Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  “If I might make a suggestion,” I offer. “It strikes me that we do not just have one landmark here today but also another—a pop cultural landmark.” I bow to Roy.

  “That is so. You will wrap Roy Orbison in clingfilm at once.”

  “If Roy does not object?”

  “I do not object,” says Roy. “Begin.”

  The mayor explains to the crowd that this bold experiment will put us at the forefront of conceptual art. There are interested mutters. My mouth is dry as I take out my clingfilm and begin to wrap Roy Orbison in it.

  I wrap more carefully than ever before. Not merely personal gratification but civic pride is at stake. The sunlight glints on the translucent triumph of science. The faint rasp as I unspool it sends delirious brightly colored butterflies flocking through my stomach. I am like a tailor of the elves bedecking him in a shimmering suit of some magical material. Soon, Roy Orbison stands before all of Düsseldorf wrapped up in clingfilm. Silent white light floods my whole being and I become one with the universe.

  “Fellow burghers!” I cry. “Behold! Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm!”

  The crowd cheers ecstatically. It is a moment of supreme triumph. I know how Alexander and Napoleon must have felt. I have conquered all. The whole world kneels before me. It is my will alone that has wrought this. I, Ulrich Haarbürste, am the king of kings. I am one with the godhead. Booming triumphant laughter wells up out of me and reverberates mightily about the square.

  Suddenly the artist Christo appears flanked by policemen and points at me.

  “That is the man! That is the one who seized me roughly and locked me in a cupboard.”

  “That is also the man I found loitering in the square last night with a pot of paint,” says a policeman.

  “This is very bad for you, you scoundrel,” says the mayor.

  “Uh-oh,” I say to Jetta. “It is all going wrong.”

  The crowd turns ugly. They storm the podium with various cries.

  “Seize him.”

  “Disarrange his clothing.”

  “Take away his terrapin.”

  “Confiscate his clingfilm.”

  “Banish him to a distant province.”

  I am manhandled roughly. I seek to explain myself but they will not listen. Roy is knocked off the podium and rolls around helplessly in his silvery straitjacket. My palms sweat. I wish to wake up. . .

  I awake from my reverie and find myself back sitting in front of the television with Jetta. None of it happened after all but I have perhaps learned a lesson.

  “Yes, Jetta, perhaps you are right. One should be careful which dreams one seeks to make real. . .”

  And I switch off the television and we make off to bed.

  But where does reality end and dream begin. . .

  Who can tell?

  Roy in Clingfilm in Space

  (This tale was specially commissioned by the “Zoo Nation” science-fiction fanzine. Hitherto I have kept my tales of Roy in clingfilm strictly within the realms of plausibility but this scenario may be more fantastic than usual. Then again—who can say?—Ulli)

  In this fantasy Roy Orbison and I are the pilots of a magnificent rocket ship powering through space.

  “Adjust thrusters, Mr. Haarbürste,” says Roy tersely, his calm capable hands adjusting the controls, the stars reflected in his trademark dark glasses.

  “At once, mein Kapitan!” The precision-engineered BMW engines send us zooming through the stratosphere and push us back into our upholstered flight seats.

  “Make your report, Lieutenant Jetta.”

  The screen wired to the pod where Jetta nestles snugly flickers into life. “WE ARE LEAVING EARTH’S ATMOSPHERE AND ON COURSE FOR SPACE” says the readout.

  “So?” says Roy. “Capital.”

  The age-old problem of how to navigate the vast distances of deep space had been solved when it was discovered that terrapins had a unique ability to encompass the manifold plications of space and time. I and my terrapin Jetta immediately volunteered for an exploratory voyage. But who was to command this historic mission? The world was unanimous. There was only one man qualified to be mankind’s ambassador to the stars: Roy Orbison, icon and enigma. Or as we must now call him, Captain Roy Orbison of the Space Pioneers.

  Suddenly Jetta’s translator flashes urgently: “LOOK OUT!”

  It is too late. There is a metallic clang and the ship rocks violently.

