far – I felt as if I was there and that it was speaking to me.
Annie, I am so glad we “met”; thank you!
Pen and paper,
Sarah
“even though neither her uncle nor she belonged in the same pigment spectrum as Franz.”
This rounds up how much I loved this story. Very touching and a bit dramatic that feels so real.
Why is no one ever happy or satisfied? Why there’s so much greyness in our lives? You brought back beautifully this frequent musing of mind. Well done!
First of all, I love your idea with that piece. It illuminates the picture. Watching the picture after reading the story, it has gotten warmer. The photograph and the text fit so well with each other. They breath life into each other.
You did a great job with the characters. The text glides from one to the other and back and to the next one. It feels very smooth. Your writing has got a natural feel – very precious. You somehow manage to disguise all the work you’ve put into it. Like all great storytellers, your voice itself makes us forget your presence and leads us deeper into the story.
The deeper the water the stronger the shine of the surface under the sun is. The more evident the shine is to the eye, the less the depth of the water can be surmised. It’s the feeling I get when reading this piece.
The truth about the characters’ real selves and motivations is not surprising. It is exact but stays unsuspected until displayed. Since it is given through the characters’ actions and thoughts – and not using an external narrator – it is even more credible and moving. Very well handled.
On the downside, I think this piece could use a bit of editing compared to the last ones you posted. There are a few grammar issues that would only require somebody else to have a quick read through the piece to be corrected. I know how impossible it is to see this kind of things in your own writing after a while.
Also – and it’s only a personal opinion – some dialogue tags could possibly be improved, e.g.:
——————-
“No. I suppose not,” Tariro said. “Please, continue,” she said extra politely.
“Well—he said that he stands there every weekday to snort in people’s stories.
——————-
Even if some argue that the only tag you’ll ever need is ‘to say’, I disagree. I believe that by using only the verb ‘to say’ you’re losing a chance to give some more personality and individualism to your characters.
But in that excerpt, the tags did not bother me per se. They just sounded pretty repetitive.
These minor points don’t hurt the beauty of the piece. It’s really one of my favourites from all I’ve read of your writing so far, but I thought I would share my point of view on everything I felt and thought when reading it.
Thank you again for sharing!
@Chosekiei – Hi sekiei… thank you for your thoughtful comment and feedback. So very kind of you to take the time.
I appreciate ALL your thoughts.
With the shorter pieces that I post here, I had to let go of the grammar nut in me or I would never finish, which has been the story for too long with my writing. These are just baby pieces, to get the “creative clutter” out, so as to have a clear focus for narration and plot drive for my WIP.
As far as the dialogue tags, yes, I agree. On a re-write, most definitely. And it is something I try to be mindful of during the 1st draft too.
Believe it or not, I write these in 24 hours and hence the issues you point!
once again, thank you so much for your time, effort and energy to share your wonderful feedback.
annie
See, that’s exactly the problem I’ve got… You’re so much braver than I am.
I would like to be able to be spontaneous like that. Sometimes, I really feel I just want to put everything that is sprouting out of my brain and trying to find a way through my skull – yes, it does feel like that – on paper and leave it at that. Let people read it like that.
But then my evil critic self wakes up and I can’t do it, I just start bashing my own head in and words that were glowing softly in the darkness suddenly drift into full light and put ugly masks on.
So far, I’ve never managed to shut my integrated corrector down. Maybe I should keep trying…
I really admire you for posting those.
I liked the deliberate nature of his madness. The purposeful soaking up of the stories… what does he do with them, I wonder?