NEW YORK - 1938
It was almost closing time by now - in the bar, the air was heavy with smoke and the exquisite aromas of alcohol-infused breaths. It was just after the repeal of the Prohibition, see - people were celebrating. And of course, the holidays were coming fast. It wasn’t snowing yet, but there was a biting, bitter cold wind that slithered around the skyscrapers like some wild predator looking for game.
Fun times.
A man, young and blonde, was drinking, alone. Does one need to say more than that? When you drink alone at such an hour of the night, it’s obvious that something is not quite right - either with you, or with your life. He was glancing frantically behind his back, almost not touching his whiskey - waiting for someone while at the same time dreading their arrival, it seemed. His restlessness had something of an ichorous fluid pouring out of every pore of his skin - a contagious, kind of nasty-looking disease.
Finally, the man he was waiting for seemed to appear, carrying a large bag with him. He was older; grey in the hair and lines on the face, and a general air of dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“So? What happened?" asked the young one.
“What happened made me thirsty and in urgent need of whisky. You haven’t touched it, can I…?”
“Sure. Be my guest.”
He gurgled down the drink with admirable celerity.
“So, we did as she recommended, and...”
“She came with you? That lady from the agency, the one with the weird hair?”
“Yeah, she was here. And she was right, in the end - whatever ‘it’ was, ‘it’ couldn’t resist the trap. Now, it’s all locked up, in this.” He tapped the bag. “Good ol’ film. I mean, I knew it had many uses besides... filming stuff - burns well, for starters, but I’d have never thought it could stop actual demons from hell. Vatican, eat your heart out!”
“Not so loud!”
“Half of these people are drunk anyway, my boy. You could literally be dancing on these tables with a tutu, they wouldn’t remember it the next day. You’d have some problems with the police, though, I imagine.”
“Anyway, that’s besides the point. Are we sticking to the rest of the plan?”
“Yeah. You take them back to your place, and Fedelman will pick them up in the morning, just before he takes his boat. Tomorrow morning, those will be sailing to Germany, to end up in some collection. And nobody will watch them, ever.”
“You’re staying here, then?”
“Yeah. You weren’t there. I need to drink and forget. God, the things I need to forgot.”
“I would have liked to come. You were the one who told me not to.”
“I think you’re bright, and young, and talented. Not worth the risk. If I disappear, who’s gonna care? Not the bigwigs in LA, that’s for sure. What is it? You want to see, you want to know? Not worth it, I’m telling you that. Besides, imagination is always better, I’ve found …”
“Are you alright?”
“No. But I’ll be okay. Come on, it’s late already, leave me to drown my sorrows and go to bed. Fedelman should be here by seven in the morning. I bet he can’t wait. Wonder what it’s like in his country now…apparently, they have this new chancellor…”
It was almost closing time by now - in the bar, the air was heavy with smoke and the exquisite aromas of alcohol-infused breaths. It was just after the repeal of the Prohibition, see - people were celebrating. And of course, the holidays were coming fast. It wasn’t snowing yet, but there was a biting, bitter cold wind that slithered around the skyscrapers like some wild predator looking for game.
Fun times.
A man, young and blonde, was drinking, alone. Does one need to say more than that? When you drink alone at such an hour of the night, it’s obvious that something is not quite right - either with you, or with your life. He was glancing frantically behind his back, almost not touching his whiskey - waiting for someone while at the same time dreading their arrival, it seemed. His restlessness had something of an ichorous fluid pouring out of every pore of his skin - a contagious, kind of nasty-looking disease.
Finally, the man he was waiting for seemed to appear, carrying a large bag with him. He was older; grey in the hair and lines on the face, and a general air of dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“So? What happened?" asked the young one.
“What happened made me thirsty and in urgent need of whisky. You haven’t touched it, can I…?”
“Sure. Be my guest.”
He gurgled down the drink with admirable celerity.
“So, we did as she recommended, and...”
“She came with you? That lady from the agency, the one with the weird hair?”
“Yeah, she was here. And she was right, in the end - whatever ‘it’ was, ‘it’ couldn’t resist the trap. Now, it’s all locked up, in this.” He tapped the bag. “Good ol’ film. I mean, I knew it had many uses besides... filming stuff - burns well, for starters, but I’d have never thought it could stop actual demons from hell. Vatican, eat your heart out!”
“Not so loud!”
“Half of these people are drunk anyway, my boy. You could literally be dancing on these tables with a tutu, they wouldn’t remember it the next day. You’d have some problems with the police, though, I imagine.”
