Mr Lush S4E3T1 - Five Ravens

The first thing that Mr Lush notices with affection about Berlin is the city’s obsession with going out and (and this is no slight on Londoners and their playfully colourful shirt-and-tie combinations which Lush holds in the highest regard) their love for the colour black. However, nights on the town and the colour black are, of course, pre-requisites for encountering Lush’s one true love: black tie. Indeed, the reason that Lush had to check two bags for a two-night trip is that he saw fit to pack three black tie combinations with all of the matching accoutrement.

“It’s important to blend in if you’re going to be a spy”, Lush rationalised to himself while stuffing a pair of opera pumps into his already overloaded suitcase. “What if the crowd is feeling playful?”

Lush is feeling much better after his “Baathoven” (as he jokingly refers to soaking in the tub while listening to the 7th Symphony) and is getting ready to shave. He pulls out his shaving brush and begins to lather his frankly unusually soft skin. He requests that the speaker system play The Wanderer by Dion as he begins to shave. Having only nicked himself once or twice (“a new record!”), Lush is satisfied. Next steps are the customary ten splashes of water, aftershave, talcum powder, and a light moisturiser. Then a quick check of nose, eyebrows, and ears for any strays before moving on to brushing his teeth and flossing thoroughly. This routine is a sort of meditation for Lush. It represents a moment in which Lush can find peace from his thoughts.

Using two hairbrushes (one in his right hand, one in his left), he tames his mane while musing on which might be the ideal eau de cologne for this evening’s jaunt. He opts for his all-time favourite, a gentle mix of cypress, geranium, and tonka bean.

“This will do just the trick.”

Lush is greeted by various looks of astonishment at the hotel bar. Having opted for his half-brother Ferdinand’s double-breasted dinner jacket, Lush has decided to nip into the bar for a quick glass of bubbly before undertaking the fifteen-minute trek tothe restaurant on foot. The TV screen in the hotel bar is showing the news. A cursory glance at the weather report suggests that Lush would not much enjoy living in Berlin in the winter. An eager hummingbird in a leather harness brings Lush his glass.

“I’m not one to judge but that hummingbird is not pulling off that look”, Lush commiserates to himself as he drinks.

He does his best to lean rakishly against the bar counter with one hand in his jacket pocket and the other holding a lit cigarette. The ashtrays on the counter, no longer so common in his hometown, are a sight for sore eyes. After the first drag, Lush mutters those immortal and auspicious words:

“Tonight is going to be a good night.”

The walk to the restaurant is cold and windy, making it a real chore to smoke his customary two to three walking cigarettes. He has to stop regularly in various doorways just to be able to puff in peace. However, Lush is nothing if not a fighter and he even manages to finish off a fourth before arriving. As he steels himself before entering, he recalls the various types he has observed throughout his short time in Berlin. He breaks it down into three categories.

CATEGORY 1: Typical Germans

The typical German is characterised by their hi-vis, functional approach to clothing. They are ready for whatever life might throw at them, except for a social event where they would like to leave any kind of positive impression.

CATEGORY 2: Berliners

The Berliner doesn’t give a damn about their appearance. Or, at the very least, is making a concerted effort to give the impression that they don’t give a damn. Among the Berliners, there is the occasional light in the dark stylistically, presumably by accident.

CATEGORY 3: Confused individualists

The confused individualist is the rarest of the breeds abroad in Berlin. In fact, Lush has only encountered two in the city so far. This group is defined by a certain urbanity reminiscent more of New York, Milan, Paris, or London. This is not a quality greatly appreciated in Berlin. The majority of people (cf. CATEGORIES 1 & 2) react with near-total disinterest, if they react at all.

“What a pity!”

Lush steps up to what he discovers to be a near-overflowing, lively, French établissement run by an expert team of desert mice. The locals are standing outside fighting the wind and smoking while downing apéritifs and pretending to not be waiting for a table to become free. Heads are turned as the Englishman arrives.

Smiles are smiled. Knowing nods are knowingly nodded. The guests in the Autruche seem to suggest old money. Whether there ever was any money is entirely beside the point.

