The man that would not kiss women

The man who would not kiss women

The sound of a kiss is not as loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts longer, much longer. No love is truer than that which dies unrevealed.

Vienna, February 6th, 1972

FIRST PART

I cannot mention my name to you, nor my origin or, possibly, my fate either. Because it would lack veracity not matter how I tried. Everything has changed for me in such a short time in an unexpected and overwhelming manner... So much so that I, an advanced psychiatrist in my trade and familiarized with the strangest human deliriums, today, feel like my life is like the most unbelievable of all.

My years in Austrian hospitals -the most intense of my life- have turned into a chaotic universe full of an unsettling logic in the past few months. Am I going crazy? It would not be unusual for a psychiatrist, but that is not the case, I am merely trying to order the chaos that my existence is finding itself in. It is a paradox, but now that I know all about my past, my progenitors, everything that fit so perfectly in my life is now a labyrinth, and it is today when I know the least about myself, much less what I will do in the future. I do not know; I simply do not know. Allow me to tell you how I got to this point.

Up until I was thirteen years of age, my existence was normal. I lived in the Mittelland commune, in a quiet neighborhood of Berna, called Gäbelbach. I had loving parents, friends in the neighborhood and almost all the neighbors knew me.

My father was called Klaus Hüttler, he was an accountant, and my mother, Ada Strauss, a kindergarten teacher. They were no different than most of the Swiss bourgeois families: greetings or goodbye kisses, hugs and presents in birthdays and after some foolish play at school. I was used to asking for little, since my parents seemed to get ahead of my wishes.

They used to spoil me, but in truth, now that I evaluate them from another perspective, I believe they were a bit subservient in their love. I remember with special fondness those Saturday afternoon walks through the arcades of the old city, all the way to the Münster cathedral, the Onion Market, which we never missed in August. 

My father seemed somewhat dry in his treatment, sometimes even a bit silly, but I loved him like that, with that worn formality, fitting of a clerk. My mother, on the opposite, I believe she had a sincere love for me. She seemed to read in my eyes when I was sad or had some sort of conflict, even when I lied to her. Her hugs always were an irrefutable refuge before any foolishness or irrational fear of mine. She never spoke to me about my first years, of those maternal emotions one has about the first steps or first words, no other family anecdotes that always fill those first years of maternal inexperience. She merely smiled and said: you always were an angelical and curious boy, just like now.... I was left with that vague response that was not accompanied by any image of mine either. I did not remember myself as a young boy, except for some very weird nightmares that appeared in my mind sometimes. They were bursts full of brightness and that seemed to deafen me, despite me not hearing any sound imaginarily. But in those sporadic dreams I saw nothing but shadows vanishing, flying or falling to dark abysses. Sometimes I tried to identify them with some nocturnal party full of fireworks, like those they hold in some southern towns.

Every mirror was an object for absurd questions for me. A parallel reality seemed to conform in that virtual image which, when I tried to touch it, only had the coldness of an inexistent glass, only populated by confusing reflected images. I made faces at them, gestured, moved and thought I saw someone like me... that was there, in front or behind me.

When I was not sleepy I remembered those images in my bed and ended up dreaming about them, completely farfetched. I felt alone and did not understand why I have not had brothers or sisters. When I asked about that, I noticed a certain blush on my mother and restlessness on my father. He assumed a certain foreboding when he said: son, it wasn’t easy for us to be parents, and when she had you, your mother fell very ill, maybe that’s why we didn’t want to risk her life. Forgive us. Don’t worry either, only children are the most spoiled, and don’t have to share with anyone. That was the part I least liked to hear in that recurring and tender sermon. I would have liked nothing more than having a brother with whom I could be accomplice or adversary.

I never told them anything, but I once asked Herr Singer, our family doctor, father’s childhood friend, who always attended our family. I asked him with that naughty innocence children have: Was my mother really ill when she had me? At that question the naïve doctor affirmed that my mother never suffered anything, except for some colds: A health of iron! he said. I merely smiled, one of them was lying. But that did not matter, I had many friends among the kids in the neighborhood and school and we did as much mischief as we could think of. I was rarely punished by it, except for the time we snuck into the school chapel through the windows with Gunther and Ralph and stole some candles, but that was a child’s story. 

I considered my family as being of an easygoing economic position, though I could not say they were rich. I perceived, though, some contradictions between my parents’ income and the Herberststrasse in Salem, where I studied. It was one of the most expensive and privileged schools in the city, and the families of my friends the wealthiest of the Bernese society. The education there was quite strict and only German was spoken. They usually organized extracurricular activities to act medieval theatric plays of Pan-Germanic origin. The pecuniary needs were considerable too. I tried to explain that apparent contradiction between the education I received and the relative liberality in my house, between the easygoing modesty of my parents and the wastefulness of my school expenses. At any observation of mine in that regard, they explained to me that it was not a problem, that any expense that seemed to be an extra burden was done for my well-being. Besides, the explanation to several things always came up: the inheritance from my Viennese grandfather.