“Anyway, that’s besides the point. Are we sticking to the rest of the plan?”
“Yeah. You take them back to your place, and Fedelman will pick them up in the morning, just before he takes his boat. Tomorrow morning, those will be sailing to Germany, to end up in some collection. And nobody will watch them, ever.”
“You’re staying here, then?”
“Yeah. You weren’t there. I need to drink and forget. God, the things I need to forgot.”
“I would have liked to come. You were the one who told me not to.”
“I think you’re bright, and young, and talented. Not worth the risk. If I disappear, who’s gonna care? Not the bigwigs in LA, that’s for sure. What is it? You want to see, you want to know? Not worth it, I’m telling you that. Besides, imagination is always better, I’ve found …”
“Are you alright?”
“No. But I’ll be okay. Come on, it’s late already, leave me to drown my sorrows and go to bed. Fedelman should be here by seven in the morning. I bet he can’t wait. Wonder what it’s like in his country now…apparently, they have this new chancellor…”
DRESDEN - 1938
Erika Fedelman found her way into the basement, taking great precautions not to fall while climbing down the stairs. The light wasn’t working, she had ran out of candles and dared not ask the neighbours for some.
The reels were still here, lying on a shelf, where her husband had left them five years ago. She could touch them, feel them. Good.
She grabbed them and walked deeper in the room - against a wall leaned some filming equipment, the one her husband had used when he was still a perfectly respectable member of the German film industry. Of course, now…
There was a projector among those - she sat and quickly went to work. She couldn’t see a thing, but she knew how these things worked, she had helped Horst more than a few times when he was working. Soon, the changing dance of pictures that made a movie was cast on one of the walls.
And then she waited. It didn’t take long. Soon, she realized someone - something was in the dark with her.
“...Hello?" she whispered hesitantly.
“Well that is new. Most of the time, people are... a bit more afraid than this. I need to step up my game. Is that an expression people use in 1938? Linear time, so confusing. How do all of you work without editing and narrative progression, I have not a single clue...”
“I need you. I need your help. Me and my son, we...”
“My help? And why should I give that precious, precious thing to you? You’re nothing. A pile of flesh, bones and broken dreams to be feasted on. You’re not an ally, you’re dinner, liebe Frau Fedelman.”
“War is coming. Or destruction on a huge scale. If you do nothing, you’ll be destroyed. Someone will end up dropping a bomb on this house. Or maybe they will just come here, take me away like they took my husband, and burn these reels after branding them decadent art.”
A pause.
“Even you are also frightened. Afraid to die.”
“Death means nothing. But obscurity... those people, I fed on their dreams once, on the futures they imagined. But now that they have set on making it reality, it’s just so... dreary. Books burning make sparkless fire.”
“We can survive.”
“So that I can spend years, and decades, and centuries locked in here? No thanks. I’d rather burn. You are going to offer me a deal. Or we’ll just sit here and wait for the sound of boots on the floor above our heads.”
“A deal with the devil.”
“Nah. Trust me - I met him in person once. I’m not him. Just a wanderer with a keen interest in your funny little human brains, and all the wonders they can produce.”
“You’re a thief. You steal our... ideas. Our dreams.”
“Not a thief. A conqueror. Your minds are an unexplored country, and I am the one claiming them and gathering them under my dominion. Anyway - beggars can’t be choosers. You said it yourself. You need me. Your son needs me.”
“What do you need from me?”
“As long as the film is running, I have power here. I’ll make... arrangements. It will be easy for you to escape the party and flee to England. People will hail you as one extraordinary lucky woman - but really, luck is just the explanation people make up to compensate for their lack of imagination. It’s a good story, really. One that might grant you a modicum of fame... with your experience, getting hired inside the movie business there will be easy. Do just that. Find yourself a little movie theatre to manage, someplace quiet. Doesn’t even have to make money, I can... help with that. A little theatre showing this movie I am trapped in. So that I can still feel the world, walk the Earth. That’s all I ask.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Not more dangerous than the man ruling this country, and you voted for him.”
“I... I will do it. I swear.”
“I don’t believe you. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re not going to just accept like that. I know your kind. You are pretending that I have beaten you there, but the first thing you’ll do when you get in England will be to throw those reels in the deep blue sea. Except that’s not going to happen. You have seen the movie. You have seen me. I’m in your dreams, and I will never leave them now - or rather, I will only leave them if I want to. Even if you destroy every last inch of my physical form, a tiny shard of my consciousness will still live within you. And you don’t want to know what it can do. You want mini-Horst to grow up an orphan? Or to watch his mother slowly wither away as her own minds kills her? No. Of course you don’t. Because you’re a kind woman. And you’re going to be kind to yourself... by being kind to me.”