“Interesting.”

Lush introduces himself to one of the desert mice employed at the Autruche whom informs him in an antipodean accent that his table will be available momentarily and asks if he’d like a complimentary glass of champagne while he waits. Lush nods ever-so-slightly over-enthusiastically while lost in thought at what might be the correct response in German. Glass in hand, Lush strides back out to wait with the rest of the baying masses. He tips another cigarette in between his lips and asks if anyone has a light. A kind young lady strides forward to help the confused old British man. An act of charity Lush, being from London, is not accustomed to. A patron vacates a chair for him and he sits down and wraps himself in the fine wool blanket that had been placed on the seat. He allows his mind to wander.

“When will she arrive?”

“Is it who I think it is?”

“Is she the type to walk or will she be arriving by taxi? And, more importantly, if it’s a taxi, am I expected to help her disembark?”

“That champagne wasn’t half-bad. I’m starting to like this place.”

Mr Lush is nothing if not a creature of habit and always feels a certain unease in new bars and restaurants. Not that he’s particularly picky. Food and drink are of lesser importance. All he wants is a crowd and some peace to get used to his new surroundings. Once past this probation period, the new location can be added to his repertoire and is likely to never be removed. Needless to say, the desert mice have passed the test.

As he nods contentedly to himself and gulps down the last of his champagne, a large taxi pulls up to the restaurant. Lush feels an immense sense of relief as out steps his acquaintance from the Catoy.

“Tonight is, indeed, going to be a good night.”

They exchange some urbane kisses on the cheek and a few pleasantries. She is wearing a short, voluminous fur coat, a high-rise pair of flared trousers cut from a black herringbone Tweed, a black roll neck, and black, square-toed, high-heeled boots. Her hair is pinned in a tight bun, her lips are very red, and she is wearing a pair of large earrings reminiscent of paper lanterns.

She is also just a little bit tipsy.

“It’s been aaaaages”, she slurs in (what seems to Lush) the most ladylike fashion. He also cannot help but notice how elegantly she smells of wine and cigarette smoke.

“Yes, if not longer, Mafalda”, he quips, before opening the door for her to enter the restaurant. “And, yet, if feels like it was yesterday. Let’s see if our table is ready.”

In the antechamber, Lush’s heart is beating slightly faster than he would have hoped.“ Maybe a cigarette to calm the nerves?”, he thinks to himself. Too late! The maître d’esert mouse has already scurried over and announced that they will be seated at table 17 before leading them to the back of the eatery. Lush hastily removes cigarettes and lighter from his pockets before a desert mouse whisks their coats away to the cloak room. As soon as they are seated, new champagne flutes are presented and promptly filled, without any intervention from our intrepid hero.

“Ah. An oasis in the desert.”

Lush gives his surroundings a quick once-over. This establishment seems to serve all comers. There are elaborate hairstyles, pearls, ties, cashmeres, and furs seated alongside the casual artsy crowd and even the occasional middle-class-with-well-to-do-and-possibly-criminal-parents-at-home punk in designer tattered leather coat and with facial piercings. Service appears to be prompt, polite, and proper; food looks good; the interior design is elegant and authentic. Indeed, the only thing that is bothering Lush is that his companion is demonstrably too beautiful to be seated across from him. He considers pinching himself. What a long way away London seems to Lush right now.

Having gallantly allowed Mafalda to choose where she would like to sit, he has his back to the room. As such, he can’t quite get to grips with the entire situation, let alone satisfy his immense curiosity. He considers excusing himself for a cigarette break before he checks his watch and realises he has only been at the table for approximately eleven seconds. The only other medicine for calming his nerves is theglass of bubbly in front of him. He grabs it nervously before downing it with the trained air of the sophisticated alcoholic.

“Never too slow, never too fast!”

Finally, he can turn his attention back to the ravishing Mafalda. Even though he knows it cannot possibly have been more than 30 seconds since they sat down, Lush feels the familiar pressure to entertain. This is a vestige of his previous marriage and his ex-wife’s tendency to berate our hero for his lack of conversational dexterity.“

How have you been, Thomas?”, Mafalda offers generously.