I was one of the few who went to and came from classes in the old Bernmobil urban streetcars, and that was not a problem for me at all, except for some eventual ironies from my classmates who moved in luxurious automobiles.

The first impression that shattered my daily domestic scheme came after I turned thirteen. It was a day when I returned earlier than usual. When I walked into my house, the door was ajar and I entered without a worry. My father was in the far hall, busy with a heated telephone conversation, by the tone of his voice he was talking with some employee or clerk...

This cannot be, sir, do you think we own a money factory? It’s been two months that you’ve been late with your bank deposit. The school of the child is quite expensive for us, and lately they’re demanding extra payments for the use of the gym and the visits they make. Understand, I’m a simple clerk with a humble salary and... someone answered on the other side of the line with soothing phrases.

Alright, alright, but please let it not be more than two days, remember our commitment. He hung up the phone and, when he saw me standing close to him, he changed his expression and tried to hide his anger, giving me unnecessary explanations about a supposed client of his that bothered him with a pending procedure.

I greeted him as always and, when I got to my room, I started thinking about what I had heard or thought I heard. Why was my father talking about me as the child? Who and why was someone paying him for my studies? What commitment could there be between a bank employee and my father? Did that have something to do with the envelopes we received the first days of every month without fail? As the questions flooded me, I felt a slight unease. I tried to do my usual homework and forget about that unsettling situation that began to disturb me.

The days went by and the incident ended up being an insignificant memory. Nonetheless, my games with the mirrors began acquiring a different sense. I obtained a photograph of my parents’ marriage and placed it on the wardrobe, beside my mirror. Unwillingly, I looked at my father’s and mother’s features with more attention. Certain details like their eyes, their noses and even their poses. That photograph was not enough for me and I began going through family photo albums and, what a coincidence! There were no pictures of me before my three years of age. In my parent’s pictures of their first years of marriage they were always alone, and the first picture we had together was in a train station platform. It was the Zofingen station in Berna.

According to them, I had been born in September, 1939, in my grandfather’s town: Linz, in Vienna. My parent’s wedding, that brief stay in Vienna and the details of my birth were never mentioned. They had supposedly gotten married in Berna and spent one year in Vienna, along with my grandfather. Silly smiles and evasive actions mentioning nonsense. When I interrogated about them directly, their answer sounded shallow. The photographs of me as a baby had been taken away by my grandfather and the one we had in our living room from the station, when we bid farewell to him, showed only the three of us. So strange, he was not in the picture. I never insisted, thinking it was merely family business.

My mother had blonde hair, eyes with squinty eyelids and dark irises, a small and sharp nose, her lips were thin and fleshy. My father also had light brown hair and was a bit bald, but instead he had long and black eyes, his thick nose stood out despite his moustache covered his lips, though some protuberant lips could be glimpsed. My games in the mirror bored me and I ended up not wasting any more time with foolishness. Besides, my free time was occupied by some girls in the neighborhood who I observed with greater interest as I walked along the nearby park.

Time put my doubts to rest. Everything went back to normal, though I started taking photos of my mother and father along with mine in my wallet. I placed them together with mine and compared their features at any time I could. Who did I look like? I asked the same questions to all of my friends. The answers were varied and contradictory, all of them sounded like kind hypocrisy. My sky blue eyes, my black and straight hair were not shared with any of them. At my doubts, they mentioned they must have been inherited from my grandfather. The Great War was a topic that no one mentioned and I, immune to any memory of mine, ignored it completely. During those years of childhood and puberty I felt a tinge of incurable melancholy in my character. I used to fall in love to the point of extreme passion, I remember a girl called Karina, somewhat older than me. She worked as a nurse in a municipal health center. I met her when I went to get some dressing done because of a mild accident I had in my left index finger. The finesse with which she cured me awoke an erotic image in me. I invited her to the movies, she answered me clearly.

I get out at five, wait for me outside, we’ll go to my house... I did not answer but waited standing in front of the building she worked at since four thirty. She walked out calmly, turned right and, when she saw me, made a gesture for me to follow her. When we turned around the corner we walked together. She was the one who asked the questions: my name, where I studied, where I lived, with whom and other things. I answered shyly and lengthening the answers a bit in order to appear older than what I actually was. We must have walked for about five blocks, and arrived to a two story house that was accessed through some sort of hallway. There were some stairs in the middle. We went up. She opened the second door on the far hallway.

Come in, she told me. I walked in slowly, observing everything around me. She took off her hat and the small cape she was wearing.

Take a seat and eat one of the apples on the table, I’ll take a bath, it won’t take long.

I hesitated for a few minutes and, in the end, grabbed one of the fruits and started eating it anxiously. I barely finished it and saw her walking out. That attractive and prude girl I walked with had become a beautiful woman. Her wet hair, half tied with a towel, a light gown and thin sandals, turned her into an extraordinary image.

Come with me, she said, and we went into what had been her bedroom.

