ACTRESS ON THE BRIDGE

Near the cooking lake Rhine, a dangerous looking man, who adored the 4 stars on his trapezius, walked cautiously as if on duty. He held on a leash, under which a white fluffy spitz wiggled its waist left and right advancing forward.

“Slow Rex, slow…” he frowned at Rex, who didn’t look like a ‘Rex’.

On duty, the tough looking man was called Herr Brecht, and respected by many police officers, inspectors and men in buros. He stood out because of his bushy threatening mustache, which he grew for the last 34 years, with his own sweat.

From outside, despite his dangerous aura, Rex made him look more human. But his inside? The way he bit your eyes with his bitterness, as if you were always in guilt for something you didn’t do. His colleagues and underlings: Die Polizeibeamten, Die Polizei-Meister and Obermeister, were more than happy when he was not around, for they could breathe some air and work like humans. And if he was around, they felt strapped into a chair, command after command doing all he said. Besides that Herr Brecht allowed no inane discussions to take place other than ‘work’, for the ‘work’ was why they were there in the first place.

And when someone made an accidental error: forgot to sign papers, give commands on time, he with a sarcasm mocked them, and ‘they’ couldn’t reply anything knowing the consequences. Their mouth, we can safely say, was stitched. For there once appeared a sensitive case, when a young stunt nervously yelled at his face, while Herr Brecht said calmingly: “Herr Opfer do you have a family to support you?”

Herr Opfer, courageous, yet afraid and trembling, answered: “No, I live alone.”

“Then I suggest you buy yourself a red paper cup, a rug and warm clothing…”

“Why?” asked Herr Opfer, feeling like ‘Eine Opfer’ and puzzled.

“Why-Why! For your begging to be profitable - you are fired!” And he was fired, and had no job, and couldn't pay for his home.

Though It would be a complete lie, to say Herr Brecht was always that stiff and scary. Well he had a cute dog…and he could only be funny and nonsensical for dogs and women. Especially young women, who were attracted to his dog like a magnet. It pleased him to brag to his colleagues about ‘this and that’ woman, who wore ‘this and that’ short, and talked to him ‘this and that’ way. Though his luck never shone brighter beyond ‘this and that’.

Disturbed with thoughts as to what little beautiful bird might approach him, and what he could utter, he stopped being cautious on the street…and he was punished for it.

Valid people from this town warned him of a couple buildings, he had to walk with widened eyes, as if almost on duty. Herr Brecht walked on the left sidestreet, which led to the thick city with urban houses and buildings. Rhine was on his left. Stony bridge shadowed the rippling Rhine. But on Herr Brecht’s right, a white building towered him, which wasn’t as white as when it was built. Dark windows were five, from bottom to up. As he got closer to ‘the white building’, while thinking about curious cute women, he noticed unnoticed cars, which were parked unevenly one after another, as if their owners were in a hurry. Then a big northwind slapped bushes, trees and their torches creating inconsistent rustle, as if wanting to scare you every second. Even sudden waves emerged where they shouldn’t and fell down heavily. Then an obese woman from a crossing street, near the ‘the white building’ yelled at an obese man, as if the man got caught cheating. Her raucous voice disturbed Herr Brecht. So he slowed his walking, looked over and saw on the right sidestreet, a cafe, in front of which two men sat, sipped and talked.

One talked and the other listened. The talker wore a magicians hat, spoke with such enthusiasm, as if someone finally took him seriously. He also had a wood color wool-shirt, which seemed to be newly bought. From elbow to wrists, his arms had their spring time too early, and they didn’t wither since, producing black, thin, long and consistent hair. His gestures were warm and animated. In front of the enthusiastic speaker sat what it seemed from the first glance, an old statue, for his glance froze on the table menacingly. But then it was discovered that he too was a creature of animation, a Homo-sapien as they say, and he could hear, and think, and move its tongue to produce words. The top of his hair said their last farewell long ago, and only a couple lonely gray ones hung on either side of his skull.

