No Turning Back

Chapter Ten: A Heady Past Pt. 2

The following morning, Richtofen rose early and ordered his chauffeur to ready the car. Fifteen minutes later, the doctor hurriedly left his apartment and got into the back of the car - which had been patiently waiting outside. His black Maybach Zeppelin roared through the streets as the goliath of a car tore up the cobble roads. Richtofen had fallen in love with the car the moment he saw it at auction. Newly released in 1930, the Mayback DS7 was built with a zeppelin engine - another icon of German engineering.

Upon arrival, the chauffeur pulled up the handbrake and vacated the car. The middle-aged gentleman sauntered around the elongated bonnet which housed the powerful and commanding twelve cylinder zeppelin engine. Having accumulated his vast wealth, Richtofen had vowed to stay loyal to German ingenuity. Despite the arrival of the exciting English Rolls-Royce Phantom or the sporty offerings from the Italians; Richtofen would always turn up his nose at what he referred to as 'inferior engineering'.

Once at Richtofen's side of the car, the chauffeur opened the door as the tall domineering German emerged. He wore a lavish navy suit with a white dress shirt, brown leather dress shoes and a red pocket square and tie. Of course, what others saw as elegant attire reserved for only the most special of occasions; the same calibre of attire merely served as Richtofen's everyday wear. The chauffeur stepped ahead and held open the door to 'Fritz & Sons, Schneiderei seit. 1860'.

In doing so, the staff inside instinctively turned their heads as they anticipated the arrival of another customer. However, their hearts collectively sunk once they were met with Richtofen's cold calculating glare. He eyed the frightened people with a smirk before passing over the threshold and stalking towards the desk. Everyone quietly watched as he extended a black leather gloved hand before gently ringing the bell.

And elderly man emerged from the back room and shuffled over to meet Richtofen. The man appeared incompetent, frail and even wore beer bottle glasses; yet, his craftsmanship was renowned. After first picking up a needle and thread at the age of ten; he had opened his first shop by the age of twenty. Every stitch - every detail was immaculate. The rich from all over Europe would overlook the English and French talent for Hermann Fritz's designs.

Mr Fritz seemed totally unfazed by Richtofen's demeanour; as the cowering employees looked on in fear whilst he politely greeted Richtofen.

"Ah! Hallo, Herr Doktor Richtofen! Vhat can I do for jou today?" The man asked cheerfully before pushing his spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose.

"Good evening, Herr Fritz! I require jour finest formal vear!" Richtofen sang back - which only served to creep the employees out further by his sudden change in mood.

"Ja, I see! Bitte, come zhis vay zhen, Herr Doktor. Let me show jou zhe finest tuxedos in zhe whole of Europe!" Mr Fritz proclaimed proudly.

Richtofen followed close behind before removing one of his black leather gloves and proceeded to appraise the fabrics on the rail before him. He then picked out various tuxedo ensembles to try on before disappearing into the luxurious velvet changing rooms. After an hour of trying on each tuxedo, Richtofen finally made his decision.

Eager to impress, he had chosen a black tailcoat woven with the finest threads along with satin stripe flat front trousers and polished black dress shoes. He paired this with a white wingtip collar dress shirt, white satin vest and matching satin bowtie. For the evening, he had also chosen white gloves and a black top hat to complete the outfit. In fact, he had even gone one step further and later purchased a black cane with a solid silver filigree handle.

As he stood before the mirror, Richtofen marvelled as his magnificence. He always dressed immaculately but to stand there in the most luxurious tuxedo money could buy; it symbolised a great sense of achievement - nevermind the prestigious occasion that had necessitated the purchase in the first place.

Mr Fritz shuffled over and unrolled his tape measure before kneeling down to adjust the length and fit of Richtofen's trousers. Richtofen remained in a daze as he continued to marvel at his own appearance. After proceeding to then take measurements for his tailcoat and waistcoat, Mr Fritz stood up and spoke - which finally broke Richtofen from his spell this time.

"Herr doktor, I have taken all jour measurements und I shall have jour suit ready for next week", Mr Fritz announced - which caused Richtofen to narrow his eyes.

"I require mein attire for tomorrow evening", Richtofen said curtly.

"Herr Doktor, zhis is too short notice to--", Mr Fritz tried to explain before being cut off by Richtofen.

"Do jou know who I am?!" Richtofen whispered as he leaned down and glared at the man with his piercing blue eyes. Mr Fritz jumped with fright before composing himself and capitulated by bowing his head. Richtofen had long since earned his notoriously terrifying reputation amongst the city and Mr Fritz knew he could not refuse. Lest something unpleasant happen to his shop the following day. With a victorious smirk, Richtofen saw himself out.

The moon had risen early on that cold dreary Sunday; the wind howled as the icy rain rapped on the windows - as if demanding entry. Richtofen, however, had been unfazed by the menacing display outside. Instead, he had retreated to his bedroom as he prepared for the evening ahead.

His clothes lay meticulously placed on his bed. The tuxedo had been promptly delivered in the afternoon by one of Mr Fritz's sons. Richtofen laughed as he remembered the young man's trembling voice through the apartment intercom before buzzing him in. Richtofen had stood by the door listening to the approaching footsteps before swinging open the door, snatching his suit from the man's hands and then proceeding to slam the door- leaving the man in a frightened daze.

After savouring the fear he had induced from his earlier encounter; Richtofen emerged from the bath and grabbed the nearby towel to dry off. He then wrapped the towel around his waist before leaving the en suite and entering the bedroom. Small droplets of water ran down his chest and shoulders as his hair struggled to dry in the chilly apartment. He ran a muscular hand through his wet hair and slicked it back; catching the strands that had fallen across his face.

As Richtofen made his way over to the bed; he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Richtofen paused for a moment as he stared at his reflection. His chest rose with a sudden sharp intake of breath as he gasped. What really took him by surprise was that he almost didn't recognise himself. It was as if something had changed about him yet he could not pin point exactly what it was. Richtofen continued to stare at himself as he then looked at his body.

He had always been rather tall and lean yet his chest and pectoral muscles were no longer as pronounced. His ribs had begun to protrude as they lined his abdomen. He then lifted his gaze as his eyes rested back on his face. The sharp angular features of his Germanic heritage were sullied by his hollowed cheeks and gaunt face. Even his eyes had sunk back into the ocular chambers of his skull.

The transformation had shocked him. Standing there in just a towel to cover his modesty - he looked weak and sickly. His youth was fading and the metaphorical scars and wounds of his past were scrawled across him for all to see. Now in his thirties, and just on the precipice of joining the inner ranks of the elite, Richtofen began to feel strange.

After all these years of hard work, he was finally going to surround himself with people who's views aligned with his own and find his ilk. But the moment was not as exciting as he had imagined this day would be. Instead, there was a sinking feeling that reverberated from the marrow of his bones. It was a small but persistent nagging at his soul which he couldn't seem to shake - nor want to confront.

Suddenly, a bell tolled out in the hallway which was the much needed distraction to break his melancholic cycle of thoughts - even if it was temporarily.

The antique grandfather clock bellowed as the hands struck seven o'clock...

End of part ten...