Munich, Germany 1871
 
 

The lanky young page closed the door behind him with a tiny click. Twenty minutes, he murmured.  His Majesty, King Ludwig II, will see you in twenty minutes.  Please have a seat, Count.  That was all.  No complimentary wine, no cigars to wet out the minutes, not even a newspaper on the low, rich mahogany table placed at the centre of the room.  The count drew in a sharp, beaurocrat breath and sat at the stiff backed chair flanking the mahogany table to its left.  He clambered his feet on the brocaded, red and gold stool and folded his arms over his chest.  It was going to be a long twenty minutes.

It had certainly been a long ten minutes when the coach master from Nuremberg to Munich announced that one of the coach's hubcaps had come lose.  The coach heaved violently as he jumped down, passengers bumping into each other, Count Maximilian von Holnstein bumping his head against the curtained windows.

"Just sit back and relax, everyone," the coach master called out from the dark.  "I'll have this fixed in a few minutes."

The man sitting across from the count stretched out his legs, long and bony under his pressed corduroy trousers, and unfolded a newspaper he kept folded under his arm.  Holnstein eyed him with envy, rubbing his head where it had struck the window.

"This might take him a good thirty minutes," an old lady at the right end said.  She smoothed out a few wrinkles in her wide, black hoop skirt, crushed in between an umbrella tied to her elbow and a dishevelled little girl in white gingham.  Holnstein arched an eyebrow in her direction.  The old woman nodded like a sage, wrinkles under her throat wriggling.

"I've taken this coach to Nuremberg and back twice this last spring.  That man's hubcaps are always falling off, and he always promises a wait of ten minutes." She snorted, the little girl shifting at the sound.  "It'll be a good thirty minutes, mark my words."

The bony man's newspaper rustled.  The little girl coughed.  Holnstein shifted forward in his seat, tapping at the bony man's knee.

"Excuse me, sir, would I be terribly rude in asking that you please lend me the society column from your newspaper?"

The hubcap remained unfixed.  The coach man had flung open the door to the passenger seats, lamp held high in his hand.  It cast long shadows over his features, his mouth  a harlequin's grotesque smile as he announced that they would have to walk to the nearest cross-roads marker.  Women and children first.  Holnstein's head bumped against the window again as the last hefty female climbed out, hoop skirts dragging along the ground.  It was cold, little teeth clamping over his nose and fingertips, as he stepped outside.

A man with a battered bowler hat took the lead, cane tapping against rocks as he went.  So no one will get lost, he claimed.  Holnstein prayed the cross-roads marker weren't too far off, or he'd have to hold himself responsible for the murder of Mr. Bowler Hat and his humanitarian cane.  He wrapped his coat closer about him, trudging on at a slow, haltering pace.  Mr. Bowler Hat had also thought it best to match his pace to that of his elderly companion, a little prune of an old lady with a white lace veil over her thinning grey hair.  Her accent was thick and indecipherable.  She turned towards Holnstein and smiled.  She had a huge, closely knit family, and she entertained the notion that he wanted to know all about them.  It was a long trudge.

In all, they waited out two hours and thirty minutes for the next coach headed to Munich.  A Berlin bound coach had taken a young, pasty faced man an hour before.  He looked down at his fellow Nuremberg passengers with an air of pity and bordering madness as his coach had pulled away, wheels uncertain on the snowy terrain.

"Gott Schuetze Deutschland," Holnstein mumbled as he settled back on the new coach.  A red haired Irishman gave him a scathing look, but said nothing.  The bony man's newspaper rustled again, and it wasn't long before the rocking of the couch and the cold cramped space of the night journey had lulled Holnstein to sleep, head banging in drowsy rhythm against the head board.

That had been eight hours ago.  The clock on the wall of the waiting parlour chimed eleven a.m., a little milkmaid walking out stiffly behind her fat cow.  It mooed twice, then was gone back into its niche in the clock, milkmaid in obedient tow.  The count uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, chin cradled in his palm as he watched the milkmaid bow at him and then disappear.  She was a pretty milkmaid.  Thin, wheat coloured hair, rosy cheeks, wide red mouth, generous hips. Holnstein smiled.

