Not All Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks

by Rebecca Cohen

  “Good. Now remember, either duck or catch the oranges.”

  “What?”

  WHERE MORGENSTREICH was magical, covering the route with an ethereal blanket of charm, the Cortège was loud, brash, and like a 1960s drug-inspired hallucination. Somehow, he’d been expecting carnival floats like those he’d seen in Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, but apart from the scale of some of the creations, that was where the similarities ended. A group dressed as Roman soldiers marched past, their oversized papier-mâché heads bright green, and it only dawned on him that they were meant to be the aliens from the Bugs Bunny cartoons when he saw the conductor was a giant zombie bunny and that they were playing “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane on a collection of brass instruments and drums.

  A large wooden wagon, which looked like the progeny of a threesome between a milk float, a flatbed lorry, and a wardrobe, came next. A team of Waggis, with bright green hair and sailor uniforms, were delighting the crowd by juggling oranges and performing slapstick falls. Small children cried out “Waggis!” for their attention, and they responded by throwing daffodils and handfuls of sweets into the throng. Mark didn’t see the orange until it had bounced off his head, since he’d been half blinded by the cloud of confetti one of the green-haired bastards had launched right at him.

  Mark spat out a mouthful of paper and rubbed the impact site on his temple. He glowered at Steffen. “I thought you said my badge thing would protect me from the Waggis.”

  Steffen chuckled, looking delighted as he brushed confetti out of his hair. “Against individual Waggis, yes, but you are standing here voluntarily, and they just happen to be releasing Räppli in your general direction.”

  “That sounds like an excuse you’ve used.”

  “Maybe once or twice.” He smirked. “I never had the talent to play an instrument, but I was an extremely diligent Waggis in my youth.”

  “I bet you used to offer to help get the bloody confetti out later.”

  “I may have—to the most receptive and attractive of my victims. But I was young and foolish, and thought only about getting my cock sucked.”

  “Some things never change,” Mark muttered darkly, but the wail of bagpipes playing “The Imperial March” from the next group decked out in kilts and stormtrooper uniforms swallowed his grumblings.

  “Let us get some prosecco. There is a stall operating out of the entrance of the Mont Blanc shop.”

  “Only if we get something to eat. I’m hungry.” His stomach grumbled on cue. “But no more soup. You promised me a sausage—I mean the ones to eat, before you bother with one of your smart remarks.”

  Steffen tried to look innocent, but failed. “You head to one of the street vendors and get the sausages. I will get the prosecco. Come meet me at Marktplatz. I might be able to grab a table, and it’s a good spot to watch the Cortège.”

  “Fine. But if I come back with something inedible because I pronounced it wrong, it’s your own fault.”

  “Just ask for zwei mal Kalbsbratwürste mit Brot and expect to be asked for money in English.” Steffen made a shooing motion. “It will do you good to practice your German.”

  Mark picked the closest stall selling sausages, the smell making him even hungrier as he waited, trying not to get buffeted by the hordes of people watching the Cortège. He used his best German to order, and as Steffen predicted, got replied to in English. Part of him wanted to take offense—his pronunciation wasn’t that bad—but he could see the length of the queues, and they’d want him served and out of the way as soon as possible. He had to guard his treasures with slightly extended elbows and perseverance, relieved to spot Steffen outside the Mont Blanc shop at a standing-height table with a bottle of prosecco and two plastic glasses.

  “This is definitely a first for me,” Mark said, placing the food on the table. “Swigging fizzy wine, eating sausage while packs of murderous-looking clowns march past.”

  “I take exception to the murderous clowns. The last Guggenmusik group was wearing hazmat suits and their instruments disguised as celery—not a clown in sight.”

  Mark noticed a line of black and white drums lined up against the wall behind them, each with a papier-mâché stylized jester head perched on top. “Aren’t they worried someone might steal them?”

  “One of them will be nearby, but no one would dare take them.” Steffen popped the cork and started to pour the wine. “The thief would not get ten meters before they would be descended on by a pack of disgruntled Clique members.”