Erika sat silently for a long time, pondering her options. Cold sweat on her forehead, heart racing. Until a large, not-quite-human hand touched her shoulder and the deep, calculating voice of the Narrator asked:
“Deal?”
“Deal," she answered.
Erika Fedelman found her way into the basement, taking great precautions not to fall while climbing down the stairs. The light wasn’t working, she had ran out of candles and dared not ask the neighbours for some.
The reels were still here, lying on a shelf, where her husband had left them five years ago. She could touch them, feel them. Good.
She grabbed them and walked deeper in the room - against a wall leaned some filming equipment, the one her husband had used when he was still a perfectly respectable member of the German film industry. Of course, now…
There was a projector among those - she sat and quickly went to work. She couldn’t see a thing, but she knew how these things worked, she had helped Horst more than a few times when he was working. Soon, the changing dance of pictures that made a movie was cast on one of the walls.
And then she waited. It didn’t take long. Soon, she realized someone - something was in the dark with her.
“...Hello?" she whispered hesitantly.
“Well that is new. Most of the time, people are... a bit more afraid than this. I need to step up my game. Is that an expression people use in 1938? Linear time, so confusing. How do all of you work without editing and narrative progression, I have not a single clue...”
“I need you. I need your help. Me and my son, we...”
“My help? And why should I give that precious, precious thing to you? You’re nothing. A pile of flesh, bones and broken dreams to be feasted on. You’re not an ally, you’re dinner, liebe Frau Fedelman.”
“War is coming. Or destruction on a huge scale. If you do nothing, you’ll be destroyed. Someone will end up dropping a bomb on this house. Or maybe they will just come here, take me away like they took my husband, and burn these reels after branding them decadent art.”
A pause.
“Even you are also frightened. Afraid to die.”
“Death means nothing. But obscurity... those people, I fed on their dreams once, on the futures they imagined. But now that they have set on making it reality, it’s just so... dreary. Books burning make sparkless fire.”
“We can survive.”
“So that I can spend years, and decades, and centuries locked in here? No thanks. I’d rather burn. You are going to offer me a deal. Or we’ll just sit here and wait for the sound of boots on the floor above our heads.”
“A deal with the devil.”
“Nah. Trust me - I met him in person once. I’m not him. Just a wanderer with a keen interest in your funny little human brains, and all the wonders they can produce.”
“You’re a thief. You steal our... ideas. Our dreams.”
“Not a thief. A conqueror. Your minds are an unexplored country, and I am the one claiming them and gathering them under my dominion. Anyway - beggars can’t be choosers. You said it yourself. You need me. Your son needs me.”
“What do you need from me?”
“As long as the film is running, I have power here. I’ll make... arrangements. It will be easy for you to escape the party and flee to England. People will hail you as one extraordinary lucky woman - but really, luck is just the explanation people make up to compensate for their lack of imagination. It’s a good story, really. One that might grant you a modicum of fame... with your experience, getting hired inside the movie business there will be easy. Do just that. Find yourself a little movie theatre to manage, someplace quiet. Doesn’t even have to make money, I can... help with that. A little theatre showing this movie I am trapped in. So that I can still feel the world, walk the Earth. That’s all I ask.”
“You’re dangerous.”
“Not more dangerous than the man ruling this country, and you voted for him.”
“I... I will do it. I swear.”
“I don’t believe you. Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’re not going to just accept like that. I know your kind. You are pretending that I have beaten you there, but the first thing you’ll do when you get in England will be to throw those reels in the deep blue sea. Except that’s not going to happen. You have seen the movie. You have seen me. I’m in your dreams, and I will never leave them now - or rather, I will only leave them if I want to. Even if you destroy every last inch of my physical form, a tiny shard of my consciousness will still live within you. And you don’t want to know what it can do. You want mini-Horst to grow up an orphan? Or to watch his mother slowly wither away as her own minds kills her? No. Of course you don’t. Because you’re a kind woman. And you’re going to be kind to yourself... by being kind to me.”
Erika sat silently for a long time, pondering her options. Cold sweat on her forehead, heart racing. Until a large, not-quite-human hand touched her shoulder and the deep, calculating voice of the Narrator asked:
“Deal?”
“Deal," she answered.