Munich women were beautiful. They greeted him with warm, open smiles, generous hands, and unlaced blouses when he had stepped out of his coach, the sight a relief for his sleep depraved, sore eyes. They had brought full mugs of beer as well.

"I've missed every one of you," he said, his laugh mingling with theirs as he wrapped his arm around a freckled blond, head resting against her bosom. She giggled and threatened to spill his beer if he didn't set her down.

The Beerhaus had been missed as well. It stood out in the snow, old and decrepit as it leaned against the sides of a blacksmith's shop, steamed windows yawning out into the night, spilling ochre yellow light out into the grey, horse trod snow. The smoke from a thousand neighbourhood chimneys rose to mingle with the sauerkraut laden breath of the old tavern. Holnstein set down his freckled wench, taking her hand and wrapping his free one around a brunette's waist as he stepped through the door.

A man called out his name as he entered. "Max! Ye old louse, where th'devil ye've been? I've had t'depend on Finley here t'pay my beer since ye've been gone. No doing, no doing. Finley's as poor as dirt."

"I'm so sad to hear that, Otto, you poor thing." Holnstein smiled, moving aside the stool were Finley lay slumped over, a thin trickle of saliva trailing down his chin, dead drunk and dreaming of a harem in Turkey. Holnstein pulled out a crumpled mark and smoothed it out on the counter for Otto to see. The burly old man smiled, displaying a mouth rimmed with tobacco juice and gummy teeth. He snatched up the mark in stiff, frozen hands, crushing it against his cheek.

"Ah, thankye, thankye, Maxi. Yer a good lad. A damn good lad."

Holnstein treated the man to a few, hearty thumps on the back. "Nothing to thank me for, Otto, you big son of a lame bitch. You just get your drinks, get drunk, be merry, and leave the women to me." Laughing, he thumped and slapped at Otto's back again. As he slid off the stool, he heard the old man order a tall stein, his voice already unstable and thick, as if anticipating what the beer, cold and buried under thick foam, would do for him.

"Ye shouldn't buy beer f'r old, lame Otto," a strawberry haired barmaid said to him as he passed her by, one hand rising to pat her from below and behind. "He never does a thing for anyone but sit there and complain. I wish we could kick him outta here."

The count grinned. "Would you like me to pay him to get out?"

The barmaid laughed, the sound thin and throaty. She threw her cleaning rag over his face, pushing him away. "Gott forbid, ye big oaf. Ye pay him outta here, we done stay without good marks spent on our whores. Now off with ye. Y'be looking f'r Mathilde, right? She's at th'end o'the hall. We had room shifts since last ye came calling."

He stumbled under her shove, rag slipping off his face as he almost crashed into a table. Nothing he couldn't laugh about, though. It had been cold, dismal, and straight from the hungry bowels of Hell in that coach from Nuremberg. He was determined to let nothing else ruin his night.

"I'll be spending some good marks on you if I can help it next time I come," he called, flashing her a crooked, charming smile as he walked down the hall to Mathilde's room. The barmaid laughed, nonchalant and coy, but blushing like a school girl, as she flashed him the finger and so blessed him on his way.

Holnstein sighed, the sound bringing him back to the carpeted parlour where he sat and waited for the king. He threw a sideways glance at the milkmaid clock. Twelve thirty. More than twenty minutes. He stood up, flinging the door open.

"Hey! You, the undernourished page! That's right, you! It's been more than twenty minutes! When's his Majesty going to see me?"

The page combed back a stray lock of hair, lips forming words that made no sound. He hurried down the hall, the sound of an unlocking door floating out towards Holnstein. The count folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, the pale ghost of a smile playing over his lips. The page came back in a few seconds. An hour. He says an hour, Count von Holnstein. Please, if you would return to the parlour …?