  Roy thumbs the communicator to Earth. “Düsseldorf, we have a problem,” he says.

  “We have been struck by an asteroid,” I report. “One of the precision-engineered BMW engines has been knocked out of alignment. Unless it can be mended we will die.”

  “Suit me up,” says Roy. “I’m going out there.”

  “Captain,” I say nervously, “you are not going to like this. I am afraid we forgot to bring space suits on this mission.”

  “Ach! ” says Roy. “This is a grave disappointment.”

  I clear my throat diffidently. “There is one thing we might try. As you know I had the foresight to bring many rolls of clingfilm with us for emergencies just such as this.”

  “I scoffed at the time but now I perceive you were wise. You will wrap me in clingfilm at once.”

  I retrieve some clingfilm from the Clingfilm Stowage Compartment where several hundred of the translucent rolls of joy glint softly in the cabin lights.

  Roy Orbison unbuckles from his seat and floats out into the middle of the cabin, his black clothing billowing about him in the zero gravity like the folds of some black cloth manta ray. “Commence,” he says.

  As I set to work I seem to hear the strains of Strauss’s “Blue Danube” waltz in my head. As I orbit him, weightless, it is as if we are performing some graceful ballet together. The clingfilm unfurls in languid arcs in the zero gravity and then girdles him gently as I spiral around him. Soon, Captain Roy Orbison of the Space Pioneers is completely wrapped in clingfilm. In all the infinite galaxies there is not a man as happy as I. Tears of wordless joy leak from my ducts and float off like little jewels, crystallized moments of ecstasy, tiny universes of rapture, perfect unto themselves.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm, Captain.”

  “Also. Let us see about this engine, then.”

  I tether him to me with a long umbilicus of clingfilm and Roy floats out of the airlock into space, protected by his airtight cocoon. Quickly he makes the necessary adjustments and we are saved.

  “Emergency averted,” says Roy on his return. “Now, helmsman, take us to the stars.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” I muse for a second. “Captain,” I say, “the advanced civilizations we seek—what do you think they will be like?”

  “I do not know,” says Roy. “But one thing is for certain—they will know the value of clingfilm!”

  And we laugh heartily and zoom off to infinity side by side.

  But suddenly Jetta’s screen comes to life again: “LOOK OUT—TIME WARP!”

  Everything goes strange. It feels as though my internal organs are sucked out through my ears.

  And then. . .

  “I scoffed at the time but now I perceive you were wise. You will wrap me in clingfilm at once.”

  Roy unbuckles from his seat and floats out into the middle of the cabin. “Commence,” he says.

  We have gone back in time and I will have to wrap Roy all over again!

  In space, no one can hear you squeak with pleasure.

  Roy in Clingfilm at Christmas

  In this heartwarming seasonal tale Roy is now my neighbor in Düsseldorf and often pops round to my house to borrow kitchen necessities.

  It is Christmas Eve and Roy has popped round to enjoy a warming glass of Glühwein and help me affix tinsel to Jetta.

  “Ach,” says Roy suddenly, “I find I have forgotten to obtain a Christmas present for my mother, who is wintering at Baden.”

  I sip my Glühwein carefully and remark, “This will lead to famili
al tensions and unseasonal strife.”

  “It is so,” says Roy.

  “You know,” I say thoughtfully, “it strikes me that the best gift a son can give his mother is himself.”

  “What you say has a certain validity yet how are we to dramatize this concept in such a way that my mother will not merely feel gypped out of a present?”

  “Perhaps if we were to wrap you in Christmas wrapping paper and convey you to Baden.”

  “Also,” says Roy, rising. “You will wrap me in Christmas wrapping paper and convey me to Baden at once.”

  “Regrettably I find we have run out of wrapping paper and the shops have now closed. Logically some substitute will have to be found.”

  “Yes, that is logical, but I cannot think what.” Roy looks around the room seeking that in which he may be wrapped.

  My mouth is dry. I tickle Jetta’s paws idly and say, “You know, I believe I may have some clingfilm in the kitchen.”