  Fasnacht was fun, completely bonkers, and something Mark would never have thought the Swiss would engage in. But it was made ten times better watching Steffen. His reaction to the more bizarre costumes and his own personal stories made the whole experience even more wonderful. Steffen, who was a consummate businessman, extremely intelligent, and a considerate lover, was reduced to a giant kid as they watched the parade. Admittedly an overgrown kid drinking prosecco, but a kid nonetheless.

  Mark couldn’t fight it any longer. He’d fallen for the bugger. There was no point worrying about getting in too deep, because he was up to his neck and, bollocks to it, he wasn’t going to back off. He would enjoy the fantasy for the next few weeks and nurse a broken heart once back in the UK. If he were to be sensible he’d start to put some distance between them, but he wasn’t about to rob himself of any time with Steffen. Unrequited love might be a bastard, but it was better than no love at all.

  STEFFEN WATCHED as Mark cycled through several facial expressions to finally settle on disbelief. “You’re shitting me? Is that really ‘I Kissed a Girl’ being played by an oompah band?”

  They stood watching a Guggenmusik group, still in full costume, play on the temporary stage constructed in the middle of Marktplatz.

  “It is a Guggenmusik band, you uneducated Brit,” Steffen said, laughing. “I promised you a battle of the bands. What did you think they would play?”

  “I don’t know, but definitely not pop and rock music.”

  “I bet you are upset that there are no lederhosen or arse-slapping in sight.”

  “That would have been a plus point.” Mark chewed on a merguez sausage, and Steffen ignored the fact that neither of them had eaten a vegetable that wasn’t a deep-fried potato for two days and it was looking doubtful it would happen for at least another day.

  “I don’t get how a Clique decides to pick a song.”

  “Firstly, these are not Cliques. Cliques play piccolos and drums. These are Guggenmusik groups, who, to keep it simple for you, play brass instruments.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Steffen tutted—really, Mark had so much to learn. “They are completely different, and unless you want to be lectured for several hours on how one is better than the other, I suggest you are very careful who you say that to.”

  Mark shivered. The temperature had dropped considerably now it was dark. The rest of the crowd was only doing so much to help keep them warm, and it didn’t stop Mark from accepting the can of lager Steffen handed him. A group of young men, barely out of their teens, were dancing and waving beer cans in the air while several young women were recording their antics on iPhones.

  Mark nodded in their direction. “The alcohol has to be helping them along. There’s no way anyone can be that enthusiastic about Guggenmusik. It’s surely the only explanation possible. Being that excited about tubas needs help.”

  As one group left, another replaced them, and Mark was once again surprised at the choice of song as the unmistakable start of “Eye of the Tiger” blared out. “I need another drink, and lager isn’t going to cut it,” Mark muttered darkly.

  “You are not a fan?” asked Steffen. He couldn’t really blame Mark. It was an acquired taste, and the falling temperatures and drunken idiots not knowing their boundaries meant he could imagine Mark was at the limit of his endurance.

  “It’s okay, I suppose. A few songs are enough, though.”

  “Let’s walk up to the Munster. All the lanterns from M
orgenstreich are on display.”

  “All right. The walk might warm me up. I really don’t know how those guys do it. All I’ve done is watch and I’m knackered. I can’t imagine how those participating are feeling.”

  Getting out of the crowd took a bit longer than normal, but they were soon walking up Freiestrasse in the direction of the Munster. “They don’t march continuously, but it’s not something to undertake lightly. They practice for months, so it is the culmination of many hours’ dedication,” Steffen explained, thinking Mark might appreciate an insight into the mentality behind some of the madness. “This is their moment, and a little thing like exhaustion would not deter them.”

  “How does anyone have the time? Even if they’ve the kind of job they can leave at five every night, people have kids and partners to think about.”

  “Because they love it. Several generations of families are involved. It becomes an important part of many people’s social lives. The Clique does not disband when the carnival ends. Maybe they rest for a few weeks, but then preparations for the next year start, and if not that, they are arranging get-togethers and days out.”