Eleven minutes and fourteen seconds by his silver pocket watch later, Holnstein pulled on the service rope for a maid. She bowed as she came in, curly hazel hair pinned back into a prim little bun. The count's eyes roved over her in disinterested praise. He had heard the court members discussing Ludwig's desire to keep only beautiful things around him many times, but he had always assumed that only the young men would be beautiful. He was glad to see he had been wrong in his assumptions.

"Could I have a bottle of white Chablis, er… What did you say your name was, fraulein?"

"Elize, Count von Holnstein, and yes, sir, a bottle of white Chablis. Right away, sir."

It took her seventeen minutes to return with the wine, the ice filled bucket it came in, a towel draped around her left arm, and a glass cup. She set it out on the low table for him, bowing for each move she made. He watched her in silence, cheek resting on his knuckles and legs propped over his chair's right arm. He smiled.

"Would you mind joining me for a drink, Fraulein Elize?"

She blushed, bowing yet again. "Sir… Count von Holnstein, I can't… I shouldn't --the king, he--"

"Oh, hush, you silly thing. The king won't care. Here, let me pour you a drink. I bet you're only allowed to have good Chablis like this on Christmas day, eh?"

She murmured a denial to his offer, but drew closer, her eyes brightening at the sight of the shimmering liquid filling the cup. She almost reached out for it, but caught herself. "Oh, but, sir, there is only one glass… What will you drink from? I mean--"

Holnstein laughed, the sound carefree and amused. He picked up the green tinged Chablis bottle and cradled it against his cheek. "I drink straight from the bottle, Elize chen. Now, here you go, drink up."

Elize held limp hands out for the cup. Holnstein watched her with a bemused expression on his face. Standing, he took one of her hands in his and wrapped the fingers around the cup, then wrapped her other one over it. She blushed, the cup trembling in her unwilling grasp.

"Now, just take a nice little sip, Elize."

She tilted her head back, placing the cup to her lips. The liquid was cold and harsh against her throat. She had never drank Chablis before. Had never tasted any alcohol. What she tasted now was harsh, but delicious. She ran her tongue over her lips to taste what remained there and quickly took a second drink. Watching her, Holnstein laughed and reached out to pat her shoulder.

"There, you see? Pretty damn good stuff."

She nodded, holding out the now empty cup towards him. Her eyes glittered in curious excitement as he re-filled it to the brim, taking a swig of the bottle after he was done. He watched her hovering ghost shape through the glass of his bottle, head tilted back, eyes closed, liquid travelling in guilty pleasure down her throat. He slid one finger into the neck of his bottle and bounced it off his thigh, waiting for her to finish.

As she drained the last drop, she turned towards him again, cup rising again. He shook his head and showed her the empty bottle dangling from his finger. "All out, I'm afraid, fraulein."

"Oh, I can go get another one, Count, sir. I'll jus--"

He reached out to hold her back, fingers curling around her elbow, as she turned towards the door. She looked up at him in confusion. And anxiety. When he saw the look in her eyes, haunted and suddenly afraid, he released her. A smile played across his lips.

"There's no need to get more. I don't want you to get in trouble with his majesty." He waited patiently for the uncomfortable fear to leave her eyes and the stiff line of her shoulders. Once satisfied that she was again at her ease, he continued. "Tell me, how good are you at chess?"

She blinked, taken aback. Holnstein laughed, the sound strangely warm to her. She found herself smiling back, one hand rising to comb back a stray lock. The count placed one hand over his eyes, still shaking with silent laughter. "Fraulein Elize, I swear..." He remained like that for a while before he lowered his hand, reaching out to pat her cheek kindly.

"Be a good girl, Elize, and find us a board, hm?"

Twenty seven minutes by both Holnstein's silver watch and the milkmaid later, the count bit his lip in quiet frustration. Looking up, he could see the pretty maid was beginning to enjoy herself. Her eyes gazed at him from across her white pieces, glittering with thoughts of her anticipated victory. He fingered his tower, darting a look at her murderous bishops. They had taken the lives of both of his knights, his token heroes in his matches against the stable hands. He edged the tower forward, leaning back with a heavy sigh.

