February 4th 2024
While walking in the park, I got lost and decided to look for the main alley to recover the route. During the last days I chose not to take with me one of those strange mobile phones who could track everybody, whatever they are doing. The only useful feature they offer is a map and a quick view of the timetables of trains and buses. Perhaps even an emergency call in case I get a heart attack while walking in the middle of a forest, but in that case I seriously doubt my chance of surviving. I am a mummy after all, revived thanks to some arcane magic, asu much as socialism has been made fashionable once again. If a medical doctor will remark on the strange nature of my body, for sure I risk ending my existence beside Oetzi. Or even worse in some labs in the hands of an American surgeon. Eventually I managed to recover my position, by approaching the monument to the soviet soldier. I was impressed, genuinely impressed, the first time I saw it. I could have never expected that the effects of the socialist revolution could go so far. I was aware about the fake statistics we issued while I was still alive. The revolution was a total failure, not only culturally or spiritually. There should be for sure some arcane power, living in the space that is taking care of such an irrational phenomenon. It is not well sounded the idea that I linger here further. I must be determined and take a train to Finland. Perhaps from Helsinki I will get a special permission to reach Petergrad. There was a train, just before the war erupted and sealed that route to Russia. Even during the most daring times, there is always some exception and a speculative mind as mine must be able to grasp it. After all, on the other side I do not have anything other than stupid bureaucrats and policemen.
The art dealer
I landed on the continent to quickly reach Berlin as soon as possible. Someone whispered to me that an actor is interpreting Lenin so cleverly that I must come and watch. I have got currently no job, no income and just a few thousands pounds in my bank account. I will travel all around Europe until there will be money in my wallet, to come back to England, poor and discomfited, but relaxed. After all, Britain is not secluded from the Continent anymore, unless the Government does not want to close the Channel. From a certain point of view, given the number of illegal immigrants reaching our coast through the tunnel, it would be a wise choice. However it would be desirable to take advantage of it at least for the last time. Frankfurt is not so far from Piccadilly Circus, by properly taking the train. It is also a beautiful city if you know where to linger. My first destination is a contemporary museum, the Schirn Halle, located in the heart of the town. There is an exhibition dedicated to Lionel Feininger that I already visited a few weeks ago, while spending some days in Germany because of Art Cologne. What had not occurred to me, was the Raphael Gallery. Last time, I ignored the location because of the abundant number of works signed by Picasso and Mirò in the windows. Everybody mentioned to me that having a multiple signed by Picasso in his collection does not conquer my undivided attention. I would consider him just an upstart. On the contrary, Raphael is hiding three wonderful pieces of Alex Katz. One of them, the profile of his wife on a black paper, made of light colours, is stunning.
The apprentice at the entrance of the Museum is after all friendly, much more friendly than the junior consultants with whom I had to work. Those were the most insolent creatures ever conceived by the womb of a woman. Generous with compliments when they were in need, ready to criticise any contribution you could have given to their work. The more genuinely helpful I had been, the more I was exposed to their tricks and plots. Those useless peasants, as they are no more than upstarts, were even quite ignorant. Much more than an actual illiterate peasant, who lived in ignorance during the XVIII century, could have been. I understand from this young woman, so different from those disgusting consultants, that the director could come back within an hour, but if I wanted, I was welcome to look around and observe Heidi's book from the glass case in which it was preserved. I preferred to give a look around, to understand whether there was any window that could have become helpful in case I wanted to steal the piece and get away as soon as possible. It was not allowed for me to begin my criminal career in such a way, because the director came and recognized me at first glance. He was really friendly and happy that I decided to come back to admire my family heirloom once again. After a while, drinking a cup of tea in his office, I offered to buy him back the book. He was astounded and did not find totally wise what I wanted to propose to him. However, he behaved as if he knew much more about Heidi's book. His name was Alfred von Pazze and was a descendant of Heinrich von Pazze. He also shared with me a piece of critical information. Someone looking like Lenin appeared in Zurich four years ago. He has now departed and is currently spending a few days in Berlin.