Chapter Text
Moderato Cantabile
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
- Hamlet, I, 2.
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2021.
Roderich took a sip from his travel tumbler and let the bitterness of the coffee burn his tongue for a brief instant. The shy sun of an early June morning was peaking through white clouds and blessing his face with his gentle beams as he was walking through Vienna, breathing in the city with, and very much like his oxygen.
Getting through a global pandemic, the last few months had not been easy. But slowly, life had started to begin again, and to be exciting again. His beloved capital was slowly coming back to life with the early days of summer: people were chatting in cafés and sitting outside to enjoy a cold beer or a cocktail, some were sightseeing, students were enjoying their holidays with friends. Through the centuries, Roderich had known many crises. And no matter their nature or their intensity, crises always ended. And life always took over. Then it was up to Roderich to wonder and fall in love with life again.
This time was no different. While a disease affecting humans would not have affected his own health, he had still felt like his life had been put on hold for more than a year. It had, in a way, mostly because Austria, Europe and the world had been paralyzed for months. But on a personal level too. As any citizen, he had had to bid farewell to so many little things that usually made life enjoyable and interesting – going to the opera, to the theatre, see a movie, visit an exhibition in his favourite museums, loosing himself in every corner of the city he had long forgotten about, travelling abroad, listening to a concert, seeing friends, eating out. Now, he could rediscover and enjoy these simple pleasures again.
He had set up a new routine. In the morning, he would brew himself some coffee at home, which he would sip while reading any book he could find – he was too tired of screens, video calls and reading the news on his phone, thus had fallen in love all over again with literature and paperbacks, he had dug out some gold from his bookshelves. Then he would get ready and leave his apartment. He would stop on the way for a coffee to go, and walk anywhere he felt like going, where he had not been to in a while.
Today he was heading to the Haus der Geschichte Österreich[1] and he had not a long way to go. He stood for a while on Heldenplatz[2], watching people passing by, everyone looking relieved and happy that these dark days were finally behind them. His mind wandered towards the exhibition he was about to visit. He liked history museums. Which was odd, since they always tended to focus on tragedies he had personally lived or caused or watched happen – wars, mostly. But he loved it and could not help it. It was like reflecting on his own life, his own past, remembering where he came from and every past mistake that he had made, to learn from them and make sure he would never make them again.
During the months of lockdown, the Haus had been planning an exhibition about the first World War. Initially planning to create an exhibition about the epidemics across the twentieth century, the length of the most recent pandemic had finally discouraged them to: people needed to hear about something else now. Still, they had dug out many items from their collections from WWI for the Spanish flu bit. They then took another angle. And they decided to show how times of destruction and horror had also been times of solidarity, compassion, and love.
Roderich shoved his empty mug in his bag and entered the museum, smiling at employees and tour guides. He began his tour with the first room, where the topic was briefly introduced – with a foreword, a map of the thematic rooms of the museum, and already a few artifacts from the trenches. And right there, in front of the very first showcase, he furrowed his brow in intense perplexity.
A handwritten letter was displayed, and the caption said it had been written by an unidentified German soldier in 1916, somewhere on the Eastern Front, but never sent to his loved one – “probably a brother”, it said. The paper was folded and torn, the handwriting was messy, clumsy, nervous, and almost undecipherable; the ink had faded over the hundred years the letter had known before, God knows how, ending up in this exhibition. But Roderich barely noticed these faults. The penmanship looked familiar. He had already seen it before. In fact, he recognized it instantly, his eye had been drawn to it like iron would have been attracted to a magnet.
Because not only was the handwriting familiar, but the letter was addressed to him, Roderich Edelstein. And it was tender, even though most likely written with bottled despair as ink and a striking fear of dying with words left unspoken for a quill.
Roderich,
Snow has been falling for a week now. We are outnumbered and freezing. I don’t think we have much time and I’m hurrying the fuck up to write this letter. I’d leave but I refuse to give up my men. Ludwig promises he is sending us back-ups, and I want to believe he won’t forget us and let us die in this God forsaken place while he wins on the Western front. Nonetheless, in case I wouldn’t make it – we know it can happen, Specs, don’t we? – I want you to know [a few words had been crossed out] that [another sentence had been covered in black, angry lines of ink] I can’t die without telling you this. You mean the world to me. You always did, you will always do. Take care and stay alive for me, will ya?
