1950s - Shorts (Post-The Damned)

Brothers

*Re-write of an old short*

Brothers

Lovis had watched the trumpeter carefully for the whole performance, barely able to enjoy the music and the unique atmosphere of the chic little city club, oblivious to the waitress repeatedly asking him if he wanted anything to drink; too focused on the one man. He hadn't been able to get a table very close to the stage so he couldn't make him out too clearly, but he was still hopeful. Hopeful that he'd finally gotten the right lead, the right man, the right Anatol Eisenstadt.

He hadn't been able to learn where he was from, but he knew at least his hometown was somewhere in the south-eastern corner of the country. At least, that was what people said his accent made them assume. He was a Wehrmacht veteran of the Eastern front and certainly acted like one; haunted, shifty, struggling to settle back down. He moved frequently, staying only for a little while in any place where he could land a temporary gig with his trumpet before moving on. Lovis had been told where he'd be playing today and advised to meet him as soon as he could if he was determined on talking to him, and though he felt a queasiness in his stomach for the whole performance, he was very much determined. Three disappointments so far. He prayed with all his might that this wouldn't be the fourth.

As soon as the band wrapped up their final number, Lovis was on his feet, gathering up his belongings and shuffling away from the table. Still, by the time he had put himself together and looked up, the band had cleared the stage, making way for the next shift's performer to take over. Feeling his nausea give into panic, Lovis stood on his toes and scanned the room, trying to see past the shuffling bodies of other patrons. There was a door near the stage in the back of the building; that must have been where they'd gone. Gathering his resolve, Lovis nodded to himself and took off at a quick stride, ducking and twisting around people and tables, trying not to hit anyone with his suitcase. Still, as he came closer, he managed to sideswipe a woman with his saxophone case.

"Hey, watch it, kid!" She snapped, giving him a dirty look and turning away before he could attempt to apologize. Flustered, he spun back around and began to walk again when he ran headlong into a sharply dressed waiter.

The man stumbled, nearly dropping the bottle of wine he had in one hand. Catching himself, he turned to look at Lovis with an apologetic expression but as soon as their eyes met, his face changed.

"Watch where you're going, will you?" he growled, clearing out of Lovis' way and giving him a wide berth. Eying his couple of cases, he added, "You know this isn't some traveler's pub. I'll have you thrown out if I catch you loitering."

"I'm ju-I'm just..." Lovis shook his head, backing away. "I'm just looking for someone. Sorry!" Giving the waiter a nod, he turned back to his path, but as soon as he did, he heard the man muttering to someone behind him:

"Can't these islanders just go home? The war's over."

"Barely helped us during it, anyway," a second grumbled, saying something else but fading into the crowd as the two moved away.

Lovis lingered for a moment, sucking in his lip and taking a deep breath. Just ignore them, Lovis, his mother's words shifted in the back of his mind. That was what she'd told him a thousand times, but it had never made anything better. It was easy for her to say; she had looked like everyone else in their small, southern farming town. Lovis glanced over at the table to his left, catching a glimpse of his distorted reflection in an empty wine glass. Though the conformity of the HJ could strip away the social barriers of class, name, and region, it could never 'smooth over' the fact that he'd always been the shortest of his peers, his jet black, thin hair, his brassy complexion, nor his slanted, almond-shaped gray eyes that looked nothing like either of his 'parents'. Letting out a shaky sigh, he tightened his hand around his suitcase handle. Never mind it all. He was here on a mission; no time to dwell on old bitterness. Moving with a little more caution, he made his way to the back door, pausing to make sure no one was watching him before he tried the handle.