On the morning of Sunday the 28th of June 1914, Gavrilo Princip drew his pistol, aimed it at Archduke Franz Ferdinand and pulled the trigger. It jammed. He was apprehended and confined to an obscure corner of history. 26 years later, an angry man wrote a diary.
Dear log,
Though you are made of paper, I must turn to you, as my only confidant. For there seems to be no one in this city I can even entrust to engage in polite conversation with me. Today, I committed to amending all the wrongs that have been done to me. Perhaps, one day, someone will find this book amongst the ashes of whatever will remain, and it will serve as an account of how the cruelty of man led to his destruction.
Strangers, although sometimes polite, are quick to pretend they do not hear me, or find some excuse to leave me in a hurry. Even those I sit next to on the bus and pay no mind to, instinctively shuffle up or vacate their seat. On one occasion, a woman barked an order at me to ‘stay away from her children’. This was quite hurtful as all I’d said to her was ‘good morning’. This was especially hurtful as I would have thought she’d at least recognise me as her own cousin.
And those who know me, they’re all irredeemable. The way they talk to me, it’s as if I were a gremlin rather than one of very few competent engineers in this stinking crevice of a town.
The tourists come here for the pretty mountains and old buildings, but this place is foul. All those who live here are foul. And all those who visit must be just as foul to be so nose-blind to every stench other than mine.
It seems everyone in Innsbruck knows me as ‘Ratter’ now. Not Max or Maximilian-Lukas or Mr Mauser. An infantile and cruel nickname that wasn’t funny even when I was a schoolboy.
Even those who’d think their consciences are so clean, they could blow smoke into the face of St Peter and still find a rosy cottage in Heaven are as guilty as anyone. They may be courteous when they come to the workshop. They may only quietly titter at the jibes others make. But they’ve never fought my corner, they’ve never shown their appreciation for my contributions. The paper has never recognised my talents. My name has only been mentioned once. And not for good reason.
And Kristin, I have scrawled many sweet words in her name, but I see now she is but another person. Just as cruel. Only quieter. I visit her bakery every day. I fix her fancy utensils for free. And for what? For dismissive, transactional exchanges of words every morning, not a single acknowledgement of the many notes I’ve left her, and Karl. Karl. It’s her tolerance of such a malicious ape that has taught me she is no better than a succubus!
Those vivid dreams I’d have of us together have now faded. They’d seemed so clear as to be prophetic. (Minus the extra foot in height, stronger jaw, less-beady eyes and all round less rodent-like features I’d give myself in these visions.)
Any time I visit and he’s there, he’ll turn to Kristin and tell her ‘she forgot to put the poison down again’ or he’ll give me directions to a fictitious cheesemonger. Or when he’s feeling less inventive, will look me square in the eye and say “Squeak squeak squeak?”. But she still fauns over him. In a just world, I’d be owed so much more! What more could I do to expose how crude of a man he is and how well I’d treat her?
But no. The thanks I get is trouble with the police and mockery by the local press when she takes my show of midnight gallantry the wrong way.
You’d think she’d appreciate the effort and devotion of a man that she’d found had silently entered her kitchen at night to prepare her a most elegant breakfast. And still, she keeps that Fleischkopf around to mock me. A man who, to my eyes, is even uglier than me!
Until now, I had not known what I could do. I’ve never had the choice of running from this tribe of barbarians. I subsist on their fistfuls of copper for fixing their telephones and mending their trinkets. And what would wait for me elsewhere? The same soulless pondlife only with different accents. But today in the coffee house, I sat alone, listening to some clever men from Vienna. They spoke of philosophies that I had never heard of in arrogant tones that I could not understand. But amongst their pretentious ramblings was a concept I grasped. Black swans.
Serendipitously, I happened to have a newspaper laid in front of me. Its front page carried the same story as every other publication in the city.
The Kaiser is coming to Innsbruck. He shall pass over its famed bridge on his journey leading a few divisions of the Imperial German Army to the Italian border. In a show of solidarity with ‘our’ emperor.
No doubt he will be gifted the warmest of receptions. All as a prize for his impeccable talent for being born in the right circumstances.
As one of Innsbruck’s most esteemed citizens, surely it is only fitting that I provide him with a welcoming gift of my own? I shall gift a black swan, just for his highness. Although I’m sure this is a gift the whole world will have the opportunity to enjoy, it’s certainly a gift the whole world deserves.
-Maximillian-Lukas
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