Geldmann

"Tempting," I say, dryly, like one might comment on a dessert they’re not in the mood for yet. "But I’m still technically on duty. And I don’t make it a habit to mix state business with after-hours pleasures. Even if the offer is...something."

A sudden bang echoes from upstairs. My instincts tighten in that split second, like something is about to go wrong. I straighten up out of habit, until the sound resolves into laughter and steps. Friends, not threats. Still, I don’t exhale in relief. Instead, my eyes scan for exits as the first guests file into the studio, each one looking like a walking caricature of a Pinterest moodboard of Berlin.

I give a curt nod as if confirming Alex’s words and turn, offering neither a handshake nor letting myself get dragged into one of those ridiculous French-style cheek-kissing routines. “No. Partying with artists is definitely a first for me,” I say, voice edging with sarcasm. Ah, blissful youth—always convinced it’s the first to discover sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, as if the world began with them. Meanwhile, old man Rome already threw better parties before their ancestors learned to walk upright.

I pull out my phone and check for updates. Nothing. A low growl rumbles in my throat as I lean back against the wall. So Lily figures a quick text to him counts as keeping us both in the loop? Or maybe he’s playing me—this whole laid-back artist charade a smokescreen to throw me off, lull me into safety with the vague promise that she’s on her way.

I lift my bottle, about to finish the last sip, when a hand swaps it for a fresh beer. “Cheers,” a woman says brightly, tapping her bottle against mine. “So, what’s your act tonight? Anti-social grandpa? Sexually-repressed bureaucrat?”

I exhale sharply and give her a look. She’s almost unremarkable, if it weren’t for the metal lacing half her face, and the rest of her skin disappearing under ink. “And you? Trying out for I’m-14-and-this-is-deep?” I deadpan, quoting one of those internet memes that somehow keeps infecting my feed.

“So, both,” she shoots back, just enough bite in her voice to make it fun.

I smirk, glancing down at the beer now in my hand. Might as well drink it—anything else feels wasteful. And technically, beer is just water and vegetables. I take a sip and let my eyes wander over the room.

The gathering moves with that chaotic rhythm artists seem to find instinctive—no structure, no direction, just bodies and sound and half-formed ideas colliding in bursts of color. There’s laughter, shouting, the clang of bottles and forks on mismatched plates, stories flying without needing context.

And me? I don’t belong here. I never do, in rooms like this.

"Ah, so now we are mixing pleasure and business? What got you to change your mind?"

Just then, Ludwig would receive a text from Lily.

[[I'm so sorry. Something came up. And I have no idea why my father is in my place. But you did the right thing, going with Alex. Stay with him, please. I'll explain everything as soon as I'm there. On my way right now.]]

Alex drank a beer as he watched Ludwig read and react to the text. He raised his eyebrows briefly. He gave Ludwig a look over up and down. "You know, she..." He paused and then frowned, then shook his head and waved a hand. "Ah, never mind. That's not really for me to tell."

He put a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, as though he were suddenly the man's father. Except, he was grinning. "Have some fun here. Unwind a little. You deserve it. The only rule here is to have fun." He gave Ludwig's shoulder a tight squeeze as he winked and then he walked away to join another group.

As he did, another woman, more sophisticated looking and older than the one from earlier, slid up to Ludwig's side. She linked an arm around his. "You're so stiff. Here," she said, her voice dripping with a French accent. She held up a small bag of what looked like gummy candy. "Just take one though, if you don't want to be flying in the rafters right away."

When Ludwig refused, she shrugged and shoved them in her pocket. "Suit yourself."

Another text came in from Lily.

[[I'm almost there. Had to dodge someone.]]

The woman read the text as he did. "Oooo, is that Alex's sister? You dating her? You don't seem like her type, but maybe you're more wild in the dark than you seem." She laughed. "Have you seen her in leather yet? Or is she saving that for when you're really bad?"

Just then, the door above opened, and a single pair of footsteps could be heard rushing down the steps. As soon as she came into view, Lily stopped where she was, though only for a moment, as she spotted Ludwig without trouble. She then leapt over the railing and ran to him. Her hair was disheveled, and she had scratches and bruises and tears in her clothing.