Roderich stayed a long while in front of the letter in its fancy showcase. His mind was completely blank as his eyes kept running through the words again, and again, and again. It made no sense. And an awkward amount of time had passed when he finally was able to move again. His hand was a bit shaking when he grabbed his phone in his back pocket and tried his best to take a close-up picture of the letter. Then, not feeling like going through the rest of the exhibition, he exited the museum absentmindedly, his heart racing in his chest. You mean the world to me. His knuckles were turning white from holding the phone too tight. You always did, you will always do. He had to make a call.
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Berlin.
Gilbert stopped running at 30 minutes on his watch, and started to stretch, quite pleased with himself. If several lockdowns, quarantines, and sanitary crisis had had any silver lining, it had to be this: he had grown fond of outdoors sports again. Not being able to hit the gym for months, he had had to find other ways to work out, and running had been the simple answer. It was different, but it was good enough – especially now that the weather was so nice.
It was a beautiful summer morning on Tiergarten[3] and Gilbert noticed with a smile that people were slowly coming back to the city, sharing public spaces again. It would be a beautiful summer in Berlin. He sat on the grass to stretch his legs. The steady pain was starting in his calf muscles when the music suddenly shut down in his headphones, right in the middle of REM’s Überlin. Someone was calling him. He sighed. They’d better have a hell of a good reason to disturb his morning routine.
He frowned when he reached for his phone in his pants’ pocket and saw the silly picture of Roderich appearing on the screen. He hardly ever called him. Gilbert assumed it was important. And answered the call, not yet knowing he would very much regret it a few moments later.
“Roddy!”, he said in his most cheerful, not a all out of breath voice. “Haven’t seen you since the plague! Whassup?”
“Gilbert, hi, hum –,” his voice sounded very awkward. “I’m fine, I, uh. I found something that belongs to you.”
“Finally got around to clean that attic of yours? Nice! What is it?”
“No. I found it in a – a museum.”
He frowned. A museum? How the hell did they steal anything from him? In Vienna?
“Ok… And what is it?” he repeated.
“I texted you a picture. And I think we need to talk.”
“Hang on, I’ll check it out.”
He indeed found a text from Roderich. He had texted him a picture. Of a letter. Of a letter written in his penmanship. A picture of a letter he had written. To Roderich. In 1916. To tell him he loved him. And Roderich had found out.
“Holy fuck!”
He threw his phone without even thinking. It had always been Gilbert’s speciality. Got a problem? Make it disappear as quickly as possible. Nice job, Gilbert. The phone crashed on the grass with a muffled thud, a few meters away from him. Then he realised it was the dumbest thing he could possibly have done. Or was it? If his phone was broken, he would have to get a new one. He would change his number. Roderich would never contact him again and they would never have the talk they were about to have before he tossed his phone. But let’s be real, Roderich would not give up that easily. He had centuries ahead of him, after all. So, Gilbert got up and picked up his phone, before sitting up again to keep stretching – at least it gave him an excuse to have a painful expression on his face.
“Still there, Rod?”
“Yes – What the fuck was that?”
“Easy there, Herr Edelstein! You kiss your Mutti[4] with that mouth?”
“What happened?”
“I dropped my phone.”
“I know, right? I was pretty shocked myself to read that. A hundred years, seriously…”
“Roderich.” He tried to stop him.
“For heaven’s sake, Gil, why didn’t you say anything?!”
“Roderich, please.”
“What?”
“Do you really want to have this conversation over the phone?” he asked in a low, sad voice.
“…”
“Roddy – Roderich? Say something.”
“I’m not even sure I want to have this conversation,” the Austrian finally answered.
“Well, we… Don’t have to?”
“Gil.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, we do. I had to try.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could… Come to Vienna. If you want me to.”
“Yes. I guess I do.”
“I’ll go home and pack then.”
“Tell me when you land.”
“I’ll rather take the train.”
“As you wish. Tell me when you’re here, anyway.”
Roderich hung up and Gilbert remained sitting there, in the middle of Tiergarten. People kept passing him by, unaware that right there, in his dark stormy cloud of a brain, a centuries-old tragedy was playing all over again. He sighed and got up eventually. He walked home, restarting his music, only choosing a moodier playlist – thankfully, he had lots of those.
“Oh, man. I’m so screwed.”