by Thomas Ryan
The recently widowed Mrs Steiner invited two young girls from the city to stay with her. She said they were her sisters. The women of the village agreed that the sisters looked nothing like Mrs Steiner and the village busybody, Frau Brandt, remarked how odd it was that men wishing to pay their last respects would visit the Steiner house at all hours of the night.
###
Rosa continued to display the aplomb of a professional before the cameras.
“Tell us, Mrs Sachs,” a journalist asked, “what made your husband decide to bake the world’s biggest bun?”
Günter’s mouth sagged. He shifted from one foot to the other. Was he about to be exposed as a fraud on national television? He noticed Herman staring at him. The intensity of the unspoken accusation from his workmate weakened his knees.
Rosa gestured in Günters direction.
“Herr Sachs announced it to me one night just before dinner. Günter said he would make it his mission to bake the world’s biggest bun. To stamp his mark, to make a statement that he is a great baker. The entire world needed to know that the best baker in the world is here, in Glockenspiel.”
The crowd went silent. No one had imagined the eyes of the world looking on their town in such a way before, but now, after Rosa’s stirring words, someone began clapping and others cheered and soon everyone was singing the village song.
Günter saw the defeated look on Herman’s face.
Rosa had won the day.
An elated Günter beamed in his wife’s direction. Tonight, when she brought his beer, he would tell her to pour herself a glass of wine and sit with him.
###
At the day’s end Günter collapsed into his chair and reflected on his new-found status. No longer was he merely a baker; he was a television celebrity. Fame had found him just as he knew it would. Life did not get any better than this. His boss, the owner of the Glockenspiel bakery, insisted that Günter remain on full pay. Because of the publicity, the bakery had never had so many orders. Now, each morning a van load of pastries was dispatched to the city and more staff had been taken on. The bakery owner even agreed to supply all the ingredients for the world’s biggest bun provided that when it was unveiled to the world, it would be known as ‘The Glockenspiel Bakery’s World’s Biggest Bun’.
Many changes were taking place in Gunter’s life.
But the biggest was the transformation of Rosa Sachs.
She was more animated, exciting, and vivacious. So much so that for the first time in years on a Friday night Günter had stayed home to enjoy her company rather than visit his whores. As alcohol fueled his libido, his eyes glazed over with lustful anticipation. But Rosa held up a hand to stay his unsteady lunge at her.
“It has all been too much,” Rosa sighed. “The camera lights, the crowds, the interviews, your lovely wine. If I don’t get some rest right now I won’t be able to do you justice on the TV tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow night things will have been less hectic.”
For the first time in his marriage Günter found himself alone and pining for affection just like his dog Belco.
The next day, Rosa’s mother phoned to wish Günter good luck. This surprised him. When he had been courting Rosa, he’d overheard her mother say how she was foolish to ever consider marriage to such a loser and how spitting on his grave would be a waste of good saliva.
Well, who was the loser now? Not him, that was for sure.
###
Herman continued to protest to anyone who would listen that baking the world’s biggest bun had been his idea, and really it should be he who was receiving the kudos, not Günter. No one paid any attention, especially Herman’s long suffering wife who finally banned any such discussion from the house. Even his children turned against him. They’d been forced to stay home from school because the other kids had taken to teasing them that their father was mad. And they were beginning to think it was true.
So Herman, unable to stop Günter’s transformation from town tyrant to town hero, fell into depression and drank beer.
###
Finally, the oven was finished.
It stood over three metres high and covered more than half of Günter’s back garden. The door opening was seven metres across. It was hailed an architectural masterpiece, and the townsfolk oohed and aahed. Günter had done them proud.
In front of the oven, lying across what was left of Günter and Rosa’s neatly manicured lawn, was the biggest baking tray ever made: nine metres long and six metres wide. When Rosa Googled the internet she discovered that the weight of the bun that held the existing record was more than a hundred and twenty kilograms. Günter proclaimed to the enthralled spectators that his bun would be twice or maybe three times that size. Rosa had tried to persuade her husband to be cautious with his predictions, but he refused to heed her advice.
“This is a great historical moment. The town, the media, in fact the whole world wants a bun worthy of the occasion. And I, Günter, the world’s greatest baker, will give it to them.”
After lengthy discussions with the owner of the Glockenspiel bakery, Günter agreed he would bake the world’s biggest hot cross bun, and even better, a giant cinnamon hot cross bun. Cinnamon buns made good profit, the owner had said, and after the baking of the world’s biggest such bun, and with the advent of Easter, everyone in the big city would want to buy ‘Glockenspiel Cinnamon Buns’.
“Maybe we could franchise them to Starbucks,” the owner had fantasized to Günter.
A surprise was that Herman suddenly stopped sulking and volunteered to help his old friend in any way possible.
“For the greater good of the village and the bakery,” he’d said.
The grateful bakery owner accepted Herman’s magnanimous gesture and his offer to load the ingredients for Günter’s world’s biggest bun onto the truck. Herman whistled the village song as he lugged sacks across the warehouse floor. He toiled with a zest and vigour seldom seen in his usual daily labours.