  “Then the situation is saved. You will wrap me in clingfilm and have me stowed beneath my mother’s Christmas tree.”

  I bow my assent and make to the kitchen. But when I open the cupboard I turn ashen and begin to quiver. For the cupboard is bare. The clingfilm has been used, all the rolls of it.

  In alarm, I return to the living room and open the other clingfilm cupboards but it is the same story. I check the cache in my bedroom wardrobe and again there is none. I ransack the entire house from top to bottom. I look for the emergency rolls I keep hidden in the toilet cistern and inside lampshades. Everywhere there is the same horrible dearth of clingfilm. My palms sweat. I wish to die.

  “Roy,” I say, “I find I was mistaken. Due to an oversight I have no clingfilm in the house. I will not be able to wrap you in it. I am sorry, this has never happened before.”

  “Also,” says Roy. “Perhaps some brown parcel paper?”

  “I would rather die than wrap you in brown parcel paper.” I am broken and pitiful.

  And then it happens, the seasonal miracle. A cloud of soot billows from the fireplace and he comes down my chimney, that well-known man in red.

  “Hello, Santa,” I say. “What are you doing in Düsseldorf?”

  “Attending to the distribution of presents,” he says.

  “Ah,” I say.

  “You have been good this year,” he continues. “You have been orderly and polite and have kept your shoes neatly arranged.”

  I bow courteously. “Good behavior is its own reward.”

  “Nevertheless I intend to give you a present.”

  “May I inquire what?”

  Santa Claus opens his sack, revealing dozens of silvery tubes. “It is many rolls of clingfilm.”

  “Capital,” says Roy. “Now you may commence.”

  Trembling with anticipation, I take a roll from Santa’s sack. I start at the feet and work my way up. I work with the craft and dexterity of an expert shopkeeper wrapping a purchase. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. I am filled with peace on earth and goodwill to all men. As a seasonal touch I drape him with tinsel.

  “He is completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say to Santa.

  “Ho,” says Santa, stroking his trademark white beard. “So this is how it is. Is it that you like to wrap him as a present to the world?”

  “Who can plumb the mysteries of the human heart?”

  “Who indeed? I confess to being envious of him. In my long life I have wrapped many gifts and yet, ironically, I have never been wrapped.”

  “Perhaps I might oblige? I have many rolls left.”

  “Commence,” says Santa.

  I start from his boots and work my way up. It takes a good half a roll to encompass his jolly round belly alone. Soon, Father Christmas is completely wrapped in clingfilm. It is not quite so good as wrapping Roy but it is enjoyable nonetheless and is certainly a feather in my cap.

  “Both Father Christmas and Roy Orbison are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say to Jetta.

  I place Santa next to Roy and stand in between them. With some difficulty I wrap all three of us up together as best I can. We enjoy a quiet but satisfying yuletide until people from the social services come to release us.

  God bless us one and all.

  All Wrapped on the Western Front

  (This was my entry for the EU–wide “Never Again” competition for a short story depicting the horrors of warfare. I did not win, alas. This tale takes place at Christmas too but its message is timeless.)

  An icy wind blows across the fields of Flanders. It is December 24, 1917, and I am tending my trench and minding my own business.

  My messenger terrapin, Jetta, comes crawling down the line with a dispatch from HQ gripped between her teeth.

  “Attention,” it says. “Beware of American attacks! If you see an American you must shoot to kill or bayonet them in the tummy. Be careful when affixing your bayonet or you may cut yourself.”

  I idly polish Jetta’s spiked metal helmet and sadly ponder the horrors of war. It seems so impolite to have to bayonet people one has not been properly introduced to.

  And on Christmas too! Dispiritedly I pull crackers with Jetta and present her with the warming woollen bootees I have knitted her but my heart is not in it.

  I lean on the parapet and disconsolately sing:

  Stille Nacht

  Heilige Nacht. . .

  And from across no-man’s-land a vaulting tenor comes drifting:

  Silent Night

  Holy Night. . .

  One of the foe is singing a carol!

  “Hello,” I call. “You have a nice voice.”