If the hard looking Komissar was to lie, he would say the conversation between the two men did not interest him a bit, because his integrity was not on the same pedestal as their information. But the truth didn’t lie – for he questioned his previous proposition. With questioning he involuntarily showed interest towards the conversation. And there was no backing up. He caught sight of the magician, whose poor tongue was as if tied for many years, or all his listeners' ears were deaf for many years, he now pronounced his words with such thought and accuracy that all the contemporary writers would be ashamed of their title: “I will tell you the story, that I told no one…” he started his spitting atack to the statue. “The guard said I can go out…but I can’t go out seeing the sight of this bridge, the lake, the wind and at the same time be quiet about the incident that occurred to me…”

The elderly man in front of him, who stared at the table like a forgotten statue, nodded his head somehow, and said “Go on, go on…”

Der Hauptkommisar crossed to the right sidestreet, and sat across the table near the two. His place had good hearing and enough stealth. He ordered a coffee, and listened as the magician unfolded his story: “True it is not, for I don’t know if a man with a well-state of mind will give any validity to this madness, and consider it as truth, nevertheless with honest and rather heavy heart, I must tell it, or else nobody will, and like every man in this planet, this will too become dust and die without anyone remembering it.

So let me begin…it was on a very sunny day. And I lived in a white building, near the Rhine. I remember it like a day, when the sun blinded my eyes through water, as if a plate of mirror was placed on the surface of the lake. As my normal routine, I walked around here, drank my coffee, thanked Stella…is she not here today…no she got fired, right, I thanked Stella, she laughed and giggled and like always, asked me: “Something else with coffee?” and I answered: “No…just coffee.” After sipping the bitter coffee, and smelling the salty lake, I got up as routined, and stretched a bit. Then I walked hither and thither, working out something in my mind. Though it was right there, in front of my house, in front of my building, when my routine got disturbed with this strange accident.

I warmed the bench, when on the lake Rhine, I saw a silhouette. I leapt up and leaned forward on the gutters. I looked at it, shadowing my forehead with the thin side of my right hand. I first saw nothing, but the silver water ripples that cut my eyes sharply so that afterwards I saw black stains, and of course, the silhouette. It was neither walking nor walking away, nor standing still, nor standing at all. “How could one stand on the water, if not only Jesus.” I wondered at those immediate minutes of my awe. My eyes definitely tricked me, so I rubbed them hoping for better and clear vision. Now not only my vision was cleared and I saw the silhouette much sharper, but that I found out the real truth behind the silhouette.

It was near the bridge. As I heard disturbing sounds, I looked up at the bridge, and besides the collected crowd, I also saw the actor for why the crowd was gathered. The actor either tried a trick or something else. But two things were sure. The actor was a good actor. And the crowd a good listener. The crowd felt, some even cried of the acting, and some said “don’t you do it, don’t” I questioned, how can one be so invested into a piece of art. Then I wondered why not, the more our world becomes chaotic the more art we need. I doubt my thesis might be of any truth whatsoever, when the actor stood at the edge of the bridge. Some whined, some growled, some voices trembled and wanted more. But for most, their eyes were moist. The actor danced at the edge: One step left, and one step right. It truly was a God's blessing to see such a performance for free to be honest. Imagine those people from the crowd, how much they paid to attend this spectacle. Yet I, from the distance of the bridge, looked up to them, and could enjoy this piece of art, this theater, this real acting, which was or will be long forgotten in our or the coming age.

The actor stopped running on the edge. She decided to sit and wave her legs around. On the lake, her shadow took a different shape, that of not human. Although the distance could trick one’s vision, especially when one wanted to observe a face, I still could take a glimpse, and I still have her face imprinted in my mind, and I still can’t get rid of it. Everyday I sleep and dream about it. This great actor…no actress, her eyes were pale yet sharp, they looked down in a misery as if she was aware that her life was failed, but still had to play her grand act. Her forehead was kissed and glistened by sun. Her lips were calm like the lake Rhine, and it seemed she was rather Asian. She was brunette, and her beauty was beyond the English vocabulary to describe or convey. So I peeked out my head even forward to see what her face portrayed. I knew, I read a lot about expressions of humans. It was said that, with enough wit and interpretation, you can read faces. So as I interpreted: For a second, she raised her mouth up, her lip corners shadowed , and then dropped it to the same misery. It was a smile as if she took revenge on herself. I don’t know. But she was a great actress… that I know, a great actress!