"Ludwig. Thank fuck you're alright." She frowned, as if just noticing the other woman, who was now leaning her head on Ludwig's shoulder and sticking her tongue out at her. "Oh, go away, Margo," she said as she peeled her off and shoved her away. "He's not going to be your sugar daddy. And I'm not fucking you tonight either." She put a hand on Ludwig's upper arm and pulled him away from the pouting Frenchwoman.

I shrug and lift the cigarette back to my lips just as Alex starts explaining what he actually does for a living. I inhale sharply, then slap my chest with a fist, coughing as I suppress a stifled laugh. “I’m sorry to break it to you,” I say, my tone edged with irony, “but there’s no way you can compete with the South. And it isn’t even about work ethics. It’s about space. You might consider joining a state with old Brandenburg. He’s terrible on his feet anyway and definitely probably overdue for some elderly care. Maybe a new, old hobby for your father,” I joke, half-serious. In fact, talks of fusing both states have been going on since the ’90s, and so far they could only agree one thing: Prussia as a name is off the list. But with things shifting so swiftly to the right, who knows… Wouldn’t be the first time the old bastard plots in a back-room.

I clear my throat and welcome water offered to me. I nod, offering a brief thanks and walk over to the ashtray to stub out my cigarette before having a sip. “I don’t see myself as a victim of politics. It’s not some obligation. It’s simply who I am. People sometimes act as if Aristotle or Machiavelli or Hegel had nothing to say. A nation is built on a system that keeps its parts together. Sure, heads of state come and go—as do the very ideas that gave them power in the first place. But…and I know this might sound confusing given who ran this country in the past, but I’ve never felt completely alienated.” I circle the sofa and lean against the back of it. “They are my people as well,” I add, followed by another shrug. “So yes, if possible I like to keep track of most things going on. I suppose I fancy myself a chief negotiator, overseeing domestic affairs as well as EU and foreign policy. And since charm’s never really been my strongest soft power, you could say I tend to specialize in whatever guarantees me a solid foothold in this world. Also known as my economy.” Needless to say, even after decades of so-called cooperation, France still doesn’t trust me with the delicate side of diplomacy. Too blunt, too forceful, too much like my brother. And yet, after hosting his glittering soirées, he’s more than happy to hand me the bill to cover for him.

As he listened to Ludwig, he nodded along. His answer was what he had come to expect from him. But when Ludwig finished, he raised an eyebrow and smirked a little. "Oh. Well, if it's sexy you're after...I have other outfits that might suit your taste better. Or, we could just strip now." He set his water down on the table and came close to Ludwig, well within his personal space. He lowered his voice. "You wouldn't be the first man in a tight suit I've seduced before, you know. Though, you might be the first from another world." He ran his finger along Ludwig's jawline. "Just say the word, and I'll give you an evening to never forget."

Just then, the bang of the door upstairs was heard. He stepped away and looked up as the sound of several footsteps could be heard approaching. He backed up from Ludwig and then looked at him with a smile and a laugh. "Ah, I forgot. My friends are here to have a little gettogether. You don't mind, do you? I can take you somewhere quieter if you prefer."

A thin man dressed all in black, despite the heat, was the first to come down the stairs. His mustache lifted with his lips as he smiled at Alex and lifted the packs of beer in his hands. "Alex!" he shouted in a thick Berlin accent. He set the beer down and embraced his friend, kissing him on the cheeks. Then, he seemed to notice Ludwig. "Ah, did we come at a bad time? Not one of your business deals? Or is at 'business deal,'" he added with a wink and a laugh.

Alex shook his head. "Markus, please. This man is Ludwig. He's here for my sister, but she's gone dark for a bit. That's all."

His studio is tucked into what used to be an old industrial building. Perhaps an old butcher’s shop, judging by the cracked tiles still running up the walls in the stairwell. How cliché Inside, it smells faintly of oil paint and turpentine, maybe a hint of something stronger. A large loft space opens up, tall windows filtered through gauzy curtains, canvases leaning against walls like half-told stories before it goes down the basement.