  “Thank you,” calls the enemy. “I have been told I could turn professional.”

  “Perhaps you would like to see my trench?” I say.

  “Very well,” says the voice.

  The man comes walking across no-man’s-land treading gingerly for fear of landmines or worm-riddled corpses. I see he is wearing black clothing and dark glasses and has perhaps been on a mission to sidle up close to our trenches and eavesdrop on our chit-chat. Yet I feel no animosity, only a strange admiration.

  He drops down beside me.

  “My name is Roy,” he says. “I am an American.”

  “Also?” I say with polite interest. “Mine is Ulrich, and this is my terrapin Jetta.”

  “She has a well-polished helmet.”

  I bow my acknowledgment.

  “Your trench is remarkably free from rats.”

  “I try to keep it that way. I find it best to wrap the leftovers from our meals, snacks, and picnics in clingfilm.”

  “Clingfilm.” Is it my imagination or does a manly tear escape from behind his dark glasses? “Then the Germans use clingfilm too. We are not so very different after all. The propagandists told us you wrapped things in inferior white grease-paper like savages.”

  Eagerly I say, “Perhaps you would like to see my clingfilm?”

  “Very well.”

  “Due to wartime privations I have only managed to accumulate half a bunker full . . . ”

  Just then there is a high-pitched whistle and a bomb goes off in the trench. A bilious green smoke floods out and obscures everything.

  “Gas!” I cry. Quickly I put on Jetta’s gas mask and then fumble my way into my own.

  “Ach,” says Roy, “regrettably I find I have left my gas mask behind. Now my face will dissolve and my lungs turn to a bubbling pus. If I ever sing again I will sound like guh, guh, guhhh.”

  Diffidently I say, “I may be able to offer an alternative.”

  “I would embrace that alternative whatever it is,” says Roy.

  There is no time to lose. Quickly I run to the clingfilm bunker and return with a roll and commence to wrap him.

  I start at his head and work my way down to his combat boots. It would feel more natural to do it the other way around but I must protect his face before it dissolves to a bubbling pus. I wrap him tightly and with military efficiency. Soon, Roy the strange Americ
an is completely wrapped in army-issue clingfilm. Within my heart desire and fulfillment conclude a lasting armistice.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say. “Now you are safe from the ravages of the gas.”

  Roy makes a muffled sound that may be “I am glad.”

  Disaster has been averted and Roy has been saved. All too soon the gas disperses and I am forced to release him from his protecting cocoon.

  “Thank you for your help,” says Roy. “I must go now.”

  I bow. Shyly I say, “Perhaps I will see you on Easter, or Pancake Tuesday.”

  “I will provide the maple syrup,” says Roy, “and . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  “You bring the clingfilm.”

  And he walks off across no-man’s-land taking a little piece of my heart with him.

  The . . . end? Of warfare? But when . . .

  When?

  Roy in a Bubble

  This time I am taking Jetta to be exhibited at the Düsseldorf Pet Show where it is my hope she will sweep all before her in the Miscellaneous Pets category.

  Roy Orbison is to be the celebrity judge. This boosts my hopes as he has already shown himself a connoisseur of well-groomed terrapins and admired Jetta’s lines.

  However, when I meet him backstage before the show his eyes are unreadable behind his trademark dark glasses. “I will show no favor,” he warns. “If Jetta is to take the prize rosette it will be on her own merits.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” I say.

  Just then there is a bark from where the various pets are massing. Roy gives a start.

  “What was that?” he demands.

  “A dog, perchance?”

  “That was no dog . . . ,” says Roy ominously.

  Suddenly he gives a mighty sneeze.

  “Gesundheit,” I say.

  But the sneezing is not all. Behind his trademark dark glasses his eyes are running and his face has become swollen and puffy and covered in red blotches.

  “Ach,” says Roy, “my allergies. Some fool must have brought seals here.”

  “Indeed, I believe there are a number of seals entered in the competition.”

  “Confound it! I loathe and detest those creatures for the fact is I am allergic to them.”