It seemed our government, on routine, didn't like artists. For artists showed no facts, in a society who needs proof and sense, no God but evidence. Fact driven chair warmers had many judges. There was no judge for artists. Judges died long ago. Lack of idols killed them. And judges without Idols judged the wrong things. ‘The right things’ seemed not anymore unnoticed, but unneedful. Only predictably unpredictable stories, data driven proven statistics, and utilitarian quick practicalities were considered as “valid” or “convincing”.

That's why the government pissed their pants, and they sent for authorities to control the actor who acted on the bridge. The crowd that pointed fingers (perhaps telling how good she acted) somehow turned calm and hopeful. The policeman and ambulance personnel stood there hugging their cars, looking at the Asian woman. God-damn I realize it now, the whole street was closed so that no one would enter the stage. The crowd got thick, and the actor, the woman, the asian beauty put on another piece. This time it was her elegant, yet also in-trouble voice. She screamed or acted somehow, but I felt the urge of theater at that moment. I promised myself one time, that I would act in one of the great pieces of Chekhov, “Ivanov” but I never kept my promise, perhaps it is the right time now or in the next couple days…what do you think Klaus, haha…doesn’t matter. Not swaying away from the story, I saw her figure, towering in triumph above the mass, who stood under her. She had a mythological and heroic figure. Some policemen tried to crawl and kiss her feet as a sign of obedience like a slave. I was worried. Was she that popular, for a man to lose his integrity right on the stage, from strangers and in front of his commanders. But she screamed hysterically and refused. And that cracked the police officer even more, so he backed away in guilt and now feared the cracking of his long-sweat authority. She yelled to everyone with a madness of hers. Police suddenly rushed as if she now sinned. And people pointed fingers at her. 5 police men approached the dancing actress, when she almost fell into the lake. She hardly balanced herself, and police started raising their palms as high as if giving up. And their lips moved. She danced and danced, and then… It was only then that I realized, and to my surprise I objected to myself, that the policemen too were acting, for they seized her arm, and she laughed. That’s when I realized that all of them played a role and the woman knew the police. I said to myself, that “she knew them! she knew them!” for why else would she laugh that much, that hysterically in front of such an audience. They put her in the car and I could no longer see what happened next.” The magician stopped talking, caught his breath back and sipped his coffee. He then looked into the eyes of the old man who, like a statue, was long dead and withering.

To the magician's surprise, the old man made throat sounds, and then said: “We don’t need actors, or theater, or art, no we need people who work and work honestly.”

The magician felt offended: “Ogh come on…acting is play, and also work, and good art can’t be a lie.”

The old man got irritated, he turned his head to the magician as slow as a ship, stared in his soul and growled: “No…art, its a sin, a sin…its pleasure is…that it can destroy you altogether, it can isolate you…its bad, we need people and working groups. Real sweat, not imaginary.”

The magician looked up at the bridge and said: “I was not finished, you can’t believe what happened next…the woman who got put into the car, was transferred to the same building as I…”

The old man sighed, and turned back to his beginning position as slow as a ship, and looked like a forgotten statue. Der Hauptkommisar sipped his second cup. He then cloaked himself with indifference and dignity, yet he and his ears cooked to know what happened next.

The magician fulfilled his desire, and continued the mystery: “Not much happened, as I wasn’t allowed to see her. But I know that she had stolen a sharp object, and now as we all were eating in the eating facility, conversing and sipping, blood sprouted from her left wrist. People screamed and were nervous. I too was nervous. I don’t even know what happened to her anymore. But I know she cut her veins. I know she cut it while smiling. I know that, I know. In my room I thought only about her, and how the world lost such a great actress. Actress who despite her pain and blood, didn’t give in to the mundanity of life and rules, and still practiced what she loved, that is to say, she still practiced her art. I respect her for that. More weeks passed, and I didn’t see her. The manager of the building sat on the first floor, behind a tattered plastic pane. I asked him: “Where is she?”

The overworked manager, staring at the PC in front of him, said dryly: “In the hospital.” and made such gestures which meant ‘don’t disturb me anymore.’

