‘Oh baby,’ Mila said, dividing a pocket of chips onto
the two plates.
‘You know,’ Mila continued past a mouthful of stolen chips, ‘I was reading our star signs today, want to know what yours said?’
‘Humour me,’ Hansel replied, adding a burger to each chip fortressed plate.
‘It said that while your dreams may be put on hold, a fortuitous opportunity is not far away.’
Hansel didn’t let Mila finish before snorting in derision.
‘Weber’s sending me to Paris tomorrow, to cover the Munich game. Fortuitous opportunities seem pretty far away to me.’
‘Oh Hansie,’ Mila hissed, ‘we’re supposed to be having dinner with my parents tomorrow evening, remember?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed, carrying his plate into the living room and shooing away a prowling Domino. The television sparkled in the
background but neither of them paid it any attention.
‘You’ll get where you want to be Hansel,’ Mila assured, ‘you just have to be....’
‘
Patient
, I know.’
Mila frowned.
‘I’m starting to wish I’d taken that job with my Father all those years ago.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Mila spluttered sarcastically, ‘I could really see you working in a garage all day, grease all over your clothes, in your hair…’
Hansel declared himself defeated with a smile.
‘Seriously though, I used to see a future in writing. Now I can’t even resurrect that book, even that’s buried underneath a pile of your magazines on the bedside table!’
‘A book isn’t written in a few weeks Hansel.’
‘But it should be in two years, or at least nearly finished. I’m chasing these dreams but I’ve got nothing to show for it.’
He plucked a small piece of seeded bread away from his burger bun and lowered it down to Domino who gently snatched it within his paws and took off towards the hallway.
‘Just for once, I want to feel like I’m actually headed somewhere.’
‘But you are,’ Mila began, barely able to contain a cute grin, ‘you’re going to Paris tomorrow, remember?’
The rain had ceased sometime during the night and Munich was left to simmer beneath a film of warm hazy mist. Hansel had showered and packed an overnight duffel bag before kissing goodbye a sleepy Mila. And then, after a short drive through the hauntingly vacant streets of Munich, he arrived at the station, his face hot from the humidity. When he stepped onto platform six, his train sat waiting, a long yellow vessel, ready for takeoff. Hansel followed his ticket to a seat beside the window and crammed his overnight bag into the overhead compartment, but not before taking out a pen and notepad. Over the course of the journey he penned at the lined pages, filling them with thoughts, random words and lazy sketches. The wide windows became black before long and Hansel hid a yawn, pondering the effortless respite of sleep that could, at any moment, follow.
Why couldn’t he just write? Was he trying too hard?
Hansel had hoped that his writers block may have disintegrated within the gloom of the tunnel, although as Paris flashed by in a colourful blur, he realised that the wall was higher than ever.
Cabs lurked on the curbs of the main entrance, windows half wound, eager eyes watching the procession of quick feet spilling from the platform. Hansel climbed into the closest and checked his pocket for the address of the inn, relaying it to the driver word for word. From his jacket pocket he took out his mobile and brushed a thumb over the power button until it flickered to life. Two small envelopes blossomed at the corner of the screen and at first glimpse he smiled...
Mila: I love you. Have a safe flight x
Mila: You’ve left your camera behind...
...And then grimaced. The camera, he thought. Typical. Biting his frustration, Hansel leaned forwards and tapped at the driver’s seat,
‘I don’t suppose you know where I can get a decent camera
around here do you?’
Smirking at Hansel’s weak attempt to speak a mixture of French, English and German the driver nodded and turned at a set of lights, heading down a road that was humming with shoppers and lined in tall, pristine trees. The cab came to a stop just outside a
store with televisions and cameras and other electronic devices displayed neatly in the window and Hansel climbed out from the backseat with a grunt, catching a mere glimpse of the dangling price tags.
‘You know what,’
Hansel said, ‘the inn isn’t far from here. I think I’ll walk the rest of the way.’ The driver snatched Hansel’s offered fare and wished him a nice day before speeding off into the distance. If Hansel had it right the inn was only about a ten minute walk away, the stadium even closer. Seven hours until kick off. He figured he would sort out the business with the camera (the bill being sent directly to Weber’s office) and then check in at the hotel, take a shower, lounge around for a while and then leave an hour or two before the two teams clashed. The shop was cold and a young girl looked up jadedly as Hansel entered. Aside from the sparkle of a hundred television screens the shop appeared dull and empty and Hansel studied the wall of cameras with intent. His hands found one, a square instrument bordered with silver dashes and cool blue buttons. It didn’t match the tall and slender scope of his Nikon back home but it would do. And he paid for it, pinching at the card reader with the image of Weber’s scowling face stuck inside his mind. He gave it a little more thought as the receipt was swiped away from the trundle of the till and found that, for once, he might enjoy Weber’s rage. Bundling the new camera into his overnight bag, Hansel took to the streets of Paris and did his best to banish the treacherous beginning of his journey. Knowing not, that everything was about to change.
The inn was tucked into a back street, away from the bustle of the city. It wasn’t overly spacious or glamorous but it had a cosy quality that wasn’t hard to appreciate. Hansel settled into his room subsequent to a brief check in and stood at the window, looking out across a hillock of garden terraces. He took a lengthy shower, entirely aware of the boredom that awaited him. It wasn’t his first trip to foreign grounds and he always found the wait between landing and game could be tasking. Once dried, Hansel unplugged the charging camera and stepped into a fresh pair of jeans and thrust a t-shirt over his dampened hair. He sat atop the window sill and set one eye over the view, clipping and snapping at flocking pigeons and rooftops. Uninterested with that, Hansel fetched his jacket and pulled a rucksack from his overnight bag, stuffing it with the camera, his press pass and a notepad.