Please, help me dry my back, she said, as she dropped the gown and handed me a small towel. She was nude and pulled me towards her, and gave me a devouring and wet kiss. I felt her lips invading mine in a compulsive way. I lost all shyness and lunged over her, kissing her neck in every corner before going down to her breasts. Her nipples acquired a soft and sensitive hardness. She grabbed them from below and it was as if she was presenting them to me. That evening lasted until ten at night. When I woke up from my slumber, she was still asleep. I dressed in a hurry trying not to wake her and went out into the streets as a warrior or a slave, since I felt like both. I got scolded that time, because of troubles much different to the paradise I had lived in those hours.

Three days went by and I did not dare to go back. On that Friday I went up those dark stairs in fear, I hesitated in front of the door and heard movement inside. After a few moments the door opened, with a certain slowness. A guy with a shaved head appeared, he seemed to have woken up from a long nap and in a bad mood.

What do you want? Looking for someone? he said clumsily. I looked at him stunned, I believe I mumbled an excuse me and fled by the stairs. I heard the cranky expressions of the man as a faraway rumor. I never went back there, only walked in front of the house from time to time, mumbling Karina, Karina. I never knew what happened, if the man was her father, her lover, her husband or if, perhaps, I got the wrong door in my confusion. But that experience remained in my mind as a confusing and nice memory. I had other darlings at school, but it never went beyond bluffing and school fantasies. I was a man before I knew love and in such an intense way, that a stolen kiss or some crazy pillow play in my adolescent life felt like small things to me.

Time went by and the certainty of my parents’ love was mixed with a slight tinge of orphanhood.

Once I graduated from middle school, I decided to study medicine. I was actually not very convinced of it, but that would allow me to go to the Medical School in Vienna, my grandfather’s town. The preparations lasted for a couple weeks that felt like months to me. The departure day came at last and despite the sentimental farewell that occurred, I felt something that tasted like freedom and intimate joy. I was sure I would be better away from them and would find my own way.

After long hours of sleep, we crossed a long stretch of the Konstanz Lake to arrive later to Zurich and from there crossing Bulach all the way to Austria. I arrived to the Westbanhof station in Vienna on a wet spring night in 1958. I had barely gotten off on one of the platforms when a mature man, dressed in black, made some gestures with a certain familiarity, as if he had known me since forever. He came closer with hurried steps. He had a withered face, thin and with grey moustache, almost always quiet. A kind and permanent smile could be perceived in the depths of his green eyes.

Welcome to Vienna, dear Ritter, I could not imagine you any other way! It’s good that you’re here, he hugged me effusively. When he noticed my confusion he said Man, you don’t know me, obviously, I’m August, and a very good friend of your parents and grandfathers. he shook my hand effusively and hugged me again, to finally point the exit to the station for me. He grabbed my luggage and continued talking to me nonstop.

We took a cab and arrived to a house at 1127 Wolkersbergenstraße street. It was a small two story house with a small garden at the entrance, full of peonies. Inside, a small receiver with a chimney on which there was a small Klimpt painting, very beautiful. The dining room had an oval table, and the kitchen was at the far end. On the light green walls, small Berlin landscapes could be seen framed in gold. There were two adjoining rooms behind the house, in one of them lived frau Helen and her small grandson. She was introduced to me as the housekeeper and cook. On the second floor, going up some spiral stairs, my room was to the left with an ample bathroom and a bronze bathtub. It was joined by an oaken door to an ample study with a spacious desk and other furniture, several shelves held a great library on its side walls. Books about medicine, philosophy, literature and others. It was like a small paradise for a student like me. I could not complain; it was a very comfortable place. From the windows, the Danube could be seen winding between the buildings and houses. My still unknown benefactor told me he would take care of all my needs, he left me a phone number, a savings account in the Berenberg Bank under my name and bid goodbye to me in a hurry.

The next day he appeared after breakfast, I heard a honk and I saw August gesturing me from a lead colored Mercedes Benz. I walked out after a few minutes and he invited me to go around the city and visit the Medicine School. We went around the Ringstrasse from the point it joins the Karnerstrasse, by the Opera. We went for a few minutes inside the Hofburg palace and its precious gardens, until we reached the Belvedere. We reached Charles’ Square, then visited the Museumsquartier museums. I was exhausted by the ride and I asked him to stop at a café to have something to drink.

August was very passionate about music and wanted to schedule a concerts and opera schedule for me. I asked him to do it a bit later, and told him I was more interested in visiting the university. He told me I was already enrolled and would begin my classes after the weekend. We had a cappuccino and then headed for the Medizinische Wiener Schule at 23 Spitalgasse street. It was a monumental building. We arrived to the admission office and confirmed my inscription. I would start next Monday.

Gustl, he liked to be called that way, treated me with naturalness and I even think he wanted to play the uncle role. He said he was an old, retired upholsterer, but he really was a first order musician. He adored his violin and played it like a maestro. He did not tell me that, I found out in a casual way. It was a certain time that I visited in his apartment when I heard Beethoven’s Fidelio from the street. I waited at the entrance for him to finish and then knocked on the door. He took a while to open and was surprised