The sad thing was nobody cared about her. Yet everybody took her actions seriously: with arched eyebrows, strict sense, as if she did something wrong. One morning as we got out of our white building, and I saw the bridge, suddenly her act replayed in my mind and I started to cry. The guard of the building noticed me. He was an old man with a rusted beard and hair. “Are you alright?” he asked and was very worried. “Should I call someone?”

“No, No” I said, turning to him. “I don’t know why, but whenever I imagine her, I start to cry, I don’t know why…”

The thin, small and old man couldn't answer anything, he just mumbled “You mean…”

“Yes, the woman who was sent away…”

“It will vanish…time will vanish what reason can’t…”

I don’t like to tell you all this, but I was emotional. Then I said to the old man “She is a great actress, a great…on that bridge, did you see her, the crowd, the yelling, the scream, the fans, a dream it was, a dream…”

The old man looked puzzled and said: “Ah…It was not an act, it was reality…”

I agreed with him, nodding my head, and the air almost nodded with me: “Yes, yes that's right, it was so real, it was so natural…sometimes things are acted so naturally you don’t know what's true and what's act.” After going to my room and thinking of her for the last couple months, I didn’t feel good.

A year passed as I was strolling outside, and saw a silhouette figure on the water near the bridge. It was the same figure as before, but it was static. It stood on the water. Then as a routine, in my mind I remembered what happened a year ago, and I looked over at the bridge, there was a thin figure at the edge of it. She acted for sure, but she acted so bad, I didn’t want to look. She walked slowly, dryly from left to right, from right to left agh…I could vomit right now. She couldn’t compare to my lovely actress, whom I lost…perhaps eternally. Back then the figure was brave, it was artistic, it sat, it jerked her head, moved with motion, risk and life. And now, she acted like a replica of a theater theory. She was a bad actress, a bad one. After a couple minutes she sat, and moved her legs in the air like kids do, and then she got up all too stiffly, all too oldly, woodly, plastically, you name it…all the adjectives that have to do with age and rust. She walked towards this direction.

She walked straight, turned right, and continuing her walk, I saw her, and I saw a familiar face. She was Asian. She was smiling. She appeared lighter than air. She said to me: “I didn’t see you a year ago.”

Then I wondered what she bragged about, so I asked: “My pardon?”

She grinned, and sighed. “I mean I didn’t see you a year ago, I was here back then.”

I wondered what this untalented, without-having-a-taste of an actress wants from me. I didn’t like her lightness, there was nothing in her happy state I liked. I said straightly “What do you want from me?”

She waved her left hand in the air, and said: “Nothing…nothing…”

It was an accidental glance at her left wrist when she waved. I saw a dull pink line, more like a healed flesh. As she passed I looked at her, at her walking, and at her stiffness. No, I couldn't bear it. I lost her. I went into my building, into my room and thought to myself ‘Where are you, my great actor, my great love.’ Until now I can’t find her.”

Magician stopped his speech as he couldn’t continue anymore. The stiff man in front of him, looked as stiff and as forgotten, as a rotten statue from 1980ies. And der Hauptkommissar Herr Brecht? Unable to press down his emotions, he too turned emotional, looking at the helpless figure who told the story. He said in his mind “What a life…” and as he got up from his chair, he heard the old man with frozen stare say to the story teller “I lived something too and I want to tell my story—”

“Come one old man” replied the magician with red eyes “Let’s do it tomorrow, again at 4, you can tell it like I did for two hours…time for eating, they will be in panic now, asking: ‘where are they, where are they’ haha, tomorrow Klaus…tomorrow.”

Herr Brecht walked out of the cafe, out of the “dangerous” place heavily. It seemed he sat so long he forgot how to walk. Yet no wine was consumed, but coffee. He had no desire to walk. On the way home, he called his boss, and canceled his tomorrow's evening shift. Then Herr Brecht fished out his cigarette from his right hip pocket, lit it, puffed slowly, and had a strange worry as to why the smoke for the second time of his life felt so bitter and choking.

Armen Hayrapetyan is a lad of 22, who wants to carve the laughs and cries in a beautiful form on the paper and show “what is” rather than “what should be”. He is an Armenian living in Germany for 9 years, talking in both Armenian and German, he reads often in Russian but ended up writing in English. He has published nothing yet, but wrote a little more than nothing.