"You're quite sure you've never played this before, Elize chen?"

She giggled --and he covered his mouth to hide a pleased smile --as she moved her bishop forward to destroy his tower. "Never, I swear, sir. I've never won at anything, really..."

"Well," he murmured, moving a worthless pawn forward, "you're certainly winning now."

She laughed. It was a shy, quiet laugh, afraid to show itself. She won the game, fifteen minutes later, and sat very still, blushing as Holnstein clapped her victory and removed the remains of his battered army from the board. Her hands rose to cover her cheeks, mouth forming a silent Oh. A whispery smile passed through the count's lips, the chess box clicking to a hollow close in his hands.

Holnstein lifted out his silver pocket watch. 1:40 in the afternoon. He pocketed it with a sigh and held a hand out for the maid. She was still blushing from her victory as he pulled her up. She looked beautiful, mouth trembling in quiet awe, thin, white fingertips resting against her fair skin, and he felt a familiar pang run through him. Coughing, he turned away.

"I've kept you too long here, fraulein. You should be going back to your duties, or I really will get you into trouble."

He heard her stand still for a moment, unwilling to leave, holding her breath. He felt her bow, felt her turn away slowly and walk towards the door. The lock clicked once, door creaking, lock sounding again as the door closed again, and she was gone. "Thank you, Count von Holnstein," murmured her voice. Then it was gone, and he was alone.

With a sigh, he dropped down on the stiff backed chair, legs rising once more to rest over its right arm in dejected boredom. His body trembled slightly with the effort of reminding himself that the pretty --the beautiful --maid was gone, and that he had no right to run after her and carry out the miserable thoughts running through his head. He scratched at his cheek.

The wallpaper in the waiting parlour was a pale peach ensemble of leaves and fruits carried in the horns of prancing unicorns and anaemic deer. He thought it was charming, in it's own, unsettling way. Bushels of hay better than my father's wallpaper.

His father. It had been years since he'd last seen him, standing in the parlour of his mother's house, arms folded behind his back, a dark silhouette framed against a gold tinted glass window. Holnstein could not remember how old he had been back then. Thirteen. Twelve, maybe. It didn't matter. He hated his father.

"Mum, who is that man?" asked his child's voice, nestled deep down within his memories of sunny parlours, the overgrown, weeds are Queen here, garden, the grunts of their failing money. His mother's voice was tired.

"He... That man was an old friend, Maxie. He moved away from Bavaria a long time ago."

The child Max lay his head down close to his mother's breasts, eyes narrowed as he gazed at the grainy photograph of a thin, moustache sporting man in a tall hat and walking cane. "He looks like a mean man, Mum."

Frau Holnstein sighed, putting her arms around her child's bony shoulders. "Ja, well, some people are like that. They just look as if they might hurt us... They just look like that."

Max slid off his mother's lap, already losing interest in the picture and the man that just looked. He smiled as he thought out those words. The Man that Just Looked. It suited him.

He called him that in his mind for years afterwards. The man in the photograph remained The Man that Just Looked even after the thirteen year old Maximilian, school books flung casually over his shoulder in their worn leather strap, came home one hot afternoon in July to discover a dark silhouette standing in his mother's parlour.

"Maxie," his mother said, a smile playing across her lips as she held him close, hands caressing his cheeks as she turned him towards The Man that Just Looked. "He's come home, you see? My old friend."

Maximilian looked at him in cold, detached silence. The man smelled of old pipe tobacco, the pungent chocolate aroma he so loved in Herr Decker's grocery turned into something horrible and frightening. The Man that Just Looked took a few steps forward, clasped Maximilian's shoulder and smiled down at him.

"Such a fine boy, a fine boy. He looks just like my father, he does. Right like my father."

