Note: The following (already finished) story was inspired by a scene in the documentary ‘Paris Nights’, which the WDR television broadcasted Saturday night, in honor of the author, director and screenwriter Georg Stefan Troller, who was ninety years old on 10th December 2011.
Stefan Troller began his career as a filmmaker with the now legendary, and then highly successful series ‘Paris Journal’ at the Westdeutschen Rundfunk (WDR) in Germany.
In the years 1962 to 1971 the image of the Germans from Paris and their French-longing was influenced by fifty episodes, each one forty-five minutes long of Stefan Troller’s ‘Paris Journal’.
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A Drink – Part I
Mist rose up in soft cloud-like structures of the Seine. As if there gently laid to rest, the lifeless body of a common middle-aged man lay on the lowest steps of the stone stairs leading up to the Pont d ‘ Alexandre III. His body was on the back, the empty eyes expressionless heavenward. A cobalt-blue, long wool scarf fluttering over his head. Awhirl through the icy Decemberwind.
The police arrived only a few minutes ago and the forensic people began systematically with their normal work routine, in the light of the full moon. They had not discovered the two small bites on the throat of the victim of murder under the scarf yet.
Inspector Belfleur, a quiet-looking mid-forties with slightly graying, dark, short hair, asked about first findings, but received only unsatisfactory informations. Restless, he tore his hair so that it fell into a neat mess.
None of those people present noticed the figure, who was leaning casually against the parapet on top of the stairs and who observed them. Belfleur, who stood with his back to the bridge suddenly turned around and looked up, because he had the feeling of being pierced by a gaze. In the light of this unreal night, he perceived the slender silhouette of a person wearing a hat. To find out whether this was a man or a woman, he climbed slowly up the stone stairs.
Reaching the top he saw an unusually pale-looking man, whose age he could not estimate by any stretch of the imagination. His counterpart looked strangely young, but his eyes betrayed that he no longer was just that, because those eyes had seen a lot, so much was immediately clear to the Inspector.
A shudder ran down Belfleur’s spine, as their eyes met, and the stranger looked at him shamelessly. Nervously Belfleur fished for his badge, held it the potential witnesses before the nose and rattled through his standard text. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of the other, but could not make out what it was. Possibly it was the almost devilish grin with which the man looked at him.
To be continued…
© The Storyteller’s Garden