The city spilled away from the red sienna steps of the inn and Hansel found his frustration somewhat softened. It was hard to be so melancholy when walking amidst the streets of Paris and Hansel occupied himself with the affection shared by passing strangers and the laughter of the artists on the curbs. He ducked into a tavern that sat within the shadow of the stadium and took seat at the bar. Across the way, a bustle of Paris fans had taken to drinking, their slurred chants and incessant laughter a clear indication that they had been there for a while. Hansel waited patiently for the barman to come over and greeted him with an indecisive ponder.
‘J
ust a light ginger ale, please,’ Hansel said after a moments thinking.
‘German?’
smiled the barman.
‘Yes,’ Hansel grinned, ‘I work for a newspaper in
Munich, I’m here to cover the game tonight.’
‘Ah,’ pried the tender, ‘a Bayern fan?’
‘Fortunately not,’ Hansel smiled, gesturing towards the rowdy horde of purple jerseys, ‘Dortmund.’
‘A good team,’ nodded the bartender, ‘though no match for Paris.’
The glass in front of Hansel slowly filled and he raised it to his lips, nodding appreciatively as the first sip went down.
The crowd across the tavern appealed for another round of drinks and the tender rolled his eyes before strolling
listlessly towards them. Hansel leered and fetched the camera from his rucksack, flicking through the reel of new-fangled pictures. A bottle clunked down onto the red wood beside him. An old man staggered against the bar, flicking a few crinkled notes carelessly at the side of Hansel’s half glass of ginger ale. Hansel turned his stare back down to the slideshow of pictures and sipped at the ale, overlooking the visitor purposely. The group across the room had livened up considerably since their last round and had begun to recite an anthology of cheery hymns.
‘You’re a journalist,’ spoke a brusque voice. Hansel turned to see the old man staring down at the press pass dangling from his half opened jacket pocket. He didn’t want to be rude but the last thing he wanted to do right now was entertain a drunk
, so he smiled, but did not reply.
‘Where are you from?’
Hansel sighed.
‘Munich,’ he muttered, ‘yourself? The old man leaned forward,
‘Ah, a fellow German.’
Meeting his old grey eyes Hansel frowned.
‘Sprechen Sie deutsch?’ he asked. The old man turned away and chuckled softly,
‘I’m afraid it’s been a while since I spoke in my native language.’
Hansel nodded.
‘What brings you to Paris?’
the old man said, shuffling onto the bar stool.
‘Tonight’s match,’ responded Hansel, wondering just how many times he would have to explain his visit.
‘You don’t seem too happy about that.’
Hansel looked at him, presuming his confident approach was the result of a hefty consumption of alcohol. Maybe talking to a complete stranger wasn’t such a bad idea. He prodded at the tiny buttons on the camera and set it down on the bar.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘
Don’t worry about it,’ the old man sniggered, ‘we all have such stories. They are often the best ones.’
Hansel pondered that.
‘I guess…’
The old man stared him down, nodding kindly if and when Hansel faltered.
‘I thought I’d be further on down the road by now, you know, be somewhere at least.’
‘Well you are somewhere,’ said the old man. Hansel promised himself that if the next sentence out of the old man’s mouth was ‘You’re in Paris’ he would get up and leave. Thankfully it wasn’t.
‘Change isn’t always the best thing. You think it is, at the time, but that’s the way regret starts.’
Hansel found himself intrigued by the old man. Wrinkles sunk below his tired eyes yet he boasted a permanent half smile and his
silver hair was tidily combed to one side.
‘I can’t say whatever problems you are having at the moment will soon disappear
, but give it time.’
‘Right,’ Hansel groaned, ‘Patience.’ The old man glared at him.
‘No, not patience,’ he croaked, ‘more along the lines of belief. Remember that your path is yours only. And what is a man without a path.’ Hansel knew it wasn’t something he needed to reply to. And he chewed at the inside of his mouth and finished his drink.
The tavern soon fell quiet and the bundle of fans from before had left, most probably moving onto another pub in search of a livelier atmosphere. The old man had swayed across the bar and now sat within an enclosed corner, taking with him a few bottles of beer and the remains of a tattered, yet to date, newspaper. Hansel whipped out his phone and checked the time, not quite sure what to do with himself. Kick off was still a while away. The bartender appeared bored and stooped over the bar, pawing sluggishly at the wood with a wet flannel.
Hansel glanced towards the old man.
There was something strangely enticing about him. An aura seemed to present itself, hovering above his stooped form like a musky cloud.
Ah what the hell,
Hansel thought.
He edged over and set his backpack down on the chair beneath the table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
The old man peered up from his glass and smiled kindly.
‘Not at all, please, take a seat.’
‘So, you’re looking for a big story?’ The old man
guessed, tipping the bottle to his lips.
‘
I’m Sorry?’ Hansel replied.
‘This place you said you’re trying to get to, seeing as you’re a journalist I presume you need some kind of story.’
Hansel retrieved the small black note pad from his bag and placed it on the table, flipping it open to the first page. He raised it to reveal a sequence of squiggles and random phrases.
‘Four years and all I’ve got is a few thousand words on a laptop and a handbook of pointless notes.’ The old man watched him throw the book down and sit back against the cushioned chair.
‘Well what’s it about?’
Hansel felt his eyes begin to roll but fought the temptation. The old man was clearly interested, or so overly drunk that he would commit to any kind of conversation.
‘It’s a period novel, a thriller, romance set within the 1940’s. A young couple find love in the heat of the war.’