Lush wonders whether she doesn’t notice how much he is sweating or is choosing to ignore it. Either way, he feels that he is slowly falling in love.

“Oh, you know how it is. When you’re up, you’re up and when you’re down, you’re down.”

Mafalda giggles and Lush’s heart is all aflutter as he adds:

“I met God. He was baseball bat.”

Just in that moment, a desert mouse brings menus and asks if oysters would be a good place to start. Lush nods enthusiastically and orders a bottle of sparkling water.

“To go with the sparkling conversation,” the waiter mutters to himself.

“Oh, I see”, continues Mafalda, ignoring the mousy impudence. “I’d always a primary mover less phallic. And how was that?”

“It was a bit odd, honestly…”, says Lush before changing the subject hastily. “I know this might be a bit too soon but…”

Lush is interrupted by the arrival of the oysters. Glasses are refilled.

“Vinaigrette?”, asks Mafalda.

“Yes, please.”

“You wanted to ask something?”

“Still do!”

Mafalda smiles politely at Lush’s typically dry wit and watches as he proceeds to take two huge gulps of champagne and stuff an oyster into his mouth.

“So… you have a key for me?”, asks Lush, trying to distract himself from his actual question and his nicotine cravings.

“Yes, I do. And I’ll give it to you at the end of the evening. If you’re a good boy.”

“Do you still smoke by any chance?”

“What a silly question. This is Berlin! Of course, I do.”

“Wonderful!”

“Cigarette break?”

“Love to.”

They get up, glasses in hand, and move towards the door. Lush fumbles in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, partially out of impatience, partially to signal to all and sundry his intention to smoke. As he does this, his attention is drawn to a party of five howling, cackling, tapping, rapping, and nearly napping ravens. A mysterious, dangerous energy emanates from the table. Lush must have stared a bit too long, as the ravens all simultaneously turn their heads towards him. He feels trapped, caught red-handed. Time seems to slow to a crawl. He feels that their glances pierce right through him, looking for points of attack.

Within seconds, appearance, demeanour, clothing, posture, facial expressions, haircut, shoes, education, sense of humour, (dis)interest in classical music, ancestry, drunkenness, and dinner partner have all been dissected. The knives are out!

A few steps further and Lush steps out of their sphere of influence. He can finally breathe again. He catches up to Mafalda with three quick steps.

“Thomas, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you alright?”

“Not a ghost. Ravens”, mummers Lush.

“Oh. Them. Don’t worry about them. They feed off your attention. Intelligent creatures, highly social; they live off information and blackmail. However, they’re really just burnouts.”

Lush can barely hear what Mafalda is saying. He cannot shake the feeling of annihilation that the ravens’ looks have stirred up in him. Suddenly, Lush begins to question his assessment of the whole evening. He thought he could let his hair down.  Now, it seems that he can’t even do that without a group of ravens judging his every move. He feels the sword of Damocles hovering above him.

That is not to say that there are no such ravens in London. However, the London ravens have the decency to make the occasional misstep themselves, leaving everyone in a reassuring state of mutually assured destruction. Here, at least this is how it seems to Lush, the ravens have a cold, calculating Prussian air. You cannot trust them. They are envious of those whom dare to actually make use of their freedom. Lush feels a rage rise up from deep within him. He lights a second cigarette.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. However, there is really no need for aggravation. You’re a lion of a man and you shouldn’t concern yourself with the opinions of the gazelle. Or, in this case, of the raven.”

At these words, Lush is filled with a sense of euphoria. Suddenly, he cannot stop laughing. In fact, his laughter seems to be contagious. The joy flows out from him to all those around him. Suddenly, everyone is dancing and singing and holding each other. The stars themselves seem to be dancing in the skies. Lush steps towards Mafalda, looks her deep in the eye, and kisses her passionately on the mouth. His eyes well up with tears of joy.

„Thank you, Mafalda. Truly. Now, let’s go back inside. The main course awaits. Garçon, two more glasses of your finest champagne, please!”