I place my briefcase beside the sofa and unbutton my suit jacket, loosening the tie just a bit. I don’t take the offer to sit though. Instead, I light a cigarette, the first drag sharp and grounding. Smoke curls between my fingers as I begin pacing—slow, deliberate steps—taking in the paintings. I’m not an artist, never claimed to be. That’s more Italy’s territory. Or France’s. They feel things in brushstrokes. I prefer words. Structure. Logic.

Still. I enjoy the act of looking. It’s a quiet kind of voyeurism—an invitation to interpret what someone else refuses to say aloud. Renaissance everyday life, romantic landscapes, modern pieces that look like the product of a migraine. And yet, even those… there's something to them. A feeling that lingers.

At one point, I crouch slightly and lift the edge of a canvas draped in cloth. Just enough to glimpse the color bleeding through. Before I can pull further, Alex clears his throat behind me.

“Water is just fine,” I tell him with a short wave of the hand, cutting off his offer for something prohibited. I’m still technically on duty. And the last thing I need is to be stoned in a version of Berlin that feels like the lovechild of Weimar excess and the Berlin Biennale partying on a CSD truck.

I gesture toward the veiled canvas but let the cover fall back into place. “What are you hiding? Nudes?” I ask, only half-joking, a smirk tugging at the edge of my mouth. I don’t push further though. If he wanted it seen, he wouldn’t have covered it up in the first place.

Ludwig might be able to guess at the painting though, if he paid attention the ones that were visible. Many had birds that were either trapped or breaking free of their confinements. Some were black and white, while others sported colors brighter than the artist's own skirt. Barbed wire was another common motif, often lingering threateningly in some corner or other of a painting.

Alex opened his bottle and took a good gulp of the water. "I work in Berlin's IHK. I know, I don't look the part right now. But I clean up when it's time to work. I also own this place, and a club. I'd like to see Berlin have a thriving economy one day. Maybe one to finally make Bavaria shut up." He gave a long sigh. "But, you know, there's always something holding us back. Like that damn airport."

"They like to have me host the important guests a lot of the time. So, I do a lot of social engagement. I don't mind, really. I think I have a knack for it. But it's also nice to retreat from it." He walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a package of cigarettes, lighting one up for himself. He watched the smoke rise up with his first exhale of it.

Ludwig's questions elicited a long sigh from Alex. His face grew dark, and he drank most of his beer before he would answer. "No, I wouldn't say he did. In fact, he kind of preferred me for a while. Well, I was a boy, after all. Though, that didn't stop him from showing her affection when she did do better than me. Which just made her want it more. She pushed herself all the time for him, but he'd only acknowledge it when she was at the top. And even then, there was always some bit of criticism with it.

"I think things must have changed when I went West. I wasn't a defector, mind you. I was still as loyal as her. But I was out of the house and away from him, and he must have started giving her more attention. I don't really know much of what happened while I was away though. Just that, when I came back to visit now and then, she was happier, but also fiercer, more determined than ever to be a perfect capital. There was a weird tension between us too, but nothing happened until she was dating Thomas, and we got into a bad fight. We didn't talk much after that for a while.

"Then, the Wall came down, and everything kind of went to shit for her. She expected to die every day. And we still didn't get along. I embraced a lot of what West Germany brought to us. She didn't want any part of it. And I think that drove her closer to the old bastard. When no one else was around for her at that crucial moment, he was. Just as he'd always been." Another sigh, and he looked at the building outside the window. "He's not stupid, you know. He knows how to give the carrot as well as the stick. He told her all the things she wanted to hear and then gave her a mission to save himself and her. And when she succeeded, he rewarded her with affection and approval, albeit privately. She's always been chasing that high, and he knows just how and when to give it to her. She could never take up drugs, because he's the ultimate one she wants. And he knows it. He keeps her close because she's probably the last one of us who will still want him now. And now he's focused on molding her to be exactly what he wants. Did she tell you he's sending her to study law soon?"

This conversation… it got too personal, too fast.

I could say I didn’t see that coming, but that would be a lie. I brought it upon myself. Like always. Ever since she stepped into my path back in the early ’90s, everything’s spiraled. She became part of my world, whether I liked it or not. Not that I mind her, really. She’s irritating in the way younger siblings often are—a bit too noisy, a bit too eager to prove herself, and far too invested in people who don’t deserve it.