  “You sound a bit remorseful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You clearly love Fasnacht. I can hear it in the way you speak. I remember you saying you didn’t have the time to take part like you used to. Sounds like you miss it.”

  “Maybe I am overly sentimental. Yes, it’s fun, but it’s better when you share it with someone. There is a possibility that when I am older I could get back involved.”

  “Perhaps if you find a new long-term partner.” Mark sounded slightly wistful, but Steffen didn’t want to read too much into it.

  “Perhaps. Peter thought it childish and silly, even went off skiing when it was on.” Steffen spat out the last sentence.

  “I never would have thought you’d have tolerated dating an idiot for so long. Fasnacht’s great—even the Guggenmusik stuff isn’t so bad… in small doses.”

  Steffen’s smile was so wide it was verging on painful, but he couldn’t help grinning. “I am so glad you have enjoyed it.” He took hold of Mark’s hand and didn’t let go. “You will love the lanterns.”

  And Mark clearly did, running between the lanterns and pointing with glee. But not as much as Steffen loved explaining to him about each work, gushing about the colors and the meaning behind each piece—without once letting go of Mark’s hand.

  Chapter Eleven

  MARK LOVED mornings when he didn’t have to work, and with the final day of Fasnacht ahead of them, there was nowhere he needed to be for several hours. At some point, they would drag themselves out of bed and enjoy the Cortège, but for now he would savor waking up with no obnoxious alarm to obey. Staying at Steffen’s was great, but he needed to go back to his place to grab more clothes sooner than later.

  The feel of cotton sheets against his skin made his toes tingle, and having Steffen pressing kisses to the side of his throat definitely added to the mix.

  Mark leaned over and opened the drawer by the side of the bed. He’d been thinking about its contents idly on and off—the thought of doing something adventurous in part to thank Steffen for being his very attentive guide to Fasnacht, and to continue with his own reawakening that Steffen had rekindled in him. A flicker of a ghost from his past made him hesitate for a moment, but he pushed it away.

  “I’ve been thinking about that drawer.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah… I’m happy to try something new. I put myself in your hands.”

  Steffen nuzzled behind his ear. “Are you sure?”

  He appreciated the out, but he was going to go through with this. Some things needed to be laid to rest, and he trusted Steffen. “Yes.”

  “If at any time you do not like something, tell me.” Steffen climbed over him, got out of bed, and crouched down. He looked like a kid who’d been offered the biggest chocolate ice cream. He took his time and selected two silk scarves. “On your back in the center of the bed. Arms above your head.”

  He did as requested, not exactly jumping to obey but not dillydallying. Steffen gently tied one of the scarves around his left wrist. Mark ignored another flash of memory from the last time he’d done this. “Not too tight.”

  Steffen loosened the scarf slightly. “Better?”

  Mark relaxed a little. Steffen was a good guy; he would look after him, and he’d already proven he would stop if Mark asked him to. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “You do not have to thank me.”

  Steffen pressed a kiss to each of Mark’s wrists before weaving the scarf through the slats in the headboard and tying the end to Mark’s right wrist. Mark gave the scarf an experimental tug to check his bindings. So far it was okay, he could do this, but his resolve wavered a fraction as Steffen placed another scarf over his eyes and tied it in place as a blindfold. Mark took a couple of deep breaths as Steffen moved away. He just needed to focus, remember this was Steffen, and stay calm. Steffen wasn’t Olly.

  He couldn’t stop the flinch when he heard something else being taken from the drawer.

  He blinked rapidly in surprise as Steffen peeled off the blindfold and then untied the scarf from around his wrists. Mark stared up into Steffen’s worried face. “I told you to tell me if you did not like something.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. I just need a minute. Maybe you could explain what you’re doing so I don’t second-guess.”

  “No. You are clearly uncomfortable, and I saw you flinch, Mark.”