On their way back through the restaurant, they look towards the ravens nevermore.  And not because they planned not to.  Simply because they suddenly seem so irrelevant.

They order a filet mignon for the main course (to share) and a suitable red wine. The conversation is light and breezy, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. Lush has never felt so at home. All of the previously cacophonous background noise has coalesced into a wonderful symphony of melodious clinking glasses and sparkling conversation.

“Life simply does not get any better.”

Time passes. Lush can’t tell if it has been five seconds and thirty minutes. It is only when the waiter comes by to ask if they’d like an espresso or an apéritif to round off their meal that Lush regains any sense of time and, with it, his habitual sense of shame. He is heartened by the fact that his companion doesn’t seem remotely bored.

After they have drunk their espressi, Mafalda suggests that they move to the bar next door. Despite Lush’s reservations, it is biologically impossible for him to refuse an invitation from such a beautiful woman.

Mafalda flashes a credit card and asks for the bill. Moments later, she and Lush are strolling arm-in-arm towards the neighbouring Lamb Gazer. Lush is pleasantly surprised to discover another smokers’ bar. He is reminded of an underground bar in London in which a hummingbird drank him under the table. It seems so long ago. In spite of being so close to the Autruche, the vibe could not be more different. In terms of clothing, mood, and communication style, it is night-and-day. Here, the atmosphere is more intimate and the interior design facilitates connection and communication. Our lovebirds take their rightful places at a table presumably reserved by Mafalda near the bar. An elegant hummingbird in an apron comes by the table and deftly explains the concept of the establishment.

“Cash only. Large ashtrays. Matches, no lighters. There is no menu. Any drink you can think of, we can provide. Enjoy.”

“Civilisation!”, announces Lush while lighting another cigarette.

His joy is only dampened by Mafalda turning to him with a knowing smile and saying:

“You wanted to ask me something.”

“Eh… beurgh… yes… ehm…in fact… there… certainly…”

Charitably, the drinks are served. As soon as the sugar hits his blood stream, Lush is transformed. He excuses himself and practically runs to the bathroom. While he does indeed need to relieve himself, he has primarily embarked on this water closet journey to rehearse his question to Mafalda in front of the mirror. He is less concerned with the content of what he has to say (his blood alcohol level has guaranteed a limited degree of inhibition) but rather the delivery.

“It’s all in the delivery.”

He has a flashback to a particularly harrowing moment at Eton. He recalls vomiting in front of his entire class while attempting to recite Ovid’s Pygmalion in the original Latin. Not the sort of delivery he is hoping for tonight.

Lush finishes his mirror recitation. A spider in a dinner jacket gives him an encouraging thumbs-up from his corner perch. Lush is not greatly encouraged. He steps back out into the tumult of the bar like a man stepping up to the gallows. He is sweating and shaking. The room starts to spin. He considers going back into the bathroom to attempt a second rehearsal. However, he decides that it would only be a stay of execution. He slowly moves through the room towards his date with destiny.

“I ordered you another. I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Lush takes a final sip to steady his nerves.

“So. My question. Technically, it is two questions. Let’s start with the easier one, eh? What is…ehm…?”

For the first time in his life, Lush is frustrated when the drinks arrive. He must, of course, postpone his act of valour. He is obliged to cheers and take a sip.

“If this stuff didn’t taste so good, you’d almost think it could make you drunk.”

Lighting another cigarette for Mafalda before lighting one for himself, he finally resolves to squeeze the universe into a ball and roll it towards an overwhelming question.

“Let’s start with the easier one. What is your last name, Mafalda?”

Mafalda’s face becomes very earnest. She replies in a staccato rhythm: “Wollen Sie etwa meine Papiere sehen, Herr Lush? Is this some sort of GCHQ background check? It’s Mondi”, before softening and adding: “You know what? Let’s leave the second question for somewhere more exciting. Drink up and let’s get out of here. I’ll get us a taxi.”

Mr Lush nods, dumbstruck. He floats towards the door on a wave of elation, puts on his coat, lights a cigarette, hops in the taxi, and whispers to himself:

“Tonight is going to be a good night.”