I shift slightly in my seat, feel the nervousness rise up from somewhere in my chest, tightening around my ribs. It’s not his words—it’s what they poke at. What they stir. What I don’t want to examine too closely. I take a slow breath, pretending it’s nothing, pretending I’m just listening. But my fingers betray me. They start tracing the rim of my glass, slow circles, again and again. The glass is damp with condensation. Cold. It steadies me, barely.

I kept telling myself I had enough to carry on shoulders. That I couldn’t carry someone else. But that night, I did. Out of pity, maybe. Out of pride, certainly. Out of something close to love—not the kind that burns or binds, but the kind that makes you put yourself between someone and the blow meant for them. I stepped in. I didn’t think. I just did it. Like an older brother should have. Like maybe she always hoped someone would.

“My words changed something in her?” I hear him say. It sticks in my head. Echoes. Maybe I even nod slightly. Maybe not. I don’t know anymore.

My fingers keep moving.

Maybe that’s what responsibility is. The real kind. Not just owning your mistakes and standing for consequences—that part I know. That part was beaten into me. Say yes, sir and thank you, sir, and take the punishment. Nod. Correct. Endure. I can do that. I’ve always done that.

But stepping in for someone else? Holding a line not because it’s your duty, but because no one else will? That’s different. That’s the part I’ve always avoided. Because it feels like once you start, you can’t stop. Because it means you matter. To someone. And if you matter, you can fail them. But I’m not good at that. I disappoint people. Often. I know I promised her to be there. But does she really expect me to be there?

I stare at the condensation running down my glass, watch it gather at the base and pool on the table. My hand twitches once, and I still it. No one notices, I think. Hopefully.

Eventually, I wrap my hand firmly around the glass and down the rest of my weizen—hoping it’ll wash the thoughts away with it. “What’s he planning to do with her once she has a Staatsexamen?” I ask, my tone dry, skeptical. “Use her to dismantle the institutions from the inside? Twist public law until no one knows which way is up?” Their father grows more absurd by the minute. Perhaps I should just—As I set the glass down with a heavy clink, the memo scrawled on my right hand resurfaces. Don’t start WWIII. Right. I’m not here to cause chaos. So, maybe it’s time for a change of scenery.

I raise my hand and call for the personification of Prenzlauer Berg. “That’s 6,90,” he says, not even trying to hide his Swabian accent. He holds the card reader under my nose, and while I skillfully avoid tipping 10%, 20%, or 30%, I think to myself: Almost 14 D-Mark for a fucking alcohol-free beer? Dönerpreisbremse, my ass. We need a Bierpreisbremse!

As the silence stretched, he looked back at Ludwig, noticing the little twitches and glass rubbings, but electing to say nothing on them. This other man was a deep thinker, and he needed his time to hash things out in his brain, he supposed. Upon Ludwig's question of Prussia's plans though, he did shrug. "Hell if I know. He pretends I don't exist for the most part, and I'm better off for it. I suppose he's scheming up some shit though. He always has been."

After Ludwig paid for his drink, Alex did the same. For once, he didn't even make eye contact with the worker to have a little flirt. His mind was too preoccupied now. He nodded as Ludwig stood up and he followed him out.

"If it's the old bastard you're trying to avoid, I've got a place he'll never step foot in. It's this way." As he started to lead him down the street, he looked back and grinned. "Although, I wouldn't stop you if you did go up and slice him open again. Might even film it, for the memories."

He led him down a few blocks, a few turns, and a bit further on. When they reached an old industrial building that had clearly been gentrified, he held open the door and stepped inside after Ludwig. Inside was a spacious art gallery. Spaces for the exhibiting artists were marked off. The art ranged from the relatively realistic to the absurdly abstract. Various people milled about, gazing at the pieces and pointing and whispering as they went.

"Come. We'll go downstairs," he said, and he led him further in, past the studios where half a dozen artists could be seen working on their crafts, and over to a door in the corner that was marked as "Private." He pushed it open and went down the stairs into a large workspace.