  Mark struggled to sit up. “I would’ve been okay. I want to do this. Think of it as a special thank-you for showing me Fasnacht, for introducing me to the city properly.”

  “You do not need to do something you do not want to do to please me.”

  Mark smiled sadly, unthinkingly stroking his wrist where the scarf had been tied. “I thought this would be something you’d enjoy.”

  Steffen tutted. “I told you, what really makes sex pleasurable for me is knowing my partner is having a good time. I know I have had a lot of lovers, but you must realize that the connection we share is special, the sex fantastic, because we are both enjoying ourselves.”

  “But—”

  Steffen reached out and cradled Mark’s wrist gently. “You do not even realize you are stroking your wrist. What happened?”

  Mark looked down where Steffen held him. He needed to find the words, but he wanted Steffen to know what had happened, and why it meant so much to him that Steffen had stopped. “One of the guys I dated for a while after university. He tied me up. Don’t get me wrong, I was all for it at first until he got a bit rough. I asked him to stop, and he calmed down, but he didn’t stop. As you can imagine, it caused some unpleasant arguments, and we broke up a few days later.”

  Steffen wore an expression Mark couldn’t read, and he didn’t know if Steffen thought him an idiot for attempting something he was obviously uncomfortable with. “You are to never do this again. Understand me?”

  “Steffen, I would’ve been okay.”

  “I do not want anything we do to be associated with a fucking bastard who did not know how to treat you correctly.” He reached to the floor, grabbed his underwear, and slid them on. “I’m going to get a coffee. Maybe some breakfast.”

  Mark hadn’t wanted to push Steffen away. “Steffen, come back to bed.”

  “No. We are going to have a coffee, cake—I have some of that Linzer Torte you like—and cuddle and watch some stupid TV.” Steffen held out his hand. “Come on.”

  Mark rolled out of bed, pulled on his own boxers, and grabbed Steffen’s hand. “I’m not sure there’s anything worth watching on Swiss telly.”

  Steffen led him out of the bedroom. “What do you take me for, some sort of philistine? I have the British TV package.”

  “BBC? Not just BBC Entertainment?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark happily settled into Steffen’s embrace on the sofa. Despite what had just happened, he realized he was ha
ppy, truly happy, and he hadn’t felt this content in years. “Oh, Steffen, BBC and breakfast cake—you really know how to spoil a boy. I thought I would have to binge-watch TV when I go back to the UK for my parents’ wedding anniversary.”

  “When is that again?”

  Mark would much rather stay here with Steffen in Basel, but he would be in serious shit if he missed the party. “Not this weekend but the weekend after.”

  “Then how do you feel about going skiing on Saturday? The snow should still be good at Engelberg.”

  “I’ve never been skiing,” he admitted. “I’m likely to spend most of my time on my arse.”

  “That settles it. You cannot come to Switzerland and not go skiing at least once. And if your arse hurts after all the falls, I promise to kiss it better.”

  Chapter Twelve

  MARK WAS an alluring sight dressed in Steffen’s borrowed ski clothes. Set against the dazzling white blaze of the snow, Mark stood out in stark relief in red and black. They weren’t too different in build—Mark a little shorter and slightly broader in the shoulders, but fundamentally he filled the ski pants and jacket very nicely. A bit too nicely, if truth be told, and Steffen needed to concentrate on getting Mark on the skis they’d hired and moving, and less about what he wanted to do when they got home.

  “There is no need to look so worried, Mark. I’m not about to send you down a black run.”

  Mark didn’t look convinced but laid his skis down and, following the instructions he’d received from the helpful young man at the ski hire center, managed to clip his boots in place. “I think you’re going to get very bored very quickly babysitting me.”

  There was absolutely no chance of that happening. “Nonsense. I would not have offered if I did not want to do it.”

  “Surely you’d prefer to be off skiing somewhere.” Mark stood stiffly, looking like he might topple over at any moment. “You have your own skis, for fuck’s sake. This can’t possibly be how you’d prefer to spend a morning up a mountain.”