###
When the truck arrived, a line-up of helpful neighbours carried the bags of flour, the sugar, salt, cinnamon and yeast, the cartons of milk and the butter to the back of the house. A hush fell over the crowd as they watched Günter measure out his ingredients into a disused wine vat especially hired by his boss from a local vineyard and scoured clean for the purpose. Then, taking up a paddle borrowed from the local rowing club, Günter began stirring. After two hours he was done. He instructed his helpers to use plastic buckets supplied by the Glockenspiel hardware store to scoop out the contents onto the tray. Günter beat the slush with the paddle and slowly but surely the fat baker, covered in flour and looking more like “the ghost of bakers past”, built a solid mountain of doughy mix.
When he stepped back to catch his breath, a stein of beer was placed in his hand. He saluted the crowd and it in a gulp. But the attention of the crowd was not on Günter. It had turned to the mountain of wobbly dough that was threatening to tip over and consume him like a raisin into a scone. A voice rose from the crowd.
“Günter just made the world’s biggest dough ball.”
Up went a great cheer.
Even Rosa allowed herself a smile.
Günter placed long sheets of plastic across the top of the dough then called for ladders and asked the fattest townspeople to climb atop the mound. They jumped up and down for an hour, working and shaping the doughy pile across the tray. Then, clutching their chests, the fatties rolled off, tumbling to the ground exhausted. Only the wafting aroma of hops from a trestle table covered in steins of cold beer was able to entice movement from the prostrate tubs of lard.
Günter removed the plastic sheets.
The tray was ready for the oven.
There’d been no time to build the world’s biggest warmer. Günter had calculated that the conditions in the oven would be enough to make the dough rise if he left it warming a few hours longer than would normally be required. It was a risk, but the gaps between the door and the bricks needed to be sealed with
a pot of cement putty to hold the heat once the oven was fired, and the cement compound needed a few hours to dry.
Günter waved forward the ten strongest men of the village to lift the tray and push it into the oven. He slammed and bolted the door shut and went to work with the cement putty.
The hour hand on his watch moved slowly.
At three in the afternoon, Günter estimated enough time had passed for the dough to rise. It was time to bake.
He struck a match and set the wood ablaze.
All eyes now focused on the gauge lodged on the left-side wall of the giant oven. The television camera lens zoomed in and a nation watched, mesmerized.
Millimeter by millimeter the needle moved upward.
When it reached the required baking heat, Günter opened the vents in the oven roof. These would be used to regulate the heat and keep the temperature even. Now all there was to do is wait.
Günter turned to the crowd.
He raised his arms in triumph, and the citizens and tourists alike cheered and clapped. Cameras broadcasting across the nation and around the world followed every move of this great man and of his momentous achievement. All were in unanimous agreement: it was a wonderful, wonderful day for Glockenspiel.
###
A hand across Herman’s mouth covered his smirk.
He looked about to see if anyone noticed. The eyes of his wife were watching him. He knew the look. She was suspicious. He could see she knew he was up to something. You don’t live together for as long as they had without understanding each other’s idiosyncrasies.
It was time to take his leave.
Herman squeezed his way through the celebrating masses and scurried off. Once safely round the corner he rested against the wall of the bus shelter. He slapped his thigh and cackled.
“Screw you Günter. Screw you.”
“What have you done?”
He shriveled at the sound of his wife’s voice.
“Oh shit.”
He wiped sweat from his brow. His wife leaned forward, her face inches away and her two man-sized boots planted firmly on the ground. He gulped as she placed her fists on her hips and curled her lips into a snarl, spittle settling on her chin.
“I asked you a question. What did you do?”
Herman held up his hands to fend off the blow he knew was about to be thrown. A passing villager brought a reprieve.
“Get home,” she growled between clenched teeth. “We will discuss this later.”
Herman nodded meekly and walked off. She would soon discover the truth. In the cellars of the Glockenspiel bakery he had found bags of out-of-date yeast. He had mixed in enough fresh yeast that Günter would not notice.
Herman detoured to the pub. When he faced his wife again and had to admit to sabotaging the world’s biggest bun he wanted to be well and truly drunk.
###
Rosa stood in front of her bedroom mirror putting the final touches to her makeup. Her bag was packed and standing beside the bed. Every fifteen minutes, Günter, who had not stopped drinking, yelled out to her demanding his dinner. She did not bother replying. She had had enough of her pig of a husband. Her mother had been right all along: he would never amount to anything. When the time came to prove his skill as a baker, he couldn’t even make a bun.
###
Günter watched, perplexed, as his wife descended the stairs carrying the suitcase they had bought for their honeymoon. His eyes fixated on the leather valise, then, lifting his head, he saw his wife’s determined demeanor. He opened his mouth to speak but no words were forthcoming.
“I’m leaving you, Günter.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand. Why? Why would you do such a thing? No, Rosa, please, you can’t.”
“I can and I am. The television people offered me a job and I’m taking it.”
“What will I do?”
“That’s the point, Günter. You will never do anything. You will never make anything of yourself. You are one of life’s losers.”