He felt himself grow stiff then, at the man's words. Like The Man that Just Looked's father. He pulled away from his mother's arms and the man's heavy, alien hand, eyes wide and heart racing. He heard his mother gasp, but smile and plead that he not make a scene, please. Maximilian's eyes narrowed at her words, at the look in her eyes. She stood stiffly, wringing her hands, begging him with her muted eyes. His lips formed sounds of disappointment.

"Mother... You don't mean...? This man is..."

She thinned her lips, the colour draining from her face. "He's your father, Maxie. Your father. Please, Maxie, come here... Maxie..."

The milkmaid clock struck two thirty in the afternoon. Holnstein gazed at it, disoriented. He ran a hand across his eyes, lowering his stiff legs from the chair's arm. The memories were already rushing to the corners of his mind, becoming thin gossamer streams of nothing and nothing he wanted to remember. He pushed himself up from the chair, stretching.

The wallpaper, the stiff backed chairs, the heavy, golden light filtering in through the windows, even the shapely milkmaid and her cow were becoming irritating. He felt as if he had spent time upon time of his life in that room, waiting. He paced the floor, arms folded behind his back, matching his footfalls to the swinging pendulum of the milkmaid clock. The sound lulled him into a drowsy state. He could feel the minutes creeping past him. 2:31... 2:33... 2:36... 2:40...

He flung open the parlour's door. "You miserable page! It's been four hours! Damn you, where the Hell is the king?!"

Silence greeted him. The milkmaid stepped out to greet three in the afternoon. Holnstein stood at the door, fingers clasped around the edges, polished wood digging into his skin, body trembling with the effort it took him not to scream what he really felt. With a sigh, he stepped away from the door, closing it in slow, tired motions. He walked back to his chair and sat down, cheek resting against his palm, eyes fixed at a spot on the floor where the sunlight was brightest.

"Not a bit of sunlight at all," the thin man with the glasses had said, pulling the curtains of his room closed. He had greeted Holnstein at the door of the Paris hotel Chancellor Otto von Bismarck had secured for him. Or whomever His Majesty would have finally decide to send, he thought, pulling out his travel coat and dropping it unceremoniously on the first couch he found.

They had arrived in Paris under heavy rain. Bismarck had been a massive silhouette against rain spattered windows when they had met up after the train journey from Munich. His handshake was firm as Holnstein smiled across at him, his head nodding in detached interest as the man with the glasses introduced them.

"This is the man his majesty, König Ludwig II of Bavaria, has sent for the conference, Chancellor von Bismarck. He is the count Maximilian von Holnstein."

"Ah yes, I see."

That was all he said then, before he turned back to his companion, a sickly looking man with a battered briefcase clutched to his chest. Holnstein looked at him for a while, one hand rising to cover the smile that was beginning to play across his lips. He excused himself early that night, claiming that the train ride from Munich had drained him. Bismarck had clapped him on the back, eyes narrow and unreadable as he wished him a pleasant rest.

"Paris is the city of revolution, I doubt you'll get much sleep here, Count."

It turned out he was right. A labourer's strike broke out at the steps to the conference building, their shouts phantasmagoric echoes throughout the rooms. A delegate from Austria lit a cigarette, standing by a south end window, looking out at the rioters below. It seemed as if he were watching a performance, wondering if maybe those weren't really people, but actors in a street play.

"Not many riots in Austria, I take it?" Holnstein asked, one hand rising to request a cigarette. The Austrian held up the pack for him in silence, waiting till the count had pulled one out, rummaged his pockets for a match, lit it, and exhaled a thin trickle of smoke from his first drag.

"We have riots," he answered, pocketing the cigarette pack. "But never like this."

The words had scarcely left his mouth when the thin, groaned scream of glass was heard. Holnstein's head snapped in the direction it had come from, the Austrian taking a second drag from his cigarette. Three men stood around the broken glass, one of them holding up a brick he had picked up from the carpet. The count watched him thin his lips, then fling it down into the crowd, their voices rising in a tumultuous wave, bodies pounding against the doors. Another window, further down, was smashed.

"Gentleman, the conference will be adjourned for today. Please follow me, the men by the doors will escort you out of the building and back to your hotels. Please step through here..."

Holnstein followed his stoic rescuer in silence. He took several rapid drags on his cigarette, letting the smoke curl upwards and around him as he stood on the curb with other delegates and their aids, waiting for the hansom cab that would take them back to the hotel. Grey clouds were forming by the edges of the Paris sky, wrapping themselves around the sun, throwing the rioters into shadow.

"More rain," he heard a man mumble, "that's all that we need. I left my umbrella at the hotel."

Holnstein took one last, slow drag on his cigarette, flicking it to the ground and rubbing his fingertips over his pant leg. "You left it at the hotel, huh?" he called out to the umbrella-less man. "I didn't even bring one. It's going to rain down hard from here on, I guarantee it."

His silver watch began to chime to itself within his pocket, bringing him back from his reverie. The cool, grey darkness of Paris burst into the golden ennui of the waiting parlour. He blinked a few times, rubbing at his eyes. He pulled out his watch, squinting at its face. It was four o'clock. Time for a drink. He snapped the clock lid close, stuffing it into his pant pocket. The chair creaked as he clambered his legs onto the mahogany table.

He remembered the rain in Paris. The way it had drummed at his window at night, whispering him to sleep. He never slept sounder in his life, the man with the glasses lying in the bed across from him, still as the dead, the rain washing down around the house, deep into the roots of the gnarled sycamore by the window. He could care less about the peace conference, about Versailles and Bismarck at those moments. He sighed, burrowing deeper into his warm bed, thinking about nothing but how good the covers felt against his naked shoulders.

He would have liked that feeling to remain with him throughout all this ordeal he now found himself in. But it did not. It could not. He drew a hand over his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. Things could never be how he wanted them. His wife was not the woman he could love, his father was not the man he had dreamed a father could be, his mother was a tired has been, his job, his position as the King's glorified horse master, a laughable joke. Nothing was as it should be. And he was tired of waiting.

The chair groaned as he stood up, the lion-head shaped legs scrapping across the floor. He reached up to rearrange the neck of his uniform, pulling down at his cuffs in brisk motions. Turning, he surveyed his reflection in the sunlight windows. He was a pitiful sight, and he knew it. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, mouth stretched out into a drowsy grin, eyes betraying nothing but their master's stupidity. He smiled. He looked perfect.

Sliding one hand into his pocket, he patted the folded paper lying inside. It was still cold from the rain in Paris, from the long wait for the coach back to Munich. It felt like a knife, sharp and alien, as he ran one finger over its edges. He closed his eyes. Be it as it may, there is no turning back now. His eyes fluttered open slowly, the parlour doors coming into focus in drowsy intervals, looking, undefined and shadowy, in his mind's eye. He took one step forward, placing his hand over the knob, turning, click.

It was time to see His Majesty. Afterwards, only time would be left. Only waiting. Waiting for the end, waiting for the beginning. Waiting for things to be as they should be.
 
 
 
 

Author's Note

Well, there it is. My Holnstein story. Sat down to write this at sporadic moments of inspiration, and Gott knows it still doesn't look like much. Ha ha.

The riot in Paris actually occurred during the 1871 Peace Conference, which was then moved to Versailles. Holnstein's long wait is also historical. He had recently come home from Paris, carrying the Kaiserbrief meant to guarantee Ludwig II's uncle Luitpold's claim to the Bavarian throne. Ludwig would not see him due to a tooth-ache. And because he didn't think much of Holnstein to begin with, of course. [grin]
 

> top

> mail

© March 18th-April 2nd, 1998 Team Bonet. Now, Count von Holnstein was a real person, but the way in which he is portrayed here is based on the manga by You Higuri, © 1997 Asuka DX. Thankye so kindly for taking the time to read this, eh? Gott knows I ramble...