Rosa walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Günter stood a little unsteadily looking down at his feet. His wife was leaving him. What could he do? Then it came to him. He ran to the door and flung it open. He could just make out Rosa in the distance.
He screamed out to her, “Rosa! Rosa! I am not a loser. I made the world’s biggest pancake.”
The End
Nightmares
Vincent woke tangled in sheets. His t-shirt soaked in sweat.
It was the same dream, the one that had haunted him every night for a week. The images were unnerving in their clarity. And the face of the woman so familiar now he would recognize her on a crowded street. Each morning her screams would snap him out of his slumber and left him gasping for breath.
He sat on the side of the bed and lit up a cigarette. Stared down at his feet.
The woman’s face continued to haunt him - trapped in a psyche that refused to abandon her to the mists of forgetfulness like all other dreams. As in preceding days, he knew the woman’s face would stay with him for hours. But what truly gnawed at him was that her killer continued to remain in the shadows.
A chill breeze gusted through the open window. He reached for the duvet that had fallen to the floor and wrapped it round his shoulders. Whiskey dregs floating on the bottom of the glass on the bedside table caught his eye. He sipped the remains. There was just enough liquid to wet his tongue. Not enough to feed the craving, quell the headache or soothe a hangover. And he had all three.
Holding the duvet in place, he walked through to the sitting room. Unsteady fingers twirled the cap off the bottle he took from the cabinet. One swig to his mouth and a double shot into his glass.
He crossed the room and eased onto the chair in front of desk.
The forefinger of his right hand hovered above the keypad as if trying to find its bearings. He let it fall on the enter tab. When the screen-saver disappeared the raw mocking truth revealed itself; there were no additions to the ‘Chapter One’ typed some days ago.
Jeremy, his agent, would be disappointed. Pissed off, more likely.
The publisher was crapping all over him. Screaming for the second novel they’d paid an advance for. Now they were threatening to sue Jeremy if a manuscript was not forthcoming. It interested Vincent they would sue the agent and not the writer. He worried for Jeremy, but what could be done? Writer’s block happened to all authors didn’t it?
But this was not simply writer’s block, this was different. The dreams made it different. Then there was Cassandra. Without her he had no muse. It was she who had given his life purpose. Whiskey had now become a substitute. But as much as he drank to forget, he could not forget. His future was trapped in the past. He could see no way forward. He lacked the will to move on, to stop the slide.
A need for caffeine drew his bare feet to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the kettle then extracted a mug from the heap of dishes stacked in the sink. He rinsed it under the tap and wiped it clean with a dirty tea towel plucked from under a pile of empty pizza cartons. The woman in his dream had a nice face. A gentle grace to her movements.
Not unlike Cassandra.
Was that it? Was he trying to replace his lost love? He thought for a moment. But no. The dream woman possessed a reality quite distinct from any other woman he’d ever known. Every instinct in him said she existed in the real world.
He poured hot water into the cup - two thirds only. The rest of the way he filled with whiskey. He carried the mug through to the dining table and slumped into a chair. The smoldering stub of the last cigarette lit a fresh one. Another indifferent start to what he knew was going to be a long and depressingly non-productive day.
Vincent finished his coffee and sipped on a second glass of whiskey. It had gone nine thirty. He scratched at his stubble. He needed a shave and a shower but lethargy was proving master over such mundane needs. He stumbled across to the settee, turned, and fell backwards.
###
<
br /> It started as a light tap then grew louder and louder.
Vincent tried to ignore the sounds, drifting back into his inebriated coma. The banging continued to a veritable frenzy. His eyes blinked open and he stared at the door.
It would have to be Jeremy.
Not a friend. They’d all abandoned him. As had his family. He was beyond redemption, he’d been told.
“How do you save a drowning man who won’t reach for the life preserver?” his sister had screamed at him before slamming the door.
Well, what did he care? He had Jeremy. Not that Jeremy was really a friend. In fact, he was pretty certain Jeremy didn’t really like him very much at all. But Jeremy brought him money. And the money bought whiskey.
Vincent struggled to his feet and opened the door.
“You look like shit,” Jeremy said as he barged in. “Have you had any sleep?” He walked across to the computer and looked at the screen. He spun round. “For God’s sake, Vincent!”
Vincent reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “Nice suit Jeremy. What is it? Armani?”
Jeremy shook his head in disgust. “You need a haircut.” He sniffed the air, “And a shower.”
Vincent shrugged and sank onto a chair at the table.
“You’re taking advantage of me, Vincent. Abusing my trust. All right, all right. You’re the best talent I’ve had in a long time. I just hate to see it go down the toilet, that’s all.” Jeremy’s anger waned to frustration, then to defeat. He dropped onto the seat opposite Vincent.
Vincent watched the metamorphosis. He had seen it before. Every second day in fact.
“I’m having the dreams again, Jeremy.”
“Cassandra is dead.”
“This is another woman.”
Jeremy looked at him.
“Jesus, Vincent.”
“Another woman, Jeremy. Another woman and it’s the same killer. There’s a fucking serial killer out there. It’s screwing with my head. I can’t concentrate.”
